by DAVID B. COE
“We should check on them,” the duke said, swinging himself onto his mount. “They may need healers.” Javan glanced down at Tavis. “Come with me?”
The young lord nodded, a smile springing to his lips. Then he climbed onto his horse. Grinsa followed, as did Xaver and Hagan.
Tavis and Grinsa had finally caught up with Kearney’s army four days before, finding the king some ten leagues north of Domnall, where he waited for the armies of Curgh and Heneagh to join his own. From there they had ridden northward with the king and dukes for two days until finally encountering the empire’s invading force on this plain in the northeastern corner of the Moorlands, within sight of Binthar’s Wash and only seven leagues or so from Galdasten Castle. The skirmishes had begun almost immediately, and though Tavis’s father had brought most of the Curgh army and also commanded five hundred men of the King’s Guard, the duke had been alarmed by his army’s showing during their brief encounter with the enemy. A number of his men had been wounded. Qirsi healers had little trouble mending most of their injuries, but Curgh’s soldiers should have fared better.
Still, even under these extraordinary circumstances, Javan had clearly been pleased to see his son; Tavis, in turn, had been surprised by how happy he was to be with his father again. Theirs had never been an easy relationship, even before the brutal murder of Tavis’s promised bride, Lady Brienne of Kentigern, and the young lord’s imprisonment in Kentigern. Tavis hadn’t been certain how the duke would receive him. But Javan had openly welcomed both Grinsa and the boy, and Kearney had done much the same.
The soldiers of the King’s Guard, however, had made it clear from the moment Tavis and Grinsa joined them that they still considered the young lord a murderer who had lost all claim to nobility. Since his arrival, they had offered naught but glares and vile comments uttered just loud enough for Tavis to hear. The boy had thought, or at least hoped, that once he proved his innocence their hostility toward him would abate. But though Cresenne ja Terba had confessed to hiring an assassin to kill Brienne, and Tavis had managed to kill that assassin on the shores of Wethyrn’s Crown, little had changed.
“It’s going to take them some time,” Grinsa had whispered that first day, as they rode past the soldiers, Tavis’s face burning as if it had been branded. “Not all of them will have heard yet that you killed the assassin, and even after they do, some of them will never accept your innocence.”
Tavis had simply nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.
Curgh’s men had been far more welcoming. As word of his encounter with the assassin, Cadel, spread through his father’s army, men began to treat him like a hero, a conquering lord returning to his homeland. This made Tavis nearly as uncomfortable as the rage he saw on the faces of Kearney’s men. He had been fortunate to survive his battle with Cadel, and the man had been defenseless when Tavis killed him. I’m no hero, he wanted to yell at them. And I’m not a butcher, either. I’m just a man. Let me be. But that, he was beginning to understand, would never be his fate.
Still, despite all of this, he was glad to be with his father again, and also with Hagan and Xaver MarCullet, and Fotir jal Salene, his father’s first minister. For a year he had been an exile, denied the comfort of his friends and family, denied the right to claim his place as a noble in the House of Curgh. Now his life as a fugitive was over. He had told Javan all that he could remember of his final encounter with the assassin, and though he knew that many in the realm might be slow to believe him when finally his story was told to all, he had no doubt that his father did. He longed to see his mother, to set foot once more in the castle of his forebears, but already he felt that this was a homecoming of sorts.
Just as Tavis’s father had expected, the Braedon attack, brief as it was, had taken a heavy toll on Heneagh’s army. At least two dozen men lay dead in the long grass; most of them bore ugly, bloody wounds. Nearly three times that number had been injured. Already healers were tending to them, but Tavis could see immediately that they had need for more.
“Go to the Curgh camp,” Javan told the nearest of Heneagh’s uninjured men. “Tell them to send all our healers.”
“What of the king’s healers?” the man asked.
“Curgh’s should be enough. Go. Quickly.” As the man ran back toward the Curgh lines, Javan surveyed the Heneagh army, shielding his eyes with an open hand. “Where is Welfyl?” he muttered.
