by Beth Brower
Tarit seemed incredulous. “You want to see me at the wheel? But, why would such a thing interest you? You’re a soldier.”
“I’m curious,” Wil said. “You’ve spent your morning learning some of my trade, so I would be pleased to learn some of yours.”
Without needing any more encouragement, Tarit went to a stone bench of sorts and lifted off the lid. The aroma of wet earth filled Wil’s nostrils. Tarit removed a large, round ball of clay and slammed it down on a smooth stone nearby. Wil watched as the young man expertly kneaded the clay.
“It’s to get all the air pockets out,” Tarit explained as he worked. Tarit’s arms were strong, and his hands, quick. After working the clay into a soft, moldable, consistency, he threw it onto the potter’s wheel, dipping his fingers into a worn bucket of water—filthy and gritty.
Placing the clay soundly in the center, he proceeded to turn the wheel with one hand, while dipping his other in the water and bringing it back to the spinning mound before him. Once the wheel was going fast enough, Tarit used both hands, guiding the clay into shape. It looked effortless, even easy, an action of absolute grace.
Wil sat in the corner, somewhat envious of the obvious pleasure Tarit took in his work. The boy picked up a wooden stick leaning near the wheel, and, in a few quick movements, he left a beautiful design in the piece. Within moments, he presented Wil with a shallow bowl of perfect proportion.
“I don’t have the kiln ready just yet,” he said, “because I’ve been at training all morning. But, if you would like, I could place a bowl just like this in the kiln for you tonight, and it would be ready before morning.”
Touched, Wil nodded. “That would be an honor, Tarit. Thank you.” Wil’s eyes wandered around the shop, noticing how precise and uniform Tarit’s many completed bowls were. Drying next to other finished pieces on a large shelf, the vessels were all natural shades—browns, creams, and reds—both dark and light.
“In my land,” Wil began, “our potters use something called a glaze. It’s a liquid paint of sorts that they put on a piece of pottery before it goes into the kiln. It comes out in beautiful colors, smooth, with a shiny surface.”
Tarit’s looked impressed. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said. “But I’ve never seen anyone actually use such things. Do you know how to make them?”
“Not myself,” Wil said as he shook his head. “But, I may be able to find out, and someday, I’ll share the secret with you. You’ll be the most successful potter in all the fens.”
Tarit grinned at the thought.
“You know,” Wil looked the young man square in the eye. “I am sure that what you just showed me is more difficult than it seems. Am I right? Your friends have all tried it and failed.”
Tarit nodded.
“Well, I’ve been fighting for a long time.” Wil fought the sadness of his own smile. “For all intents and purposes, it’s my trade. I think, for a first attempt, you did well today. I hope you won’t have to become very good at fighting and that soon you will be back to your potter’s wheel, learning how to use the glazes I will send down to you. But don’t give up on trying to learn the sword just yet,” Wil added. “You are stronger than you think. I saw that as you worked your clay. Just imagine that you are the wheel when you fight. Use your sword to create the shapes that you need to block the enemy’s parry and to strike back. Also, spend some time with Aedon on archery,” he added. “It might prove to fit you better than man-to-man combat.”
Nodding, Tarit stood up and rinsed his hands in the dirty water, wiping them on his breeches. “I’ll try again, if you promise to send me those glazes,” Tarit stipulated.
“You have my word of honor,” Wil said solemnly as they left the potter’s shed, walking back to the training.
***
“I’ve never been so sore in my life,” Wil said later to Crispin as the young captain joined him in the shade of the blacksmith’s hut. Crispin nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with his fingers. They were in the middle of their last day at Rye Field fen.
“We’ve been going long enough to feel it,” Crispin said. “But, not long enough to be tough against it.”
“On days like these I ask myself why I ever left home, where servants drew me a daily bath, warm, with oils and soaps.” Wil sighed. “Curse the freezing rivers of Aemogen.”
