by Cas Peace
“You must understand how they saw me, Rienne. Everything about me was different. The color of my hair, the color of my eyes, the way I spoke. These things set me apart and I cannot blame them for not being able to accept me.”
“But you were a child,” protested Rienne. “A baby.”
“And they raised me as best they could. It is long in the past now, Rienne. Long forgotten.”
Rienne said no more but she heard the regret. Heard, too, what could never be forgotten, despite the Major’s assurance—the echoes of an abandoned child’s unabating loneliness.
Sullyan continued to speak, sometimes swirling the contents of her cup, sometimes sipping from it, despite the fact that she didn’t drink alcohol. Rienne sat mesmerized, lulled by the lilting voice and the mellow glow of firelight in the comfortable room.
“As my Artesan powers began to emerge, I learned to use them first by trial and error. When the Downlanders learned what I was, I did not understand their mistrust, but I did learn to conceal what I could do. Then one day, quite by accident, I discovered how to cross the Veils, and soon I was spending more and more time away, exploring the other realms.”
She raised her eyes, allowing Rienne to see her candor.
“This is why I understand how bereft Taran was at the death of his father and the desperation that drove him to such extremes. I had no mentor at first and was fortunate to escape unscathed. Now I know the value of caution, but I am in no position to criticize Taran’s actions or vilify his mistakes.”
She dropped her eyes to her cup again, resuming the thread of her tale.
“When I was about ten years old, news of unrest reached the Downs. It was the beginning of the civil war and it sowed chaos among the lords. Each had to decide which faction to support, each sent men to uphold his chosen cause. This left large tracts of land, as well as villages and towns, undefended. The Andaryans had largely ceased their raiding by this time but the Relkorians, always quick to seize an opportunity, took advantage of the lords’ distraction and their forays into Albia increased. A band of them began plaguing the Downlands and the elders were forced to beg the Lord of the Downs for help.
“Relkorians are a cruel, fierce people, Rienne. Many of them are slavers who raid the other realms for captives, whom they sell to the owners of Relkor’s numerous quarries. I learned much about them from my travels through the Veils and even at that young age knew more about them than most Albians did.
“Eventually, the elders’ pleas were heard and a company of swordsmen was sent to deal with the raiders. I had seen Lordsmen before, of course, but never such a well-drilled, cohesive unit. They were different from the usual loose-knit band of young nobles. They were confident, obedient, ordered. I was fascinated, drawn by their aura of camaraderie and belonging, and by their synchronicity of purpose. These were things lacking in my own life and they appealed to me.
“Once they had scouted the area and discovered the raiders’ location, I followed them. I concealed myself as they made camp and watched as they began their preparations. I wanted to see how they dealt with the Relkorians’ ferocity.
“I soon discovered that although their commander was a competent leader who was well respected by his men, he was totally lacking in detailed knowledge of his opponent. I thought this was a fundamental mistake, for how can you fight what you do not understand? Even I knew the Relkorian scouts were aware of him, and I knew they would lay up their numbers in ambush.
“He did not know, so I decided to warn him. When it was dark, I slipped past the guards. I found the commander in his tent preparing his attack, and told him he would be leading his men into a trap.”
Rienne gasped. In her mind was a vivid picture of a slight, tawny-haired, ten-year-old girl effortlessly slipping past the sentries of a crack fighting company. She giggled at the audacity of it.
Sullyan continued quietly.
“He did not believe me, of course, and became quite unreasonable. He told one of his junior officers to confine me in a field tent and then led his men out. I could not let him walk into the trap without trying again, so I managed to convince my jailer I had fallen asleep. As soon as he took his eyes off me, I left the camp.
“I tracked the men easily, but I was too late. I was forced to hide and could only watch as all those brave young men were massacred in the ambush.”
Her eyes, which had been glowing warmly in the firelight, were now fully dilated, huge and black. She had taken hold of Rienne’s imagination and the healer could now see, hear and smell the ensuing battle. She heard the screams of the dying, smelled the acrid reek of spilled blood, and tasted the rank sweat of fear on her lips. Thoroughly caught up, she gave a great gasp as the little girl of her vision ran out in front of the badly wounded commander—the last man alive—and spread her small arms against the invading forces.
She stared in amazement as the hazy lines of an Earth barrier appeared around the stricken man, repelling the raiders’ attempts to reach him. She watched as they tried, one by one, to break through the barrier before finally giving up and riding off, leaving Sullyan alone with the dying man.
“When they were gone,” the hypnotic voice continued, “I turned my attention to the commander. He was barely alive. I knew little enough but I sensed that if I left him to go for help, he would die. He was the last of that brave fighting company, all the rest had perished.” She shook her head sadly.
