by Brian Fuller
“Well,” said Chertanne, “Chalaine and, um, Miss Fern?”
“Miss Fenna Fairedale, your Grace,” the Chalaine corrected.
“Right. Fenna. They told me you two came here and so I thought I would find you and deliver the news myself. Forgive me, Chalaine, if I do not stand closer. I fear I should accidentally touch you and that awful peasant your mother just named your protector should come for me with the sword.” He took a bite of his apple, spraying juice everywhere. “Good apple, if a little out of season.”
“Said protector is nearby, your Grace,” the Chalaine informed him, attempting to deter Chertanne from further comments that might incense Gen.
“Oh, is he?” Chertanne stepped forward to get a better look. “Oh,” he whispered, “and he is sleeping. Well, he should hear what I have to say, too, since he is author of the circumstance that necessitated it.”
Chertanne pulled a book from the shelf and lobbed it at Gen. The Chalaine, surprised and appalled at this disrespect, opened her mouth to give warning, but took a step back as Gen sprung from sleep, drew his sword, and dodged the missile in a heartbeat. The book bounced harmlessly on the cushions while Gen fixed his stare on Chertanne. Fenna moved around Chertanne and hurried toward a confused Gen, greeting him affectionately. The Chalaine found a lump in her throat and swallowed hard to dismiss it; Gen was ever the adder, even in rest coiled to strike.
“Chalaine, Ha’Ulrich, Miss Fairedale,” Gen said, bowing upon noticing the first. “Did someone throw a book at me?”
The Chalaine moved from behind Chertanne, whose feet were rooted to the carpet, face pale. Gen resheathed his sword, which helped Chertanne’s indisposition a little.
“The Ha’Ulrich was sporting with you, Gen,” the Chalaine soothed. “Nothing more. He has some announcement to make.”
Gen picked up the book and eyed the title. “A fitting and excellent choice, your Grace,” he pronounced, returning the volume to the couch. “I would not be offended to have a hundred of such books hurled at me.”
“You have tried our patience long enough, Chertanne,” the Chalaine cut in. “Do make your announcement.”
“Yes, yes.” Chertanne collected himself. “The announcement. As Dason, a fine man of name and rank, was recently and most undeservedly wrenched from his post in favor of a man with no name and no rank—and finding that recent events have left a vacancy in the position of my bodyguard—I have asked Dason to replace Cormith at his post and he has accepted. He is my new bodyguard. What say you, peasant? How take you the news?”
“He has served your desire well in at least one matter I can recall. While one act does not a full precedent make, I am convinced from other reports that Dason is a consistent man and a solid fighter.”
Dason’s face flamed red and he turned away. The Chalaine silently cursed Gen for his barb. Dason’s pain hurt her, and she wished everyone else would leave so she could comfort him and convince him that she blamed him for nothing. Still, despite her good opinion of him, she felt disappointment at his acceptance of the position. As a Tolnorian, however, he was no doubt honor bound to obey his future king.
“But Gen!” Chertanne pressed on. “Do you not feel a bit of pity for the poor Chalaine? Dason is a high-bred man of charm and wit, a Prince of Tolnor, and you have stripped him of his post, leaving the Chalaine with you, a commoner, who has in two days time garnered a reputation for having a wooden personality. What was it I heard the servants calling you? The ‘Dead-faced Man’, I believe it was.”
The Chalaine bit her lip. Why was Chertanne baiting him?
“The First Mother appointed me the Chalaine’s protector,” Gen said, “because she and her counselors judged me the most fit to act in her physical defense. When an Uyumaak is trying to drag your intestines out, all the nobility and pleasant conversation at one’s command will only serve to lend you a clever line to utter at your death. They placed me in this office to kill the Chalaine’s enemies, not so I could be anyone’s charming dinner companion.”
While Gen’s tone, on the surface, revealed no heat or ill will, the Chalaine’s knees shook. What ire, if any, Gen’s controlled face masked, Chertanne’s did not. Thankfully, the library doors opened, providing a welcome distraction in the form of Chamberlain Hurney.
