“This is a story that ought to be set out as an epic poem,” declared Barrynt.
“Epic poem or not,” said Johlana, rising from the settee, “Beltur can tell us the rest over dinner.” She made her way to the pocket doors at the end of the room from the hearth stove and opened them, revealing the dining room and a long table set for seven, although the table could easily have seated twice that number.
Johlana directed everyone to their places, except for Barrynt, who stood at the head of the table, so that she was on Barrynt’s right, with Beltur beside her, while Jorhan was on Barrynt’s left, with Jessyla beside the smith. The brothers sat across from each other, with Frankyr beside Jessyla, and Ryntaar beside Beltur.
No one sat as Barrynt stood behind the chair at the head of the table and bowed his head. Since the family members did as well, including Jorhan, so did Beltur and Jessyla.
“In these times of disorder,” said Barrynt, “we rejoice in the order of those who are good and in the strength of an honest and caring family, always reminding ourselves to take care to embody order in all we do and think, as should always be the case for right-thinking people. May we always have the wisdom to know what strengthens order and the ability and the will to do so, following the example and words of Relyn.”
Beltur managed not to show surprise. Jorhan had never mentioned that Johlana and Barrynt were Relynists. But then, there had never been any reason for him to mention it.
Barrynt cleared his throat. “Now for the fare.” He glanced to his consort, and the two seated themselves, as did the others. He filled his consort’s beaker with the pale ale from one pitcher, then his own oversized beaker with dark lager from the other pitcher on the table.
Immediately, a woman appeared with a large platter and a deep and broad covered dish, both of which she set before Barrynt.
“The slices on the platter are game pie,” said Johlana, “red deer, rabbit, and some squirrel, thanks to Ryntaar and Frankyr.”
By the time she finished speaking, the server, who Beltur suspected was the cook as well, returned with a large basket filled with small loaves of bread, and another dish.
“The second casserole is quilla, shallots, and cheese.”
Beltur could sense Frankyr’s almost visceral reaction to his mother’s announcement.
“Frankyr … you need more than meat, potatoes, and pastry,” announced Johlana, turning from her son to Jessyla. “That’s a lovely scarf you’re wearing. You don’t often see one like that. It’s shimmersilk, isn’t it?”
“It is. It was Beltur’s gift to me, his promise to me, if you will.”
As Jessyla spoke, Jorhan filled her beaker with pale ale, then passed the pitcher to Beltur.
“Smart man,” said Johlana.
“She should have had it earlier,” said Beltur.
“Any earlier, dear, and Auntie would have thrown you out of the house.” Jessyla smiled sweetly. “As you well knew.”
“You may be a mage,” said Barrynt, “but best you listen to her.” He grinned at his consort.
“I’ve already learned that.”
“Mostly,” replied Jessyla.
“Give me time.”
Once everyone had served themselves or been served, conversation dwindled for a time, as they began to eat, until somewhat later when Barrynt said, “I’d like to hear more about how you both got to Elparta.” He looked to Jessyla. “I did hear it right, that you helped Beltur get out of Gallos?”
Her mouth full, Jessyla nodded, glancing at Beltur.
Beltur took a swallow of the pale ale, cleared his throat, and began. “I suppose it all began when the Prefect asked my uncle to go to Analeria…” While he tried to keep the story short, more than a quint had passed by the time he and Jessyla had recounted their progress from Gallos to Elparta and then to Axalt, including their encounter with the brigands.
“That’s quite a story,” said Barrynt. “Right up there with Relyn, I’d say.”
“I think he traveled farther and longer,” said Beltur. “He also did a lot more. All we’ve done is survive—”
“That’s false modesty, dear,” said Jessyla, too sweetly. “What you did in the invasion is the reason why the Prefect couldn’t take Elparta, and it’s also why what the Council did is so despicable.”
“Ser…” began Ryntaar, his tone almost apologetic, “if I understand what happened, you were powerful enough to stand against white wizards that other blacks couldn’t. So why did you have to leave Elparta. Surely…”
“It’s not that simple,” interjected Jorhan. “Still takes silvers to live, especially if a fellow doesn’t want his consort to suffer. The Council took that away from us.”
