Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

  Her warm smile, clearly seen in the light of dawn, made him want to melt into her and never leave.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, gently untangling her fingers from his locks. Stroking his hair back from his face, she gave him a somewhat lopsided version of her smile. “Sorry about pulling on your hair, there. And for screaming so loud. I think your neighbors know what we just did.”

  “If they haven’t figured it out by now, they haven’t been paying attention,” he quipped, though he blushed as he said it. Then he felt his skin from forehead to chest burn as the voice of his nearest neighbor, Frandon, wafted through the open window.

  “Oh, believe me, we know what you two have been doing. That you even have the energy for it during harvest tells me you’re not working hard enough.”

  Grateful the windows were placed too high for anyone to look inside, Eduor eased off his lover and pulled the sheet up over her body. “I’ll get the crops in.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  That wasn’t Frandon’s voice. That was Marison’s voice. Instinct had Eduor grabbing a corner of the sheet and whipping it over his groin, even as Chanson clutched it to her breasts. They fought for a brief second, then managed to cover themselves. Not that anyone could see inside, but it was the thought of being seen that was enough to make them cover themselves.

  “Mother?” Chanson asked as she gave up half of the sheet to Eduor. “Um ... what are you doing up so early?”

  “Nothing like what you’re doing.” The humor in the older woman’s voice was evident. “But we decided we like you, young man, and we want you to stay. That means ensuring you have a place to stay, and something to do ... aside from spending time with my baby girl.”

  There’s the hint of matronly censure I’d have expected, Eduor thought. But—thank Sundra—only a hint of it. Clearing his voice, he asked, “And that means ... ?”

  “Helping you with the harvest.” That was the voice of another villager, alarming Eduor and his lover.

  Kedle added her voice, startling both occupants of the bedroom anew. “You’ll have time for settling all of that later, children. Get up and get dressed, you two. Marison brought you breakfast, and the whole village has decided to help bring in every last fruit and grain they can from your fields. And you’ll have Jimeyon to thank for it, too.”

  “Jimeyon?” Chanson asked, giving Eduor a blank look.

  The reverend dyara chuckled. “He reasoned that Eduor cannot ask for help with the harvest and still be able to claim Falkon’s lands as his own if Falkon does not show up before the last of his land is harvested ... but there is nothing in the law against us helping without being asked. So, on your feet, you two. I’m not so old I don’t remember what it’s like to be finished doing that, but the rest of the village is waking up and will be here very soon. You can cuddle in the evenings after a hard day’s work.”

  Burning with embarrassment, yet touched by their acceptance, Eduor climbed out of the bed to start dressing. He returned for a quick kiss and to hand Chanson her clothes—and to give her another kiss—but her indulgent grin let him know she wasn’t upset at this unexpected end to their privacy.

  “They’re right,” she murmured. “If you can get in all of the harvest, then that’s a stronger case for you to stay and manage the land that Falkon abandoned. Not that I expect him to return today.”

  “I would have him return safe and whole,” Eduor murmured back, knotting a fresh loincloth around his hips, “but no, not today. Even if he does, there is some land to the northwest that could have a cistern dug and some fields scratched out. Or maybe orchards planted. I’m pretty good with trees. Not that there’s much room in the village for a new house, but ...”

  “But you could live with me,” she agreed, rising and finding her own clothes. Loincloth in hand, she paused to look at him. “Eduor ... where do you want to be, three years from now? What life do you want to lead?”

  The question was an unexpected one, but a good one. It was also one he had an answer for. “I want a good home to live in—whether or not it’s at the temple doesn’t matter—a good day’s work to be proud of, and most of all, to be at your side still, three years from now. If you’ll have me.”

  Sitting down, he strapped on his sandals. Chanson bent over and looped her arms around his shoulders, bringing their faces close together. “Do you know what I want, three years from now?”

  “What would you like?” he asked, meeting her dark brown gaze openly. “If I can get it for you, I will.”