“Blessed One!” he exclaimed, executing the best bow his old back would permit. “And Holiness! Forgive this intrusion. I have a message for Gen and beg your leave to deliver it.”
“By all means, Chamberlain,” the Chalaine said. “We are only engaged in idle conversation.”
“Very well. Gen, the First Mother requests that you take the evening meal with her before your duties begin this evening. Shall I receive your response now or shall I wait upon it?”
“Tell the First Mother I accept, though you may wish to warn her that I am reported to have a wooden personality.”
“As you wish,” Hurney said, wrinkling his brow at the addendum to the reply.
“It is obvious the First Mother favors you overmuch, Gen,” Chertanne observed haughtily.
“In matters of being over favored, I will certainly defer to your judgment,” Gen returned.
“I certainly judge correctly in this! I am the Savior of the World and her future son-in-law and she has not invited me to a private dinner!”
“Considering that during the last meal she took with you, you tried to drag her daughter off to your bed like a common street whore, I think it’s understandable that she needs an ample period of time to invent some good feeling for you before inviting you to dinner.”
As always, Gen spoke without emotion, as if every word were plainly true and not the least bit offensive. As before, Chertanne turned red, stunned to silence at Gen’s complete disregard for his station, and the Chalaine feared something awful was about to happen.
“Oh yes. Blessed One,” Chamberlain Hurney interjected in the tense lull. “I am informed that your concubines are all safely ashore now and comfortably quartered.”
“Thank you,” Chertanne replied, embarrassment cutting in front of fury on his face at the Chamberlain’s ill-timed information. The Chalaine’s heart sank. She knew Aughmerians engaged in the practice of taking concubines, but she thought Chertanne, considering his role in prophecy as the Father of God, would not be permitted. Yet one more thing her mother had withheld from her, though the Chalaine remembered her alluding to it earlier that morning. She thought she caught the flash of surprise in Gen’s eye as well, but couldn’t be sure. Chamberlain Hurney bowed again and left.
“Concubines?” the Chalaine said, a thin film of politeness overspreading her anger and humiliation. “Why, how many do you have?”
“Only fourteen,” he said, apparently missing the Chalaine’s emotion. “Father had many more. I suspect I will surpass him, due to my calling.”
He bit into the apple again, chewing it enthusiastically. The Chalaine didn’t have the words to speak.
“Forgive me, Chertanne,” Gen broke in. “Doesn’t law in Aughmere state that one can only take concubines after marriage to a wife?”
The Chalaine knew this to be true. It was a concession Aughmerians made to the Church of the One, which frowned upon the Aughmerian custom of wives and concubines.
Chertanne shrugged. “I have no wish to discuss Aughmerian law with a Tolnorian peasant. I must be going now, anyway.” He extended the half-eaten apple to the Chalaine. “Do you want the rest?”
She shook her head in response, not trusting her voice, and Chertanne plopped the apple in Obard’s hand, instructing him to dispose of it however he wished. Jaron’s face twisted in anger. Gen just stared at Chertanne’s back until the Blessed One disappeared into the rows of books.
“So, Gen,” Pureman Obard spoke, relieving the silence, “I hear you are from Tell in the Tolnorian nation. I have searched and can find no record of it. I wonder if you might help me locate it.”
“Some other time, Pureman Obard,” Gen said. “I need to get some rest before my appo
intment with the First Mother this evening. I promise to return and give you all the particulars. A half-hour should prove adequate to relate them all.”
“That will be fine.”
“Chalaine, Miss Fairedale,” Gen said, bowing, “I must take my leave of you.”
“You can take a book with you, if you like.” Obard offered.
“You know the rules, Obard,” Gen said. “I wouldn’t want to start breaking them on the very first day of my new position.”
“What rule?” Fenna asked.
“Well,” Obard explained, “comm . . . er, those not of noble birth cannot remove books from the library.”
“That’s ridiculous. Surely Gen is an exception!” Fenna protested.
“Don’t look at me so, Miss Fairedale!” Obard exclaimed defensively. “I tried to get him to take one!”
