by Cas Peace
“Don’t be such an ass,” snapped Bull. “I talked her out of it. Again. Don’t hold the wake before the bloody funeral, lad. She won’t lose you that easily.”
Robin shook his head. “No, Bull, I’ve really done it this time. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut and followed my own advice? Why did I have to backtalk her?”
“Why indeed? You’re such a lackwit, Robin. How many times have we told you there are powerful people at court just waiting for an Artesan to make a mistake like that? Some of Elias’ counselors would just love to pin a charge of serious misconduct on one of us.”
“But what about Parren’s misconduct? What about his foul mouth? Why is everyone so keen to protect him?”
Bull puffed his cheeks. “Why do you think Sully’s been at such pains to prevent you from doing exactly what you did today? Not from any love of Parren, believe me. Gods, Robin, your hot-headedness rules your better sense sometimes and now you’ve forced her to take action just to maintain her own position. It takes two to fight a duel, you know. Why on Earth didn’t you wait until you were off duty? Why fight him on Manor land? And why, for the gods’ sake, did you allow yourself, after all this time, to be goaded into dueling him anyway?”
“Why don’t I just go and fall on my own sword and remove the problem for her?” snapped Robin.
Bull glanced at Taran with a long-suffering look.
“If you’re going to go all maudlin on me, I’ll leave you here all night. Snap out of it, Robin. She’s going to need you in the next few days if this situation in the south gets any worse.”
Robin shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m finished here, Bull. So much for being made Master, eh?”
Dispiritedly, he left the cell, brushing past Taran as if he hadn’t even seen him. Bull pursed his lips and followed, the three of them walking silently back to their quarters. Word of his misdemeanor had obviously spread and the few men they passed glanced at the Captain sympathetically, or touched him on the shoulder. The support of his peers however, did nothing to lighten Robin’s mood and Taran felt guilty relief when they left him at his door.
“Don’t forget we’re due at Sullyan’s tonight,” warned Bull.
“Try and snap out of it by then, won’t you?”
“She won’t want me there,” said Robin, disappearing into his room.
Grunting in exasperation, Bull led Taran into his own suite. As they entered, Cal and Rienne glanced up.
“How is he?” asked the healer.
“Depressed,” said Bull. “This isn’t the first bollo … pardon me, dressing-down he’s received, but I’ve never seen him take one so badly. Mind you, Sully was furious and I’ve rarely seen her so angry. Never with Robin.”
“Poor Robin,” said Rienne. “Will she forgive him?”
“Almost certainly, provided word doesn’t spread farther than the Manor. She always has before. But will the General? And will Robin forgive himself, or is his self-confidence too badly damaged? At the moment, I really don’t know.”
It was past the hour of the evening meal, which Taran and his companions took in Bull’s rooms. They had no stomach for the commons that night, although Bull went for a while. When he returned, he reported, “Most people are supporting Robin. Glinn Parren is not widely liked, he’s too snide and self-serving for popularity and his few friends didn’t put in an appearance. The consensus is that Robin would have won eventually had Parren not cheated. We soldiers are a simple lot and we don’t like to see comrades taken advantage of. Parren will likely have some trouble from his own men over the next few days, provided he retains his rank.”
“Is there a chance he might lose it?” asked Cal. “He deserves to, in my opinion.”
“Yours and everyone else’s,” laughed Bull, his mood much improved by a full belly. “But that’ll be up to his commanding officer.”
“Not Major Sullyan?”
“No, luckily for him. Parren reports to Colonel Vassa, who looks very harshly on breaches of discipline. He’s in for a rough ride, though I doubt Vassa will strip him of rank. That would necessitate a report to the King and none of us wants that.”
He looked them over, visibly taking a steadying breath. “Are you ready? I don’t want to keep the Major waiting, not after the day she’s had. I warned you earlier to mind your manners and I’d encourage you to be especially careful now. Her temper might still be fragile, although she’s usually too controlled to let it show. Cal, my boy, bring that bottle, will you? Sullyan doesn’t drink but I fear we might need a drop later on. This could be a difficult meeting.”
Cal picked up the bottle of firewater and Bull grinned at Rienne’s wary expression.
“Medicinal purposes only, dear heart.”
They came out into the corridor and Bull rapped sharply on Robin’s door. There was no response.
“Oh, where did he go now?”
As Bull pushed the door open, Taran could see the Captain slouched in an easy chair, one leg hooked over its arm and a glass of something dark-brown in his hand. He looked up listlessly.
“Go away, Bull.”
Swearing, Bull crossed the room and took the glass out of the Captain’s hand. He sniffed its contents, his nose wrinkling.