  She grinned. “I want you. As my husband, if you would have me as your wife. And I want you to have work that you can be proud of, just as I’m proud to be one of the dyara for Oba’s Well. I want you to have fields and trees that I can help water. And I want to know if these gorgeous gold curls of yours are inheritable ... if you’re willing to have a child or two with me.”

  Children. He could see them now, a blend of her features and his, laughing and playing in the temple courtyard with the other children in the village. Swallowing, he nodded. “I’d like that. A lot.”

  “Then let’s get your harvest in, so that the lazy, absent Falkon has nothing more to claim. He certainly lost his claim to me the day he rode out of here. You gained it when you walked in and stayed, and proved to be a fascinating and much better man.” Kissing the tip of his nose, she released him and let him continue dressing.

  Which Eduor did, in a very good mood despite the lingering embarrassment from their being overheard by her own mother and a handful of others.

  SEVEN

  Hearing the horns of the children tending the herds at the village edge, and the cheerful pattern that warned of a friendly caravan approaching, Eduor stood and stretched. Mindful of the hot midday sun and his paler-by-comparison flesh, he hadn’t loosened the neckline of his thawa and wrapped it kilt-like around his hips, but that meant he had to spend a few moments flapping the fabric to cool himself down.

  “Hey, Substance Man! Do you think you’re allowed to stop working?” Marison called out from two rows over, digging industriously at the base of the next sweetroot plant. The last of the grains and all of the fruits and greens had been harvested with the help of her and the others, yesterday. Now the remaining vegetables had to be dug out of the ground, a laborious task at best. “You’re not allowed to sell more than a tenth of this to any caravan, so keep digging.”

  “Yes, Mother Marison,” he muttered. A couple of the other men chuckled at his quip but took a few moments to stretch as well. Someone fetched the pitcher of drinking water from the end of the row and passed it around. Eduor accepted it gratefully and drank deeply when it was his turn, then handed it to the next harvester.

  Moments later a youth pelted into view, dodging the thorn-bearing limbs of the acacia trees guarding the field. His voice carried, “Falkon! Falkon’s back! It’s Falkon with the caravan!”

  Eduor froze, mind racing, while the youth detoured to head toward the village and deliver his message there as well. The harvest isn’t fully in. He can still reclaim the land, even if I can legally claim the larger share of this year’s bounty for my own . . .

  The caravan came into view, its members apparently having decided to follow the boy who had fled to warn Eduor of its approach. There weren’t more than ten riders, with maybe fifteen beasts all told, the horses bearing saddles and the dromids laden with packs. At the forefront rode a vaguely familiar man in leather armor. Next to him rode a woman, also in boiled leather. Falkon lifted his hand in greeting to some of the villagers as they crossed the harvested portion of the field. Stopping a few lengths away, he leaned on the pommel of his saddle.

  “So. Who’s been taking care of my fields in my absence?”

  “Your fields?” Marison asked before Eduor could respond. Pushing to her feet, the yellow-clad woman dusted off her knees. “Your fields? When you left before they were planted and returned only after the vast majority has been harvested?”

  “Marison, please,” Eduor murmu
red.

  She pointed at him. “This man has done all the work. He plowed your fields, sowed your seeds, weeded your plants, tended your trees, helped your mare foal, fed your chickens, harnessed your donkeys, watered your fields, pruned your orchards, plucked your fruit, reaped your grain, and dug in your dirt.”

  “I don’t see him digging now,” Falkon pointed out. “In fact, I see a lot of the rest of you digging.”

  “Well, he didn’t ask us to help him, so the effort is still all his.” Hands planted on her hips, she drew in her breath to say more. Eduor touched her arm.

  “It’s alright, Marison. Really, it is.” Facing the man on horseback, Eduor lifted his chin. “Yes, I took care of everything for you. I won’t deny I was hoping you wouldn’t return for a few more weeks, but the land is yours, if you still want it.”

  “The harvest, however, is his,” Marison interjected.

  “Actually, we want it.”

  Even Falkon turned to eye the man on one of the horses behind him. “What are you talking about, Chowrick?”