“Don’t worry, Fenna,” Gen placated. “I take no offense. The library is certainly better than any place I have to put a book. You’d best find a better place for that rose, though, or old man winter will not have a change of heart. Good day.”
Gen left, and the Chalaine wrinkled her brow.
“Old man winter?” Fenna wondered. “What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” the Chalaine answered more glumly than she wanted to.
Pureman Obard rubbed his chin. “That phrase reminds me of something. Can’t quite recall it now. But I know where to look!” The Pureman disappeared into the stacks again.
“He is right about the rose, though” Fenna said, examining the flower. “Do you think he knows that Kimdan gave it to me? Oh, I hope not!”
“Fenna,” the Chalaine returned, trying hard to act the healer while her soul bled. Fenna seemed oblivious to her pain. “When Kimdan found out about your attentions to Gen, he warmed to you considerably. Perhaps it will work in reverse as well?”
Fenna smiled, her gloomy disposition instantly dispelled. “I think you are right!” she answered happily. “Let’s take care of this rose.”
“Yes, but wait.” The Chalaine went to the couch where Gen had slept and picked up the book Chertanne had thrown at him: His Master’s Secret Law. Pureman Obard was nowhere to be found, so she tucked the book under her arm. “We’ll come tell him later. Let’s go somewhere Chertanne will not find us.”
Chapter 21 - A Dinner With the First Mother
Gen slept in the empty apprentices’ quarters in the barracks, not wanting to go to his new room within the Chambers of the Chalaine since he couldn’t be sure if Dason had completely vacated it yet. He wasn’t in the humor for a meeting with the man he was replacing. No doubt Dason had taken his dismissal as the gravest insult.
Outside on the field, Captain Tolbrook drilled the apprentices, and Gen drifted off to sleep to the sound of Tolbrook’s deep voice barking orders. As usual, he slept poorly. Images of Regina’s death and the sight of Rafael laying cold upon his bed surfaced in his dreams like corpses popping to the top of a still pool, and when he awoke he felt sad and out of sorts, not the mood in which to dine with the First Mother of Rhugoth.
Evening drew close and he rose, collecting his black coat from the chair, noting the lump in the pocket—Fenna’s favor. Gen shook his head. Chamberlain Hurney had instructed him to return it quickly or cause offense. Now that he would be on duty at night and she in the day, he didn’t know how he would manage a satisfactory visit. Returning a favor required more than just returning the object; a man was to do something special. After dreaming about Regina all afternoon, he had no heart to even try. Guilt ate at him, though. Fenna had gone out of her way to help him feel welcome, and she deserved more than what he could give in return.
Gen scrubbed his face in the basin of water on the table at his bedside and rebuckled his sword belt. Conversation in the hall signaled the return of the apprentices, and a surprised Gerand opened the door, followed by Volney. Both were sweaty and bedraggled, more than one bruise decorating bare torsos.
“Gen,” Gerand said, bowing. Volney was speechless.
“Gerand. Volney. Forgive my intrusion. I just needed a place to rest this afternoon.”
“It is an hon . . . unexpected pleasure to see you, Gen,” Volney finally said. “Can we see it?”
“See what?”
“The branding!” Volney said, excitedly. “Did it hurt? What does it look like?”
“Volney!” Gerand interrupted. “What you ask is most improper, and I’m sure you don’t think Gen will actually show you.”
“Oh,” Volney was crestfallen. “I suppose you’re right.”
Kimdan rounded the corner, confident and happy despite being bruised more than either Gerand or Volney. “Is that Gen?”
“It is!” Volney confirmed.
“Well, what brings you back to us, Gen?” Kimdan inquired, manner cocky. “I thought protectors got quarters in the Chambers of the Chalaine. Were you denied the berth because of your rank?”
“Certainly not,” Gen replied evenly. “I smell just fine. Much better than the three of you anyway. I will take my quarters this evening.”
Gerand and Volney smiled. Kimdan rolled his eyes up into his head.
“And have you seen Miss Fairedale today?” Kimdan asked smugly.
“Yes. I had the pleasure of her company for a brief time.”
“And how was she?”
