by Greg Curtis
But compared to her husband? It was nothing. She had made her bed beside him for the first time the previous night in fear. But fear had turned to horror when she saw the underworld his life had become. He burned. By the Mother how could a man burn so hot? How could he dwell in such pain? Crying out all the night in his sleep? If you could call it such. What had been done to him was a crime beyond all decency.
Yet in the morning he arose, bathed, with the help of the physicians, dressed and went about his duties when any normal man should be falling down with pain. If it was her duty to lie beside him at night and tend to him as a wife should, it was a small thing compared with what he endured for the sake of his duty.
Besides, he had scarcely even noticed that she was there through the night. When the blood filled his eyes as he lay there, she suspected he became blind. Just as her brother had said he would. In the darkness he knew only pain.
If the elder’s tea worked, and despite Trekor’s confidence she wasn’t so sure, it might still be too late for Iros.
“Your bath is ready Sophelia.”
Rial’s words brought her quickly back to the world, and to the price that too many had paid.
“Thank you Rial. Now I want you to find Bria and both of you to go back to your quarters and start writing letters to your families. In an hour I’ll be with you and we’ll go to the markets and find a trader to carry them home.”
Duty, she decided, should be rewarded. Besides it was time to leave the castle grounds. Time to greet Greenlands. Time to become the Lady Sophelia.
Chapter Fifty Three.
A bird called out somewhere in the darkness, perhaps seeking its mate, and for some reason it woke Iros. He wasn’t sure why. But the lingering echoes of its cry resonated within his thoughts, refusing to go away.
“Are you hurting?” Sophelia asked the question from the other side of the bed, catching him by surprise, again. She had been in his bed now for five long nights, and he still didn’t understand why. And yet sometimes it was nice to wake as he did and hear her beside him. Especially now that some little health was finally returning to his body. Even some strength. Whatever strange and bitter ingredients were in the witch’s tea, it was working. The night fevers were easing. His eyes no longer bled. The pain in his bones was less. Even his wounds were finally starting to heal over.
Koran wasn’t completely happy about that, he considered it an embarrassment. And the physician kept claiming that it was Phyllis’ blessing finally working after months of failure. But Iros didn’t really care who was responsible. It was enough to simply see some light ahead once more. And maybe a little humility would be a good thing for the physician to discover in turn. Not that he would mention that to him.
“Hush. I’m fine woman. Go back to sleep.” She wouldn’t though, He knew that. For whatever reason it was that she had decided to make his bed hers, she took her wifely duties seriously. She would tend to him, help him with his wounds and his bandages, bring him water as he needed, and dampen his brow when he burned. It still seemed very strange to him, but not altogether unpleasant. And maybe that was a part of why his health was returning. Enough that he felt strong enough to throw back the covers, stand for the first time on his own, and hobble his way over to the window so that he could look over his home. It might not be as pretty as Leafshade, but to his mind it was the more beautiful because of it.
The elves built pretty dreams. Their artistry was everywhere in their cities. The touch of the Mother so they claimed. But there was something to be said for strength as well. Greenlands was real in a way that Leafshade simply wasn’t. With its clean straight lines and raw stone it was solid. Maybe that was something of the Father’s will in action. Which reminded him that he still had to give some thought to the advocate’s proposal to the building of an archive in the town. Though they claimed that they weren’t priests and it wasn’t a temple of any sort, he still tended to think of it in the same way.
“You are far from fine my husband, and you will not become so if you do not get your rest. Now stop speaking foolishness and return to bed.” Why did she sound like a mother speaking to a small child? He didn’t fully understand, but it was still a tone that she had used often with him these past nights. And that he knew she would use again.
“I’m not tired.” And he actually wasn’t. He had been exhausted for so long, but suddenly no longer.
“Then you can tell me what is keeping you awake, but you will do it from our bed.” Her tone brooked no argument, something he was slowly learning to expect of her. She might look like a pretty elf, small and demure and far too polite, but underneath lay a sharp mind and a will of iron. And when she got out of the bed, pulled back the covers for him and indicated that he should get in he knew he had little choice. She would not let up until he had done as she demanded.
Reluctantly, like a small boy being put to bed by his mother, he climbed back into the bed and let her drape the blankets back over him. Then she crawled in beside him, and wrapped her arms around him, bringing him comfort. Such a strange thing for a grown man to feel, but not unwelcome.
“Now my husband, what is it that furrows your brow?”
“Your cousin and the black blood. If the elder is right…” He let his words trail off not wanting to let them go where they must. To war and to the Reaver. Those were not good places.
“Then you will have to be ready. We all will be. But there is nothing to be done about it now. And in the morning you will be stronger.”
“I’m stronger now.”
