“What can I say to ease your grief, my lord?”
Aram kept his gaze fixed on the blue stars slashing down the sky. “Can you tell me he will live?”
“No.”
“I hate this war, Thaniel.”
“And yet it must be fought.”
Aram closed his eyes. “I wish that there was someone beside me – better than me – to lead the effort.”
Thaniel shifted his enormous body around until he faced Aram and waited. After a few moments, when the horse did not speak, Aram opened his eyes and looked at him.
“Aram,” Thaniel said, and his voice inside Aram’s mind had the blunt tone of steel striking stone, “in ten thousand years, no one has stood up to face the grim lord – until you. I heard what Lord Joktan said. There is no one better – or stronger – than you. And my father is right. You are a man of destiny, a man of prophecy. I am sorry for your friend; I pray he lives. But I watched you on the mountain – your strength and power are greater than that of anyone who has ever walked this world.” He paused and stared into Aram’s eyes. “But my lord, understand this – as strong as you are, you cannot shield the life of everyone that follows you into war. And remember this most of all; they – we – all of us – follow you willingly, and for ourselves as much as for you.”
Aram met the horse’s gaze but had no answer. He looked up again at the glittering constellation plunging toward the western horizon. After a moment, he said quietly.
“I fear I may not be strong enough.”
“You are strong enough.”
Aram turned to look at him, but Thaniel moved away. “You need the drink Findaen promised, my friend,” the horse said, and he went into the night.
The tavern was packed though the hour was late, and was as quiet as the deepest hour of winter. Mallet sat with red-rimmed eyes, his huge frame racked by intermittent convulsions. Findaen looked up as Aram entered and indicated the empty chair at his side.
Semet brought him a glass of whiskey, inclined his head silently and went back to the bar. There was nothing to say. Aram sipped at his whiskey and stared at the surface of the table. Time passed quietly, and then, as his glass emptied and was refilled, seemed to cease entirely. There was no late hour, there was no deep night outside; there was only grief, and whiskey had no effect upon it.
Sometime later, Aram turned as a soft touch fell on his arm. Ka’en had drawn up a chair and sat at his side. She had obviously been crying; looking into her gentle eyes, Aram had the odd but distinct feeling that her sadness was more for him than for Jonwood. She leaned toward him and spoke quietly.
“I just came from Fiera’s. Jon will live, I think. He drank some water and a bit of broth, not an hour ago. He’s sleeping now.” She looked into his eyes. “Fin told me where to find you; no one wanted to disturb your thoughts. Come home, my love, and rest.”
After a moment, he nodded and pushed the glass away, surprised as he stood to discover that he was, in fact, alone. Unnoticed by him, the others had all gone, except Semet, asleep in a chair behind the bar.
Taking her hand, he went into the night and turned toward Lancer’s house at the top of the avenue. Over to the right, above the eastern hills, the sky was pink.
Jonwood slept through the next day, rousing once or twice to sip at broth, and then he slept through the next day and the next. Three days later, Aram was at Arthrus’ shop, checking on the progress of the making of armaments and weapons with Arthrus’ small army of workers, when Findaen found him, his face sporting a broad smile, his copper hair glowing in the bright, cold light of the sun.
“Jon’s awake, my lord, and sitting up. He’d like to see you if you’re not too busy.”
Surprised at the depth of the feeling of relief that flooded him; Aram took his leave of Arthrus and accompanied Findaen down the dirt track toward town. He looked over at his brother-in-law.
“He’ll live, then?”
Findaen grinned happily. “I never thought Jon could be killed anyway – he’s tough as stone.”
“And his arm?”
Findaen’s good humor dimmed slightly. “It’s healing over. Jon wants to bury the rest of it, I guess.” He let out a short laugh. “Wamlak claims that he wants a funeral and everything.”
Aram nodded. “That seems reasonable.”
Findaen glanced at him sidelong, with raised eyebrows. “It does?”
“It does,” Aram answered simply, and went silent.
