Brody joined the two of them for a time, then left them to their reminiscing. The stories were mostly one-sided, as Yohan had gone quiet again, but that had never stopped Redjack.
Then his former companion, beard and all, was called to duty. Apparently, he had been back long enough to get another assignment. Yohan wondered how long his own orders would take. Until they came, he would be spending his time idly waiting. After the ordeal in the mountains, fighting an incessant battle for survival, Yohan thought he should look forward to a little boredom. But that was not the case. He did not like where his thoughts took him, yet was also reluctant to leave.
Yohan forced himself to decide. He could spend his time waiting, for nothing. Or he could get on with his life.
Brody was returning. “Come on, Yohan. It’s time to eat.”
“Where do I join?”
His new friend smiled broadly. “Follow me, I’ll show you.”
*
“The king should make that decision, Commander, not you.” Jena was sure to always refer to her father as “the king,” not wishing to remind anyone of her lineage. Yet she knew the effort was futile. They all clearly thought of her as the princess, interfering in their affairs, not the commander who had every right to be here.
“That’s correct, Faruk,” Ariens said. A third commander in the room, Kizer, nodded his agreement. No surprise there, Jena thought. All the man ever did was agree with the general. A safe way to maintain one’s position, she supposed, but useless for purposes of reaching a better decision.
The four of them were discussing a plan for dealing with the latest news as reported by Yohan. She had known of the report ahead of time, of course—Yohan had informed her in case only one of them made it this far. But she recognized the benefit of allowing him to make the report himself. He had seen details with his own eyes, and there would naturally be questions that she could not answer. Though it pained her to admit, she also knew the army would take the report more seriously from one of their own. And she did not wish to steal his thunder—Yohan deserved to receive the just accolades that came from such an important achievement.
Now she realized these men were less aware of what he—and she—had gone through to bring this news than they were concerned about how to react. This fruitless dithering was infuriating. She had hated it at court, and had hoped that the army offered an escape. But now she was finding the directionless nonsense just as bad here, if not worse.
“We must consider these reports of the fighting in Gothenberg,” Ariens said. “The invasion may have already started there.”
“If so, that is to our advantage,” Faruk interjected. “The more successful an invasion there, the lighter it will be here. It might not come to Vilnia at all—”
Jena was horrified. “The invasion is already here, Commander. May I remind you of my company?” She faced Ariens.
“Don’t you see, General? They’re probing our defenses. The Chekiks are the ones who built these forts, hundreds of years ago. They probably remember them being in much better condition. Now that they’ve learned of our weak resistance, do you think they’re likely to stop? Winter may have slowed them down, but they’re coming.” She realized she had raised her voice, and calmed herself. “Surely we must work together. Gothenberg is still the empire.” She looked at Ariens for support.
He sighed. “It is more complicated than that, I’m afraid. The Goths have always been our greatest threat. Such animus does not die easily.”
She was surprised that he would use the derogatory term for Gothenbergers. Clearly, the animus to which he referred also applied to himself.
They had debated for nearly an hour, and she felt that they were no closer to reaching a consensus than when they had started. It was quite disheartening. These were the best minds her kingdom’s army could offer, and they would go round and round until nightfall at this rate.
Yohan would have taken less than a minute before making a decision, then he would immediately start acting on it. And whatever he decided would work out.
“…be careful about sharing this information with anyone,” Ariens was saying. “Neither the fighting in Gothenberg nor the appearance of the Chekiks should become common knowledge until we have a plan for dealing with them. Rumors can only cause panic at this stage. Kizer, I expect you to make certain there are no morale problems.”
The obsequious man nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, General.”
Jena sighed in frustration. “General, I’ve made my position clear, and I believe the king would agree. If we cannot reach a decision ourselves, we should appeal to his wisdom.”
Ariens lifted his broad shoulders, asserting his dominance. “Your father has put me in charge of the south, Commander.”
She silently castigated herself. In her exhaustion, she had made a mental mistake by questioning his authority in front of other subordinates. Even if she disagreed with him, the challenge was the wrong thing to do. “Your pardons, General. I do not mean to suggest otherwise. I simply wish to remind everyone that the king’s advice is an option.”
“Noted.” He looked back down at the map. It was a dismissal.
She saluted and took her leave of them, stepping outside into encroaching eve. She had not eaten since morn, so took in a quick meal at the officer’s mess. Despite the presence of a dozen others, Jena sat alone.
Her energy levels had not yet returned to normal, and she looked forward to a full night’s rest on a comfortable bed. An aide had already prepared that for her, so she simply dropped her sword belt and collapsed onto the thin, uncomfortable, wonderfully glorious cushion. In her mind, she ran through the day’s meeting one more time, disappointed in herself and in them.
Jena leaned over and opened the drawer of her small bedside stand, withdrawing a new leather pouch and emptying its singular content into her palm. She stared for a moment, having decided to allow herself to do so twice per day. Then she closed her fingers around the object, resisting the impulse to squeeze harder. So fragile, and so precious. Taking a deep breath, she finally slipped it back into the pouch and replaced the pouch in the drawer. Then the princess lay back and closed her eyes until sleep came.
