by M. C. Elam
Sometime during the course of dwelling upon future action, she grew tired of standing and sought a resting place. The rat-infested mattress lacked appeal, so she chose a spot under one of the lookout openings where sunlight had warmed the surface of the stone to a bearable temperature. She pulled her knees up to her chin, and wrapped her arms around them. An image of the days she had traveled through the Ascallan grasslands with Marcus put her in a dream state and her breathing went soft and gentle.
“Gronka, good bird. Good bird.”
Benjamin swooped from the sky and landed on the pummel of her saddle. A rain of tiny pebbles followed.
“Gronka, good birdie.”
Evan snapped alert. It was just a dream. Benjamin wasn’t part of her world during those glorious days traveling across the grassland.
“Gronka!” More pebbles fell from the sill.
“Benjamin?” She scrambled to her feet and turned toward the opening. “Oh, Benny is it really you?”
“Gronka, good birdie.” He perched on the ledge preening one dusty feather.
“How did you get here? Did Melendarius send you? Is he here somewhere? Oh Benny, you are such a good bird.”
The sleek raven cocked his head to one side peering at her. She knew he didn’t understand. She spoke to quickly—used too many words.
“Melendarius?” She tried just his name this time.
“Gronka, Gronka, old bird.”
Evan extended her arm and tapped it with the fingers of her free hand. Benjamin fluttered from the sill. As soon as he alighted, she saw a small hide pouch bounce against him. A length of twine wrapped twice around his neck kept him from losing it in flight.
“Gronka, words.”
“Words? Benny has words?” She stroked his feathers the way she knew he liked.
“Awkkkk gronka, get words.” He rolled his head trying to pluck at the pouch, but it was just out of reach.
“That can’t feel good. Be still now.” She loosened the twine careful not to break his feathers, and slipped the pouch over his head.
Benjamin stretched both wings, rolled his head from side to side, and hopped to the floor where a large beetle caught his attention. “Gronka! Bug.” He trapped it beneath one foot, before devouring it with great relish. Once finished he flew to one of the openings and perched on the sill basking in sunlight.
Evan untied the knot that secured the pouch and released the drawstring that held it closed. She turned it over to empty the contents into her hand. A pear shaped object threaded by a thin gold chain rolled across her palm. Her breath caught and the forgotten pouch fell into her lap. The Queen’s rarest pearl, her pearl, began to glow. Frantic with the fear that someone might open the door and take it, she coiled the chain into her hand and made a fist. Glowing brighter now, the pearl turned the skin between her clenched fingers luminous. She thrust her hand into the folds of her skirt until she could think what to do.
The caretaker seemed kind. She didn’t think he would seize the pearl, but could she be certain? He seemed a gossipy sort. He might tell one of the guards she had something that looked valuable. Would they even pay attention to him or just consider it the ramblings of an old man? She doubted anyone but the caretaker would come here. She fingered the delicate chain remembering the heavy cataracts that blurred his vision. Satisfied that he would not notice so fine a chain, she slipped it over her head. The pearl disappeared in the shadow of her cleavage.
“Gronka, busy bird Gronka,” Benjamin fluttered from the sill to the floor and cocked his head. “Busy busy Gronka.”
“Oh, Benny,” Evan tapped her forearm with two fingers, but annoyed that she had centered her attention on something besides his regal presence, he chose to ruffle his feathers, plumping them to make his body appear larger before swaggering to and fro in front of her.
“Benjamin,” she tapped her arm a second time, her voice more commanding.
He stretched his wings, but instead of alighting on her outstretched arm, he perched on her knee and plucked the little rawhide bag from her lap. “Words,” he chortled. “Benny got words.”
“Words in the bag?” She felt inside, but found nothing. Closer examination yielded the discovery of a fake bottom. She dislodged that and found cracked corn packed into the base.
“Gronka, Gronka, Benny got words.”
“I don’t understand you, Benny.”
Perplexed, he bent his head forward until his body looked like a feather ball with wings. Off balance, he toppled to the floor. The gawky move left him disoriented. He twisted first left then right searching for Evan. She held her arm out and tapped it.
“Benny, come.”
