by B R Crichton
He wondered if he was in denial, by not allowing himself to fully grasp the ramifications, and holding the knowledge back from full scrutiny. He certainly did not dwell on it, instead casting about in his mind for other things to consider when he felt that he was lingering too long on the matter.
Life went on in Lythuria oblivious to the bitter cold around them. Anyone peering over the edge would see the world turned to ice below, but the freezing temperatures never touched them. A few people spotted them at the edge, stripping off their heavy clothing as the warmth hit them, and waved. They trudged wearily down the slope and onto the cobbled road that led them into the land that Kellan had called home for so long. They walked slowly, deeper into Lythuria, waving to familiar faces, and greeting old acquaintances.
Any trepidation he had felt at meeting his old friend again after their argument vanished as soon as he saw Elan, rushing towards them.
“Kellan!” he shouted, running along the cobbles towards them. He caught Kellan in an embrace, laughing and slapping him on the back.
“Welcome home,” he said
Kellan returned the embrace. “It’s good to be back. Tell me, how is the world of weaving?”
Elan released him with a bored expression on his face. “Are you serious?” he said. “You disappear for half a year and the first thing you want to know is how the loom is working?”
“You’re right,” he said, “who cares about weaving? How are my cows?”
“Missing you terribly,” Elan replied. “They miss your soft hands.”
Kellan introduced Truman to his friend.
“Thank you for seeing him safely home,” Elan said to the poet as they shook hands.
“If I am to be honest, it is Kellan who has been minding my wellbeing,” Truman replied.
“Well, either way, it is good to have you home,” Elan said, slapping Kellan on the shoulder. Kellan only nodded, smiling tiredly.
Granger slipped away, muttering about going to see Ganindhra, and leaving the youngsters to their stories.
Elan leant in close. “She has been waiting for you. Every day, moping around like an old widow.”
Truman clapped his hands together. “At last we get to the truth of it,” he declared with glee.
Kellan groaned. “I’m not sure that she will want to see me. She was pretty angry with me before I left.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure she’s forgotten all about it.”
“Have you met your sister?” Kellan gaped.
“Ah, yes,” he replied, “of course. But can you think of a more beautiful place to die?” he swept his arm in a wide arc, taking in their surroundings. They were, indeed, beautiful. Soft greens, and subtle pinks and yellows of the tree flowers, heavy with scent and alive with bees. Bird song trilled among the boughs above their heads, and everywhere had the feeling of perpetual springtime with the constant flush of new life.
But for all the beauty and serenity of the place, and for all that Kellan felt a great comfort at being here, he knew for the first time that this would be a transitory stay. He had changed during his time in the lands to the south.
Kellan had become aware that he would have to face his demons beyond the safe confines of Lythuria, and leave to find his way in the world. He would need time to digest the recent revelations, and there was no better place for that than here, amongst friends and loved ones, but he could never remain.
He understood now why Granger had sought to keep him here. The Daemon would be easier to control with Ganindhra and Granger to guide him and his actions, but he was mortal, and sooner or later, the inevitable would release the terrible entity. Even if Kellan were to keep it trapped within him, maintaining control on the anger that fed it, eventually he would die, and it would seek another host until it found someone that would give themselves over completely to their rage, and then the Daemon would be free.
It seemed that this world’s fate was sealed. Delaying its demise at the expense of Kellan’s freedom was an exercise in futility. Better he took his challenges head on.
He saw Eloya, standing some way down the road. Even from a distance her beauty was enough to make his heart leap within his chest. Her skin, the colour of uncut jade, and smooth as buttermilk, glowed against her flowing dress of finely woven cream wool. He was not sure how long she had been watching, but when their eyes met, she slowly turned and walked away. A backward glance invited him to follow.
Kellan promised to tell Elan everything that had happened on his journey; but later. He left Elan to entertain Truman, hurriedly shaking the hands of other friends that had arrived to greet them, and tried not to be too brusque in his rush to catch Eloya.
He followed her through the trees to her family Grove, her fleeting figure always tantalizingly out of reach, but knew where she was going, of course. To the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool.
He slowed, and continued through the trees to the secluded end of the Grove. The grass was soft under boots now used to stone and packed dirt. He found her sitting beside the stream, watching the water trickle over the rocks.
He had not rehearsed this meeting. He could scarcely believe that she wanted to see him at all, and now that he was in her presence he found he was unable to speak. He stood dumbly, watching her, until she slowly turned her head to him and stared at him with an unreadable expression. He saw for the first time that she had a small book in her lap, a diary perhaps with a clasp sealing its secrets from prying eyes.
She lifted the book and flicked the clasp open, then opened it. The book fell open easily at a page as though opened at that point countless times.
“Do you remember this?” she said, looking into the open pages of the book.
Kellan took a few tentative steps towards her, his heart thudding in his chest. He moved around to get a look inside the book, open in her palms.