“But no one else is. And do you really want to wake poor Juna in the middle of the night? An old man needs his rest.” She had the right of it. Juna had turned far whiter than he had remembered from before. It wouldn’t be right to disturb his sleep for no reason.
“Fine.” He did his best to relax back into the cushions. “But I’m not tired.”
“Then you can tell me a story as you rest. Something of Greenlands perhaps. Or something of you. You have been my husband these last months, and yet I know nothing of you. The servants know more of you than I.” And lying there, sharing his bed as his wife, maybe she had the right to ask.
“What would you like to know?”
“Of how it is that can you be so strong of will? So singular of purpose? Any man, every man must take some time away from their duties. They would spend a little coin on the idle fancies that took their thoughts. Perhaps drink a little wine. Engage in games of chance or athletic prowess. Even converse with friends. But you do none of these things.” She sounded genuinely confused by it, as if there was some great mystery. Everyone in Greenlands knew his sorry tale. But she wasn’t from Greenlands as he slowly remembered. And she had the right to know, even if he didn’t truly want to retell his shameful past.
“But I did once. I did all of those things, and many more. I was that very man.” And in his heart he still was. It was just that he couldn’t spare himself that luxury any longer. Not for many long years had he been able to return to his joy. And especially not now. Yet even if he could no longer be the child he had been, it was good to be able to speak of it. To remember happier times.
“As I child I grew up wild as the priests would say. Too wild. Too free. I was the lord’s son. I could have anything I wanted, and as children do, I wanted everything.”
“So together with my friends from the castle I used to run through the town and the markets barefoot, making a nuisance of myself. Hunting rabbits in the fields and frogs in the creeks. Playing endless games of tag and poor jokes on unsuspecting people. Stealing sweets from the vendors. No one could stop me, because in the end I knew that everything would be paid for. I ignored my tutors, disobeyed my parents, and made a hippogriff’s rear end of myself, and I knew that there would be no consequences. I had been blessed with the wealth of the divine Crad himself and the sense of the Mist Maiden.”
“At thirteen I discovered ale and the inns. For months at a time I never left them willingly. My father ha
d to send the guards to collect me each evening, and half the time they had to carry me home. And each morning that followed I would get yet another long speech about responsibility from him, before I ran off and did it all over again.”
“At fourteen I discovered wine and wenches. I sang badly in the hostels, annoying the minstrels and the other patrons. I drank everything in sight and paid for nothing. And I kept getting into fights. Shameful drunken brawls, that landed me in the town gaol many nights.”
“It was after one of them that my father, my mother standing beside him with tears in her eyes, decided that I could no longer continue as I was. I had too much freedom. There was too much leniency. And my studies were too far behind. I needed discipline.”
“So they sent me to the Royal Academy in Tendarin, with instructions that I was to be given no leniency. That I was to be made a man.”
“I spent five years in the Academy. Locked within its walls day and night. Five long years learning everything that was expected of a lord’s son. Learning history, tongues and mathematics. Learning the swords and bows and strategy. Learning etiquette and diplomacy. And maybe during that time, taking the first steps to becoming a man.”
“Then I spent five more years in the Royal Dragoons, riding the realm, and seeing for myself that life was not the land of plenty for everyone that it had been for me. Those were difficult years, learning the life of a soldier, learning to take orders, but good years. They taught me truly of responsibility and the meaning of nobility. I would not decry those years to anyone.”
“After that it was the court, where my father weighed on his old friend the King to find me duties as an envoy. He knew that I was not yet grown. He knew that I needed more time to keep from sliding back into old and unfortunate ways.”
“So I spent several more years assisting envoys in many lands, until finally I was accorded the honour of becoming the King’s envoy to Leafshade. That I think was the first day that my father could truly be proud of me.” He hoped so at least. It was hard to be certain when all they had shared were letters for so long.
“But even now, with all that has passed, there is not a day that passes by that I don’t yearn to take off my shoes, run barefoot through the markets with my friends, or drink myself silly in the inns as the bards play.” Or, though he wouldn’t say it to her, to go to sleep in the arms of a bar maid, his head nestled between her breasts. It was the plain truth, although he could have done without the fighting.
“Then maybe you will. When the threat of war is gone and the town is rebuilt. Maybe then you can return to your youth.” Startled, Iros felt the touch of her hand on his other shoulder, even through the bandages and he realised that she’d got up and was tucking him in to the bed again. Why? She should have stayed in bed where it was warm. She shouldn’t even have been there. He looked up at her.
“Sophelia, there is no need for you to be here. You can stay in your quarters with your attendants.”
“You are my husband and these are my quarters. This is my bedchamber. Your bed is mine.” By the divines he wished she wouldn’t have said the last. Not when by the light of the moon streaming through the window he could see her female form outlined through the thin linen of her night dress. And she was no stick as he had once considered her people. She had curves. Unfortunately she saw where his eyes wandered.
