by Brian Fuller
Once down the stairs, they turned toward the old Chapel. Rather than go in the Chapel proper, they circled around to the back toward a small building where the acolytes gathered in small groups for meditation and prayer. Fenna had already arrived, leaning against the building near the door, absentmindedly twirling a spring rose between her fingers.
“A gift from Gen?” the Chalaine whispered as she greeted her beloved handmaiden with an embrace.
“No. It is from Kimdan. He gave it to me this morning.” Fenna sounded confused, and the Chalaine grabbed her arm and pulled her inside after her mother entered.
“We’ll talk about it later,” the Chalaine said, surmising that Kimdan’s sudden demonstration of affection toward Fenna was no doubt tied up with her recent interest in Gen.
The room where Ethris performed the branding for protectors was square and ascetically appointed, a room for instruction and meditation. Rough wooden benches faced a modest table upon which Ethris had placed the implements of branding, an ornate silver knife, a variety of dyes, and a wooden cup with some sour-smelling draught that deadened pain. Gen stood at attention by the rough-stone hearth, hands behind his back, and Ethris stoked the fire. Both turned and bowed as the First Mother and the Chalaine entered.
It was the first time the Chalaine had seen Gen in daylight, and upon seeing him again, a chill ran down her spine. Something about his presence invited her to bow to him instead of the other way around. Though a commoner, he commanded a regality, intelligence of eye, and apparent self-control to match any noble she had ever met. Now that she knew what he could do—both in terms of sword-skill and courage—she couldn’t help but feel awed and even a little fearful. Such a man as Gen would brook no weakness, accept no quarter, and never compromise his principles. The Chalaine passed and he nodded his head to her in deference. She returned the courtesy, feeling his inferior in everything that mattered.
Mirelle and Fenna, the Chalaine noted, did not suffer from the same discomfort, approaching and addressing Gen very familiarly, her mother—surprisingly—even kissing him on the cheek. Jaron closed the door and stood by it, Cadaen at his side, as the ladies took a seat on the bench nearest the table. Despite feeling intimidated by her new protector, the Chalaine couldn’t help staring at his face, noticing the tanned skin and white scars that crisscrossed everywhere. Fenna looked at him too, rose clutched in her hands, and with eyes that indicated a mind preoccupied.
“Welcome, Ladies and protectors,” Ethris greeted them. He wore his white ceremonial robe as he had the day before. “We gather at the request of the First Mother to induct Gen into the Chalaine’s personal Protectorship. Since the first Chalaine, the best of men were sought to guard her against the day of the accomplishment of her purpose. Now that the moment is close at hand, Gen, you must realize that you will have a unique place in history and an honor that few in that history can lay claim to. You should know that it is the unanimous agreement of all those employed in the protection of the Chalaine that you are most worthy and fit to serve her in mind, body, and purpose. We thank you for what you have done thus far for the Chalaine and have full confidence that you will do many more great things in her service.”
“Thank you, Ethris and First Mother, for this opportunity to serve,” Gen replied.
“Let’s begin. Just do as I instructed you, Gen,” Ethris said. “I know it is a lot to remember on short notice, so ask me for any help, should you need it. Most inductees have some time to prepare, but you are a special case, so there is no shame if you forget some of it.”
Gen nodded, and the Chalaine sat up straight as Gen approached her and knelt, unsheathing his sword to lay it on her knees. The Chalaine swallowed hard. His green eyes seemed to penetrate the veil, and she was grateful when he bowed his head.
“Most Holy Mother, bearer of the hope of nations, I offer my sword to you and ask that you accept me into your service. I declare myself fit for that service and proclaim my unswerving desire to protect you against any you should call enemy. Will you have me?”
“I will,” the Chalaine returned weakly, clearing her throat to speak more forcefully, “if you swear, under Eldaloth’s watchful eye, to obey the will of the crown of Rhugoth, to be willing to brave any trial that my protection and the protection of the holy babe will require of you, and to never betray me, my house, or the will of Eldaloth.”
“This I swear.”