“You don’t suppose he fell in the battle.”
The duke glanced at his son. “He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the battle.” He made a sour face. “He shouldn’t be here at all.”
Welfyl was by far the oldest of Eibithar’s dukes. Indeed, he came to power the same year Aylyn the Second, Kearney’s predecessor, began his reign as king of the realm. Javan, Tavis knew, had always liked Heneagh’s duke, but there could be no denying the fact that the man was simply too old to be riding to war. He was frail and bent—Tavis wondered if he could even raise a sword, much less fight with one. But he had led his army to the Moorlands, and unless the king said otherwise, he would lead them into battle.
“My lord, look.” Fotir was pointing farther west, his white hair gleaming in the sun, his bright yellow eyes seeming to glow like coals in a fire.
Following the direction of his gaze, Tavis saw the old duke kneeling in the grass, cradling a man in his arms, a stricken expression on his bony face.
Kicking at his mount, Javan rode toward the man, Tavis and the others following close behind.
“Get a healer!” the old duke cried as they drew nearer. “He’s dying!”
It was true. Even Tavis, who knew little of such things, could see that the man in Welfyl’s arms had lost too much blood. He had a deep gash on the side of his neck, and another that had nearly severed his leg just above the knee. Blood pulsed weakly from both wounds and already the man’s uniform was soaked crimson, as was the duke’s.
“More healers are on the way,” Javan said, dismounting and crouching beside Welfyl. “I’ve sent for all the Qirsi who accompanied my army.”
“Can you help him?” the duke asked Fotir, seeming to ignore Javan. “Please.”
Fotir looked pained as he shook his head. “I haven’t that power, Lord Heneagh. I’m sorry.”
It had to be Welfyl’s son. Looking at the face of the wounded man, Tavis saw that he had the duke’s nose and chin. The man’s hair was yellow, rather than white, and his face was fuller than Welfyl’s, but the resemblance was strong. He glanced back at Grinsa and read desperate frustration in his friend’s eyes. No doubt he wanted to try to heal the man, but couldn’t without giving away who and what he was.
A moment later, one of Heneagh’s Qirsi arrived, breathless, her cheeks flushed.
“Ean be praised,” the duke said, looking up at her. “Save him! I beg you!”
She frowned. “I’ll do what I can, my lord.”
Javan placed a hand on Welfyl’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should leave them—”
“No!” The duke seemed to tighten his hold on the man.
“Your healer will do all she can for him.”
“I’m not leaving him!”
Javan gave a low sigh and nodded. “Very well.” Straightening, he stepped away a short distance, gesturing for his company to follow.
“He won’t make it,” Hagan said, his voice low.
“Probably not.” Javan closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. “Damn.”
“That’s his son, isn’t it?” Tavis said, careful to keep his voice down as well.
Javan eyed him briefly, then nodded. “Dunfyl, thane of Cransher. He’s a good man, and a fine warrior.”
“Why isn’t he duke?”
Tavis’s father looked over his shoulder, as if to make certain that Welfyl couldn’t hear, then he walked a bit farther from where the thane lay dying. “That’s a good question. The two of them had a falling-out many years back—I never learned what caused it. But Welfyl is given to pride, and the son doesn’t step far from his f
ather’s shadow. For years they didn’t even speak to each other. To be honest, I never thought I’d see the day when they rode together to battle. It seems they reconciled none too soon.”
They heard horses approaching and turned, seeing Kearney and his archminister riding toward where they stood. Behind them, on foot, came several more Qirsi and a small contingent of soldiers.
“What’s happened?” the king asked, as he climbed off his mount. His eyes fell on Welfyl then quickly darted away. “Is that the thane?”
“It is, my liege.”
“Will he live?”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Kearney shook his head slowly, his lips pressed thin. “Demons and fire. How many others were lost?”