“What is it?” he asked nervously.
She angled the book towards him to reveal its secret.
It was a simple pressed flower. The honeycup he had picked for her to buy her silence when she had caught Kellan and his friend spying on Elan’s parents. He knew it immediately. He also knew that she had treasured that flower since their childhood. Even now he could picture her little face, made smaller by the large flower in her hair.
“I nearly broke my neck getting that,” he chuckled.
“There was a time when I wished you had,” she replied, looking wistfully at the pressed bloom. He gulped hard. “But it was only for a moment. I don’t think you realise that the honeycup is the most precious gift a man can give a woman in Lythuria. It is a promise of love and commitment as binding as marriage to many.”
“We were only children,” he said, and regretted it as soon as the words were out.
She offered the open book up to him, a look of defiance on her delicate face. “Would you like to take it back then?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, determined to say the right thing and not let his mouth drop him in a pit. When he opened his eyes again, she was still holding the flower out to him, waiting.
“No. I would give that child a new flower every day if I had that time again. I would give her a fresh new bloom every morning until that child became a woman and I would give her the same. There has not been a day gone by that I have not thought of you and wished that things had gone differently. Hurting you was the hardest thing I have ever done.” He reached out and took her hands, closing the book and taking it from her grasp to place it on the ground beside her. He knelt on one knee, pulling her hands into his chest. “I am a fool in more ways than most, but I would never take it back, or any of the sentiments that go with it. I love you, Eloya, and you should always remember that. Whatever happens between us, that flower is more than just a token. As a child I risked my life to reach it in ignorance of what it would mean to you. Now that I am a man, I would climb the Cascus themselves if there was a single honeycup left in the world if you asked.”
Her eyes were moist with tears as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down in an embrace that startled him with its ferocity. Her searching mouth found his and they kissed deeply, ferociously. She broke the kiss, pulling his shirt up his back until he pulled it off, then with a glance to ensure her consent, unbuttoned the front of her dress. She pulled it down over her shoulders and wrestled her arms from the short sleeves even as she was dragging him down onto her. He felt the warmth of her skin on his, her soft breasts against his chest, and his body responded.
She unbuckled his belt and pushed his trousers down over his buttocks, dragging her nails back up his back all the way to his shoulders and down again, inflicting pain that he was only vaguely aware of. He lifted her skirts, feeling the heat of her thighs against his hips as they engulfed one another. His body became like a single point as every nerve pulsed with an ecstasy that bordered on agony.
They lay in the afterglow, still tingling, on the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool.
Kellan had felt more than one kind of release as they made love. He felt as though they had broken through some sort of barrier, admitting them to a place where there were no secrets any longer. They had shared themselves with one another completely, and now there was nothing that could come between them, as though they had become one. The final step to becoming a man left him feeling pleasantly numb and relaxed; and more than a little sleepy, as they watched the clouds overhead, flowing with dreamy slowness from the peaks of the Greater Cascus.
He felt certain that she would understand him better now. The experience would have matured them both in the same way, and Eloya would no longer resent his attachment to the world below.
Everything would be fine.
The weeks wore on, and Truman recovered. Kellan continued to practice with the sword. He became proficient, even without reaching for the Calm that gave him such control. Truman and he sparred in the shade of the trees, as Elan cheered them on from his position in the branches above. The light was fading as the winter sun dropped below the horizon of Lythuria, but the snow covered mountains to the north still glowed vividly in the warm rays.
The dull crack of their cane-bound blades rang through the woods, and they danced and sidestepped, parried and lunged, trying to get the better of the other.
Truman was now fully recovered, though he tried to use his tender ribs as an excuse when Kellan was able to get past his guard.
“Prepare yourself for a lesson in the true art of fencing,” Truman warned, as he took his stance.
“I will try to be gentle with you,” Kellan replied, then attacked without warning. Truman reacted quickly, and avoided the lunge, pushing the attacking blade aside and countering with his own attack. Kellan jumped back as the covered rapier hissed past his chest.
“Not bad for a wounded man,” said Kellan, “or have you accepted that you have milked that little knock for all you can already?”
“Even with my ribs cracked you would be no match for a true master,” Truman replied, twirling the rapier in his grip.
“You do realise,” Elan said from his lofty position, “that for all your prancing about like ladies, I could drop the pair of you effortlessly with a half decent bow?”
Kellan kept his eyes on his circling opponent. “That is just as well, since you have only ever been able to make a ‘half decent bow’,” he shouted up into the branches.
“That hurts me deeply,” Elan sulked, pouting theatrically.
“Besides which, if you were half the man I am, you would at least be willing to pick up a sword.”
“If you were half the man you think you are, I might lower myself to give you a thrashing,” came the reply from above.
Kellan parried an attack from the poet. “You delude yourself, weaver. Do you not have dresses to make, while men practice their art?”