In the morn, her first duty was to report to the general. There would be no change since yesterday, of course, so she was in no hurry. Jena allowed herself a quick detour. A simple courtesy—just to make sure that all was well.
As soon as she entered the recruit barracks, the volume of conversation dropped audibly. As an officer, she was used to this reaction. Normally it might bother her, but for some reason she was feeling more sanguine than usual. She was looking forward to this encounter, more than might be exactly reasonable. She wondered which of his two expressions—the impassive hint of pleasure or the impassive hint of thoughtfulness—her appearance would elicit.
She glanced around and picked someone out. “Corporal, do you know Private Yohan? The man who just came back from the mountains?”
The corporal hopped up from the bed on which he had been sitting. “The Oster? Aye, Commander.” He seemed surprised to find himself speaking to her. Surprised and bemused, considering his stupid grin.
“Will you find him for me? I need to speak to him.”
“Nay, I cannot, Commander. He left this morn. He and a few others joined a caravan heading for Threefork.”
Gone. Jena suddenly felt strangely weak. Perhaps the wound was acting up. “Thank you, Corporal.”
She turned away, took a few steps toward the entrance, then stopped. She turned back. “Corporal, did you say Threefork? In Gothenberg? Near the mountains?”
“Aye, Commander. Sorry I couldn’t help.”
Chapter Twelve
Everdawn
EVERY YEAR, winter came early to Everdawn, and with winter came the shortening of the day.
Some people liked the pretty spectacle of the starry sky and the peaceful fall of snow that winter brought, but Jak much preferred the summer season, when the light continued all day
long—the phenomenon, unique to this northernmost part of the empire, for which Everdawn was named.
Most winter festivals celebrated the solstice, the point at which the length of day reached its absolute nadir. Everdawn, however, held its festival earlier in the season, while there was still just enough light to travel safely. Most visitors came the day before the ceremonies and departed the day after, causing the village’s sole inn and tavern to overflow with patrons.
This year there were even more attendees than usual, as the festival itself was accompanied by a second celebration. Jak knew Kevik—the Clever, the Kind, or the Conqueror depending on who one asked—was a popular figure in the region, but even so was surprised at how many people flowed in to attend the wedding. The drinking and merriment had already begun, although most of the stands were still being constructed. The festival would not officially begin for another hour, when the final sliver of feeble winter sun retreated behind the mountains and the brilliant moon began its month-long reign.
“Jak, I feel a chill. Go back to the manor and fetch my cloak,” Kleo commanded.
“Make that two,” Kluber added, his arm interlocked with hers. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she giggled.
Calla rubbed Jak’s shoulder sympathetically. “Do you want help?” she asked.
Ever since his fainting episode, she had been particularly gentle in her dealings with Jak, despite repeated assurances that he was fine. Although he truly was not, as evidenced by the new chronic aches in his head—the results of the damage done by the chair or Kevik’s blows, no doubt. But Jak saw no reason to complain of them to others.
Kluber whispered something else, and Kleo laughed out loud. They, at least, did not show an excess of concern.
He shook his head, excused himself, and ran back to the house alone. He was relieved not to see Sofi or Rodrik, not wanting any sudden new chores to keep him from the festival. He grabbed three cloaks—in case Calla should want one, too—then turned back to the front entrance.
A groaning noise from the second floor froze him in place. The sound could be coming from only one source—Rufus. More than a tenday had passed since they had placed him in the guest bedroom to rest. Every day Jak had tended to the older man as best he could, but despite no visible injuries, the Swordthane had never once gained consciousness. Nor had there been a repeat of the raving they had witnessed that first day.
Now it was coming back. Or, if not raving, the man was at least moaning, loud enough to echo through the otherwise quiet house. Jak slowly crept up the stairs, half hoping the sound would stop and the man would be unconscious again by the time he got there.
Jak pushed open the door and peered inside. Rufus remained prostrate on the bed, tucked beneath the blankets that Jak washed and switched out every few days. But the man was also moving—writhing, jerking his limbs about in intense discomfort. And the groaning continued. Yet his eyes remained closed, hands still clutching the silk-wrapped scabbard.
“Rufus?” Jak said quietly, wondering whether the name might pierce the man’s fog and bring him to consciousness. But the disturbing spectacle continued.
Jak moved closer, eyes drawn to something he had not seen as recently as that morn. A lump on Rufus’ chest, pushing out the blanket a few inches above normal. Jak reached out—tentatively, not wanting to disturb the patient further—and slipped the blanket down.
There was no object there, but the fine coat of chain mail—which they had been unable to remove because of the man’s obstinate clinging to the sword—bulged out from the breast. It looked less like a swelling of the chest than some kind of growth. A large lump or possibly even a tumor.
Jak wanted to ignore this latest development, at least until after the festival was over, but knew he should not. This was the first serious turn in the man’s condition, for better or worse, well beyond Jak’s ability to handle. He needed to let someone more capable know right away.
