Lyssanne’s skirts brushed his leg as she backed away from the stranger. “Perhaps you were right,” she whispered, stirring the back of his sleeve. “We should be on our way.”
The old man’s gaze flashed to Lyssanne, and he lowered his sword with unsteady hands. “Nay, fair lady,” he said. “We’ve not yet been introduced.”
Brennus had no patience for civilities. “Who are you, peasant?”
“I’m no peasant!” The stranger shifted his weight, tottering on his severed sandal as he raised his sword hand in an old-fashioned salute. “Sir Fizzil, at your servi—ee!”
With his last word trailing off like the squealing of a pig, Sir Fizzil tripped backward, his sword flying from his flailing hand. He tumbled head over heels down the steep slope then hit a bump that sent him flying. At length, he landed and crashed up against a boulder.
“We must see if that poor man has come to harm,” Lyssanne said. She began picking her way down the slope.
Sighing, Brennus followed. It would serve her right if she tumbled after the crazy old coot. Yet, to maintain his cover, he had no choice but go after her. He caught up with Lyssanne and gripped her elbow to guide her down the slope. They found Sir Fizzil bruised but not broken and, of all things, laughing. Together Brennus and Lyssanne helped him up.
“Sorry if I gave you a fright, fair lady,” the old man said, patting her arm. “A fellow can’t be too cautious, traveling these woods alone at night.”
“Why are you traveling alone?” she asked.
“I have no companions.”
“Obviously,” Brennus couldn’t help saying. Lyssanne shot him a look he was sure she’d once used on her students. He ignored it. “Where are you headed, old man?”
“I’m off to see a shaman. The Shaman of the Wood.”
Lyssanne stiffened as Brennus eyed the old man. Did he mean the mystic the addled peddler in Westerfield had claimed as mentor?
“His home’s at the edge of the wood,” said Sir Fizzil, “a few days’ journey along yon road. Mind giving me a hand up this hill?”
They did so, and Lyssanne went so far as to offer the old man to share their camp and travel with them. They were, after all, going the same direction.
“Just follow the smoke,” said Sir Fizzil, his voice dreamy.
Mad? Most certainly.
Jarad and Reina agreed to Lyssanne’s suggestion, so Sir Fizzil joined them, further slowing their journey. As before, Brennus traveled ahead during daylight and rejoined them at night. On occasion, he permitted Jarad to spot him at a distance, weaving among dark trees in shadow form. For once, Venefica’s magic served his needs, enabling his insubstantial body to sit atop his stallion and preventing the animal from shying in his presence.
The night air had grown cold. Lyssanne pulled on her cloak and settled closer to the fire, weary after another day’s traveling in company with Sir Brennus and the rather odd Sir Fizzil. A few paces away, the younger of the two knights leaned toward the firelight to inspect a flaw in his harness. She shivered, the air not the only source of her chill.
At least her head pain hadn’t lingered past the night Sir Brennus had threatened her life. Most of her fear of him had also faded, as he’d since remained civil, if distant. Still, his mere nearness set her heart to racing, and not in a good way.
“A cup of flyl would sure do us some good,” Jarad said, settling beside her.
“As it happens,” she said, “I have the makings for a small pot of flyl.”
“You jest!”
She shook her head. “One piquantine fruit hadn’t yet ripened when I left the village, so I brought it along, and I have several honcin sticks.”
“Think the fruit’s still good?”
“Oh, yes, piquantines last many months. But, Jarad, I don’t think I’m up to the task of brewing flyl. I haven’t the strength to grind honcin or stand over a boiling pot.”
“I’ll do it!” Jarad bounced to his feet. “Just tell me how. You make the best flyl. I know you could teach me.”
Once Jarad had squeezed all the juice from the piquantine, Lyssanne took over the task of slicing it and scraping the pulp from its tough but pliant hull. When Jarad began grinding the honcin, a harrumph from Sir Brennus drew her gaze.
“Why not use your unique…talents?” he said. “Instead, you persuade the boy to do woman’s work.”
The sound of Jarad’s grinding ceased, as a lump formed in Lyssanne’s throat. Heat rose from her tightening chest, up her neck, into her cheeks.
“She didn’t persuade me anything,” Jarad said. “What makes this woman’s work anyway? I wanted flyl, so why shouldn’t I make it?”
“Jarad,” Lyssanne said, forcing a level tone, “don’t be uncivil.”
“Me? But—”
“Add this to your pot,” she said, handing him the hull containing the loosened pulp. “Once the honcin is ground as fine as you can make it, stir it in with slow strokes.”
Fortunately, the flyl was soon brewed, preventing more questions for which Lyssanne had no answers. The warm, fruity beverage soothed the churning within her, and its energizing properties did boost her stamina, if only a little.
“Mm,” Jarad said, a grin breaking out across his face. “Almost as good as yours!”
