by Tim Stead
* * * *
Tilian thought he had been tricked. Brodan did not show up that evening, and so he dined alone with Sara. He had expected moral support, and at first he had been at a loss for a topic of conversation, but he hit upon the stratagem of asking her to talk about herself, her work, the events at Latter Fetch, and so the evening went smoothly enough.
He learned that the writer of the letter was an old and venerated scholar called Nesser who had visited Latter Fetch to view a book. They had become friends. He had encouraged her to write a monograph on the book. It had been well received, and again he had encouraged her to pursue status as a scholar, and this had been granted her. The letter informed her that she was now listed in the royal college as a Scholar Ordinary of the college, which meant little to Tilian, but apparently carried some weight among men of learning.
Sara told him about the Seth Yarra attack, how she had hidden the books, hidden herself, and emerged only later when the killing was done. He had not realised that she had been in danger, and the thought troubled him. What if she had been killed? He shied away from the idea.
The food was excellent, and the wine, too. After a few glasses he allowed himself to be persuaded to talk about his own war. He was still clear headed enough to skip the less savoury details, but his sketchy account was grim enough.
“Now it is spring,” he concluded. “The fighting will begin again. Seth Yarra have massed another army beyond the Dragon’s Back, and it must be faced.”
“Have you not done enough?” she asked.
“No soldier has done enough until the enemy is defeated,” he said.
“It is unfair,” Sara protested. “You have risked your life again and again while the army sits in quarters for the whole summer. Let those men do what needs to be done.”
She had a point. In a bold moment Tilian had asked Colonel Arbak the same question, and it was the colonel’s answer he gave.
“The army must be preserved,” he said. “We have fewer men, and can’t get more as easily as Seth Yarra. If we use the army and lose, we’ve lost the war. If we use the army and win, but lose a lot of men, then, too, we have lost the war. The army is our greatest weapon, and as long as it exists we still have a chance. That is why the Wolf won’t use it except as a last resort.”
“It hardly seems worth having an army if we do not use it, and they used it at Finchbeak road.” Sara said.
“There was no choice at Finchbeak, and on the whole it is a good strategy,” Tilian said. “It has kept us safe.” Hardly safe, but at least in the game.
“I don’t understand why they do not land another army on this side of the Dragon’s Back if they have so many men,” Sara said. “Surely that would be a great advantage to them?”
“It would, but it takes a couple of days at least to put an army ashore and organise it. In that time we could muster enough men to throw them back. They would lose a great many soldiers. Also their book seems to guide them away from such tactics. They will not land unless they have time to fortify.”
“I would like to see their book,” Sara said.
“Aye, so would we all. It would tell us all we need to know to defeat them, but it seems they have not brought a copy across the sea. We have failed to find one among their dead, at any rate.”
“If you lay hands on one, will you bring it to me?” she asked.
“I cannot promise that, Sara,” he said. “The Wolf will want to see it, and Cain, and Skal, and Duke Quinnial, I’m sure.”
They talked on. The dishes were cleared away and still they talked, seemingly no longer needing to search for things to speak of. It was only when the maid came in and spoke to Sara that Tilian realised how late it was.
“Shall I keep the fire in your chamber, my lady?” she asked.
Sara flushed. “Of course,” she said. “I will be up shortly.”
The maid smirked and made herself scarce.
“Forgive me,” Tilian said. “I have kept you too long.”
Sara looked him in the eye, her cheeks still coloured. “I would rather spend an hour like this one past than a week with the books, Lord Tilian,” she said. “But the hour is done. Will you dine with me again tomorrow?”
Tilian bowed, feeling that it was a formal moment. “It would be both an honour and a pleasure, Lady Sara,” he said.
As he walked to his room he felt happy and full of anticipation of the day to come. There was a spring in his step that he had not known since before the war. Tomorrow he would see Sara again. Tomorrow would be another good day. The feeling pushed all thoughts of war from his head, and all thoughts of Lord Skal. He was assured for the moment that Sara shared this feeling, and that she wanted to be in his company as much as he wished to be with her.
Tilian was no Karim. But for all his rough upbringing he knew how to show respect. If he won Sara it would be for life, and he could afford to be patient.
There was a chair in the corridor outside his room, and as he approached it he heard footsteps on the back stair.
Brodan, he thought, checking up on me. Well, if it was a test he had passed it.
* * * *
The next few days passed quickly for Tilian. During the day he worked with his men helping the folk of the south village build their new homes. He found the work tiring, but satisfying in a way he had not known. Each evening he could see the progress. Walls were higher, trees were felled, paths were cut and sites cleared. It hardened his hands and muscles in a way that soldiering had not.