With no hesitation, he landed on her arm but sidled along until he neared her face, singing tender tones that were, part whistles, part thrums, he rolled his head against her cheek.
“Benny good birdie.”
“Words,” he croaked in a low tone. “Old bird comes.”
“Benny, Benny, you are a very good birdie.” She reached for him but he flew from her shoulder to the window ledge. “That corn, it’s your treat for a job well done.”
“Gronka, Benny good. Say words. Say words.”
Evan scrambled to her feet and opened the little pouch. She sprinkled the cracked corn on the window ledge.
“I've grown a foul mouth, Benny. I know not the words that came to me in that chamber. Nevertheless, I feel no regret at their utterance. It kept him from me for I would surely have torn my heart from my breast had he touched me. But dear, dear Benny, in the instant that he struck me, I glimpsed his tarnished soul.”
Evan sighed. The image that caught in her mind plagued her. Surely, it must be false. Yet, intuition never betrayed her. And in the brief moment that she peered into his soul, instead of cruel king Peter Brenan, she witnessed a boy, the second son, a twin to his handsome brother. For Peter, his face disfigured when the midwife cut him from his mother's womb as she died, life was tragedy. His father blamed him for the queen's death, banished him from the palace. Oddly, that same banishment made him king when the pox took his father and the bonnie prince destined for the throne. Reared in the country away from Brendemore and his father's court, he escaped the pox. She knew his bleak existence had turned him, and as much as she hated what he had become, she pitied that wretched boy.
Benny cast a sideways look at her. “Ceri good bird.”
“I hope so, my little confessor. Deeds measure our value. I pray the Mother deems me worthy.”
35 - The Plan
“Whoa up there, Marcus. Found this young fella skulking along amongst the pack mules. Covered in mud and stinking of dung like he rolled in a pile.”
Marcus cocked his head, slowing Baron. His gaze fell upon a decidedly miserable Jem. The boy stared at the ground to avoid making eye contact and stumbled into Abacus. The little horse curled its upper lip revealing a row of yellowed teeth.
“Here now, Abacus. See you don’t bite the likes of Jem. He be in enough trouble without you take a chunk out his hide.” The dwarf inched between them in case Abacus thought the boy he associated with pulling burrs from his tail might be ripe for tasting. “Rapscallion,” Roland muttered.
Marcus smirked, unsure whether Roland meant the horse or Jem. He swung a leg over Baron’s head and slid to the ground. “Told you straight out, Jem. Stay back to Baline. Take care a Jenny. Remember how I be telling you that? Remember?”
Jem dropped his head further until his chin rested against his chest.
Marcus took him by the shoulder and walked him to the side of the trail. He felt the boy tremble beneath the weight of his hand and dreaded making him own up for stepping out of line. “Look me in the eye, boy.”
Head still bowed, Jem raised his eyes.
“Disobeyed me, Jem.”
“Aye.”
“Can’t disobey, ‘specially in dicey times. Understand me?”
Jem sniffed and swiped at his nose with his shirtsleeve. “Aye.”
“Say it stro
ng then.”
“Aye, sir. I be understanding how I done wrong. Broke my word and all.”
Marcus nodded. “Now here be the trouble. Can’t trust you to be doing what I tell you. If I could, I be saying get on back to Baline. But you don’t do what I say.” He hunkered down beside the boy, knee joints popping like greenwood in a hot fire.
Jem’s eyes grew as large as twin moons. He sobbed full out now, and staring at his feet no longer helped stem the flow. Black flies swarmed around his cheeks where, forgetting that manure coated his shirtsleeves, he had tried to wipe the tears from his face. Angry welts formed along the boney ridge of his brow where the flies bit his skin and left itchy places that drove him nearly mad. Drat that sharp-eyed dwarf. Never would have crouched behind the mule except for him. Just his luck, the mule raised its tail and dropped a steaming mound. Hot and stinking, it smacked him on the back of the neck, split in two and slithered down both arms.
“You add to my grief this day, Jem. Got to watch after you. Worry whether you be safe. Got me a lad what be stinking of horse dung, eyes swelling shut from fly bites.” Marcus shook his head, and rising to his feet, turned, and strode toward Baron.