“I can’t draw you a warm bath,” Crispin said, “but, I could do you one better.” A slow grin spread over Crispin’s face. “There is a collection of warm mineral pools in the hills above Rye Field. A few of us are going up there tonight after the bonfire,” he explained. “I saw Doughlas ride in an hour ago. He’ll join us for certain, so it should be good company.”
After the bonfire, Crispin called Wil to join him and a small party of soldiers, most of whom Wil had shared conversation with throughout the course of the battle run. Wil greeted Doughlas, inquiring after Ainsley, and found he had a letter from Edythe, a pleasant diversion as he waited for Crispin and the others. Aedon had also decided to join them.
They set out on a path through the woods that traveled into the hills. Wil conversed easily with the men about the day’s training as Crispin threw in several humorous observations. Even Aedon added to the conversation, responding to something Wil had said amicably. It was not long before they came to an outcropping of rock with several pools. A sequence of small waterfalls found their way down the mountain on the right, but, to the left, steam could be seen, rising out of mineral encrusted basins in the rocks.
“We are not exactly sure how they exist, but it’s a jolly good bath,” Crispin told Wil as the men stripped themselves of their clothing. “The locals come often, putting different plant oils in the water, or some such nonsense. A friend from the fen gave me this for my soreness.” Crispin held up a small glass bottle. “If you can credit the idea.”
After all the soldiers had settled themselves in the warm water, their conversation turned to home.
“I swear, Meg won’t wait out the summer,” Doughlas sighed. “The butcher’s son on New Ainsley road comes around every time I’m off on a ride, and wooing her back is a sure fight. She’ll be wed before I get home.”
“With your dashing looks?” someone called out, and Doughlas grinned. He was handsome and lithe, with a grin as mischievous as a cat’s.
“You’re too young to marry,” Crispin added. “And, how in the world are you supposed to decide which one you want to settle down with?”
“And, chances are,” Aedon said without a smile, “when you do find her, she’ll have walked out with Crispin a time or two before she chooses you.”
The men laughed, and Wil settled his sore body farther into the warmth of the mineral water, stretching his arms out along the edges of the pool. He enjoyed this company: their conversations, jokes, and personalities. Even Aedon was not as stiff to Wil these days. Although, Wil did notice Aedon studying the mark on Wil’s chest with curiosity. When he knew that the councillor had looked away, Wil checked to ensure that the black fabric about his left forearm was still secure.
“And what about you, Wil?” Sean said. “Tell us about the girls you left back home. Any that you regret?”
“There are some women at home,” Wil said, “who kept my mind occupied for a day here and there, but I’ve yet to meet one that’s made me feel regret.” Wil shrugged. “When I do,” he added, “I’ll send you a letter.”
“Just don’t send it by fen rider,” Doughlas quipped. “I’ll be busy, courting Meg or fighting the butcher’s son.”
Wil grinned.
“So you don’t plan on settling down anytime soon?” Crispin asked.
“Not in the future I see before me,” Wil said.
“Then why, under the blue, blue sky,” Crispin began, “does everybody give me a hard time for doing the same?” Crispin rounded on his friends. “All of you do. Even Eleanor prophesies me dying alone for the lack of choosing a wife.”
Duncan, a soldier that Wil did not know as well, spoke up
for the first time. “Tell the queen you will wed as soon as she does,” he suggested. “And I’ll bet she won’t whisper a word for ten winters.”
“Ah, get off it,” Crispin said with a laugh. “Eleanor will marry soon enough.”
“Are you privy to information we’re not?” Doughlas asked in a rascal’s tone. Wil watched as all the soldiers actually seemed very interested in hearing what Crispin would have to say.
“I know nothing,” Crispin said, putting a cherubic look on his face. “Well, aside from a name and a date.” The soldiers all laughed, and he waited for the laughter to die down before pointing to Aedon. “There is the man that may know something,” Crispin said. “He is the queen’s foremost councillor.”
“The oldest and wisest amongst us all, for he is almost to the ripe old age of thirty,” Duncan teased. “Oh, Aedon, what news from the council chamber. Will our queen wed anytime soon?”