“But…”
“There’s another aspect to that, Ryntaar,” added Beltur. “My strength as a mage lies largely in two areas. I’m very strong at shielding myself and others close to me, and I can use those shields to turn the white mages’ chaos back against them, but my ability to harm others through my own abilities is far more limited.”
“You’re sort of a magely shieldman, in a way?” asked Barrynt.
“Not entirely,” replied Beltur, “but more that than anything.” So far, anyway.
Before anyone else could speak, Johlana immediately said, “We’ve tariffed Beltur and Jessyla enough for this meal. I’m sure we’ll hear more in the days ahead, but for now, I think we should enjoy Asala’s bread pudding.”
The bread pudding was good, Beltur had to admit, even if it wasn’t quite as good as Meldryn’s pastries and fruit pies. But then, Beltur doubted that very many sweets were as good as what Meldryn had made, which was why the older mage had been so successful, even if some of the blacks in Elparta had disapproved of his personal life.
Before all that long, he and Jessyla had climbed the two flights of stairs and were back up in the third-story bedchamber.
Jessyla surveyed the room once more before seating herself on the padded bench and looking at Beltur, as he stood by the wardrobe and looked back at her. Finally, she said, “I never expected we’d end up in a mansion when we came to Axalt—even if it is only for a little while.”
“Neither did I,” admitted Beltur.
“What are we going to do now?”
Beltur looked toward the bed. “Sleep?” He grinned.
“I’m certain we’ll sleep … sooner or later. That wasn’t what I meant.”
Beltur’s expression turned serious. “I know what you meant. I just didn’t want to think about it for the moment. There’s nothing we can do about that tonight.”
“Do you think you and Jorhan can continue your smithing here?”
“He’d like to. So would I. I don’t know if it’s possible. After what happened with … you know who … anything was better than staying in Elparta.”
“You couldn’t stay, and you weren’t leaving without me.”
Beltur smiled again. “You made that very clear.”
She smiled back. “We could talk about the future … tomorrow morning.”
XXXIV
Despite the comfortable bed, both Jessyla and Beltur woke early on oneday, and Beltur’s second thought was that it was the first day of winter—and that he was very glad that he and Jessyla were safe in Axalt, despite the fact that he had no idea of what the days ahead might bring. His eyes lingered on Jessyla as she began to dress.
“What are you thinking?” she asked. “Besides that?”
“Besides what?” asked Beltur mock-innocently.
She just shook her head.
“After that … well, I was thinking that we need to figure out how to earn some silvers now that we’ve managed to survive the Council, Waensyn, and the weather.”
“I thought you said that you could keep working with Jorhan.”
“Both Barrynt and Jorhan said that we could. Barrynt made his offer honestly and in goodwill. But we still have to find a place to forge, locate someone who can supply copper, and a few other things like that. I also can�
��t believe that Jorhan could carry everything he needed on one sledge. Coming to Axalt was far better than all the other alternatives, but…”
“Much better for us.” Jessyla paused. “I feel sorry for Mother.”
“Because of what she said before we left? Or because she’s left with Grenara?”
“Both. She never said much about my father, except that things don’t always work out the way we expect. She just said that he couldn’t stay in Fenard, and she couldn’t leave her parents then.”
“Was he a mage or a healer?”
“She never really answered that question. She said he could have been more than he was, but not in Gallos.”
“Where did he go?”
“He was traveling to Suthya, and he died in the Westhorns on the way.”
“So that was why your mother…”
“She never said that she could have saved him before.”
“How did she know she might have saved him?”
“Mother’s always had her secrets.” Jessyla looked hard at Beltur. “Please don’t ever keep secrets from me.”
“I couldn’t do that.” Especially since you’d know I was keeping secrets.
She smiled. “I know that … but please don’t try, either. I’m going to wash up.”
Once Jessyla walked to the adjoining washroom and shut the door, Beltur straightened the disarranged sheets and then made up the bed.