“Give that back.”
Bull ignored him and went into a side room. Taran heard him pouring the liquor away. “How many of those have you had?” called Bull.
“Only one,” was the sullen reply.
“Good.” Bull came up behind the Captain and pushed at his shoulder. “Come on, get up or we’ll be late.”
“I already told you, she won’t want me there.”
“Oh yes? Did she say you were excused?” The younger man didn’t reply and avoided Bull’s eyes. “Well, did she?”
“No,” mumbled Robin.
“Then you have no choice. Let’s go.”
Bull pulled him up by the arm and marched him outside. Taran smiled and Rienne walked beside him, her hand on his forearm. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see,” she said.
All she received was a lukewarm glance.
When they reached the door to Sullyan’s office, Bull pushed it open without knocking. The room was devoid of life and no sound could be heard from the apartment beyond. Robin hung back, the last to enter. Bull looked pointedly at him, obviously expecting him to open the inner door, but he didn’t move. Instead, he stood with his eyes downcast, hearing, Taran supposed, echoes of his earlier dressing-down.
“Oh, bugger,” said Bull. Softly, he knocked on the door.
Sullyan’s lilting voice summoned them in. Bull ushered them inside and Taran looked around, interested despite his nervousness, fascinated as always by someone else’s personal space.
He saw a very comfortable living room, furnished with deeply upholstered chairs and a low couch. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth and the cream-colored walls were bright with tapestries. On one wall hung a fine-looking sword, its point wickedly sharp, its guard engraved with a crest. He thought it was the sun-circled crown emblem of the Rovannons, the ruling House of Albia. He couldn’t tell if it was the same weapon Sullyan had used that afternoon.
Low tables rested against two of the walls and two other doors led off into what he surmised were cooking and sleeping areas. Lamps glowed with amber radiance around the room, there was a faint fragrance to the air and the effect was welcoming and warm.
Sullyan emerged from another room and Taran stared in wonder.
She was dressed in a green silk shirt, open at the neck to show a fiery stone glinting at her throat. The shirt was loosely tucked into figure-hugging breeches of soft black linen. Her wondrous mane of hair was brushed and burnished, falling loose about her face. It flowed over her shoulders and back in rich tawny waves. Two more tiny fire stones gleamed in her ears, matching the one sparking from the gold ring on the middle finger of her right hand. She was stunning, Taran thought, quite unlike the fragile wraith she had seemed when he’d first seen her.
Her ski
n caught the amber firelight and her striking eyes were as gold as honey. She saw him staring and smiled, holding out her hand. Gallantly, Taran kissed it, bringing a faint flush to her cheeks that made her look very young.
“Welcome,” she said in her musical voice, “make yourselves comfortable. Can I offer anyone fellan?”
Robin moved toward one of the doors and Taran guessed that as her captain, this was his duty. However, she waved him away. “No, Robin, you sit with the others. I can do for myself for once.” She disappeared into the second room; they could hear the sound of cups being readied.
Robin looked at Bull, a stricken expression in his eyes. “You see? I told you she wouldn’t want me.”
“Shut up, you young fool. Can’t you see she’s trying to make amends?”
Morosely, Robin flopped onto the couch and Bull threw up his hands in despair.
Feeling awkward in the light of Robin’s mood, Taran also sat down. To take his mind off his own nervousness, he glanced around the room, hoping to gain an insight into Sullyan’s nature from her personal things. Only two objects seemed to convey any sense of her. One was the slender steel blade resting in its straps on the wall. The other was a beautifully tooled and inlaid lap harp sitting on one of the low tables, well away from the fire. He nudged Rienne, who was a musician, and drew her attention to it. Her eyes widened as she took in its craftsmanship and beauty.
Turning to Bull, Taran asked, “Does the Major play that?”
Bull glanced at the harp. “She does indeed and if you’re very lucky, you might hear her tonight. It’s one of her few pleasures.”
Sullyan returned carrying steaming, aromatic cups. “This will not be as good as Bulldog’s, I fear,” she apologized, “but it should suffice.”
She served them herself, which, judging by Bull’s expression, was rare. Coming to Robin, she didn’t immediately release his cup when he reached for it, forcing a startled glance from him. The color rose in the Captain’s face.
Settling herself in a chair across from Taran, Sullyan cradled her cup. “Now,” she said, “Bull and Robin have told me a little of your story. Would you care to tell me the rest?”
Taran drew a deep breath. “Yes, Major.”
She forestalled him before he could continue. “Did Bull not explain?”