“Do you swear to fight every device of Mikkik and his Ilch that are laid against the path of my duty, even unto the laying down of your life?”
“This I swear.”
“Do you swear to behave with honor, dignity, and compassion, as is befitting one who represents and protects me?”
“This I swear.”
“Then rise and take your sword. May such peace attend us that you never need draw it in my service, but should such days come, wield it well.”
Gen lifted the sword carefully, resheathing it. “My sword and my life are yours. Command and I will obey.”
He bowed again, the Chalaine inclining her head in return as he returned to stand by the table. The whole ritual made the Chalaine feel awkward, but what came next she could scarce bear to watch.
“First Mother,” Ethris said, “do you have one of the Chalaine’s hairs?”
“I do.”
She unclenched her fist, and Ethris squinted to find the blonde strand. Taking it between his thumb and finger, he moved it to the table, trapping it under a bottle of dye.
Ethris picked up the drink and offered it to Gen. “Swallow this, and I’ve got a leather strap for you to bite down on, if you would like.
“No thank you,” Gen refused. “I prefer to keep my senses sharp.”
The Chalaine couldn’t say why, but she half-expected this refusal. Ethris raised his eyebrows, and Fenna furrowed hers. Mirelle regarded him thoughtfully.
“Very well, but this will hurt a great deal.”
Gen removed his shirt and Ethris stepped forward with his thin-bladed knife. With a steady hand and delicate skill, he cut into Gen’s flesh at the center of his chest, carving a tight spiral pattern. The Chalaine focused away from the cutting, settling on Gen’s face, astonished at his control. Not a flinch, grimace, or blink. His eyes didn’t even water.
“So tell us about where you are from, Gen,” Mirelle asked while Ethris worked.
“I am from a small town in Tolnor just southwest of the Rede Steppes. It was called Tell. Simple lumbermen and farmers, mostly. Cold winters. Pleasant summers. It lay in the Dukedom of Murin Norshwal, if you ever had occasion to meet him.”
He might be sitting at a picnic in the sunny highlands for all the strain in his voice, and Gen’s indifference to pain gave the Chalaine the strange sensation that the body receiving the violence and the man that spoke were disconnected from each other.
“I never have,” the First Mother answered as Ethris finished, blotting the blood away from the completed design.
“Now, Gen,” said Ethris, “I will work the Chalaine’s hair into the wound. It is the binding agent that will allow you to know in which direction she is and to sense whatever physical duress she may be under.”
He dipped the hair in a greenish dye and, while incanting, worked nimbly to insert the hair within the spiral cut. When done, he heated the blade and sealed the wound. The smell of burning flesh twisted the Chalaine’s stomach.
“You say it was named Tell. Was it destroyed?” the First Mother continued as the blade sizzled around the wound.
“Most of the people were killed when it was occupied late last fall.”
“You met Torbrand Khairn there?” the First Mother asked, and the Chalaine caught a slight tightening around his eyes. Her mother had scored a mark.
“Yes.”
Mirelle nodded. “That would explain recent reports. I will explain more later.”
Finished with the brand, Ethris wiped his stained hands on a cloth from the table. “That completes that portion of the branding. It
is customary that a black rose be burned into the under part of the protector’s forearm as well, though it is not required. Dason refused it. It is merely a tradition that has persisted through the years. Will you receive it?”
“Yes.”
Ethris unstoppered the bottle of black dye, coated Gen’s forearm with it, and then removed from a pocket in his robe a rose pattern fashioned carefully of a thin metal. Placing the design on the forearm, Ethris incanted again. The metal flashed white-hot for a split-second, the smell of burning filling the room again. Clearing away the pattern brand and the residue of dye revealed the perfect black rose.
“Now, Chalaine,” Mirelle said, “if you would perform a little healing on your new Protector so that he doesn’t die of infection, we will conclude the ceremony.” The Chalaine stepped forward, completely unnerved. He wasn’t even sweating.
