“What does that mean?” Allystaire, smiling broadly, took another slow cut at the air.
“When we dedicated the altar and the Temple,” Torvul said, “we had a vision of each other. You were a knight straight out of legend, seven feet tall and clad head to toe in gleaming, mirror-bright steel. Your right hand clutched something as bright and furious as a bolt of lightning. I knew when I saw it, it would fall to me to make that vision true. When your Gift is upon you, and the hammer is in your hand, it will shine like the sun.” The dwarf cleared his throat. “Remember, I said it is like the armor. It will shine, but there’ll be no fire, no heat, no real power in it aside from your own. Do not mistake me, though,” the dwarf said, swiping a hand through the air. “That is as fine a weapon as you’ll ever know. We know I am given to boasting, Allystaire, but this is no vain boast. That hammer will stand up to anything. The scales of the Sea Dragon Himself would give beneath it.”
Allystaire nodded, lowered the hammer, slid the head down to rest against his fisted left hand. “I understand.” His right hand he extended towards Torvul. “You are a master of more crafts than I had known existed, Mourmitnourthrukachstorvul,” he said quietly. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“Thanks aren’t needed,” Torvul said, taking Allystaire’s arm in his own, surprising the paladin with his strength. “We have our parts to play. Mine is to make the thing. Yours is to swing it.”
Allystaire spread his hands on it, held it out to look upon it again. “If what you and Idgen Marte say is true, Torvul, if songs and tales are going to speak of what we do, they ought to speak of all of us. It will be an injustice if they do not. You have done nothing less than I have.”
Torvul shook his head. “Well, I haven’t been kickin’ down death’s door quite the way you have.”
“But the things you did during the battle probably saved more lives than anything I did,” Allystaire said. “You kept the walls from burning. You kept the Battle-Wights from swarming the Temple. You stood up to a sorcerer. More than that, you made him feel fear. I heard it in his voice. If there must be songs, Torvul, they must include you, and Idgen Marte.”
“Songs lie. At least, your songs do, human songs. None of my folk are likely t’sing of me.”
“If songs are to lie, they ought to lie as much about the Wit and the Shadow as they will about the Arm,” Allystaire countered.
“They will,” the dwarf replied, his knowing smile turning down at the corners of his mouth into an expression of sad resignation. “They’ll not mention us.” He lifted a hand to forestall Allystaire’s protest. “And it doesn’t matter, in the end. It’s not about credit or accolades and you know it. Folk need somebody to follow, a name t’shout in battle. That’ll be you.”
“You think it will come to that? Battle, I mean.”
“You know it will,” Torvul said darkly. “I don’t know who with. Braech, another Baron. Oyrwyn, even. Yet it will come.”
“Well,” Allystaire said, hefting the hammer. “I will be ready for it.”
“Aye. And with Idgen Marte watchin’ your back, n’me pointin’ out the things you don’t think of, and Gideon…” Torvul trailed off, then recovered with his grin. “Well, you just might live up to the legends.”
“What about Gideon?” Allystaire tilted his head to one side.
Torvul sighed. “Boy’s got a plan. Not my place to try’n explain it, because I’m not even sure I understand it. He’ll tell ya when it’s time. Now for all the gold in a vein, can we go have a damned drink already?”
Allystaire laughed. “Two of them.” He slid the hammer onto the ring set into the side of his belt. “Damn,” he said, almost sighing. “I missed that. Felt like I had been walking on the side of a hill all winter.”
“Why’re you so attached to the hammer as a weapon? Seems odd for your folk. Most o’your knights I’ve known favor the sword above all else.” Torvul hitched at his robes and the two started walking back to the green.
“Idgen Marte asked me the same thing once. I told her it was because the hammer makes no false promises. There is no pretty dancing, no dueling, no first blood. You bring a hammer out in a fight and a man knows precisely what you mean to do with it. You are not out to mark his cheek or sweep his blade from his hand with a flourish. The hammer cannot do any of that. I never liked lying, even when I could do it,” Allystaire said, pausing for breath. “Not even to a man I was trying to kill. And,” he added, his tone brightening, “you can try to carpenter something with it after the battle.”