“You like?” She smiled at him and he knew she wasn’t asking a question. Or at least not that question. His throat went suddenly dry and that was all the answer she needed.
“Good. A husband should like his wife.” She bent low over him and kissed him firmly on the lips catching him completely by surprise. Yet as unexpected as it was, his arm still reached out, found her and pulled her down on top of him. Almost as if it had a life of its own. She didn’t pull away he noticed. Just lay there on top of him and let her lips explore his. And soon her hands found his head and her fingers started running through his hair while her tongue began exploring his mouth. Her breath was impossibly sweet in his and for a while he wondered if he was dreaming. But he wasn’t. The pain of his wounds told him that as he reached a little too far for her and he yelped in surprise.
“I’m sorry. I should not have provoked you so.” Why was she sorry he wondered? The only thing he was sorry for was that she’d stopped.
“But -.”
“Rest.” Sophelia unwrapped her arms from him and then stood up to return to her side of the bed. All while he lay there staring, wishing that she wouldn’t. But then when she crawled back in under the covers and wrapped her arms around him, it was almost as good.
Almost.
Chapter Fifty Four.
Y’aris would have screamed with rage had it been proper. If it wouldn’t have been heard by others and discussed at length. If it wouldn’t have got back to the court and the high lord. But it would have been all of those things and he couldn’t let them happen. So instead he forced his rage back down into those dark regions of his soul where it normally simmered.
No more did he behead the man as he should have. As he so desperately wanted to. That too would have been seen, and then he might well have had to answer some more questions. Besides, it was not the man’s fault. Even though he was of mixed blood and a lowly caravan guard, he only carried the word. He did not create it.
Instead, as if it was the most normal of events, he paid his agent the promised silver, and sent him back to the wagons. There he could continue to ride with the merchants, travelling through the human towns, learning more information. Useful information. Maybe even information that he wanted to hear.
Then Y’aris turned on his heels and marched calmly out of the market heading back to his quarters, wanting to run all the way, but holding himself back so as to appear unconcerned. And all the way there the same thoughts kept running over and over again through his mind.
The boy! The pox ridden boy! He should be dead a month or more ago. So why was he still alive? And the hag. As her presence in Greenlands answered the first question it raised more. Why had she interfered? Why had she saved the boy? It made no sense. The boy was a nobody. A minor lord from a farming province. In all his life he had never mattered to anyone save his parents. But suddenly the hag had left her precious fen to save him. Why? Did he matter in some way? Was it a matter that the Grove cared about?
And the girl. Sophelia. She should have been a widow by now. An elven widow living alone in a barbaric land, an elf claiming a human seat that could never be permitted her. Her only value should have been in leaving open a claim to the family title, maybe starting an internal war, and weakening one of the utra’s southern provinces in preparation for their next attack. But instead she was suddenly a proper wife and maybe soon to be a mother. That could not be. It could not be allowed.
It was only a minor set back in his plans. But it was still a set back, and he hated that. His master would hate it more. And he would want to know how it had happened. The Reaver always wanted to know how things had gone wrong. He wanted to have someone to blame.
At least there was one who might be able to shed some light on these strange events. An elf not so many weeks returned from the Human king’s court, and the brother in law of the unexpectedly surviving Lord Drake. A brother in law who could quickly become the next step in his plan to the complete destruction of House Vora.
It was time Herodan got to spend a little time with his inquisitors.
Chapter Fifty Five.
Iros was in the north courtyard, practicing his swordsmanship, and for the first time in what seemed like years, enjoying his work. Perhaps it had only been a few months since he had been in the mission yards, going through the motions with his swords, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Of course, then he had been better. He had been stronger and fitter. His body not so burnt and scarred. His skin hadn’t itched and pulled whenever he stretched himself a little too far. But after months of slowly dying by painful inches, just to be outside in the sun, swords in hand, feeling
the joy as the blades danced in their proper arcs, it was still pretty good.
It would have been better if he’d had his old blades, but they had been lost in the mission fire along with his friends. It would have been better too if he’d been better also. But his skills had wasted away as had his body, and while he still knew the routines, his flesh seemed to have forgotten them. His strikes were not clean, his parries not as fast and straight as they should be, and his footwork was slipshod. Against any opponent not completely untrained he would have to rely on the luck of Duran Timos. In the Royal Academy Master Atimis would have been at him day and night for such poor technique. But he would improve and at least he could finally hold the blades in his hands again.
As with everything, the key was practice. Practice and more practice. So he stood there in the courtyard, going over every routine he knew. The forwards overhead lunge, the dancing backwards side parry, the riposte with the parrying blade and forwards counter strike. So many routines. Hundreds of them. All of them needing to be relearned. All of them needing to be perfect. And all of them would be in time.