The traitors had known him to be merciful, they had known his ideals, and they had used his own personality to their advantage. They had played upon his sympathies, played upon his mercy, and played him for a fool. Rhendak was no longer in a rage; he was cool, calm, and clear-headed. He saw how easily he had been tricked and how dangerous these traitors really were, but he could be dangerous too. He finally understood what the Council had tried to explain to him over and over again: as King of the dragons, it was his duty to be more dangerous than his subjects, to channel their strength and their capabilities in such a way that their entire race was strengthened. And now Rhendak smiled; once the traitors were dealt with, he knew exactly where he would channel the strength of his people. Perhaps he would be able to lead the myth-folk above-realm sooner than anyone had believed possible. Perhaps, with a little dragon cunning and strength, he just might save them all.
❖ ❖ ❖
Brant and Oraeyn were traveling silently, speaking little. They went swiftly, breaking pace only to eat or to sleep and then only for very short periods of time. Brant was impressed with the youth’s stamina, for he never lagged behind or asked to rest for longer than Brant allowed.
Oraeyn found that he had plenty of time to think, as they traveled. He wondered often about the tall man with whom he was traveling. Brant was quiet and calm most of the time, and yet there were moments when Oraeyn was almost afraid of him. Something like fire lurked in the depths of Brant’s dark eyes, something old and wild, something that Oraeyn could not quite identify. Oraeyn spent a long while trying to piece together the things that he knew of Brant and succeeded only in becoming more confused. He remembered when they had met him in the middle of the Mountains of Dusk, a peasant or a farmer was all Brant had seemed to be; and yet he had amazed them all by proving that he could move through the land without making a sound and leave a campsite without even a trace of evidence that could be discovered, no matter how hard a tracker looked. Oraeyn had been impressed with Brant’s familiarity with weapons and battle skills. The man wore his sword as though he had been born with it strapped around him, and he sat a horse as none other. They had assumed that he lived his entire life in small towns and among peasants, yet Brant was acquainted with Calyssia, could read Old Kraïc, and knew his bearings throughout Aom-igh. He always knew where he was and how long it would be till their destination. He was familiar with wizardry and shape-shifters, had known Yole to be a dragon, and was constantly surprising even Dylanna with his vast knowledge. On top of all this, perhaps the most alarming of the small store of facts about Brant was that a Dark Warrior had actually fled from him.
It was this last thing that Oraeyn could not understand. It was the single thing that did not fit into the puzzle that was Brant. He could understand a farmer who had traveled the country as a young man, perhaps even spent some time training as a knight, and maybe meeting Calyssia and learning about magic and Old Kraïc from her. However, Oraeyn could find no spot which explained why a Dark Warrior would fear Brant. Oraeyn’s recent experience confirmed the stories he had heard about Dark Warriors. They were fierce, relentless, and skilled fighters. They did not wear helmets or armor, and yet they entered battle fearlessly. Oraeyn had defeated one, but knew that luck had played a major part while Brant had killed two outright and the third fled when facing Brant alone. The only conclusion that made any sense was also the thought that must be impossible... was it possible that the Dark Warriors knew who Brant was? Surely that could not be true... could it?
When he was not wondering about who, or what, Brant really was, Oraeyn was puzzling over the words of the wood nymph. What was the meaning of her baffling riddles? He possessed no magical abilities, and for that matter he had never wanted to. He pondered the sword at his side. Perhaps the blade was, after all, the Lost Sword of King Llian, gift of the dragons. The two dragons had certainly recognized it, calling it by name: the Fang Blade. He remembered King Rhendak giving him a strange look, a look that he had dismissed at the time, but now he understood that look to be both recognition and surprise. No, not surprise, more like a suppressed delight. Oraeyn touched the sword hanging at his side, thinking hard. He allowed himself to believe for a moment that what he had found actually was the sword that the King of the dragons had fashioned for Llian, that he really was a direct descendant of the great King who had ruled over six hundred years ago. Maybe the sword had not only been fashioned by dragons but somehow embedded with dragon magic during its forging as well. That would explain much of his unusual experiences these past several weeks since the sword had claimed him.