“You’ve never carpentered anything in your life.”
Allystaire laughed and clapped the dwarf’s shoulder lightly. “Idgen Marte said exactly the same thing. And I told her the story I will tell you.”
* * *
“Cold, you had them crying over Vale of Kings,” Idgen Marte said. “Most of them weren’t even alive for the reign of the Rhidalish Kings, and if they were they oughtn’t remember it with fondness.”
She lay atop her bed on her bare stomach, sweating in the heat thrown by the fire they’d built up in the hearth inside her room. To remind us more of home, Andus Carek had said, as he fed the fire deftly with those clever lutist’s hands.
“You know what they teach,” he said, the richness of his voice rolling over her flesh. “It’s never as much about what you sing as how you sing it. A true bard can wring drama from the life of a cabbage farmer.” She was looking away from where he lay on his back, staring at the wall through the curtain of her hair in a fairly happy haze, but she felt the bed shift as he sat up upon his knees.
“Those tears likely tasted of ale, y’know,” she muttered, her voice muffled by her cheeks pressed against her arms. And then those strong, calloused fingers were digging into her back, thumbs pressing upwards along either side of her spine, and the words turned into a long, low moan. She stretched herself out against his hands, then turned her head to look up at him.
The room was lit only by the hearth, which glowed steadily if not brightly. He was a shadowed outline, fairly slender, leaning over her. Slender, but well fit; the solitary life on the road demanded that, really, she knew.
“They never tire of hearing songs about knights and paladins around here, do they? I sang every song I knew about Parthalian and his Companions and Reddyn the Redoubtable.”
“You sang one song about Parthalian twice. And they prefer the songs callin’ him Reddyn of the Red-Hand around here.”
“Really? The Red-Hand? He’s practically as much butcher as paladin in those.”
“Folk in the Baronies take robust view of the work their heroes do,” Idgen Marte replied. Then she cleared her throat, and said, “My shoulders are a little sore.”
He chuckled and moved his hands slowly up from where he’d been digging the pads of his fingers into her lower back, and began kneading them into the meat of her shoulders. She sighed happily, swept some of her hair well out of the way of his hands.
“And y’can try the cycles of Arentenius and the Argent Blade if you need more o’the type as you play here.”
“Don’t know them,” he said, as his hands continued to work into her skin.
There was a pause as knotted muscle in her shoulders loosened up under his care and her fingers gathered handfuls of the blankets she lay upon.
“I don’t suppose there’s anyone in the village who could teach them to me,” he wondered in a carefully studied tone of idle musing.
“No,” she said flatly, “there isn’t.”
“Alas,” he murmured. “At least you did not flee when I sang The Streets of Cansebour.”
She responded only with a low sigh of satisfaction.
“It truly is the jewel of the south,” he went on. “If Viefaldt and its great rivers are the heart of the Concordat, Cansebour must be its soul. The light of sunset in the stained glass in the Twelve Towers of Song—”
Then she pushed him back to the bed and settled her head on his shoulder. He stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankle.
“They do speak of an Idgen Marte there at the Towers,” Andus Carek offered, his voice a pleasant rumble underneath his cheek. “She is not only a cautionary tale of politics.”
He trailed off as her free hand slid down his chest and across his hips.
“You are trying to distract me,” he muttered.
“No,” Idgen Marte said, as she rolled halfway atop him. “I am distracting you.”
CHAPTER 20
Spring Departures
Allystaire, Gideon, Harrys, and Norbert returned from their early morning run, only to find Rohrich busy setting up his wagon already, his guard Myron leaning sleepily against it, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Ah, Sir Stillbright,” Rohrich called, waving, as they neared the green. “I see you’re a fellow for the morning as well. A lie-in puts no weight in the purse, as they say.”
Allystaire chuckled politely. “It is not really the purse we are putting weight on,” he said, shifting the stone he carried to his other shoulder.