“Why would I know?” Aedon responded to the curious soldiers. “And, Sean is much older than I am.”
Sean made some sort of show, and they all laughed.
“The real question is not when but who,” Crispin said, elbowing Aedon, and then Doughlas said something smart.
Aedon smiled and flicked water at Crispin’s face with his fingers. “You’re elbowing the wrong man.”
“Why?” Wil finally spoke up, drawing back the attention of the group. “You wouldn’t want to marry the queen?”
“It’s not if he would want her,” Crispin answered for Aedon. “It’s if she would want him.”
“A man like Aedon, in his prime, not wanted by the queen?” Doughlas said, sounding tragic before breaking out a smile. “Well, we all knew she’d never have him. His dinner conversation is so dull.”
Wil let out an amused breath.
“Come on, Aedon, out with it,” Duncan persisted, as Aedon’s expression turned long suffering. “We all want to know if you are sweet on the queen. It’s not as if you’re the ugliest man at Ainsley Rise.”
Before they could get the now smiling Aedon to answer, a few more soldiers came up the path from the woods. Two of them were Crispin’s men, and the third, to Wil’s surprise, was Hastian, the Queen’s Own. A general greeting went up from the group, and it was not long before the newcomers had shed their clothing and settled into the pools.
“Here is the man you should ask,” Wil persisted, curious to see what he could find out. “Hastian, who holds the queen’s heart? Does our friend Aedon have any chance?” The men went silent, and Hastian’s eyes flicked to Wil’s, filled with a defiance that Wil had never seen in the mild-mannered soldier.
“He can’t answer you,” Duncan said quickly. “He’s the Queen’s Own.”
“Meaning?” Wil shrugged.
“Meaning that Hastian will never speak of the queen before anyone,” Aedon responded diplomatically, but firmly. “He does not reveal her activities, her comments, or her interactions. He can’t even tell you her favorite color if he knows it.”
“Hastian’s job,” Crispin added, “is to ensure that, although the queen almost always has an armed guard at her side, she is given the respect of complete privacy. He can never repeat anything he sees or hears while serving the queen. He can’t even discuss her as we are now,” Crispin explained. “Technically, he is to never speak her name.”
Hastian sat quietly in the pool, listening to Crispin with a self-conscious look on his face.
Wil ran his hand through his hair, laughing at an offhand comment Crispin then made about Duncan, but really thinking about Eleanor and her Queen’s Own.
Not long after Hastian had arrived, Aedon excused himself, drying off as best he could before slipping back into his clothes and heading down the mountain. Wil was tired and pulled himself partway out of the water, so his chest and back could dry in the night air.
“You heading out Wil?” Crispin asked.
“Yes. I’m ready for sleep,” he said. “We leave early.”
Crispin nodded. “I’ll go down with you.”
The woods were still, and the crescent moon small, making the path difficult to see in the dark, but Crispin knew the way well enough. Wil was content to follow, enjoying his loose muscles and less tired bones.
A noise in the brush caused Crispin to pause a moment. “Just a deer, I suspect,” he said.
Wil was remembering their conversations at the spring, and he finally spoke into the silence of the summer night. “Does Aedon truly fancy the queen?” he asked.
“I am not altogether certain if it’s anything beyond the affection of a dear friend,” Crispin answered. “They are very close and have relied on each other a great deal. But she is young,” Crispin said, more to himself than to Wil. “And, although Eleanor has only been on the throne for little more than five years, she is wise enough to know that much must be considered in her choice of husband: politics as well as love and respect.”
“Who would she choose from?” Wil asked, curious.
“The fen lord’s have sons,” Crispin said, his voice drifting through a yawn. “There are also councillors, wealthy merchants, and seed bringers who carry a certain weight. But, most likely, it would be a titled man with an understanding of how leadership and politics work in Aemogen.”
“So, Aedon would likely not be considered.”
“Aedon is titled, he’s just quiet about it,” Crispin said as they broke out of the woods into the field near the fen hall. “He’s a very eligible option, I would say. Frankly, I don’t know if Eleanor could choose better.”