“I kneeled down beside him, trying to decide which of his wounds needed immediate attention and which I could safely leave. I had no medical training, only intuition to guide me. It was lucky for me—and more than fortunate for him—that he was an Artesan, although I did not know it at the time. But when I touched him, he must have sensed it in me, for his psyche accepted my aid. I managed to stem the flow of his blood and reach inside to strengthen his heart. I could feel the effects of blood loss and shock creeping up on him, so when I had done what I could, I covered him with the coats of his dead men, caught a loose horse and rode as fast as I could to the village.”
She paused, gazing at Rienne’s rapt expression.
“His life was saved by the village healer but it was only later that I learned his name. He was Lord Mathias Blaine.”
“Blaine?” pounced Rienne, Sullyan’s spell abruptly broken. “As in General Blaine? Oh, my. What happened next?”
Sullyan took another sip of liquor. “There is not much more to tell. Once he recovered enough to understand what had happened, he sent for me. We talked and he found out about my powers. The village elders told him I had no place in their community so he decided I might be useful to him. And here I am.”
“But what about your military rank?” asked Rienne, her shyness receding with every sip from her cup. “Don’t I remember Robin saying that your other talents outrank the General’s?”
“As to military rank, Rienne, you only need to show aptitude and confidence to achieve promotion. Once the civil war was over and Mathias Blaine had settled into his new duties, I managed to convince him to let me train. After two years, I graduated as a captain and was given my own company.
“Three years later, we were part of a major offensive against Relkorian slavers. The General never forgot the massacre of his men and he harried them constantly. Finally, he gained the King’s permission to concentrate on dissuading them from raiding us. It was a decisive move. I played a pivotal role in his strategy because of my knowledge of their customs, and our success gained us notoriety throughout the Third Realm. But then came the final battle, the Relkorians’ last and most desperate counterattack.
“They killed my commanding officer, Major Anton. He was a man I liked and respected and his death angered me greatly. Without thinking, I assumed overall command and beat the Relkorians back. We defeated them so thoroughly, they have not invaded in any great numbers since.
“For this and for bringing Anton’s body home, I was promoted to major.”
She broke off and gestured around, her golden eyes f
aintly sad.
“I still miss Beris Anton. These were his rooms and most of the things you see here were his, including the harp. Anton gave it to me before he died. He was the one who encouraged me to play, although he did not teach me. But he was a very gifted musician and we spent some wonderful evenings here.”
After a short silence that Rienne didn’t want to break, Sullyan sighed.
“The main reason for the General’s interest in me—apart from gratitude—was my Artesan power. He, at the time, was an Adept-elite and he recognized my potential. However, when he began my training he was amazed—and rather dismayed, I think—to discover that I was his equal, despite being untutored. Anton, who was a distant cousin to Mathias and also an Artesan, was a Master, so he confirmed me in the rank.”
Seeing Rienne’s incomprehension, she stopped.
“Artesans only progress to the next level when someone of higher rank confirms them,” she explained. “The exception is the highest rank of Senior Master, where the confirmation of another Senior Master is all that is required. That and the testing, of course.”
She grinned when the bemused expression stayed on Rienne’s face.
“Have I lost you? Well, maybe it will not be long before Taran has sufficient knowledge and control to support being raised to Adept. Then you will see. We make quite a ceremony of promotion here, whether military or metaphysical.
“But to finish the story—and I will be brief—six years after joining the Manor, I became a Master Artesan. That was also the year I finished my military training. Despite personally nurturing my talents, the General was displeased to have a captain with a higher metaphysical rank than his, so he managed to attain Master status himself. That was as far as his talents could take him. He was content for a while, but it was soon obvious that my own powers were not so limited.
“A couple of years later, I achieved Master-elite. After Anton’s death, the General had no choice but to recommend me for promotion, but he was far from pleased with the situation. There are many powerful nobles at court who are less than comfortable having so many Artesans in the King’s forces, despite our usefulness. King Elias may be sympathetic toward us, but we still have to be careful.
“Hence my anger over that ridiculous duel. Aside from my personal fear for Robin, it could have had very serious consequences. Any hint of scandal or misconduct would cause much trouble for General Blaine and, by association, the King.
“However, that is not your concern. Despite the disparity of our status, the General and I get along well. I do not challenge his military judgments—although I do advise him on matters relating to the other realms—and he usually defers to me in metaphysical matters. At least, behind closed doors. It makes no difference where the idea originated, provided the orders come from his office.”
Without thinking, Rienne said, “So that’s why Robin doesn’t like him. He thinks you don’t get the recognition you deserve.”