“Marcus, I be sorry. Please don’t be hating me.” The last came in a whisper so soft he thought no one heard.
Marcus lifted his foot into the stirrup, gripped Baron’s saddle and pulled his body aloft. “Hate you? Nay, you be my boy. Can’t hate my boy now, can I?” He urged Baron forward, shouting for Roland to get Jem cleaned up.
“All right, Jem. Looks like you missed a lickin’. Guess you be something special in that warrior's eye. You in my charge, now.” Seeing the boy’s misery, Roland softened. “Quick now, strip them stinking rags off and wash. Couple buckets a water oughta do the job." He eyed Jem, the bites and the fiery swelling around the boy's eyes. "Got me a might a soft soap tucked away. Seeing as how you got them sting spots all on your face might ease the misery a bit." He dug in his pack. "Here be the soap, and put these on when you be done.” He tossed a pile of clothes from his own pack on the ground. “Don’t be long about it. We fall behind, we be late for victuals.”
***
Scrubbed clean, Jem took a bowl of stew Roland shoved into his hands along with a crusty hunk of bread. His eyes still stung from the fly bites, the right so swollen the opening was no more than a slit that oozed pus. Roland sat down beside him.
“Let’s have a look at them peepers, boy.” He made Jem turn to face him and prodded the puffy flesh with a stubby finger. “Melendarius be here, he’d have some healing balms make that better in a blink, but Melendarius be a might busy. What you got be Roland.” He pushed on the swollen skin again and a glob of discharge exuded from one corner of the Jem’s eye. “Got me no healer ways, but old Roland be knowing a trick or two from my traveling days.” He continued forcing discharge from the eye until most of the puffiness disappeared under his fat thumbs.
“Feels better, Roland,” Jem said, blinking.
“Aye, course it does. Sqwoze out most the pus.” He retrieved the hollow end of a bird feather from his pouch, doused it in ale and filled it from a small vial of amber colored liquid.
“What that be?” Jem asked.
“Never you mind. Just lean back and have a look to yonder stars.” He dipped the bird tube into the vial, then stopped the other end with a finger before lifting it clear. “Go on now. Do like I be telling you.”
Jem gazed into the night sky. Roland held his eye open and let some of the liquid drip from the tube into each eye. His vision glazed over and then cleared. The itch that drove him nearly crazy with a need to rub the already tortured flesh eased.
“What that be, Roland? Tasted something sweetish.”
“Oh?” the dwarf questioned. “Didn’t put nothing in your mouth.”
“What you be putting in my eyes?
“Question as I see it be do they feel better?”
“Oh, aye.”
“As to what, well, that be a secret give to me by a lady what lives across the sea of Shadall on the promise I never tell her mixture.”
“Magical?”
Roland tucked the hollow end of bird feather into his pocket and emptied the concoction into the fire. “Nary a bit, lad. Now, best eat your stew, and let me at mine.” His stomach made a resounding growl as he set eager lips on the wooden spoon.
***
Jem guessed the time at somewhere past midnight when Marcus roused him from his pallet beside the fire. He started to speak but Marcus shushed him with a finger to his lips. Rousted from the warm blanket, he followed Marcus trying to match his step to the warrior’s stride as best he could. They approached a low burning fire, around which sat Captain Edward Barclay, King Ian Hawkins, a man Jem knew as the father of King Hawk’s best friend though he had never heard his name and recognized him only by his features. He saw King Robert among them, his face hidden mostly in shadow and Father Wryth, less rotund and a little more haggard than the first time he had come to Baline.
King Hawk looked up as they approached. “Ah, Jem, our stowaway, come to sit by our warrior’s fire.” He raised a hand motioning Jem to sit beside him.
Jem looked from one of them to the other, not certain whether to actually sit or bolt. King Hawk looked friendly enough, but the sober expressions on the faces of the rest of the men made them look angry. He glanced at Marcus, and the big man nodded that he should sit beside King Hawk.
“Jem. I am giving you a direct order tonight,” Hawk told him. “I expect you to follow it without question. Think you can do that?”