“Oh boys.” A familiar voice caught Kellan off guard, and Truman pounced, bringing the cane covered rapier around to crack against Kellan’s backside. He yelped.
Eloya approached with a cloth-covered jug on a tray with three cups, as Kellan rubbed his bruised ego. He grinned sheepishly at her.
“I brought you some refreshment,” she said, “and came to find the source of all the hot air. It is as though the fires of the world are trying to burst through the ground again, there is so much bluster coming from the three of you.”
Truman bowed. “Please excuse the swaggering of us simple men, my lady. It is a blemish on our simple gender, that we must boast so amongst friends. All in jest I assure you.” He smoothed his moustaches with thumb and forefinger.
Eloya smiled enigmatically and placed the tray on the ground beneath the tree as Elan dropped to the grass.
“Do I smell spiced wine, sister?” he asked eagerly.
“Your nose remains your sharpest sense, brother,” she replied as he eagerly lifted the cloth from the jug. He breathed in the aroma with relish. “As your sense of duty is clearly lacking.”
“What?” he replied absently, as her comment sank in.
“Leaving father alone to fulfil the orders, while you caper about in the woods,” she tutted.
“It’s my day off,” he protested, already pouring himself a cup. She continued to look at him with one eyebrow raised until eventually his shoulders dropped. “Best go and give him a hand. I will see you gentlemen later.”
With that, he stalked off through the trees.
“Gentlemen,” Eloya mocked with a curtsy, then followed her brother back towards their house in the distance. Truman’s eyes lingered on her retreating form until Kellan gave his arm a warning punch.
“I see those eyes, poet. I hope you do not plan to fill her ear with honey to steal her from me and have your way,” Kellan warned.
“My dear friend,” he replied with mock indignity, “I am appalled you even considered it a possibility.” They stood in silence for a moment, both watching the gentle sway of her hips until she was out of sight. “I plan to kill you then take advantage of her grief.” He took an offensive position and attacked with a lively exclamation, and Kellan reacted just in time to clumsily parry the onslaught.
Sometime later, they collapsed on the grass beneath the tree, exhausted. Truman poured two cups of wine, and offered one to Kellan. He accepted it and raised it to his friend before drinking deeply of the light spicy liquid.
“This is a beautiful place you call home,” Truman said after a while of silent contemplation.
“Kellan nodded. “True.”
“And there is much to keep you here,” he said, nodding in the direction Eloya had gone.
Kellan looked at him quizzically. “Where are you going with this?”
“I am afraid the time has come for me to bid you farewell,” he replied dramatically.
“Really?” Kellan felt a surge of expectation. “When?”
“Soon. The spring melt has come early, and I have business to attend to.”
“Just what is your business, Truman?” Kellan eyed him suspiciously. “I gather it is not all songs and poetry. I saw you with that man at the library at Moshet. He didn’t strike me as an art critic.”
Truman sighed. “Then I am grateful that you are not an agent of the Empire.”
“What do you mean?”
“That man was Kilarn Bluntis. Scurrilous Blunt to most. He is a mercenary working for the Dashiyan King.”
“Dashiya?” Kellan said in surprise. “But Dashiya is not part of the Empire.”
“Yet. The Kodistai has his eyes set on Hadaiti, and the Dashiyan army will never withstand the Heavy Infantry. They have looked elsewhere for their defences.”
“Wait,” Kellan said suddenly, “You’re a mercenary?”
“I prefer the title ‘Soldier of Fortune’, but, yes I suppose I am.”
“Then I must come with you,” Kellan said, standing.
“Hold on there. What about your home? Eloya?” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“She will understand.” Kellan began striding through the trees. He had dreamed of fighting the Empire. Dreamed of avenging his mother’s murder and his village’s massacre. Twice he had hit out at the forces of Korathea, and twice he had been forced to flee. At last an opportunity to fight them head on had presented itself, and he was not going to let it slip away from him.
“Kellan,” Truman called as he followed, “you can’t just up and leave. What will you tell people?”
“That I am going to fight for the freedom of my homeland,” he shouted without a backward glance.
“Kellan, you’re from the Northlands. I’m talking about Dashiya. Don’t be absurd.”
He stopped and turned to face his friend. “Don’t you see?” he urged. “I cannot fight alone. The Northlands are too cowed. I must strike at them where I can.”
“It sounds to me as though you have a vendetta,” Truman warned. “That is a dangerous road, Kellan. Go to war with hatred in your heart and you will only find reason for more of the same.”
“You sound like someone else I know,” Kellan said, the image of Ganindhra reminding him that he would need to visit before leaving.
“Someone wise no doubt.”
“Truman, I need to do this. I need to make a stand that is not worthless. I must make a contribution to the efforts to stop the Empire. If the Northlands had stood as one to hold the Koratheans out, they would have done it. Instead they rolled over. If I can help prevent another land falling under the heels of their boots, then I must do it. It may not be my land, but they bleed the same blood in Dashiya. I need this.”