“Extend your hand,” she requested, taking it as he offered it and concentrating to heal the damage caused by the burning and cutting. His skin, coarse and calloused, was abrasive to hers, and just from his light grip she knew he could crush her hand in an instant. Once finished, she opened her eyes to find him regarding her, and she stepped away from the power of his stare. Couldn’t anyone else see it? Did it not discomfit anyone else?
“That concludes my work,” Ethris said, hands on the table. “Do the First Mother or the Chalaine have anything to add?”
“Just a welcome into the close society of the Chalaine’s service,” Mirelle said brightly. “I believe Gen already knows our regard for him. Do you wish to say anything, daughter? Fenna or Jaron?”
Jaron spoke unexpectedly, and all on the bench had to shift to see him by the door. “I, too, welcome him and thank him for teaching me my duty. Since you raised the challenge against the Ha’Ulrich, Gen, I have been your man. I regard you as better than a brother and could ask for no better companion to serve with me.”
“I thank you, sir,” Gen returned. “I owe you a great debt for supporting me in the matter. You have served long and well. I hope to do the same.”
“Report to your post at the start of the sixth watch, Gen,” the First Mother instructed him as he replaced his shirt. “If you have any questions about your living arrangements or other mundane matters, ask the Chamberlain.”
They filed out, leaving Gen behind with Ethris. The Chalaine just caught the Mage asking him something about pain before they emerged into the bright morning. The acolytes walked about the gardens surrounding the Chapel, plucking out weeds and pulling dead petals off the flowers. The smell of the flowers calmed her nerves, and she took a deep breath.
“How can he do that?” Fenna asked, voice subdued. “Utterly amazing. It’s as if he feels nothing he chooses not to.”
“Amazing? Unnerving was the word I would choose!” the Chalaine said. “Or unnatural! I have seen four such ceremonies, and believe me, the leather strap was well chewed in each one of them, cup of grog notwithstanding.”
“I think, my daughter,” the First Mother interjected, catching up from behind, “that you may find all those scars have something to do with it. He has obviously been cut on a great deal more than anyone I’ve ever had in my company. What was done to him was inhuman, unnatural, though he is not so.”
“Unless being treated so unnaturally made him so,” the Chalaine returned, anxious to talk of something else. “Tell us about the rose, Fenna.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to think,” Fenna said some time later. They hadn’t been able to talk much after the ceremony, as a reception with the nobles took up most of the morning. Chertanne, drunk before things got too far underway, raved continually about Cormith’s defeat and death, keeping company mostly with the Aughmerian Warlords. The Chalaine, in kind, mingled with Rhugothians, though the few Tolnorian nobles in attendance seemed anxious to meet her and inquire about Gen. Word of Gen’s nationality had spread quickly after the Trials, doubly so after the duel with Cormith. The Chalaine was surprised to find that most Tolnorians knew little to nothing about Tell, either.
The reception broke up after Chertanne threw up his lunch and was escorted away from the hall to receive ministrations from the Puremen. The Chalaine didn’t know if hangovers could be healed, as she had never been asked to perform a healing on someone thus indisposed. A few bitter herbs, she knew, could do the trick. The Chalaine searched the room, finding Fenna bidding farewell to her parents who were returning to their estate in the south until the betrothal. Once finished, her handmaiden crossed the room to where the Chalaine stood with her mother. They left at once so they could talk.
The Chalaine leaned in close to Fenna so that Jaron following behind couldn’t hear. “I find it rather coincidental that Kimdan should at a last pay due attention to you after you take an interest in another man. I suppose recovering the captaincy of the apprentices from Gen isn’t conquest enough, then?”
“Do you think Kimdan knows I’ve been interested in him?”
“Is he an idiot?” the Chalaine asked with smirk.
“No!”
“Then he knows.”
“What am I to do?” Fenna pleaded. “Gen thrills me. Kimdan spins my head around. Neither has done anything—well, until today—to return my interest. Gen hasn’t even returned my favor.”
“He’s been busy.”
“True.”
“But perhaps,” the Chalaine said, “there is something we can do after all. You know every detail and fact about Kimdan, his family, his disposition, his birthday. How much do you know about Gen?”