Rufus groaned again, and Jak saw sweat on the man’s brow despite the relative coolness of the air. He stepped back, intending to hurry away, but paused when his eyes drifted over the sword. Only its hilt was visible, the rest shrouded beneath the silken wrap, but that was enough to see that one of the jade gemstones was glowing—not with an illuminating radiance but a sickly pale fogginess. That, too, had not been there a few hours earlier.
For some reason, Jak’s mind thought of the legends he and Calla had uncovered, before she had gotten too involved in planning her new life to have time or inclination to continue reading with him. His simple mind had trouble connecting those legends with this reality, yet he could not shake the feeling that the connection existed. He simply was not smart or educated enough to organize the things he had seen and heard into a cohesive whole. Then again, perhaps his hesitation was nothing more than the immature superstition of a mind plagued by doubts and worries from all directions.
How long Jak stared at the sword’s hilt, he could not say. He was simultaneously repelled by and attracted to it. Clearly, the artifact possessed a unique power, whether wondrous or terrible or a combination of both. How tempting it was to slip the stony blade from its leather scabbard beneath the silks and behold the magnificent whole. An act he had often considered and always resisted. Or maybe it was not resistance that prevented him from doing so, but fear.
Jak knew he was not the only one who felt the sword’s unnatural call. More than once he had seen Kevik in this room, staring down on the sleeping figure and the object it held. On those occasions, Kevik’s face had displayed the same mixture of curiosity and revulsion that Jak felt now.
With a bit of effort, he pulled himself away. Eager to get clear of the moaning, he set off in search of Rodrik.
Father and son were surrounded by well-wishers at the cider tables. Kevik saw Jak and immediately waved him over, even brushing a few others out of the way to make room. He and Jak had been back on better terms ever since the day of the confession, although their time together had been dramatically cut back given Kevik’s understandable preoccupation with Calla. Rodrik and her father Henrik were likewise seen together with greater frequency. Everyone was conspicuously pleased that the match was finally reaching fruition.
Jak hurried to get his message across to the two men before they were pulled back into the excited revelry. With no small relief he passed his concerns on to them, and with them his responsibility.
Rodrik listened with a frown. “I don’t understand what is wrong with the man. Perhaps a disease of some kind.” He looked earnestly at the two younger men. “You boys are meant to celebrate today. I will take care of this. Jak, thank you for bringing this to my attention.” The pat on his shoulder was an uncharacteristic display of appreciation to which Jak did not know how to respond. But he felt calmer, confident that the emergency was in better hands.
Then Rodrik smiled at Kevik. “I will see you at the wedding.” The smile on his face as he left them had never been wider.
Jak told himself how good it was that everyone was so pleased with the match. He convinced himself that he was, too—Calla was exactly what Kevik needed to get back to the man he was capable of being.
“What are those?” Kevik asked. Then laughed. “Why are you walking around with a pile of cloaks?”
Jak blushed. He had forgotten that he was carrying them. “Oh! The others are waiting for these. I’m sorry, Kevik, I need to run.”
His friend smiled, much more like the Kevik of old than the impostor of this autumn. Things would be different when he and Calla were married, Jak knew, but for the first time in a while, he could reassure himself that the new normal would be all right.
Pikkel played the pipes beautifully. A handsome, friendly youngster from one of the smaller communities in the valley, Jak never saw him without the melodious instrument. The pipes were often used as accompaniment for the fiddle or drums, but in Pikkel’s hands they functioned magnificently on their own. The boy could play a mournful dirge or frenetic jig with equal flu
ency, and often went from one to the other and back again, showing off his ability to control his listeners’ emotions.
The quick passing of dusk brought a coldness to the air, and many of the festival’s attendees danced to keep themselves warm. Pikkel helped by playing up-tempo, his shoulders swinging about while his lips blew with deceptive ease. The laughing and shouting of the crowd blended into one continuous, contagious din. It was impossible to not feel happy with people like this, and Jak’s spirits soared on musical winds. He might have worries again on the morrow, but tonight was a time for gaiety.
“We’ll be beginning soon,” Kevik said to Jak. The two of them were dressed in their heaviest fineries—Jak’s a gift from the man beside him—and waiting with Kurtis and Rodder in the latter’s home, not far from the village center where the ceremony would occur. According to tradition, Calla would be introduced first, so there was nothing for the men to do but wait.
Jak thought Kevik looked uncharacteristically nervous. He bounced back and forth from one leg to the other, as if needing to relieve himself. The behavior was so atypical that Jak found it amusing, although he did his best to reassure his friend. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”
Kevik shook his head. “It isn’t that. I thought Da would be here.”
“I’m sure he will be.”
“I hope so.”
A minute later, Kevik turned to Jak in earnest. “I’m going to go get him.”
“Are you serious? You can’t leave your own wedding.”
Kevik shrugged. “They can’t start without me, Jak.” But he took a second to consider. “Do me a favor, will you? Find Calla and Kleo. Tell them not to start for another ten minutes.”
“If you say so.”
Kevik grinned. “Don’t worry so much, Jak.” He turned to the door.
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