“She seemed to be frowning a bit more than usual and kept staring at some miserable excuse for a rose she got from somewhere.”
Kimdan somehow turned red even through his sunburn, and Gen successfully determined the source of Fenna’s flower.
“Will you take dinner with us in the commons?” Gerand asked.
“I would like to eat with you, but I am taking dinner with the First Mother this evening and must be on my way.”
“With the First Mother herself?!” Volney said. “What an honor!” Kimdan smirked and turned away.
Gen started toward the door. “Yes, with the First Mother herself. Take care. I will try to see you soon. Maybe Tolbrook will let me spar with you some time.”
“We’ll be ready for you,” Kimdan affirmed, he and Volney stepping aside.
“I doubt it,” Gen mumbled mostly to himself, walking out into the cooling night air.
Clouds gathered in the west, hinting at a brilliant sunset in store, but somewhere in the city something burned, a column of dark gray smoke billowing up into sky. A stiff breeze brought the smell of wood smoke with it, tinted with a breath of rain. Several people commented about it as he passed, and as he climbed the castle hill, the column of smoke thickened. Chamberlain Hurney was waiting at the doors when he arrived.
“Good evening, Gen. How are your court manners coming along?”
“I will tell you after I dine with the First Mother.”
“Just do what she does and you’ll be fine. I’m afraid, however, that she is late on some matter of pressing business. She bids you wait for her in the Main Hall until she can come to you.”
“Very well.”
The Great Hall was mostly empty when he entered it, orange-red light coming through the clear windows coloring everything in fire. On the west-facing balcony servants scrambled about to prepare the table and the meal. Rather than ascend, Gen took time to study the tapestries he had noticed earlier.
A section of them outlining Aldradan Mikmir’s life caught his attention. The first panel showed him as a youth, a strapping farm boy. All around him the artisan depicted wildlife, for it was said that Aldradan was a friend to nature and that the animals talked to him.
The next showed the start of the First Mikkikian war, Uyumaak and other horrors pouring into Lal’Manar, sacking it and filling their arms with its treasures. Men, women, and children lay dead upon the ground, and Uyumaak cut rings from fingers and purses from belts while squabbling over which bodies to cook.
The third showed Aldradan leaving his farm and joining as a soldier even though his rank prohibited him from doing so. An eagle with a sword in its talons descended
to him, and thus began the gradual rise of Aldradan Mikmir from farmhand to the King of a new nation, Rhugoth.
Gen turned as the door opened. The First Mother entered, beautiful in a blue dress, but her eyes were tight with worry. Cadaen, coming in behind her, appeared equally disturbed. She managed a smile at him despite her distress.
“Finding someone like yourself on the walls, I see.”
“I’m no Aldradan Mikmir, your Grace,” Gen returned, bowing. “If half the stories of him are true, then I doubt there will ever be another man quite like him.”
“Perhaps not, but what endeared Aldradan to the people was the fact that he was so ordinary and plain, not given to device, dissembling, or maneuvering as most nobles are.” The First Mother stood silently for a moment as if waiting for something. “Did Hurney not teach you that it is custom on these occasions for the gentleman to extend his arm and escort the lady to the table?” she finally asked.
“He did, Milady. But I am not a gentleman. One of my station is to follow behind you.”
“I told you I would take care of that, and I will. You must practice for when I do. Your arm, sir.”
He complied and led the First Mother up the stairs, Cadaen shadowing them closely. The meal was laid out on a stone table in the open air, attractively arranged fruits, meats, and slices of dark bread spread on a purple silk cloth. Crystal glasses filled with red wine accented the decorated white plates and silver utensils. Gen had never seen such a finely appointed table save at the reception for Chertanne, and he felt grateful for the simplicity of the fare. By most accounts, aristocracy ate rare things.
The First Mother pulled him past the table and leaned on the balustrade overlooking the city. The steady west wind blew her hair about, and she quickly worked her blonde locks into a bun and secured it with a long silver pin. From their vantage point on the balcony, they could easily see the block of the city below where the fire raged, spreading slowly.
“I’d hoped for a calm evening,” she commented. “I have a lot to ask you.”