by Liam Reese
“Wait a moment,” he said, getting to his knees and moving towards Berren, “there’s something — oh.”
“Yes, oh,” said Berren. “Oh, it took you long enough.”
“I suppose you did try to fight them.”
“I did,” allowed the older man, “and I didn’t acquit myself too badly, if that isn’t nothing but empty self-flattery. More than one of these damn rogues will be hurting in the morning.” He rummaged in the little bag that was tied around his waist and removed a roll of cloth that was cut up for a bandage. This he tossed to Thorn. “But they got me before I had gone too far, before I even got off the horse to show them what was what.”
Thorn unwound the bandage and cast a glance around at the rogues. A few of the closer ones were watching with apparent unconcern; perhaps, thought Thorn, this was the most entertainment that they ever got, watching their victims try to clean themselves up afterward. Still, no matter the circumstances, it was better than being locked in the cage with a wounded Karyl and a broken-armed Lully and a distraught Irae —
Irae, who very likely would be inclined to pay a ransom, if only to be able to lecture Thorn on getting himself caught twice by the same group of highwaymen.
Staying here seemed almost more attractive of an idea.
He was called back to himself by another pained grunt from Berren.
“An arrow wound. You know, this is exactly what happened to Karyl.” Thorn poked at it carefully, and Berren swore and swatted his hand away.
“Is that a fact, my helpful friend? I thought his end was due to the arrow wound not being tended, or cleaned, and him riding on with it, and then your beloved queen hiring an illusionist instead of a true healer, and then you turned him into an eagle.” He snapped off the shaft with a grunt and pulled something from where it was stashed inside his shirt. “In any case, your Karyl was an ex-guard, was he not, and thus meant to be beyond any sort of vice, disloyalty, or reproach? Whereas I, as a bastard sheep farmer, am full of all of those things, and proud of them. So, I have something he did not have.” He shook the something, which proved to be a bottle, at Thorn by way of demonstration, and pulled the cork out with his teeth. Thorn was certain that he did this simply to be dramatic.
“What is that?” asked Thorn, fascinated despite himself.
“One hundred percent pure pash,” said Berren promptly. “Which you probably have never heard of, and that’s because it’s not for young ones like you. It takes a little gray at the temples to be able to handle it, you see.” He poured a dash of it over the wound, gasping a little, then ran his fingers along what was left of the shaft, digging down into his flesh for the head. Thorn flinched and turned away from him, a surge of queasiness sending a chill along his spine, but Berren barked, “Be ready with that bandage,” and he turned back in time to see Berren’s red-tipped fingers carefully remove the head of the arrow, all stained with gore. Thorn felt the earth underneath him swim and tilt, uncomfortably.
“Not too deep,” said the sheep farmer, levelly. “So that’s good. I don’t suppose you can bandage that for me, can you?”
“I can,” said Thorn, though he was dazed and wanted nothing more than to look away from the sight. “I — I know how.”
“Oh, good,” said Berren, and passed out immediately. There was blood welling up from the wound, and Thorn held his breath to clean it, douse it with another dose from the bottle, clean it again and then finally wrap it tightly.
“Two arrow wounds,” he said as he worked, talking to himself to keep himself company, talking to keep himself from swooning away in his turn. “I’ve been out in civilization for two months, and I’ve already seen two arrow wounds. Why does anyone ever go out among people? It’s so much safer just to stay at home alone.”
He sniffed at the mouth of the bottle, out of curiosity. It smelled strong and rather sweet, but not at all unpleasant. So, he tried a little of it, just enough to get the taste on his tongue. The taste, too, was strong and sweet, but the burn afterward was like eating embers, and so he reached hurriedly for the flask of water at his waist, to kill it. It took several swallows to make the taste die down into an uncomfortable ghost, and he could well understand how no infection, however robust, would possibly survive being drowned in the stuff.
“Gray at the temple, indeed,” he said to the unconscious sheep farmer. “If I didn’t have it before, I do now.”
Around him, the rogues and highwaymen went about their nightly routine, paying him absolutely no attention — he was not even an entertainment, now — and Thorn sat beside his unconscious companion, wondering how on earth he was going to get out of this one, and wondering whether Irae would consider him worth rescuing after all.
5
Peaceful Negotiations
“The crown thanks you for meeting with us this late in the evening.”
It was, in fact, just past dinner time. Lord Zedrik had proven surprisingly difficult to find, according to Sir Merundi, and when at last he had been located, he claimed only that he had been out seeing the sights of the town. Balfour town was Irae’s home, the place where she had grown up, but she knew perfectly well that there were no sights worth seeing that would occupy an entire day. So, it was not without a certain amount of suspicion and trepidation that she greeted Zedrik.
If it bothered him that her greeting was a trifle cool — or if indeed he even noticed that it was — he did not let on. Instead, he seemed to maintain his cool admirably, in spite of the fact that it was highly irregular to have a diplomatic meeting at this time of the day. She wondered if perhaps his dinner had included a little wine. She wished she would have thought of it herself.
But now was the time for concentrating on the matter at hand.