“I know he’s from Tell and that he would be the person to see should I want to get someone killed. Other than that, little. Every time I talk to him, I find I’m answering more questions than I’m asking. He always turns our conversations away from himself.”
“Well,” the Chalaine said, resolved, “let’s go to the library and see where this Tell is. It’s a start. Maybe we can find out something about the Duke and Duchess Norshwal, as well.”
They came in through the rear entrance of the library, knowing that Pureman Obard would be there in his small, book-littered office.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, standing after they startled him out of his reading. Obard bowed, straightening his long brown robe. He was tall, thin, and gaunt, skin evidencing his lack of outdoor activity. The flesh around his eyes seemed to have receded to give his eyeballs more room to soak up words. “How may I serve you?”
“We are looking for information on a town in the Tolnorian Kingdom named Tell and wondered if you might point us toward a likely place to find it,” the Chalaine requested.
Obard had several places to search readily in memory and ran off into the stacks, mumbling titles to himself. He returned with a remarkable pile of scrolls and books, but after nearly an hour of searching through them, they gave up. No cartographer, it seemed, deemed Tell worthy enough of mention in any official map or census.
“It is quite possible,” Obard explained, “that it is a newer town or perhaps one so small or out of the way that no one bothered to record its position on the map. The newest map of Tolnor we have is dated fifty-five years ago.”
“Thank you, Pureman Obard,” the Chalaine said, feeling tired. “I’m going to go find something to read this evening. I’ll let you know what it is before I leave.”
“Very well, Holiness. I’ll keep searching for more information. I’ve several ideas on where else to look. May I ask what your interest is in this town?”
“It is where Gen is from,” Fenna answered.
“Oh! Well!” Obard stood, a smile coming to his face. “You should have said so. Gen is in the foyer now. He came in this morning. We can just ask him.”
Obard followed behind Jaron as the Chalaine and Fenna walked out into the library proper, Fenna squinting as they emerged into the fully sunlit room. The Chalaine noted her handmaiden’s nervous look. She had worried the rose in her hand so much that the petals now drooped and bent off at weird angles. The Chalaine busi
ed herself by skimming the titles as they walked by.
“Look,” Fenna whispered. “There he is, asleep on the couch.”
The Chalaine peeked between the books. Sure enough, Gen lay aslant on the couch, cradling his sheathed sword on his chest, hilt near his ear. A pile of three books sat on the floor nearby. Even in sleep he looked dangerous.
“See how he embraces his sword in rest,” Fenna observed, grinning, “like a long-absent lover.”
“He fell asleep in the same place and same fashion yesterday,” Obard informed them. “The scullery maids saw him so and declared him in ‘desperate need of a woman’ before I shooed them off. I think I shall have to embroider his name on that couch. Quite an avid reader for a peasant, if these last two days tell anything of his habits.”
The Chalaine couldn’t help but feel curious about what books a man like Gen might read.
“Should we wake him and ask him to point out where he’s from on the map?” Obard offered. “I could record it.”
“No!” Fenna declined, suddenly coy. “I don’t want him to feel like we’re prying.”
“Speaking as a man, though not as a Pureman, I think he would feel flattered that two such ladies took enough interest to discover more about him. Let’s wake him. I must admit that I, too, am curious about his origins.”
“No. He needs his rest,” Fenna protested. “He’s to start his duties with the Chalaine this very evening.”
And then Chertanne was there, and, even more oddly, Dason trailed behind him along the row of books. Jaron scowled at both of them. Obard bowed and Fenna and the Chalaine curtsied to the Ha’Ulrich. The Chalaine met Dason’s eyes, finding them on her. She fought back the sense of longing and turned her attention toward her future husband.
He held a large apple in his hand. His ‘sickness’ required a change of clothing, and he wore blue pants with a white shirt, a golden sash running from shoulder to hip. Why Chertanne chose to wear tight-fitting clothing that emphasized his protruding gut, the Chalaine could not fathom, though she doubted anyone still living—excepting Gen—possessed the nerve to inform him of his atrocious wardrobe. The Puremen, thankfully, had somehow managed to sober him up.