Jonwood was sitting up indeed, not in a bed but in a chair by the fire. He looked up as Aram and Findaen entered and a broad smile crossed his face.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said in a voice that, despite the ruddy color finding its way back into his face, still sounded weak and thin.
“It’s good to see you up,” Aram answered. “I was afraid that we’d lose –”
He caught himself and stopped short, abruptly aware that Jonwood’s children were clustered in the far corner of the room.
Jonwood waved his good hand dismissively. “They know, and they’re all alright.” He looked over at them proudly. “They’ve been a good help to their mother while I was lying around here being useless.”
“Jon!” Fiera frowned at him, but once again he waved it away.
Watching him use his left hand while keeping the stump of his right hidden away beneath the covers, Aram was struck by a sudden and disturbing thought. Seeing the look on his prince’s face, Jonwood looked up at him expectantly.
Aram glanced at Fiera, whose frown stayed and deepened, but he had to ask the question. “You’re right-handed, aren’t you?”
Jonwood grinned, and balled his left hand into a fist, as if it held a sword. “Not any more, my lord.”
Aram could not return the grin but just stared at him, amazed at the depth and strength of the small man’s resilience.
Jonwood’s grin slowly faded and he looked at his wife for a long moment before turning back to Aram. “I wanted to ask something, Lord Aram, if I might?”
Aram nodded. “Anything.”
“You’re going south soon?”
Aram glanced at Fiera, and saw the frown strengthen on her features. Turning his attention back to Jonwood, he nodded again. “Yes. The raids on the wagons are suspended, at least for the winter. We’ll see how things look in the spring. I’m going to take this opportunity to go into Duridia and Lamont – if time allows, maybe into Seneca. We need allies, as you know.”
“I want to go with you.” This came out with more force than had been in his voice all morning. Beside him, his wife stiffened, and her eyes found Aram’s. He met her gaze for a long moment.
“Why are you looking at her?” Jonwood asked. “I’m the one wants to go.” He laughed and reached across for her hand. “Though I admit – for the moment, at least – that’s she’s much tougher.”
Fiera watched Aram. There was no pleading in her look; her expression told him plainly that he would be judged by the decision he would make in the next moment. It didn’t matter, Aram knew the right choice.
Moving his gaze to Jonwood, he shook his head slowly, but firmly. “No, my friend. I need you well – I need you strong. This is but one small journey. There will be more. More important – there are battles yet to come, and Colrad will bear no one but you.” He motioned at the hand that Jonwood had entwined with his wife’s. “Besides, you’ll need to practice, now that you – now that your left hand is your sword hand. I’ll return in a few weeks. In the spring, we’ll look to the west again, and see what needs to be done.”
Fiera had visibly relaxed even as disappointment seeped into Jonwood’s eyes, but Aram didn’t look at her – he kept his gaze on Jonwood. “We’ll need men here to guard our homes and families, so trust me, you and Donnick will have plenty to do.”
Jonwood removed his left hand from Fiera’s and looked down at it, flexing the fingers. Then he rubbed it across the stubble on his face as he looked back up at Aram and nodded. “I’ll stay here.”
A
s they went up the street and came around onto the main avenue, where the slanted sun found the street in patches, granting a bit of warmth, Findaen looked over at Aram. For once, he wasn’t smiling. “You are truly a fine prince.”
Aram grimaced. “You’d make a better one.”
Findaen’s response to this was a loud, rolling laugh that nearly doubled him over and lasted for several moments. Finally he stopped, still grinning broadly, and wiped at his eyes. He indicated the tavern with a jerk of his head. “After that, I need a drink. It’s almost lunch time, anyway. What do you say?”
Aram glanced up the street toward the large house at the top, where Ka’en waited, and then relented. “Just one.”
After they were seated, Findaen looked at Aram. “Who’s going – have you decided?”
“Going?”
“South, with you.”
“You will, of course.”
Findaen nodded at this.