“Twenty-five. Maybe more. I expect many of the wounded won’t make it.”
“Were your losses this high, Lord Curgh?”
“No, my liege. About half, though even that was too many.”
“Yes. Ours were similar.”
“If I may, Your Majesty,” Hagan said, “Heneagh has never been known for her might. And I’ve never seen an army that could strike as quickly as that of the empire.”
“I agree with you, Sir MarCullet. I’ve been thinking that perhaps we’d be better served by giving Lord Heneagh command of the five hundred men I originally gave to you, Javan.”
Curgh’s duke gave a single nod. “Of course, my liege.” But he wasn’t pleased by this. Kearney didn’t notice, but Tavis did. He had spent all his childhood gauging his father’s mood changes by inflections far more subtle than this one.
“You can’t do that, Your Majesty!”
“Hagan!”
“It’s all right, Lord Curgh. Let him speak.” The king faced Javan’s swordmaster, a slight smile on his youthful face. “Why can’t I do this?”
Hagan had colored to the tips of his ears, and he was staring at the ground, looking for all his height and brawn like an abashed child. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I shouldn’t have spoken.”
“It’s all right, Hagan. Clearly you feel that I’m making a mistake. Why?”
“Th-the Curgh army holds the center, Your Majesty. Braedon’s soldiers have been testing us, looking for where we’re weakest. If they see that we’ve shifted so many men, they’ll strike at where they had been. And if our center fails, we’re lost.”
“Thorald’s army should reach us by tomorrow, Hagan. They can reinforce the center. But right now our weakest point lies here. If Braedon’s army strikes at the western lines, the entire Heneagh army could be lost. Surely you see that I can’t allow that.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Kearney grinned, though the look in his eyes remained bleak. “Don’t humor me, swordmaster. Gershon Trasker has served me for quite a few years now, and whenever he agrees with me in the manner you just did, I know that I’ve done something wrong.”
Kearney’s archminister cleared her throat. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Majesty: you’ve also given five hundred men to Lord Shanstead. If we wait until nightfall to move the men from Curgh’s army to Heneagh’s, the enemy might not notice. And tomorrow, when the Thorald army arrives, Lord Shanstead can send half of those five hundred men to Lord Curgh.”
The king smiled again, more convincingly this time. “A fine idea, Archminister.”
“It is, Your Majesty,” Fotir said. “But I don’t think we should wait until dark. As the archminister just said, Lord Shanstead should reach here tomorrow. If Braedon’s scouts learn of his approach, the empire will attack today. Certainly that’s what I’d advise them to do. We should move half the men immediately.”
“You make a good point, First Minister.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“What do you think, Hagan?”
The swordmaster smiled as well, though clearly it was forced. “Very well, Your Majesty. We’ll send two hundred and fifty men to the Heneagh lines. I’ll see to it right away.”
The king nodded. “Good.” He glanced at Welfyl, his smile fading. The old duke was weeping, and though his son’s chest still rose and fell, the healer had stopped working on him. It was but a matter of time.
“Excuse me,” Kearney said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He stepped to where Lord Heneagh still knelt and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. Welfyl seemed to collapse at the king’s touch, falling against Kearney’s leg and sobbing.
“Two hundred and fifty men is nothing,” Hagan said, pitching his voice so that Javan could hear but Kearney could not.
“I know. But it’s all we have. Half of the King’s Guard is in Kentigern, and half of Eibithar’s houses have chosen not to fight at all. We’re fortunate to have as many men as we do.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“There’s nothing for us to do here,” the duke said, looking once more at Welfyl and wincing, as if the man’s grief pained him. Tavis couldn’t help but wonder if Javan was thinking about how close he had come to losing his own son the previous year. “We should return to the Curgh lines.”
Tavis saw Grinsa and Keziah exchange a look.
“I’ll be along shortly, Tavis,” the gleaner said. Then, facing Fotir, he raised an eyebrow. “Will you join us for a moment, First Minister?”