“We stop here for the night.” Brant’s voice cut into Oraeyn’s thoughts, startling him.
Oraeyn looked around and found, to his surprise, that the Dragon’s Eye had already set and that it was growing dark. He had lost track of all time, wrapped as he had been in his thoughts.
“That Dark Warrior fled from you,” Oraeyn said, giving words to the first thing that popped into his head.
Mentally he kicked himself, wondering why he had blurted that out, but Brant did not look angry with him. The man gazed at Oraeyn with a weighing look in his eyes. Oraeyn winced a little, wishing he had not spoken aloud.
Brant finally nodded. “And you want to know why.”
Oraeyn froze. So the warrior really had fled from Brant; the man was not denying that. Whether he had fled in terror or in wisdom it did not matter, he had fled, and that meant that he did not dare to face Brant alone in combat. Oraeyn nodded.
“Yes, I want to know why.”
Brant sighed, the sigh of a man who has carried too much on his shoulders for far too long, and stared off into the darkness of the coming night. He was silent for a few moments, as though he wanted to be sure of his words before they escaped his mouth. Oraeyn waited.
“A man cannot choose his own birth.”
Oraeyn raised his eyebrows and leaned forward in expectation.
Brant’s face seemed to lose all expression as he paused, then started again. “In my youth, training and study was all I knew. It was, in fact, all that I loved. My training included travels throughout the Stained Sea, and in these travels I lost my teacher and friend and became prey for evil men. In desperation and good fortune, I found myself in the Harshlands, where I soon lost all sense of direction and time. For the first time in my life, I was lost and without hope... and that is when Arnaud found me. He brought me to his aunt and uncle, where I regained my strength and my life. I shared their home with my new brother, and I trusted Arnaud with my soul. But then, Arnaud was given the throne, and I needed the open road over the comforts of the palace. For many years, I traveled throughout Aom-igh as the King’s Protector and Servant. Arnaud preferred me to stay with him as adviser, but I had no desire to settle down. A restlessness borne in my spirit made me keep to the road, and I learned this country well.
“Eventually, I discovered my way into Pearl Cove, only to learn later that it was the Keeper who found and called me there. I spent three years learning under Calyssia. She replaced the teacher and friend I had lost, and I was reminded of my love for training and study. She taught me the Dragon Tongue and the way of wizards and much of history. She taught me to love the land, and to love people, to set aside fear and contempt for trust and compassion. I found something of myself, something that I could understand, and something I had never known: the yearning to rest and spend the rest of my days in the peaceful Cove. Yet I was not ready to stay in one place. I thought I was, but Calyssia knew better. You may well believe that three years in that place would have been sufficient temptation for any man to stay there forever. I thought so too, at first, but it was not enough for me. She knew my stay would be brief; she told me as much when I first entered her Cove. I did not believe her then. I heard her words, but it was not until many years later that I understood the truth of her vision or the depth of her wisdom.
“After three years, I grew restless again, and I left, just as Calyssia said I would.
I came back and learned that Aom-igh was overrun with murderers and thieves, so I returned to the palace where I was received with open arms. I told Arnaud that I was there to help him; I wanted no pay except horses and the approval of the King to track down any and all lawbreakers and bring them to justice. Arnaud accepted my offer and sent me out as the ‘King’s Warrior’ and that title became respected and feared. I knew the country and had both the King’s justice and Calyssia’s wisdom behind my sword.
“My fame spread before me and even out to the islands in the great chain that separates the Soothing Sea from the Stained Sea. It is likely that my name even reached the Dark Country; perhaps the Warrior we faced was young and overawed by a name that has long laid at rest. After many years of hard and dangerous work, justice and wisdom prevailed and the people were safe once again. It was then that I left my role as the King’s Warrior. It was also then that I met Imojean. She quieted my restless spirit and woke a contentment inside me I had never known. If we were to have children, I wanted to raise them apart from my old life, to know me for who I had become, and not for who I once had been. King Arnaud gladly released me from my oath to a freedom I had never sought, but was very glad to claim.” Brant stopped suddenly and said no more.