Aram continued. “Jonwood would have gone, but – Wamlak, Mallet, and Ruben. Nikolus needs to stay and continue with the fortress. Durlrang will go with me, as always, but Alvern will stay here, watching over Wallensia and the valley.” He frowned. “I’ll probably take Leorg and Shingka. It might be wise to have two extra pair of sharp eyes and noses along, especially at night in strange country.”
He went silent, gazing down at the table. After a moment, he looked up.
“That’s all, I guess. It won’t need to be a large party, if we’re cautious.”
“And Ka’en?”
Aram felt his eyes narrow. He nodded slowly. “She will want to go, won’t she?”
“I think it unavoidable.”
Aram sipped at the pungent, amber liquid, rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing. He nodded again. “I don’t really want to be away from her for that long, anyway.” He looked at Findaen. “It should be safe enough, perhaps?”
“She’ll be with you – she won’t care.”
“She never cares,” Aram growled, “but I do.”
Findaen leaned across the table. “My lord – and I admit that I’m astonished by this – but you haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”
Aram frowned at him, at a loss.
Findaen leaned back, picked up his glass and sighed. Then he smiled slightly and met Aram’s mystified gaze. “You’re taking the sword?”
“Of course.”
Findaen sipped his whiskey, and set the glass carefully down. He folded his hands and his smile disappeared. “My lord, I, we – all of us – have come to understand something quite clearly. Wherever you are, with that sword at hand – that is the safest place in the whole of this dangerous world, even in the midst of battle. Ka’en is far safer at your side than in any other place she could ever be.”
Aram didn’t know how to respond to this, so he simply said, “I want her to go, anyway.” He sipped his drink and looked at Findaen. “What about Ella?”
Findaen flushed. “We marry in the spring. In the meantime, she and Kinwerd will stay with my father.”
“Make the most of your time with her, then,” Aram said, “for I want to leave in two or three days.” He glanced out the door at the street, where the slanted sunlight had changed from east to west, and then upended his glass and stood. “I’d better go tell Ka’en.”
Findaen stood as well, but with more reluctance. “And I’d better tell Ella.”
21
The plains rolled southward and westward, the faded green tinged with yellow by the hand of frost. Aram watched the line of hills rise out of the plains to the southeast as Thaniel thundered south along the ancient road that hugged the hills to the south of Derosa. Durlrang loped alongside, a dark shadow in the thin winter sun. Ka’en on Huram, Findaen on Andaran, Mallet and Markris, Wamlak and Braska, and Ruben and Varen followed behind. Florm and Ashal were there, too. The ancient horse had expressed a desire to accompany them, and Aram could not refuse. Leorg and Shingka ran southward further to the west, out on the grasslands, their silver coats shining as they traveled toward the warmer climes of the sun. Two other horses, Yvan, and a large dark roan named Jerba, followed behind the main group. They had volunteered to bear the temporary lodgings and supplies of food, and each also carried a bag of monarchs.
Jared had greatly desired to go on this journey, but Nikolus would work through the winter on the fortress by the river so, in the end, the big brown horse decided to remain behind. He attempted to dampen his disappointment with the understanding that, if anything went wrong while Aram and Thaniel were away, he and Nikolus would necessarily find themselves upon the front lines of the defense of the free lands.
It was the second day of the journey. When they reached the point where the hills to the southwest formed the valley through which the road ran on toward Durck, Aram turned aside, out onto the plains. He intended to go around the hills and come into the land of Duridia from the north, rather than from the east along the roadway north of Durck. Also, he wanted to see if there were other roads entering this country from the north or west, for he knew of none. Stell was further west, along the banks of the Broad, and since its freeing had seen no trouble. Nonetheless, Aram wanted to know what – if anything – lay between that city and Duridia, upon Duridia’s east – lands that he’d looked upon but had never entered and of which he knew nothing.
They circled to the west as the sun passed the midpoint of the sky, and then, as another line of hills rose up from the plains to the west, beyond which lay Stell, he turned south, up and over a stretch of higher ground, and then down into a broad land, gently rolling, with scattered small forests of trees. This land was greener, the touch of frost had not arrived here – maybe it never would.
