“The very one you were just firing upon,” murmured the duke beneath his hood, “without regard for the safety of the duke’s roadways?”
“’Tis but a bit of sport, and no harm done,” answered another of the guards, the youngest of them, before one of his fellows glared at him.
“This bird is a criminal, the very one we spied hunting just now afield,” spoke the first, “clearly hunting game for poachers. None would hold his death against us.”
Colaris hissed angrily.
“He might.” Damerien ran a gloved hand over the bird to calm him. “But pray, what makes you think he was hunting anything but mice? His belly is full, and to my eye, just now he but rode the gusts in the air with not an eye toward the ground, or surely he’d have seen you sooner.”
Colaris glared up at him darkly.
“Goodness knows,” Trocu continued, “he barely dodged your arrows. A full belly on a hawk will do that, but what it won’t do,” he added with a smile, “is inspire him to hunt. Besides, I’ve not seen game worth the taking since we left the sheriff’s lands.”
“Our game is the best on Syon.” The men were clearly insulted for their lord’s sake. “And poaching is against the marquess’s law. We’ve a right to kill poachers.”
One of the other guards nodded. “And confiscate their goods.”
“Aye, and bless you for it, lads,” Nestor smiled generously. “But you mistake yourselves. Obviously we are not hunters. You have but to look at us to see as much. We carry no hunting weapons, only weapons for our own defense against bandits. My falconer was merely letting my bird exercise his wings. It’s been a long journey.”
“Has it, now, old man? Whence come you?” He crossed his arms in challenge. “Identify yourselves. Now.”
“Why? The better to judge our ransom?” Jath asked, dulling his gaze across the guards. Damerien and Nestor exchanged glances. “Does the marquess pay you so little that you must seize upon travelers to rob them and their kin?”
“Have a care, boy!” The guard afoot snapped at him. “Mind your horse doesn’t throw you and crack your head wide open.”
But the leader of the guards answered more gently, marking the dim look in Jath’s eye. “What an imagination you have for a simpleton. Now come, identify yourselves and we won’t have to come to blows.”
Damerien felt a slight draw on his strength.
“No.”
“In case they––“
“No!”
The draw stopped.
“Very well, then, lads, no need to fret,” began Nestor, easing his tone and words to the accents of the most northern reaches of Syon, the farthest from these southern lands and least likely to have direct commerce. Slowly and subtly, the cloth of his Bremondine cloak tightened its weave and deepened its colors to the browns and greens of Tremondy as the sun shifted over it. “No need to start another war, what.” He smiled a sneering little smile. “If you can bear it, know that I am Vilford, Baron Tremondy, Hero of Farras and of Durlindale. And these are my retainers. Pray, do not grovel.”
The marquess’s men looked at each other in bafflement.
Damerien smiled beneath his hood. Brilliant. He gave a curt little bob of his head, as did Jath.
“Baron Tremondy’s a damned Bremondine?!” blurted one of the guards, the youngest of the twelve.
“I beg your pardon!” roared Nestor with genuine offense. “You sickly southern worm, you dare speak to your betters thus!”
Another of the marquess’s guards reached across his horse to cuff the younger guard. “Apologies, Your Honor, won’t happen again,” he said with a low bow. “As you say, not looking to start a war, especially not with the damned––that is to say, not with the Bremondines or the House of Tremondy, my Lord…” He cuffed the younger one again for good measure and gestured to the rest to bow.
“We had no notice of your coming,” offered another with an obsequious smile. “With your indulgence, we should send word ahead to the marquess that he might be better prepared to receive you.”
Nestor smiled generously and gestured for the men to rise. “Peace, son, I do not come to pester my old friend Gray. My path is on to Durlindale, and I would not be stayed.”
The guards looked at each other strangely. “My Lord,” began one of them, “Marquess Gray of Moncliff passed into the stars years before my grandfather was born. Many, many years before…”
Damerien cursed under his breath. Nestor had made a mistake, and now the duke was not sure how Moncliff’s men would react. Nestor had counted on their not knowing that the present Baron Tremondy was but six years old, and apparently he had been right in that, but the mistake in not knowing the present marquess’s name was costly. He watched Nestor calculate for a moment, considering his options. The men were not suspicious yet, merely confused. Good.