He felt his stomach give a crazy kind of turn and wondered if it might flip over. He had heard tales of that happening. Not good tales, either. How when it happened all a body ate went to festering on the inside until, if it didn’t right itself, it might bust wide open. Jem swallowed back a gob of spit happy it stayed put and took it as a good sign his stomach hadn’t flipped on him.
“Can you, lad?” Hawk poked his shoulder.
“Aye, Majesty,” he croaked.
“Think you can play a street urchin?” King Robert growled.
King Robert’s rugged baritone made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He chewed the inside of his cheek.
“Hold up, Rob. I expect the boy doesn’t understand what we are about. Not so long ago, my head swam with doubt.”
“You mean to tell him the entry plan?”
“Aye,” said Hawk. “Jem’s a clever lad. Brave as they come. Proved true against Nerdor.”
“This boy? This is the boy who did reconnaissance on Nerdor?” King Robert eyed Jem. That true boy? You the one that took stock of Nerdor?”
Jem’s cheeks bloomed scarlet.
“Answer up, Jem.” Marcus shoved him with the toe of his boot.
“Aye, Majesty.”
Rob’s voice softened. “Proved your worth by that deed.”
“Are we agreed on telling Jem here the plan." Hawk waited until ayes sounded all around. “Well then,” he began, many in Brendemore can recognize one or all of us Jem. That means we cannot march with the others disguised as Owlmen. One misstep and the plan crumbles. So, we shall enter Brendemore as captives. Nothing will suit Peter Brenan better than thinking Captain Barclay has taken Falmora and Ascalla has fallen. He already assumes he controls Glynmora. The longer he thinks he has won, the more time we gain…”
“…to be finding Lady Evan,” Jem finished. Too late, he realized he spoke out of turn and clapped both hands over his mouth.
The men laughed, and King Hawk patted his back. “Aye lad. It’s the role of street boy we need from you. Dirty you up again and send you out ahead of us. Couple of lashes with the cat-a-nine to make it real. You’re mamma won’t think much of that.”
“Nay,” said Marcus, “she’ll curse any what leaves a mark on his hide. Still there be a way to lay the lash that ne’er scars the meat it stings.”
“I trust you’ll see to it for us, Marcus, but not with too much enjoyment,” Hawk laughed and
the rest of the men joined him.
“Aye, Majesty, only who be seeing to me?
Jem twisted too look at him in wonder. Marcus, a captive?
“I be a fair hand with the cat-o-nine,” Klea stepped from the shadows grinning. “Only I might be taking a wee taste of pleasure at seeing the grand warrior of Ascalla squirm a might.”
Marcus laughed, “You’ll pay for it when the job be done, Klea. Especially when Mistress Levon learns of such treatment.”
“Aye, she’ll not like that, I’d warrant,” said Hawk. “Mistress Levon is Klea’s mother,” he told the others.
“Runs the best tavern in Falmora,” Klea added. “Got a fondness for Marcus since we be boys. I spect she’d take a piece of my hide, she ever thought I sunk the cat into him without hearing the full tale as to why.”
“The lot of us need the mark of the whip,” Wryth groaned.
“Aye, true enough, Father. Brenan spews pure hatred when it comes to you. None in the ranks be knowing why,” Barclay said.
King Robert eyed Jem once more. “Well, lad, are you with us? You'll run ahead through the streets. You're our herald.”
Bewildered, Jem chewed his lip.
“A herald, boy. Herald's a messenger,” Marcus explained. “You be calling out ‘bout how you seen a prison wagon hauling a bunch of men. You can't say who be in that wagon though, Jem, on account you be nothing special, just a street boy scrapping for food. Only one you can name be Captain Barclay. Like as not even a street boy’d know him. That name be enough hint to set Brenan a wondering who be in the wagon.”
“Aye, Majesty, I be ready, cat and all.”
***
“Roland?” Jem settled his head staring skyward while the dwarf dosed his eye.
“Aye, boy, hold steady now. Almost done I be.”
The fluid dripped into his eye and made him want to blink. “Think when we be of the olden times, they’ll sit around a fire telling tales of us?”
Roland flushed the hollow tube in a mite of ale and held it to the boy’s lips. “Here, give it a blow. Best your spittle lest mine have bugs.”
“Bugs?”