Oraeyn mulled over Brant’s words. He felt, somehow, that there was more to Brant’s story that he was not telling. Oraeyn was positive that the man had spoken no untrue word; however, he got the feeling that Brant had not said everything either. However, he knew that Brant had said all he meant to, and so he did not press for anything further.
They set up camp together but neither slept for a long while. Sitting by the small campfire next to Oraeyn, Brant stared into the orange flames. He was aware of Oraeyn’s eyes, watching him, and he knew that the young man had not been satisfied with his story. He frowned and rubbed the palm of his hand, flexing his fingers as if in pain.
“That’s an odd place for a scar,” Oraeyn said quietly, gesturing at the palm of Brant’s right hand, the palm he had been rubbing. “There must be a story there.”
Brant looked up, startled. How long had it been since he had even noticed the blemish? He stared at the scar and frowned.
“Yes, there is a story behind that,” he said slowly. “When I was very young, I took an oath to protect and serve my country for the rest of my life, no matter how long that might be. It was a blood oath.”
Oraeyn nodded, curiosity in his green eyes. “I’ve never heard of that… I mean, I’ve heard of blood oaths, but not that particular one. How does it go?”
Brant’s dark eyes seemed to glaze a bit as they filled with old memories. “Courage, purity, truth, and honor. These things will I walk with and give my life to uphold, I swear this by my blood and by my sword.” He intoned the words softly and slowly, and Oraeyn got the feeling that the words were as much a part of Brant as the scar on his palm was.
“That is beautiful. I have never heard one like it.”
“No, you would not have.”
Oraeyn frowned. The certainty in Brant’s voice was unsettling. He thought back through his training, but it was true; he had never heard of that particular oath. Something, the barest shadow of a thought, whispered to Oraeyn that this was important, but he could not catch hold of the idea and shrugged it away. They lapsed once more into silence, gazing into the dancing flames of the fire. At last, Oraeyn went to sleep, leaving Brant to take the first watch. He wanted to think more about what he had learned from the tall man, but his eyelids grew heavy and he fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning, Brant woke Oraeyn with a gruff, “Let’s move.”
Oraeyn groaned and grumbled about getting up at such an early hour. but Brant would have none of it. So Oraeyn got up, complaining about the inhuman and cruel pace that Brant was setting and muttering that he would give his sword arm for one good night’s rest in a real bed. When he discovered that Brant had cooked eggs and rabbit stew for breakfast his whining subsided, and he remarked that it really was a very beautiful morning. Brant laughed at that, and Oraeyn wondered what was so funny. He also wondered if he had ever heard Brant laugh before, but he did not have long to ponder this thought, for the man was impatient to continue their journey.
Within a few hours of swift noiseless travel, they reached a tiny village that had been built within a large clearing of the forest. Spotting a nearby secluded cottage, Brant commented that information could be useful and suggested they knock at the door of this home. Oraeyn, quick to agree to any form of rest, consented readily. The two walked up and knocked on the door; an elderly couple promptly greeted them.
The woman stared at them. “Me goodness!” she exclaimed. “So many new faces around these parts of a sudden!”
Brant was instantly on his guard. If Oraeyn had not been watching for it, he would not have seen the change that came over him. There was a slight shift in his stance, a clenched muscle in his jaw, and wariness in his eyes. He wondered if Brant suspected that Dark Warriors had been through this small village, but he kept quiet, allowing Brant to do the talking and questioning.
“What do you mean?” Brant asked carefully.
“Just what I be sayin’, we’ve been having many visitors of late,” the woman smiled amiably, then gasped, “but I do be forgettin’ me manners in all this excitement! My name is Marghita, and this be my husband Enreigh.” The man nodded, and the woman continued, “But come in, come in, we can be giving ye a warm meal before you must be traveling on. And perhaps ye can be tellin’ us a bit o’ news from outside, because certain sure you’re not from these parts.”