Nestor laughed, “Oh, but what a prankster old Gray is. Did he put you up to this? You run along to him and you tell him we’ll beat that Kadak for him yet, yes we will, and I’ll hear none of this foolishness about his being dead. He shall outlive us all, bless him. My word, but he’s a funny one, that Gray…”
They looked baffled yet again. “No, sir. The present marquess is his great-great-great-grandson, Banya.”
The youngest broke in, “And Kadak––”
“Banya? You’re making that up.” He turned to Jath, who took up the gambit neatly. “What sort of person names a child Banya and lives to tell about it? Did your mother name you Banya? Surely not. If so, why then, you should be the marquess, according to these men.” He laughed at the notion. “And you’re not the marquess, are you? Of course not.”
“No sir,” soothed Jath, dabbing at Nestor’s mouth with a cloth, “My mother named me Jath, and for that, I’m but a stable boy. You remember me, don’t you, sir? Jath?”
“Of course, Jake, of course. There’s a good boy.” He waved dismissively to the guards. “So there you are, and thus it is proven. Gray is having fun at my expense, the silly old appeaser. Banya. The very idea…”
Damerien frowned. Nestor could not be less subtle, but the guards seemed not to be getting the point. “Gentlemen,” said Damerien softly, “a word in your ears.”
The leader of the guards and a few of his men drew near. Damerien was pleased that now he, Nestor and Jath no longer had to prove that they were not, in fact, poachers nor even who they were. Now all they had to do was turn the guards’ sympathies toward accepting Nestor’s story, a much simpler thing done with an admission of embarrassment. “My Lord Vilford is ancient, as you well can see for yourselves, even for a Bremondine, and I’m afraid last night’s supper is not as clear in his memory as his days at the academy with Gray of Moncliff two centuries ago, poor man.”
The guards nodded.
“The truth is,” continued Damerien, lowering his voice again, “his own great-great-great grandson, a sweet boy of but six years, now carries the actual title of Baron Tremondy. But we don’t tell Vilford. It would only hurt him, and then he would only forget it again by morning, and then we would find ourselves hurting him again to tell him, over and over. I trust you understand our dilemma and will keep our confidence.”
They chuckled quietly but with growing sympathy. Good, he thought. It’s working.
“You understand that discussing this embarrassing display will only upset both him and your marquess and will bring entirely too many questions begging answers. Come evening, he will not even remember having seen you and will deny it to the winds. So you understand, he being Baron Tremondy, you would only impeach yourselves in the telling of it.”
They nodded again, with soft looks toward the old man who smiled and waved at them, rambling on about something to the stable boy. Damerien was sure that now they saw him as no more than a dotard for all that he had seemed so strong at their approach.
“Besides,” Damerien smiled beneath his cowl, “clearly we have no game about us, and upon my word as the…Baron’s man, I offer my assurance that we will no
t hunt as we cross the marquess’s lands. We are well provisioned for our journey and in all truth cannot be bothered with the fuss of hunting as we need to reach Durlindale by nightfall. An it please you to do so, you may come to Durlindale tonight, to the inn on the west side, and you may inspect our goods to assure yourselves of our faith.”
The guards looked at each other. “That will not be necessary,” spoke the eldest of them, suddenly looking rather ashamed of their intended extortion of the good old man and his party. “Reminds me of my late grandfather, he does, bless him, even in spite of being a Bremondine. If it be not impertinent to say of a Baron, may he pass quietly into the stars when his wits quit him completely, as my grandfather did.” The others nodded sagely and turned their horses to leave. “The marquess will hear nothing of this. Peace be with you.”
Colaris had by now turned his head completely upside down and was glaring at the guards from between his own legs as they rode off. He seemed a bit put out that no blood had yet been spilt on his behalf, but no matter. Damerien was sure Colaris would poach another mouse out of spite once they were out of view.