“I should say not. Once you divest yourself of your burdens come speak with me of books, if you would. It’s a fine morning and we’re likely to have privacy for some time.”
“Seems reasonable,” Allystaire admitted. The four of them went to pile their stones by the Inn, and Allystaire looked back to the peddler, who was busy hauling the strongbox full of books out of the wagon. He said, “Harrys, give Norbert work with spear, if you would. I will be along presently.”
The old soldier nodded, turning an evil-looking grin on the taller Norbert, who smiled defiantly back. “I’m gettin’ faster, old man,” he said.
“Not fast enough, unless y’come upon me in m’sleep,” Harrys said, and the two walked off together towards Torvul’s carefully maintained armory.
Meanwhile, Allystaire mulled the books over in his mind. Beside him, Gideon, typically so hard to read, practically vibrated with hunger for them, he could see. His wide eyes stared hard at the strong box, focused on it to the exclusion of all else. Cold, he thought, it would be nice to have something new to read of an evening. Maybe to discuss with the boy. But the thought of the cost made him wince.
“Books are very expensive here,” Allystaire muttered dutifully to Gideon as they made their way to the wagon. “Most of the folk in the village will not benefit from them, so we must bear that in mind.”
“If most here aren’t lettered, we ought to be changing that,” Gideon said as they neared the peddler. “Teaching them.”
“I can teach anyone to ride, hunt, fight, joust, and something of history and geography and heraldry,” Allystaire said. “I have no idea how to teach someone to read or cipher.”
“Mol probably can. As could I,” Gideon said with a shrug. “Torvul has a library, but most of its in Dwarfish marks. There are so few other books in the village.”
“Well, I can fix that,” Rohrich said, overhearing their conversation and theatrically pulling back the cloth cover of the volumes in his strongbox. “I have another box as well, smaller than this, though,” he said. “You’ll find here a history of the Baronies compiled by an Urdaran monk, spoken aloud to a scrivener,” he began, pulling free a thick volume with a blue cloth cover and wooden bindings holding the leaves together. “Great ones for history and the recordin’ of it, the Blind Monks. I’ve a history of Keersvast and the Islandmen as well. Books of poetry and romance. An herbiary.”
As he spoke, the peddler’s hands moved deftly among the books, pulling free now the largest of them and untying the leather thongs holding it shut. He turned back to the green-dyed leather of the cover to reveal a beautifully illuminated page identifying a plant, with tiny, closely-set words describing the uses of its leaves, stem, and root. Allystaire would’ve had to lean close to read it.
“Meant to be read with a glass or a crystal, which I can provide, of course.”
Allystaire had been half-listening to Rohrich’s words and half-pondering what Gideon had said. The boy stepped forward to look at the herbiary, looking to Rohrich for permission before carefully turning a page.
“Gideon,” Allystaire suddenly said, “would you do me a favor? Go to my room in the Inn. My purse will be on the table. Bring it here.”
The boy looked reluctantly up from the book, but nodded and dashed off.
“Your son?” Rohrich asked as he carefully closed and tied the herbiary shut and slid it back into the chest.
Allystaire mulled the question a moment, then answered, “Yes,” with a faint smile.
“Must favor his mother then,” Rohrich offered. “Nothin’ meant by it o’course, Sir Allystaire,” he quickly added.
Allystaire laughed. “You have no idea how right you are, goodman peddler. If you would be so kind as to let us examine the other chest of books, I would appreciate it.”
By the time Rohrich had roused Myron and had him haul forth a similarly sized strongbox of books and bring it forth, Gideon had returned with the pouch. As the peddler was opening the second chest, Allystaire reached in with two fingers and felt them close around a slip of parchment wrapped around two hard ovoid shapes. He pulled it free, unrolled the parchment in the palm of one hand, and held forth the two clear, beautifully faceted topazes that had once adorned the golden mask of the Archioness Cerisia.