“It pleases me, in fact, that the crown is so focused on settling the issue that she is willing to meet,” said Lord Zedrik. “I hope that the urgency of the situation has been communicated to you.”
She squinted at him.
“Not entirely,” she said. “As I understand it, my… predecessor signed a peace treaty with your king. That is all well and good, but as I have regained my rightful place on the throne, the terms may have to be re-negotiated, if they don’t in fact fall into the best interests of my people and my kingdom. And with my uncle having been the one who signed it to begin with, I have my doubts on the subject.” She turned to Sir Merundi, who nodded at a page to bring the queen the signed copy of the peace treaty. She took it from the young man and scrutinized it. She had, of course, read it thoroughly already; but there was value in making the ambassador wait, she thought. Wait and sweat a little.
“My lady,” said Lord Zedrik, “this was, as a matter of fact, my main concern. I understand that the advisors to your predecessor, as you call him, are largely no longer in your employ.” He shot a sharp glance at Sir Merundi, who looked impassively back at him.
“You could hardly expect me to keep traitors on to serve as my Council,” said Irae.
“Certainly not, certainly not,” said Zedrik, and he was indeed sweating, she was gratified to see. “My only question is whether or not the remaining member of the Council, Sir Merundi, has adequately informed you of the exact terms of the peace treaty.”
“I have here a copy of it.”
“Yes, my lady, I can see that, if you’ll pardon me, but — not all of the terms were written down.”
She arched her eyebrows at him.
“Oh, no?”
“No, my lady.”
“Doesn’t that rather spoil the point of having a peace treaty to be signed in the first place?” She turned to Merundi, who smiled his faintly apologetic smile at her. “Were you aware of these extraneous terms, Sir Merundi?”
“I was told only that the signed copy was the official one,” he said, smoothly. “As for anything else, we have only the say of the worthy ambassador.”
“Indeed,” she said, turning back to Zedrik, who was beginning to turn red. “And what were these extra terms, Lord Zedrik, that we
re not important enough to be written down?” He blustered for a moment, and she went on. “I grow tired of waiting for you to come up with the correct answer, I’m afraid. Let me set your mind at rest this very moment. The terms of the peace treaty in themselves, as written and signed, are not acceptable.” She ripped the long piece of paper up, longways first, then crossways, and continued until there were only small portions left. “I see that we were to give tribute to the King of Elgodon, with very few recompenses. Elgodon, as well, is entitled to maintain troops within our borders, in the interests of keeping the peace, as it says. Well, Ainsea is a kingdom of equal standing to that of Elgodon; we have no need to buy the respect of our neighbors, and we can certainly damn well police our own people. We don’t want war, it is true, but the last thing we are going to do is cower in fear.” She stood, shoulders back, and lifted her chin. She was very conscious of the weight of her crown on her brow, like a halo over her; she thought fleetingly of her father, and what he might have said in these circumstances — or what he might have done. Really, Lord Zedrik was quite fortunate indeed that she was the regent, and not any of her ancestors. “I’m perfectly willing to reach a new agreement, and indeed hope that we will be able to do so at once.”
“But, my lady,” said Zedrik, now fairly shaking with panic — not her intended result, but an interesting one — “the king has only just now come and met with the December King in order to reach these compromises. With such a history as we have —”
She had felt that she’d reached the pinnacle of queenliness a moment previously, but she found now that she could go even further. With the mention of the December King, every instinct told her to throw the ambassador out on his ear; the thought of her uncle being turned to as the authority, after everything he had done to her and to the kingdom itself, made her jaw clench uncomfortably tight, the edges of her vision redden and dim. It was only with a considerable amount of effort that she held herself back.
“There is no December King,” she said, and she could hear herself as though she were someone else — listening to herself speak, imperiously, impossible to countermand. “There never was one. All there is, where once he stood, is the empty shameful space in history that is relegated to a traitor. I’m aware that the king of Elgodon had recently visited my kingdom, intending to meet with the regent. Unfortunately, as he was met by a sham and a charlatan, a trickster of the lowest order, a traitor and a fallen man, the peace treaty is entirely moot, and if your king wants to pursue peace, he will have to come again.” She stepped down the stairs to level ground with the young man, who looked down at her in what looked a great deal like helpless anger. Somewhere inside her, she found the strength to smile at him.
She pressed the shreds of paper into his white-gloved hand.
“Those are my terms,” she said softly. “I eagerly await the response of your respected and worthy regent.”
With a trembling hand, he lifted the shreds of paper and pressed them in his fist, against his chest.
“I will convey your message,” he whispered, voice as shaky and unsteady as the rest of him, “and you may expect the answer within the week.”
“Very well,” said Queen Irae, nodding deeply at him. “You are dismissed.”
She turned away from him to ascend once more to her throne, and seat herself. She moved with slow deliberation and found to her delight that as she sat down, he was scurrying away into the distance, moving rapidly toward the double doors.
She turned a beam on Sir Merundi, who smiled his tired smile that suddenly didn’t reach his eyes.
“What do you suppose those unwritten terms were?” she asked him. “He didn’t seem all that eager to disclose them, did he?”