“Silly old appeaser?” The duke cocked an eyebrow at his retainer.
Nestor grinned. “Who better to speak the truth than a fool, my Lord?” He winked at Jath.
They kicked their horses up to a trot and took the center of the road toward Durlindale, and Colaris flew off to scout again.
“Aye,” laughed Damerien, “but who knew you had such gift for the role?”
“Well, my Lord, dramatics run in the blood,” he laughed as his cloak reverted to its subtle greens again, “I am a ‘damned Bremondine,’ after all.”
Six
The Abbey of Bilkar
Renda started awake at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. The light coming into the surgery had changed from the stark blue-white of noon to a fading purplish gray. She felt the stiffness and soreness in her joints, some of which came from the battle, but a good portion of which came from having fallen asleep in the hard wooden chair beside her father’s bed.
“Forgive us,” Laniel said quietly, “we did not mean to startle you.” He had with him two postulants carrying steaming bowls.
“No, it’s quite all right.” She sat up self-consciously. “Forgive my lack of decorum. I had not intended to fall asleep.”
“We forgive only that which requires forgiveness. To do otherwise is wasteful of grace.” Laniel smiled. “A knight succumbing to her exhaustion after battle is no sin, even in the cold eyes of Bilkar the Furred.”
She watched Laniel examine her father’s injury, trying to ignore the delicious smells coming from the bowls.
He gestured toward the two postulants. One handed her a bowl of venison stew, and she took it gratefully, embarrassed by the noises her stomach made in anticipation. Such sounds in camp would have passed without remark, but her peacetime sensibilities were displeased.
The other postulant handed Laniel a bowl of thin broth for the sheriff. The abbot held it for him, and the sheriff woke only enough to be able to sip at it without choking.
Bowls delivered, the two postulants left without a word.
“Are you not hungry yourself, Laniel?” Renda hesitated over her bowl.
Laniel shook his head. “We ate at midday with the rest of the abbey, my Lady. We would have had you join us, but you slept so peacefully, we had no heart to wake you. Please, do eat. The stew is Bilkar’s own bounty while it is warm, but when it grows cold,” he said, raising a wry brow, “it becomes the day’s challenge.”
She fell to it and enjoyed the stew more than she supposed she had enjoyed any meal since the end of the war.
“This broth is an ancient recipe,” Laniel murmured, carefully directing the bowl so that the half-asleep sheriff did not spill a drop. “Venison stock, the same base as the stew, but with dried and ground mushrooms gathered during the Feast of Didian to speed healing, rose grass to dull pain, and for the entire pot, a single dried leaf of henpickle.”
“Henpickle.” Renda frowned in alarm. “That is a poison, aye?”
Laniel nodded. “But fear not, the leaves have only the slightest trace of the poison once they’re dried, which acts as a relaxant and mild euphoric when brewed into a tea or a broth. It should at once dull his pain and free his body of tension so that it might better heal itself. Were we to use the flowers or fruit instead, this broth would be more entertaining to the mind but deadly.”
Daerwin finished the last of the broth and dozed off again.
Laniel wiped Daerwin’s brow with a soft cloth and sniffed it. Then he began cleaning the wound again, wiping away the foul smelling ooze and examining the ominously dark flesh around the wound.
She looked up from her bowl and saw the look of concern on Laniel’s face. “He is worse?”
Laniel nodded. “His sweat still has a marked tang of duress. We fear he is losing this fight in spite of his Damerien blood. Normally the essence of good treatment would be to provide support and stand aside, but we see now that this will not be enough.”
“My Lord Abbot, I must ask, is there truly nothing more you can do for him?”
“Short of removing his arm? We think not.”
Something in his tone seemed unconvinced or at least unconvincing. “You’re certain?”
“The answer to your question is…not simple.” He looked down for a moment, then continued cleaning the wound.
Her heart jumped, but whether with hope or fear, she could not be sure. “The question warrants either a yea or a nay. Either you have means or you do not. By your evasions, methinks you do but would deny it.”