When they reached the fen hall, Crispin excused himself to go ask a question of one of his men, and Wil entered the building alone. Gaulter Alden was still up, speaking with Aedon about trade. Wil was also surprised to see Eleanor, sitting on the opposite side of the room, writing with the light of several candles. Seeing her at work, oblivious to the conversation and jokes about her marriage, Wil felt guilt tinge his mind. He looked away and was about to join Gaulter Alden and Aedon, when Eleanor called his name.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked.
He nodded, noting that Aedon had looked up briefly before continuing his conversation with Gaulter Alden.
“Remember those loose pieces of paper I had saved to translate during the battle run?” she asked.
Wil admitted that he did not.
“Well, I have finally pulled them out,” she said. “Come tell me what you think.”
He sat down next to Eleanor, hesitantly.
“Forgive me, Wil, I didn’t see how tired you were,” Eleanor said sincerely as she looked at his reluctant expression. “This can wait. I know you’ve had a long day.”
“No,” Wil said, turning towards Eleanor, settling his shoulder against the wall. “My body is tired, but my mind is not.”
Eleanor smiled appreciatively. “I was finding this text very challenging,” she said. “It’s a poem by the northern philosopher Taimzaeed—”
They worked on Eleanor’s translation together, far into the night. Hastian had returned, standing silently on the far side of the room. Gaulter Alden and Aedon retired soon after Hastian had come, leaving Eleanor and Wil alone with their translations. Just as one of them would tire, the other would figure out a difficult word or finish a particularly interesting line, urging the other to continue.
“Taimzaeed’s philosophies are interesting because he was rejected quite forcefully by the scholars in Zarbadast until two centuries after he had died,” Wil told Eleanor.
“Really?” Eleanor was surprised. “But, his philosophy is so clearly in line with what I have read in the Second Scroll.”
“Yes, but his other works advocated social reforms that were not trusted at the time,” Wil replied. He then thought about what she had just said. “I didn’t realize you had begun reading the Second Scroll.”
“I brought it along and have read most nights.” Eleanor smiled. “Especially after you teased me for not having read the Seven Scrolls.” She paused and tapped her finger on
ce on the table. “Are the archives of Zarbadast very great?”
Wil felt his heart miss a beat, but he shook his head. “I’m not the person to ask,” he admitted. “My father’s ambition has more to do with expanding Imirillia’s borders than with digging through the scholarly archives of Zarbadast.”
Eleanor nodded and turned back to a translated verse of Taimzaeed’s poetry. Her penchant for study was—of all things—a bit endearing to Wil. She seemed taken with a particular poem, very famous, that Wil had even studied as a boy. The luminosity created by Eleanor’s voice, as she read aloud, crowded out any shadows in Wil’s chest, save those cast by her wonder.
I once believed the stars were old souls,
Passed away, yet scintillating in their rest,
But now, I see they are but the nursery
Of the Illuminating God.
And at the birth of each man
Therein is placed a star beside his heart,
And while the heart gives its beat to the body,
So the star gives its light to the soul.
“Hmm,” he said and smiled, feeling he had experienced something fresh, something new, as if the tiredness of the late night were suspended by her articulation. “What about that verse do you love so much?” he asked.
“It’s only—” Eleanor let a long, satisfied sound escape with a sigh. “The imagery is beautiful, and although I don’t believe Taimzaeed means a literal interpretation—admittedly, I could be wrong—it’s a wonderful idea: each human being endowed with a star to guide one’s soul.”
“So that each birth is an increase of light—” Wil said.
“And each death, a star extinguished.”
When Wil did not answer Eleanor with words, she continued. “My father held the value of an individual as paramount in making decisions for the whole,” she explained. “He believed in the influence of a man or a woman for good or ill: that one soul could make a great difference. I believe he would have liked this verse.”
Wil picked up an unlit candle and set the wick alight in the candle that had almost burned its course. “You don’t mention him often,” Wil said.