Oraeyn and Brant followed the two into the charming cottage. Marghita stirred a pot over the fire from which emanated a heavenly aroma. The brew turned out to be a heavy chicken stew that warmed their stomachs and tasted as good as anything Oraeyn had ever come across. They both praised the stew with enthusiam, causing Marghita to blush.
“That’s me mother’s secret recipe, rest her soul.”
Marghita turned out to be a shameless gossip. As they sat around a small, sturdy table, the woman chattered on endlessly, answering any and all questions that Brant asked.
“You mentioned other visitors to your village,” Brant inquired, his tone one of easy conversation.
“Oh my! That is a story!” Marghita exclaimed. “It was stormin’ out the other night, and shortly after the Dragon’s Eye had set and the rain was pourin’ down in sheets, I heard a knock on the door. Lo and behold, there were two chiluns standing upon me doorstep while the tempest was likening to drown the poor dears. I offered them a place to stay, being a right proper housewife, and they came right on inside, shivering with wet and cold. They told me where they was headed, asked me directions too. I thought that they was a-lyin’ to me, for I took them to be the runaway laborers of our neighbor Iosten. It gets lonesome like out here on the outskirts, we sometimes have a bit o’ a problem with contract-breakers. I suppose they heard me say that to me husband here when he came home later that night, for when I woke in the morning, the two had fled away and were long gone.”
“Were they the two runaway laborers?” Brant asked mildly, not really interested.
“Oh me goodness, no! And more’s the pity of it that they run off before they could find out they was in no trouble. The two laborers were found, not really runaway, just lost and scared and cold because they hadn’t been able to find no place to get in oot of the rain.”
Oraeyn suddenly leaned forward, interest written across his face. “These two who stayed at your house, what did they look like?”
“Well let me be a-thinking, the boy had dark skin, looked as though he had been outside most of this Warm-Term, working out in the fields. That’s how I took them to be the runaways, don’t you know. One of them was a small boy with dark brown hair, and the other was a girl, pale, rather tall, maybe a wee bit shorter than ye, lad. I never did see her hair, she kept a hood on, and I figured that it was cut short or something and did nae ask aboo
t it, not wanting to shame the poor lass. Why do you ask? Do you be a-knowing them?”
Oraeyn looked disappointed. “No, I thought for a moment… but no, thank you ma’am.”
Then Brant spoke again, “These two, where did you say they were heading?”
Marghita looked up from her soup. “Did I nae mention that? It was the most interesting part of the whole story. Said they was heading to a village near the Harshlands to visit their brother, bless their souls. The boy is gettin’ married, see, and they wanted to be there fer the happy day.”
“Did they mention any names?” Brant asked.
Oraeyn stared at him. Marghita’s description of the two travelers who had stayed in her house sounded nothing like Kamarie or Yole or Dylanna. He could not figure out why Brant was so interested. Yes, the visitors in Marghita and Enreigh’s home had been a young boy and a girl who could have been Yole and either Dylanna or Kamarie, but there were probably hundreds of places where they could find a young boy traveling with his older sister or young aunt or some other such relation. Also, Oraeyn could not picture Kamarie afraid of being mistaken for a runaway laborer and fleeing in the night from that misinterpretation of her identity.
“Aye, they did tell me at that. I remember because they were odd names. They said they called themselves by the names Ian and Leota,” the woman said, bobbing her head. “Do you be knowing them then?”
Brant shook his head, “No.”
But there was something about the way he said it that made Oraeyn look at him sharply. Brant just looked back at him mildly and said nothing, as he continued to eat his soup and listen to Marghita. Oraeyn could not puzzle out the man’s strange behavior, so he did the only thing he could and turned back to his stew.
King's Warrior (The Minstrel's Song Book 1) Page 25