“Our truthful answer must be yea.” The abbot suddenly looked very pale. “Strictly speaking, such knowledge belongs to us as we are the keepers of it, but it is not ours to use or offer.”
Renda laughed darkly. “For all Bilkar’s insistence on efficiency and directness, yet you embroider your words with meanings within meanings, just like every other priest. Yes, you have it, but no, you cannot offer it?” She could see the terror and conflict in the abbot’s eyes, the Abbot of Bilkar, a man she should have reason to fear, and her anger blew out almost instantly. He was genuinely afraid. But not of her. What then?
She would not ask this priest to give his life to call upon Bilkar to cure her father’s arm. Surely he had to know that. Something else was frightening him. “Laniel, please. Speak plainly with me.”
“We…cannot speak more plainly than this.” He snipped away the dark papery burned skin on the sheriff’s arm and swabbed the wound gently with a sweet smelling oil that bubbled into the wound and vanished. “The first Bilkarian abbots who came here from Byrandia recorded the curious Dhanani means of calling upon the powers of their gods. We of Bilkar said we were studying it for the academic value, and rightly so. The Dhanani’s rites were different and far more powerful than anything we’d seen in Byrandia from any of our gods, and the power they could command…”
Laniel shook his head and began swabbing the wound again. “In shameful truth, our priests had gathered this knowledge selfishly. They’d sought to bolster their strength––our strength––as priests. When we of Bilkar call upon His power, as you know, we pay a high price, almost always our lives. Bilkar’s intention, if we may venture to guess His intention, is to teach the virtue of self-sufficiency. Those of us who understand this fully are grateful for His discipline. We are the chosen of Bilkar, sacrificing all the comforts and joys of this life to be close to our god. However, for all our sacrifice, we can never be more than ordinary men except by our own gifts and labors, unlike the servants of other gods. We of Bilkar become formidable men and women in our own rights, which accomplishment adds to Bilkar’s glory.”
She nodded.
“At the same time, we of Bilkar are not perfect. Some of our brothers and sisters lose faith and become jealous in moments of…weakness. Our first encounter with the Dhanani was such a moment of weakness for us. Some of our less enlightened brothers and sister
s saw the power the Dhanani priests enjoyed without consequence and felt cheated. These among us rationalized gathering and using this knowledge as a means of gaining the power they felt we of Bilkar deserved without incurring Bilkar’s cost.” He laughed bitterly. “They even spoke of efficiency and convinced themselves that Bilkar would approve.”
She smiled grimly. “They found a loophole.”
“Aye, a loophole our god did not eye with mirth,” answered the abbot. “Bilkar’s judgment in this matter did not sit lightly upon our brotherhood. He was especially displeased with our abbots for having sidestepped the spirit of His law even as we obeyed its letter. We abbots are beacons to our monks and give example. After the Rebellion, since we had already gathered the knowledge, it became our role to safeguard that knowledge and lock it away until such time as it might be needed again.”
“Every Bilkarian priest has this knowledge, then?” Renda’s mind raced. She wondered if this might not be the vector by which Xorden began his return. If so, they could still be in grave danger.
Laniel shook his head. “The other priests know nothing of it. They are taught only Bilkar’s tenets, for it is burden enough for them to know of Bilkar’s immense power and to resist the temptation to call upon Him, especially during their consecration trials. They train their minds for years to bear the knowledge of Bilkar’s power and resist using it until the defining moment of their lives, a point at which Bilkar’s power is truly needed. Then, just as the bee dies when she gives up her sting, the Bilkarian priest lays down his life to pay for Bilkar’s intervention. Only twice in the history of our abbey has a priest offered his life to call upon Bilkar and not been killed, but these were exceptional circumstances. The received wisdom is that if Bilkar finds the cause worthy, he may allow us to live. Worthy causes are quite rare, almost as rare as priests who go to their graves as ancients without ever invoking the power of Bilkar. These old ones, especially those who sought great challenge and still resisted the temptation to call upon Bilkar, are our most venerated saints.”
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 9