Each evening he took his tired body back to the house and bathed it in a tub of hot water, and then spent the rest of the day with Sara. If he could have lived like this for ever he would have done so.
He delayed his departure for Low Kenrish by a day, then two. He had no desire to see his new estate. Latter Fetch was where he felt at home.
He had been granted twenty days leave. Four days had been swallowed by the ride to Latter Fetch and four days must be allocated to the return. He had now spent five with Lady Sara and time was running short. If he was to visit Low Kenrish at all he must leave on the following day.
He chose not to.
Tilian did not see it as a dereliction of duty. He would not be late reporting back to his regiment, and he owed nothing to Low Kenrish – rather the opposite. He was its lord.
He might have been better served in making the journey, however, for a messenger from Bas Erinor arrived the next day. Tilian was taking a break. It was an unseasonably hot day and he had stripped down to a shirt, sitting in the sun by the front door. The messenger came down the road at a steady trot, kicking up a thin trail of dust, and seeing Tilian idle rode directly up to him.
“Who’s in charge here?” the man demanded.
“In charge of what?” Tilian asked.
The messenger looked taken aback. “In charge,” he said.
“Is it a military matter?” Tilian asked.
“Yes.”
“Then speak to me.”
The man dismounted and looked Tilian over, clearly unimpressed. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Captain Lord Tilian Henn,” he replied.
The messenger changed abruptly. “My lord,” he said. “A man was sent to find you at Low Kenrish.”
“Well you found me here. The message?”
“All leave is ended. You are to muster with the army in ten days. If you fail to join them in ten days you will follow to Fal Verdan with all speed.”
“And the army is still mustered at Dray Cross?”
“Aye, my lord.”
It was a six day ride, easy enough from here.
“My men in Bas Erinor?”
“They will join you at the muster point, my lord.”
So yes, easy then. Six days to get to Dray Cross and then another ten to Fal Verdan. He thought he’d seen the last of that place.
“Whose mark is on the orders?”
“My lord the Duke Quinnial’s.”
“You have nothing more?”
“Just rumour, my lord.”
“And the rumour?”
“That the war will end on the last day of spring…” the man shrugged. “Some even say that dragons are abroad again, but you can’t put much credence in rumour.”
“Indeed not,” Tilian agreed. He pointed to the door. “Your duty is done,” he said. “Go and tell the kitchens to feed you and give you something to drink. Will you travel with us?”
The messenger looked pleased. “I will, my lord, if it’s agreeable.”
“It is.”
He watched the messenger go in search of food and then strolled across the gravel in search of Brodan. The lieutenant was waiting for him by the woods.
“I saw him ride in,” he said. “News?”
“We are recalled,” Tilian said. “We leave in the morning.”
One more day. One more night. Tilian would have liked to have stayed until the last moment, but he knew it would be wrong. He needed to get his men back together, to make them a unit again. It had been so long since the fire. He wondered if he’d see Lord Skal again.
“I’ll get them ready,” Brodan said. He walked off, tapping men on the shoulder, calling to others. The new houses would have to wait. It was war again.
That night he shared his evening meal with Sara for the last time. It was a faintly melancholy affair, and he was more subdued than usual. Sara did not argue with his decision to go at once to join the army, but he could see that it distressed her. Perhaps because of this their conversation did not flow as on previous nights, but stumbled in fits and starts. Each of them seemed to be trying to put into words things that they were ill equipped to express.
Tilian was not even certain what he wanted to say. These last few days had been among the happiest of his life, and he could have said that, but it would have been a fraction of what he needed to say. He could have said that he loved her, but those words were worn thin by every trader’s boy that wanted to get into a maid’s skirt. It would be true, but ring false. He could promise to come back, but that would be at best a hope and at worst a lie. Instead he talked about the new houses, the progress on the paths, and the rumours from Bas Erinor. They were all just empty words.
In the end they were the only words he had, and he stood up to leave far earlier than he would have liked. He excused himself, but turned back at the door and looked at her face. She was sad, weeping without tears, and he wanted to rush back in, to take her in his arms. But instead the words came to him. He knew at once that they were the right words, and did not hesitate to speak them.
“My lady,” he said. “You are under the protection of Lord Skal, and it is my hope that I shall see him at Fal Verdan. If I do, might I have your permission to ask him if I may court you with a view to marriage?”
Sara tried to prevent herself from smiling, but the expression came anyway. She looked down at the table, trying to hide it.