The hills to the east trailed away toward Durck and the sea, while those on the west rose higher, becoming almost small mountains as they angled west, and their slopes were darkened with trees still bearing leaves, or perhaps they were of an evergreen variety. It grew warmer, and the gentle southerly breeze carried with it the pungent scent of sea salt.
Duridia – if indeed they were inside its borders – rapidly became a broad, richly green land, and Aram began to watch for signs of habitation. A few miles south of the stretch of higher ground, they found a small river flowing southeast and they followed it. Abruptly, the scattered copses and small forests of trees failed from the grasslands, the land leveled out and the river began swinging in wide loops, growing larger as smaller streams emerged from the plains to add their strength. Ahead, a line appeared on the prairie, like a dark thin shadow, spanning the grass from the hills on the west all the way over to the highlands on the east.
At a thought from Aram, Thaniel slid to a stop. Aram stood in the stirrups, shielded his eyes, and gazed at the dark line on the prairie. “What is that I see to our front?”
The others came up alongside, and also looked southward. Finally, Ruben, over on the right, said, “It’s a fence, a tall fence – maybe a stockade.”
“It is,” Wamlak agreed. “It’s a defensive structure of some kind.”
“Good,” Aram said. “People. Cautious people. I like them already.”
They continued on then, moving away from the river that had begun to nourish fairly extensive marshes along its banks, and after a while, they came upon a road. The dirt track came from the east, perhaps winding down out of the distant forested hills and then straightened out, running southward toward the stockade, for that’s what it was. They could see it plainly, now. Tall poles, set close together, spanned the grasslands between the opposing hills, a distance of perhaps sixty miles or more. There was a fairly wide gap through which the river, bounded on either side by marshes, flowed and provided a further measure of defense.
About a mile from the stockade, Aram spoke to Thaniel, bringing him to a halt. The road had veered back toward the east. Far away in that direction, Aram saw that there was a gate of sorts, bordered by square towers that jutted up above the stockade. But to their immediate front, near the river, another
tower stuck up, matched by a second on the far side of the stream.
Aram turned to Ruben, whose eyesight, apparently, was sharper even than Wamlak’s. “Is there anyone in that tower?”
Ruben stood in the stirrups and put a hand over his eyes. He gazed southward for a long, quiet moment. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Two, I think.”
“Good.” Aram nodded. “Cautious people – alert, as well.” He looked down at Thaniel. “Let’s go see if they’re also inclined to be friendly. Stop just short of the distance that Wamlak can shoot an arrow.”
Wamlak looked over in surprise. “Do you want me to prepare for trouble, my lord?”
Aram shook his head. “No,” he stated pragmatically, “but I know of no one that can match your distance with a bow. And I would like to be certain of the disposition of these people before we come within range.”
Wamlak smiled at the unintended compliment as Thaniel lunged forward. Aram felt the rumble of the horse’s deep laughter. He looked down.
“What is it that you find amusing?”
“I have never actually noticed how far Wamlak can send an arrow, Lord Aram. Perhaps you will enlighten me?”
Aram grinned. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
A hundred yards from the wall, they stopped, fanning out in a line. There were, in fact, three men in the wooden tower, and all three were staring at them. They were armed with lances and odd, short bows. These instruments were held, strangely enough, at waist level, turned so that the bow itself was horizontal to the target – and they were pointed at the strangers that had come southward across the prairie. Aram retrieved his hood and slipped it over his head, and re-positioned his sword so that it was within easy reach of his hand.
“Stay here,” he told the others, and then he moved Thaniel forward.
The men in the tower were obviously nervous, and tense. They stood rigid as Aram approached, but seemed not inclined to release the arrows they kept trained at him unless provoked. The wall was perhaps fourteen feet high on average, and the sides of the watchtower extended three or four feet above that. Below the wall, extending along the whole of its length, there was a row of sharpened spikes, buried in the earth, jutting upward at an angle that would render any approach to the wall very difficult for men, horses, or even lashers.
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 19