“I have a feeling it included more than just tribute and troops,” said her advisor, seating himself at her side again, on the stairs just below. He removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes with both hands. “If I know anything about your uncle — and I think I do — he wouldn’t have signed such a treaty without it being worthwhile to him in some way. And since it wasn’t written down —”
“They both wanted to keep it a secret,” she supplied, and shook her head. “The audacity of the man, to assume that I would just keep to the treaty without questioning it! And to not even attempt to tell me what the oral terms were that I would supposedly also agree to without even thinking twice about it. Simply because — because I am who I am, I suppose.” She sighed and leaned her hand on her chin. “Do people really think I’m such a dunce, Sir Merundi, that I would be incapable of running my kingdom in the manner in which I hope someday it becomes accustomed?”
“Not a dunce, at all,” said Sir Merundi, smiling at her with a little more authenticity this time. “No. They may think that Your Majesty is a bit — naive, perhaps.”
“Stupid.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No, I mean — they think I’m stupid.”
“Oh.” He shifted a little, uncomfortably, and leaned forward with his arms on his knees. “No, I don’t believe that to be true at all. It’s only that it’s early days yet. The girl they knew as a princess is still growing to be a queen, and no one quite knows what to make of you yet.”
“Including you,” she surmised. “You don’t think I’m entirely naive, do you, Sir Merundi?”
He made a doubtful face, drawing his mouth down wordlessly.
“Good. I would hope that someone in this castle thinks a bit more of me than that. I am not some rural girl fresh off the farm, you know.”
“I know. I do.”
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Merundi in his mild way, “I almost felt as though I were watching your father.”
The night was dragging on interminably, or so it seemed; Thorn couldn’t very well just go to sleep, not in a situation such as this, not with Berren sweating and shaking by turns at his side; not with both of them surrounded by rogues and highwaymen; not with the morning coming on and Elseth —
Elseth.
He couldn’t know how much more time there was before she would turn — if she did turn. There was so little known! The only certainties that he had were that Irae wanted him there, and as time drifted on through the night, he wanted to be there, himself.
No.
Well —
He wanted to be there without being there. It was a desperate situation, and a desperate sort of wanting. He wanted to be there without her knowing he was there, was what he wanted — wanted to know that she was all right without needing to see it for himself. Someone else could go and be by her side. Berren, perhaps.
The longer the thought about that, the angrier he got with Berren for presuming to be there instead of him.
There was no clear answer. And perhaps that was the only answer he had; perhaps the only answer he was likely to get. The girl that he had loved, the only one who had been kind to him as a child, the one he had Forged into a young tree in order to save her from certain death, was going to be a human girl again after seven years. And everything about it absolutely terrified him.
Would she hate him? Would she be grateful to him? Would she feel much of anything after having been a tree for seven years?
He was deathly afraid of finding out the answers, and even more afraid that he never would.
His brain spun in circles, like someone doing a wash in a bubbling pot, stirred with the paddle of his own faulty thinking. Sitting there alone, with his only companion passed out and shivering, he knew that if he did not do something soon, he would end up in a similar state. None of this was the least bit helpful. And he had no idea what to do.
So, he stood up, so abruptly that he almost fell over, and teetered with arms swinging for a moment, finding his balance. Around him, a few of the rogues looked up with a sort of uncurious-curiosity.
Thorn opened his mouth, to see what would come out.
“Rickerd!” he shouted.
The rogues were only mildly entertained by this. He had
set the bar too high previously. He straightened up and tried again.
“Rickerd of Balfour!” he yelled, unsure if that truly was where Lisca’s cousin was from but giving it his best.
This time there was a murmur, spreading spottily here and there throughout the nearer portions of the camp. Someone said, “Quiet, you.”
“I want to talk to Rickerd of Balfour!”
“Why?” said someone else. Thorn couldn’t make out much of anyone’s features in the dark, with only the dim light of the torches and the far-off flickering of the fire. He squinted in the direction of the voice, which seemed to come from a darker than otherwise area of the group.
“I have a message for him,” he said. “I’ve been to see his —” Haphazardly, halfway through the sentence he thought a little better of it, and ended it awkwardly with, “— dog.”
“His dog?” said the same voice, sounding a bit baffled now — which was understandable, Thorn had to admit.
“I can read the thoughts of animals,” said Thorn. “I’m — very talented that way.”
He waited a moment to see if this would have any effect. At the moment he truly had no idea whether it was more likely to be good or to be bad.
But someone emerged out of the shadows, a slightly built someone with lank brown hair and mask a little askew, as though he had just now tied it back on.
“I didn’t know he had a dog,” said the slightly askew someone. “What kind?”
“I — beg your pardon?”
“What kind of dog?”
Thorn straightened his shoulders.
“I don’t know if I can share that sort of information with just anyone,” he said. “It’s very — sensitive. I’m here to talk to Rickerd, anyway. That’s the real reason I allowed myself to get caught,” he found himself saying, and then found himself hoping against hope that Berren was, indeed, still asleep and not just pretending.