When Jessyla returned, she immediately straightened up what he had done even more.
He shrugged wryly as he walked toward the washroom.
Before long the two of them walked down the stairs. The breakfast room was empty except for Johlana, but the odor of fresh-baked bread filled the air. Beltur couldn’t help but notice a hint of burned crust from the baking, something he’d never smelled from Meldryn’s baking.
“You two are up early.” Johlana smiled happily.
“It’s hard to break the habit,” replied Beltur.
“Please sit down. There’s hot cider in the pitcher, and it won’t be long before Asala has breakfast on the table. Barrynt will be down shortly. I don’t think Jorhan’s awake yet.”
“He probably needs the sleep.”
“More than you? A journey from Elparta isn’t easy any time, but especially in winter, it has to be an effort.”
“We’re younger,” replied Beltur.
“Youth isn’t everything,” said Barrynt as he entered the breakfast room, followed by Jorhan. “The boys left already?”
“They said they had to bring back several cords.”
“Good. I told them we’d need it with more people here.” Barrynt settled into his place at the head of the table. “Good experience for Frankyr. He’ll have to get used to it before Ryntaar leaves for Elparta in the spring, because he’ll be doing it alone then.”
Beltur poured the hot cider into Jessyla’s mug and then his own before passing the pitcher to Barrynt.
The egg toast and thin fried ham strips might have been a bit better than if Beltur had fixed them, and the thick redberry syrup helped, but they weren’t what they would have been if Meldryn had been the cook. You’re definitely going to miss that. But then, there was a lot he definitely wasn’t going to miss.
Barrynt didn’t say anything more until he’d finished off three enormous slices of egg toast, heavily drizzled with the redberry syrup, along with the fried ham. “We’ll need to talk about getting you two set up.”
“Good idea,” said Jorhan.
Johlana looked to Jessyla. “I think I should take you to meet Herrara. She’s the head of the Healers’ Guild.”
“Healers have a guild here?” asked Jessyla.
“Of course. Guilds help keep the order. That is, if they work properly with the Council, but that’s never ever been a problem here. The Council is very thorough and very thoughtful.”
“Indeed, it is,” said Barrynt heartily.
“Are you finished, dear?” asked Johlana. “Excellent. We should go. It’s much easier to see Herrara early in the morning, before she leaves the healing house to see to those who can’t come to it.” With that, Johlana stood. “We’ll see you all later.”
Jessyla looked at Beltur, with the hint of a smile in her eyes.
Once Johlana and Jessyla had left the breakfast room, Jorhan looked at Barrynt. “Can you sell some of the things we forged? At a good price?”
“I’d be happy to. At this time of year, though, it’s likely to be slow. Only a few traders come through in the winter, and there are only a handful of merchants who’d consider having more than a piece or two of the quality you’ve forged. They’d think it … ostentatious.” Barrynt smiled. “A few might buy daggers or knives. They could claim that the way cupridium holds up is a virtue.”
“I know you don’t have anywhere that we could get to work…”
“That might be a problem right now.” A slight frown crossed Barrynt’s forehead, then vanished. “A place for a smithy—that would have to be in south town. We’ll figure that out. You’ll need coal, too. Most supplies are spoken for, but there’s always someone who has some.”
“The smithy can’t be in Axalt?” Jorhan frowned.
“South town is part of the city. That’s what we call the finger of the main valley southwest of here. Most of the time wind blows from the northeast. That keeps the worst of the smoke and dust or odors from smiths, tanneries, rendering … all the less … savory … crafts from settling over the city itself. All of them are there. It’s only a little more than a kay from the south side of the city, and the road’s kept clear year-round.” Barrynt smiled cheerfully. “I can make inquiries, but there’s no need to worry. Certainly, some of what you brought will sell quickly, and we’re happy to have you stay here while we work everything out. I imagine, in time, Beltur, you and your consort would like a place of your own. Jorhan, that’s up to you. You can stay here, or we can find some place. But there’s no hurry for either of you. No hurry at all. Johlana and I appreciate the company. She hasn’t had a grown woman in the house since my mother died, and she misses that.”