“I thought you had already been doing that, Lord Tilian,” she said.
“Not at all, my lady,” Tilian replied. “I have merely been discovering that I have no wish to do anything else.”
Sara looked at him, and her eyes were shining, the grin on her face now completely beyond her control. She picked half a loaf of bread off the table and heaved it at him.
“You silly pup,” she said. “When did you ever need permission?”
He dodged the loaf. “I’ll take that as a yes?” he asked.
“You can take it with butter on,” she said and reached for another missile.
Tilian stepped out into the corridor and closed the door before she could throw it. Indeed he would take it was a yes. He had never seen her look happier. He strode down towards his chamber with a grin that matched Sara’s, resisting an urge to whistle. He had said the right thing, exactly the right thing.
And he would ask Skal, if he saw him. Skal had given everything to him. He wanted things to be straight between them.
Fifty Seven – Skal
Skal was surprised. He looked at the door for a moment, very much aware that Hestia was staring at his back, and that she, too, was not speaking. It was not Skal that broke the silence.
“Well?”
Skal turned. She looked angry, but there was a storm of emotions behind it. He was hardly unaccustomed to this, however.
“What?” he replied, knowing it would incite her further.
“You heard her,” Hestia said.
“Twenty five years seems very fair,” he said.
“Not the twenty-five years,” she said. “The other thing.”
“You want an heir,” he said, his voice flat.
“Who else would I want to be its father?” she asked. She stood from the throne and approached him. Skal was in no mood for this, however. He stepped back and she stopped a few paces short.
“I will father no bastards for you, Queen Hestia,” he said.
“You think I would ask it?”
Skal could barely bring himself to speak. This was no time for diplomacy. If Pascha was correct then the war was about to end, a new era would begin on the first day of summer. He could speak nothing but the naked truth.
“I do not trust you,” he said.
She did not seem surprised at his words, but shook her head. “I deserve that,” she said. “I have used you and lied to you, but I swear that this is different. You and I would raise the child. Who could be a better father?”
“Some Telan,” he said. “After all, Telas is your first love, perhaps your only love.”
“Are you lost to me altogether?” she asked. He could see that she wanted him to say no. He could step forwards now and take her in his arms and she would yield, all pride and prejudice thrown aside, but after that? He wanted so much to do it, but his own pride was intact. He would not be used again, not like this.
“You will have nothing from me unless we are married,” he said. “Married in the eyes of the world and all Telas knows it.”
“I agree,” she said.
“You agree?”
“We will be married,” she said. “You will be king of Telas, but I will rule.”
Skal could hardly have asked for more. He had stopped worrying about the elevation of his bloodline many months ago, but now the thought came back to him. He would be the father of kings. Not Avilian kings, it was true, but kings none the less. There was no ambition higher than this.
And yet…
He could not bring himself to say yes. His lack of trust was so great that he feared some hook within the bait. So many times he had thought he had the measure of her and then been proven wrong.
“The offer is generous,” he said, “But I cannot answer now.”
“This, too, I understand,” she said. “I have played you false too many times. If any oath will reassure you I will swear it. I will be bound in any way you name if you will agree to this.”
This was more than surprising. It was startling – unprecedented. He looked into her eyes and could see no deception there, but then he never could.
“You mean that?” he asked.
She nodded. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps this one time she was being open and honest, but wolves, as the saying goes, do not eat cabbage. He would be a fool to think she had changed. Skal found that he was very inclined to be a fool. Queen Hestia had been a stunningly beautiful woman of thirty-eight years, but as a young girl she was peerless. It was such a pleasure just to stare at her than he found it hard to tear his eyes away. Add to that her obvious intelligence and, well, he was struggling.
“You make my life very difficult,” he said.
Hestia threw herself at him, and he caught her, felt her body press against his own. He did not doubt, held in the circle of her arms, that her passion was genuine. She loved him as best she could. But that had not stopped her from using him before. He allowed their embrace to go on for a few seconds, and then he separated them, taking her by the upper arms and stepping away. She looked into his eyes.
“You will not regret it,�
� she said. “This I swear.”
“You will have your answer at Fal Verdan, if we survive,” he said. He turned, dragged his reluctant feet to the door and opened it. No matter what reason said, he did not want to leave, but he mastered himself, stepped through the portal and closed it behind him.
Pascha was waiting.
“Done?” she asked.
Skal was aware of the guards watching them, of Emmar. He wondered if the door was thick enough to have masked their words. He nodded, not quite trusting his voice.