  The other man nudged his mare forward. He tugged down the facecloth of his turban and grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “I mean, this is clearly a prosperous village. Surely they can afford to spare some of their food ... and their other goods.”

  Falkon and the woman next to him both stiffened. Eduor quickly sized up the others in their caravan. Calling it a caravan was a misnomer, he realized; all of them wore wax-boiled leather, and all of it showed signs of wear and repair. Warriors, not merchants. This is a raiding band.

  “I did not lead you here to pillage my home,” Falkon growled, reaching for one of the blades slung at his waist. He turned his horse to face the other man as he did so. Eduor quickly moved out of the way of the mare’s hindquarters, putting himself closer to the would-be bandit in their midst.

  “You are but one man, and the only Sud in this war band. Everyone else you rode with chose to stay with their distant kin ... or died in the fighting.” Chowrick smiled his not-smile a second, equally brief time. “Do you wish to follow them?”

  “I won’t let you raid my village!” Jerking his short, curved sword free, Falkon froze as most of the others unsheathed their own blades. One of the other men and two of the women, including the one still at Falkon’s side, did not draw their own weapons, but the rest did.

  “You are just one man,” Chowrick challenged Falkon, lifting his own blade. “What can one man do?”

  Eduor jumped. Hooking one hand over Chowrick’s shoulder, he grabbed at that upraised arm and used the weight and momentum of his falling body to drag the other man out of his saddle. It helped that no one had remembered how close he was to these riders, so the element of surprise was on his side as he made his unconventional attack. The mare neighed and scrambled sideways, shying away from their falling bodies. Twisting as he fell, Eduor planted a knee somewhere on the would-be bandit’s stomach, hard enough that the other man eeped as they landed.

  Scrambling to his feet, fingers still latched tightly around that sword-bearing wrist, Eduor spun. The move, ducking under his captive’s arm, flipped Chowrick facedown in the rough soil of the half-harvested field. From there, it was easy enough to plant a foot on his shoulder blade and pinch the back of his hand, pressing on those dark-skinned knuckles until the sword dropped free.

  “... That is what ‘one man’ can do,” Eduor stated, loudly enough for the others to hear over the downed bandit’s groaning. “And I am the least skilled of all these farmers.”

  Dropping his arm, Eduor stepped back. He kicked the sword out of reach as he did so and waited for Chowrick to stand. Thankfully, no one in the field snorted with laughter at his claim. It was the truth, after all; he was the least skilled of all the farmers in Oba’s Well. As for being a warrior, well, he was out of practice, but probably had as much training as anyone in this little war band, if not more.

  A glance at the others showed them looking at each other and re-sheathing their swords. Some of them gave Falkon sheepish looks. Regaining his feet, Chowrick moved to pick up his sword. Eduor stepped on the blade and folded his arms across his chest. Defeated twice, the man looked at the others in his war band. They avoided his gaze.

  “Go on. Take your horse and get out of here,” Eduor told him. “There’s a cave with a cistern two days’ walk almost due west of here. It’s on the main caravan route. You can find whatever you want elsewhere in Sundara. I can guarantee you won’t find what you’re looking for here in Oba’s Well. Or at least you won’t like what you will find.”

  The other villagers backed him up. “Go on!” “Get out of here!” “Don’t come back!” “We’re even tougher and meaner than he is!” “Yeah!” “Sands take you!”

  Chowrick flinched from the clod of dirt thrown his way. A glance showed no more support from his fellow warriors. Dodging Falkon and his horse, he trotted down the field after his mare, who had stopped at the edge of the trees to nip at some of the weedy grass growing there.

  As he left, one of the remaining warriors shrugged and offered, “He was the war band leader. But ... he’s been defeated by a farmer!”

  “Yes, what do we do?” one of the women asked, eyeing Eduor warily. “I don’t want to follow a dirt-digger!”