While Barrynt meant every word that he said, Beltur still worried. “Are houses here hard to find?”
“Impossible.” The merchant laughed. “There are always a few, but no one says. I’ll be looking for one soon as I can. Folks talk to me. It might take time, but don’t you worry. I’ve got a few ideas already.”
“You’ve always been a man of your word,” said Jorhan. “What about copper and tin?”
“I’ve kept a little in my warehouse. You have your tools?”
“Everything I need except a good solid anvil.” Jorhan’s voice turned wry. “I could have brought an anvil—or everything else.”
That might have been an overstatement, but, as he recalled the anvil in Jorhan’s smithy, Beltur suspected it wasn’t much of one.
Barrynt stood. “I’ve got to see Pastanak first thing, but I’ll be back after that. Do whatever you need to do while I’m gone.”
Beltur rose. “Johlana showed us where things were in the stable last night. Is there anything else I need to know? Oh … and where does the stall waste go?”
“There’s a bin with a hinged lid on the side of the stable. Just straw and dung there. I sell that to some of the growers come spring. Anything else goes in the refuse barrels beside the bin.”
“I’ll be out in a little while,” said Jorhan. “I’m not in any hurry.”
“I’ll see you both later.” With a nod, the merchant left the breakfast room.
When Beltur went out the side door a little later, he saw immediately that snow was still falling heavily. For a moment, he was surprised, until he recalled that northeasters lasted for more than a few glasses, and what had struck them the day before had definitely been just that. He was also surprised that the portico had to have been shoveled and swept not long before, since there were only a few digits of fresh-fallen snow, marked by recent bootprints.
He made his way to the stable.
By the time he covered that distance, he realized that Axalt was indeed considerably colder than Elparta. But then, it was in the Easthorns and higher than Elparta.
Slowpoke was clearly glad to see Beltur, nuzzling him as he checked the manger and added some hay. Beltur went to the pump, which was inside, for reasons made obvious by the cold, working to fill a bucket with extremely cold water. He knew that cold water shouldn’t hurt the gelding, but he still only allowed Slowpoke a half bucket at a time while he cleaned out the stall. He did the same for the two other horses, and then he checked all their hooves, using his senses as much as his eyes, given that the stable lantern didn’t give that much light. Even though he took his time, Jorhan did not appear, although the smith had said he would be out shortly to deal with his horses. Beltur did add some hay to their mangers before he left.
After returning to the house, he was careful to brush all the snow off his boots and coat before entering the side hall, where he hung up his coat and scarf. Then, he made his way to the parlor. He’d noticed a small bookcase against the wall earlier, and he wanted to see what the volumes might be … if no one else was there. Since that was the case, he began to look at the volumes in the bookcase, starting with the top shelf.
None of the leather-bound tomes had an inscription on the outside, so he opened each one carefully, checking the title page of each and replacing each in the bookcase in turn. He had looked through Codex of Candar, The Basics of Mathematics, Fables of Lydiar and Hydlen, A Guide to the Survey, Lexicon Technicum, and a number of others before he came to A Historie of Axalt and the Easthorns, which he set aside while he continued to peruse the remaining books.
Before long he came to a clearly worn volume, placed at the end of the top shelf. He wasn’t surprised at the bold and unornamented title The Wisdom of Relyn.
With a smile, he sat down in one of the wooden armchairs and began to read. Even the first words gripped him.
I have been called an angel, but I was never that worthy. The angels came from beyond the stars in the sky. I was only a second son of Gethen Groves, a too-proud holding in the land of Lornth, later conquered by Saryn of Westwind when the lords of Lornth failed to understand the might of her black blades. Long before that, I lost my right hand to Ryba, the darkest and mightiest of all the angels, when I foolishly attacked the angels as they were building their black tower. I was saved and befriended by Nylan, a mage whose like Candar, or the world, will never see again, for he forged Westwind, as surely as he forged the blades by which the angels carved their domain from the ice and stone of the Roof of the World …
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