“My lord?” the minister said, seeking Javan’s permission.
“Yes, of course.”
The duke had climbed onto his mount again, as had Hagan. They started away to the east, and Tavis and Xaver followed, scrambling onto their horses and following some distance behind the duke and his swordmaster.
For a time the two young men rode in silence, Tavis enduring the stares of his father’s soldiers as best he could.
“I wonder if they’ll even let us fight now,” Xaver finally said, his voice so low that Tavis wasn’t certain he had heard correctly.
“Let us fight?”
His liege man nodded, then glanced toward their fathers so that Tavis would know who he meant.
“Why wouldn’t they let us fight?”
“Dunfyl, of course. My father didn’t even want to bring me along from Curgh; he made up some nonsense about how he needed me to take command of the castle guard while he was gone. After seeing Dunfyl killed he’ll have me standing watch over the provisions or some such thing. You watch, your father will be the same way.”
“I doubt that.”
“Tavis, you and your father might not always see eye-to-eye—”
“No, it’s nothing to do with all that. I’ve been gone for a year now, evading Aindreas’s guards, journeying through Aneira, tracking down Cadel. He doesn’t get to choose anymore whether or not I fight. I know he’s my father, but the fact is that I’ve been taking care of myself for some time now. I don’t need his permission to pick up a sword.” He looked over at Xaver, who was regarding him as if they’d never met before. “I guess to you I sound pretty full of myself, eh?”
“Not really. Somebody else saying all that, maybe. But not you. Not after what you’ve been through.”
He continued to stare at Tavis, until the young lord began to feel awkward, the way he did when the soldiers cheered for him.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
Xaver dropped his gaze, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his light curls stirring in the wind. “Sorry.”
“What are you staring at, anyway?”
“You look different.”
“Yes, well, Aindreas saw to that with his blade, didn’t he?”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m used to the scars now. In a way, I find it hard to imagine you without them.”
Tavis looked away. Grinsa had said much the same thing to him not long ago. For his part, Tavis still imagined himself without them all the time. Indeed, even now, whenever he saw his reflection, he found the lattice of scars on his face jarring. He wondered if he’d ever get used to them.
“You look older, Tavis,” Xaver said, drawing the boy’s gaze once more. “Older even than you did when I saw yo
u in the City of Kings.”
“A lot’s happened since then.”
Xaver hesistated. “You still haven’t told me about … about the assassin.”
He shook his head, staring straight ahead. “I’m not sure I can. I killed him. That’s really all that matters.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He could see it all again. The storm that had battered the Wethy Crown that day, the serene expression on the assassin’s face just before he died, the way his own sword cleaved the man’s neck. And he could remember as well being held under water, with Cadel kneeling on his back, the man’s hands clamped on his neck and head. He could feel his lungs burning for air, the frigid waters of the gulf making his head ache.
“I almost died, Xaver. He had me, and he let me go. When I killed him, he wasn’t even trying to protect himself anymore.”
His friend was watching him, seemingly at a loss for words.
“I thought that I’d find peace once I’d killed Cadel, that avenging Brienne would make up for everything that’s happened since she died. But I was wrong.”
“It’s too soon to know that. You may find peace yet, but it can’t be easy when everyone around you is preparing for war.”
A smile touched his lips and was gone. “I suppose.”
“Maybe once this war with the empire is over, and you’ve—”
“You know what, Stinger,” he broke in, “I understand that you’re trying to help, but I just don’t want to talk about any of this.”
Xaver’s jaw tightened and he lowered his gaze. “Fine.”
“Why don’t we talk about you for a while?”
The boy looked up again, a slight frown on his lean face. “About me?”
“Yes. You haven’t told me anything about home.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“There has to be something. Tell me about your studies, or your training. I don’t even know if you have a girl.”
That, of all things, made Xaver’s face shade to scarlet.
“You do! I knew it!”
The boy shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “She’s not really…”
“What? She’s not really a girl?”