  “That dirt-digger ... is my brother,” Falkon stated, startling Eduor. He looked down at the ex-Mandarite and twisted his mouth in a wry smile. “What he owns, I own ... and what I own, he owns. You’ll take care of our farm, won’t you, Brother?”

  Vaguely recalling something in the inheritance laws about adopted siblings and their legal rights—and that declaring their relationship in front of so many witnesses was the biggest part of making it official—Eduor looked around at his fellow villagers and nodded. “Sure. I’ll, um, keep the family farm in good condition, and make sure your room is ready for you whenever you visit, or are ready to come home. And since you’re the one with the heart for fighting, you can have the war band in my place. Agreed, Brother?”

  “Agreed, Brother. And we’ll pay for our food and supplies,” Falkon stated firmly. “But ... at a discount, I trust? In the name of family?”

  “Why not?” Eduor muttered wryly. “Nothing like family to rob you blind, right?”

  Thankfully, both sides chuckled, warriors and villagers alike.

  The woman on the horse closest to Falkon reached out and tapped his elbow. “... Well? Aren’t you going to mention me?”

  “In a moment—ah, there she is. I see Chanson coming this way.” Falkon waited until the blue-clad dyara finished jogging up to their patch of the sweetroot field, and held up his hand. “... I’m sorry I left you like I did, Chanson, but I hope you’ve moved on. A dyara deserves a man who is one with the land she blesses with Sundra’s waters. I am more a man of the flame, these days, and fire and water don’t always mix so well.”

  Panting a little from her run, Chanson nodded, shook her head, then shrugged. “I’m glad you’re alive, and I hope the others are, too, but ... it’s been nine months, Falkon. I’ve definitely moved on. In fact, I have a betrothed now,” she added, tucking her palms on her hips in imitation of her mother. “The man who stepped up and took good care of your land. And if you’d only had the good sense to stay away for a few more weeks—”

  “Enough!” Grinning, he held out his hand to the woman riding at his side. “Chanson, this is Berilla, a fellow warrior and a wonderful woman. She and I are betrothed ... just as you and my new brother apparently are. What was it you said, Brother?” he asked, slanting a pointed, sly look at Eduor. “Nothing like family to rob you blind?”

  Grateful his future was settled, and settled happily, Eduor blushed when the others laughed again. “... Something like that.”

  It seemed that, try as he may, his tongue was still getting him into trouble.

  GUILDARA

  ONE

  For a land that professes its peaceful intentions so strongly via its envoys, Sir Zeilas thought, hastily sidestepping a pair of men carr
ying a long piece of heavily worked metal, these Guildarans do seem to be preparing for war. I’m not sure I like this. I’m also not sure why they’re showing us how these machines are built. The engineering works of old Mekhana were a deeply guarded secret for centuries. They shouldn’t be exposing their knowledge like this.

  “I don’t like this,” Sir Catrine hissed in his ear as they paused for another pair of figures hauling a stack of gears on a rattling, wheeled table. Her whisper echoed his troubled thoughts. “Why are they still working on their infernal machines when they say they want peace?”

  Zeilas didn’t answer her for two reasons. One, they had to hurry to catch up with their guide, who was wearing the same ubiquitous, knitted tunic and soft-brimmed wool hat as nearly everyone else in this cavernous, barnlike building, and thus would blend into the crowd far too easily if they fell behind. Two, he didn’t have an answer for her. Hopefully, they would get answers out of their hosts.

  It was strange that they should be led here first, though. The handful of other knights who would serve as messengers and advisors had been allowed to head straight for the suite of rooms given to them for ambassadorial quarters, but the leader of this former patch of Mekhana had insisted on talking to the chief Arbran envoy and the chief Knight-mage accompanying him. So here they were in the “motorbarn” or whatever the man guiding them had called it, surrounded by the same machines that had once been used to try to conquer Arbra.

  Light poured down from the windows high overhead, strange smells oozed from the various liquids and greases in evidence, and crackling fires in pierced barrels did their meager best to warm the oversized building. There was too much space and too much metal to warm the air efficiently, though.