Allystaire made sure to let Rohrich see them, moved them about in his palm so they caught the morning sunlight. The merchant’s jaw dropped just slightly, but he caught himself and quickly composed his features.
“Two gems, two chests of books. It hardly seems a coincidence, eh?” Allystaire grinned. “We will have the lot.”
* * *
Allystaire found Mol expecting the books, practically cooing and giggling over them as he delivered the boxes to the Temple. He had managed a box easily enough. Gideon insisted on carrying the other, straining and puffing by the time they reached the doors and he could set it down without losing face. Mol had opened the door to meet them.
“We will need to find a safe, dry place for them,” he was saying, “away from any open flames.”
“I will speak with the Wit of how best to safeguard them,” Mol said brightly. “He has had a lifetime of doing so, after all. And then I will begin to sort out which books I might use to teach folk their letters.”
“Many of those will probably be too difficult for the totally unlettered,” Gideon said.
Mol held up a hand to forestall them. “All that will be required is patience and material. I have great reserves of the former and now enough of the latter. It will do. The two of you have work to be about.”
Allystaire nodded, thinking for only the barest moment how odd it was to hear a girl of Mol’s age speak the way she did, and order him about. And yet it wasn’t odd at all.
“She is right, Gideon,” he said. “I should be off to practice with Harrys and Norbert. You are welcome.”
“That is not what I meant,” Mol said. “It is time for our guests to leave. Excepting any that wish to stay, of course. Some will. But it is important that Landen, Chaddin, Garth, and Audreyn all begin their varied ways home. They have parts to play in what is to come and it is time they began.”
“In that case,” Allystaire said, “I ought to get my armor on. Make it look official.”
“You’re a paladin with or without the armor,” Gideon pointed out.
“I think it is just Torvul rubbing off on him,” Mol said, smiling. “He’s embracing the showmanship the Wit is always on about.” She reached out and plucked at the plain, thick homespun Gideon wore. “It would n
ot harm you to do the same. Wear your robes once in a while. Carry your staff like a proper wizard.”
Gideon lifted his chin. “I am not a wizard. And staves are props, nothing more.”
“A staff is also one of the most versatile of weapons if a man knows what to do with it,” Allystaire pointed out. “And wizard or not, Gideon, that is how the folk see you. How they need to see you.”
“You underestimate them,” Gideon countered.
“The folk you live among are one thing. The folk we meet in the world will be something else entirely. Please,” he said, “do as Mol suggested. Meet me at the gate by the Oyrwyn camp in half a turn.”
“Thank you for the books,” Mol said, but something in how she said it let them know they were both dismissed to other business, and they went without question.
* * *
Andus Carek walked out of the Inn at mid-morning feeling fulfilled. Idgen Marte had been gone when he woke, and in fact, he hadn’t heard or seen her leave. Hadn’t even stirred, which was odd, for a life on the road practically demanded light sleeping and pert ears.
Even so, he had slept well, if not overly much. He planned to take a turn of the grounds, as it were, the pocket of his hooded, lined cloak stuffed with parchment, ink, and pen. There were songs to be mined here, tales to be metered and given melody, and those would be his tools. Nothing concrete today, just a few words, an image, perhaps a sketch of a run of notes if they occurred to him.
Even the cold of the air couldn’t hurt his mood. That these northerners were calling the day spring was no more baffling than anything else about this country made of stone and frozen mud.
He’d taken only a couple steps out of the Inn when a knight of legend stepped out behind him.
The paladin still wasn’t a man overly fair to look upon. A certain charm in his jawline once upon a time, perhaps, before it’d been knocked around so much. His nose hadn’t had the decency to break in a picturesque way, and the tiny scars around his eyes that one could only see when close didn’t add a mystique the way dueling scars back home might. His hair was shot with grey and clumsily hacked at till it was out of his eyes and off his ears and neck, and he was scrupulously clean-shaven when his face could have benefited dramatically from a decent beard. He wasn’t even particularly tall; his thick chest and shoulders gave him the aspect of a bear walking around hunched over and angry.
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