Taran frowned and looked at Bull, but the big man smiled unhelpfully.
Sullyan sighed. “Then he was remiss. Journeyman, these are my private rooms and tonight I am off duty. In here, I am not Major Sullyan but merely Sullyan, or even Sully, if you prefer. This is a sanctuary from my many responsibilities and it is precious to me. So, Taran Elijah, I would hear your story and I ask you to be plain and open. You have nothing to fear, it is not my intention to judge you, but I need to hear exactly what occurred if I am to determine what response, if any, may be necessary.”
“Very well … Sullyan,” he said, searching for the right way to start. He cast his eyes down, unequal yet to the task of holding her strangely powerful gaze.
He took a steadying breath. “As an Artesan, you can appreciate how desperate I became after the death of my father.” He risked a brief glance, seeing her sitting with her legs curled beneath her, cup in her hands. She smiled gently, her astonishing eyes holding only calm interest. Suddenly, he realized he was more afraid of her censure and desiring of her good opinion, than he had previously thought. The approval of a Master-elite would mean more to him than he could express.
He took another breath.
“My father always led me to believe there were virtually no other Artesans left in Albia, and certainly none in Loxton Province. So I had no one to turn to for guidance when he died. I struggled alone, trying to build on what I had leaned, becoming more and more disheartened and increasingly desperate. So desperate, in the end, that I conceived the idea of trying to find an Andaryan Artesan of sufficient skill to teach me. I knew something of Andaryan customs from my father’s notes, for he’d written that if an Andaryan was formally challenged to a duel and defeated—or at least held to a draw—then the challenger could name his prize, even to the extent of asking for knowledge.”
“Sure,” interrupted Bull sourly, “if you place the right restraints on them.”
“Peace, Bull,” said Sullyan softly. “Have you never made a mistake?”
Her reluctance to judge bolstered Taran’s confidence.
“I constructed a portway and left Cal in charge of it. I didn’t want to close it off behind me in case I needed to return in a hurry. I entered Andaryon in the late afternoon and spent the rest of the day searching for someone suitable to challenge. By nightfall I’d seen no one and was forced to camp at the edge of some hills. There was a forest not far away and I was going to try there the next morning before returning home. I’d told Cal I’d only be gone one day.”
His eyes lost focus and his face reddened with shame as he recounted the following morning’s terrible experience. He glanced up once to see how the Major was reacting, but she merely waved him on. His memory replayed it just as it had while he lay unconscious, his body exhausted, his mind damaged. His voice took on a hypnotic quality, as holding to a certain detachment was the only way he could deal with the humiliation and self-contempt he felt.
Swallowing, he went cold at the memory of the duel and recounted it dispassionately. Sullyan’s eyes narrowed when he mentioned the noble’s treacherous use of Artesan skills in a duel where the strict Codes of Combat forbade it. However, she remained silent until Taran came to his desperate use of the Staff.
This seemed to arouse her interest and she asked many complicated questions about how the Staff worked. Taran answered as best he could but it was evident that his replies didn’t satisfy her. Finally, she released him to finish the tale.
Silence filled the room when he was done. He was almost panting with the remembered strain of effort and he felt drained. It cost him much to look into her golden gaze, dreading the rebuke he knew he deserved. But there was no reproach in her eyes, only thoughtful concern.
“So you killed an Andaryan noble. Who was he?”
Taran sighed. “Bull asked me that. I don’t know, we never exchanged names. Is it so important?”
“It could be. Describe him to me.”
Taran complied as best he could but when he had finished, she wanted something more. “What were his family colors, Taran?”
“His what?”
“There would have been a colored edge to his garments. What was it?”
Taran had to think hard before recalling this trivial-seeming detail. He tried to visualize the huntsmen who had surrounded him; the unpleasantly grinning young noble and the barely seen older man, who had kept out of sight to the rear. Then he remembered.
“Oh. Green, I think. Yes, pale green. The background was black.”
She gave a sharp intake of breath.
“You surely don’t recognize him?” Taran was amazed. There must be hundreds of nobles in each overlord’s demesne, he’d never even dreamed someone might know the one he’d killed.
“In fact I do,” she said. “I am familiar with the colors of all the noble Houses of Andaryon. Robin should recognize it too.”
The Captain made no response. His hands were clasped about his cup, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on its contents.
Sullyan pursed her lips but didn’t pursue the matter. Turning back to Taran she said, “Those colors and that description belong to a young noble called Jaskin. He was an arrogant young man, and responsible for many raids into Albia. The black is Lord Rykan’s color and Jaskin is—or was—one of his lesser courtiers.