Sullyan’s eyes narrowed. “He had no right to speak of such things. He must learn to conceal his feelings.”
Alarmed that she had spoken out of turn, Rienne said, “Oh, please don’t say anything to him. He didn’t mean to let it out. Now I’ve broken a confidence and I will feel terrible if you say something to him.”
“He should not have mentioned it in the first place,” grumbled Sullyan, but she let it go.
Suddenly, she reached for Bull’s bottle, emptying it into both cups. She gazed speculatively at the amber liquor. “Am I going to regret this very badly in the morning?”
“Probably,” chuckled Rienne, feeling very mellow. Another feeling stole over her and she wobbled to her feet. “Could I use your … ?”
“Of course. Through the sleeping room.” The Major gestured vaguely.
Rienne tottered across the room, glancing about with fuzzy interest as she entered Sullyan’s sleeping chamber. There wasn’t much to see, it was almost as impersonal as the living space. A large bed stood in the middle of the floor, its plain blue coverlet neatly straightened. Brushed and oiled combat leathers hung on one wall, next to a russet dress uniform. Boots sat below, gleaming softly in the dim light. On a low chest at the foot of the bed lay a couple of books, rare though they were in Albia. There was nothing else in the room.
Rienne stumbled through to the privy and while she was there, a foggy thought occurred to her. Fumbling in her pocket, she placed a small item on the night-stand. Then she spent a few moments checking and cleaning the cut on her chest. It wasn’t serious, just a deep scrape, but her shirt was a mess and the blood had dried beyond any hope of rinsing it out.
She called, “I don’t suppose I could borrow a spare shirt? Mine’s ruined and I don’t want Cal to see it.”
“In the chest,” came a sleepy reply. “Leave the stained one there. My valet will see to it in the morning.”
Rienne found the selection of everyday shirts, cream or white, cotton or linen, and exchanged her soiled one for a clean one. Feeling much better, she was about to return to the living area when she spotted something she hadn’t previously seen.
Hanging on the wall by the door was a beautifully crafted small guitar. Made of dark varnished wood, it had exquisite tooling around the sound-hole and tuning heads. She reached out and gently brushed her fingers over the strings. They were in perfect tune; their tones warm and mellow.
“Take it down.”
Rienne jumped; she hadn’t heard the Major approach.
“Are you sure?”
Sullyan, though, was already returning to the couch, leaving Rienne to carefully lift the little instrument from its pegs and carry it into the room.
She sat down with it and began to strum. Not having played for a while, her fingers took some time to remember their skill. Sullyan listened in silence, her eyes closed.
Her confidence returning, Rienne played a simple folk tune she learned as a child. Her alto voice was pleasant but had no great range, so she was pleased when the Major joined in the chorus, adding her rich tones to Rienne’s. Emboldened, she began a more difficult piece and this time the Major sang the descant. Rienne was amazed by her range; the night before she had sung in a throbbing contralto.
Once the song was finished, Sullyan reached for the instrument and deftly de-tuned it. She played a complicated melody.
“Do you know this one?”
After a few bars, Rienne recognized a sweet lament. She nodded.
“You take the female part,” said Sullyan, and together they sang the sorrowful tale of two parted lovers.
When that song was over, Sullyan re-tuned and played a livelier air. Rienne recognized “The Drunken Maidens” and laughed. She laughed even harder when Sullyan changed the words to “The Drunken Major” and then “The Drunken Healer.” The two of them giggled like little girls.
Having refreshed herself from a rapidly emptying cup, Sullyan glanced slyly at Rienne. She then sang a lewd and hilarious variant of “Fly up, my Cock.” It was one Rienne hadn’t heard before and she collapsed in scandalized laughter. Not to be outdone, she took the guitar back and countered with “The Ups and Downs,” also changing some of the words and incorporating the names of their male counterparts.
The two women had trouble finishing the song due to uncontrollable laughter. They ended up in a heap on the floor, exhausted by laughter and liquor.
The guitar lay forgotten as they sprawled together, Sullyan propped against the couch with Rienne’s dark head in her lap. Their cups sat empty beside them as they drifted quietly to sleep.
It wasn’t the Count’s man but one of the Duke’s retainers who tapped on Sonten’s door that evening to summon him to Rykan’s presence. Sonten nodded and heaved himself to his feet, placing the crystal goblet of barely tolerable wine on the stained table.
Muttering, he rubbed his sore back. The badly upholstered chair had seen better days, as had most of the furniture in this damnably shabby place. The Count’s mansion was barely fit for peasants, in Sonten’s opinion, not
at all suitable for entertaining the second most powerful man in the realm. He knew the Duke thought so, too, but for once, he was keeping his feelings to himself.