Sir Fizzil gulped down his first cup without waiting for it to cool. “Careful, fair lady,” he said. “You’ll have gnomes and faeries and, I daresay, even a dragon or two swarmin’ this camp. He-he! Even they’ve never had anything so good!” He stood and danced an awkward little jig around the campfire, before suddenly sinking to the ground and letting out a loud snore.
Sir Brennus sipped at his cup, but only after the others had all but emptied theirs. Perhaps he thought it poisoned, or some witch’s potion. In the end, he pronounced it rather tasty.
Once the flyl pot was drained and the trappings of cookery put away, Sir Brennus called Jarad over for a lesson in combat. A few days before, Jarad had asked the knight to teach him to defend himself and others. The incident in Westerfield had shaken him, and he’d vowed to be prepared should they ever again meet with trouble.
“Had you a knife,” Sir Brennus said, “I could teach you hand-to-hand fighting. In close-range combat, your arrows will not serve.”
“Oh,” Jarad said, his voice thick. “I had a hunting knife, a pretty good one, but I broke it on that monster’s cocoon.”
“I have this,” Lyssanne said, handing him the dagger she’d used to slice the piquantine. As much as she loathed the idea of Jarad fighting, it might someday prove necessary. Besides, every boy dreamt of learning combat from a knight. How could she deny Jarad this opportunity?
“This will do for practice,” Sir Brennus said, “and it may prove useful in combat if you have nothing else, but a kitchen knife is no match for a proper weapon.”
Lyssanne curled up on her blanket and watched a little more of Jarad’s boyhood fade.
Lyssanne and her friends passed the following week in much the same manner as the previous one, at times leaving the road to avoid a nearby village and camping just within the tree-line at night. Jarad continued his lessons with Sir Brennus, Sir Fizzil piping up with occasional suggestions. Though, most of his advice was little more than confused rambling.
However addled the old knight might be, his constant squeals of “follow the smoke” proved quite sane. Late one afternoon, Jarad spotted a plume of smoke rising above the trees and, as they neared, the top of the stone tower from which it wafted.
“That’s him!” Sir Fizzil said. “Shaman of the Wood. Follow the smoke, he-he!”
Indeed, without Sir Fizzil’s smoke to follow, the tower would have proven all but invisible against the greying sky. Storm clouds rolled in as the sun began to set.
When night fell, they stopped as usual to await Sir Brennus. He, too, had seen the tower and investigated. It stood at the edge of the forest, he reported, several miles through the woods in the opposite direction of the road. They agreed to escort Si
r Fizzil thither, lest he lose his way. Lyssanne prayed they journeyed not into a danger worse than the impending storm.
Sir Brennus broke through the trees just ahead of Lyssanne and Reina. He drew to a halt and wheeled his mount to the north. Reina turned alongside him. The tower loomed ahead.
Even in the darkness of clouded moonlight, the ruin cast its shadow over them. Though Lyssanne had read of such fortresses in tales and histories, the height of the stone pile before her stole her breath. She craned her neck, nearly toppling backward in the attempt to behold its roof.
Jarad whistled, stepping between Reina and the stallion. “Was that part of a castle?”
“More likely a guard tower for a small fortress,” said Sir Brennus. “Remnants of the curtain wall are still affixed to its side.” He pointed to the jagged outline of the otherwise cylindrical structure. “And notice the arrow slits spiraling at intervals up the tower.”
Sir Fizzil hobbled past, heading toward the single door set into the mottled gray stone.
“Wait, old man,” Sir Brennus said, dismounting.
“Perhaps you should walk from here as well, Lyssanne,” Reina said. “The ground appears quite uneven. I wouldn’t wish to throw you.”
Lyssanne dismounted and picked her way toward the tower, her feet molding to the waves and holes beneath them. The toe of her right shoe slammed against a hard, unyielding lump, and she stumbled. Her hands shot out to break her fall, one scraping against a protrusion. Inches from her nose, lay a jagged block of stone smeared with green stains.
She rose, brushed off her skirts, and glanced about. Overgrown foundation stones and shards of wall jutted from the grass at odd angles, like a trail of broken teeth leading to the tower.
Jarad stopped beside her, half carrying their cart over the uneven ground. They made their way slowly forward, Jarad warning her of hidden stones or furrows.
Sir Brennus had outstripped the older knight’s awkward stride to reach the door first. He knocked with the hilt of his sword. No response.
“Perhaps he’s out back,” Sir Fizzil said, Then he shuffled off around the tower before anyone could stop him.
“Crazy old man,” Sir Brennus said, hastening after him.
Lyssanne and Jarad followed.
Just as they reached Sir Fizzil, a figure emerged from behind a garden wall, hooded and holding a staff across his body as if ready for a fight. “Begone!” he shouted.
“Show yourself,” Sir Brennus ordered, one hand on his sword hilt. “We mean no harm.”
The hooded man flicked his staff side to side, and both ends blazed up, their flames casting his face further in shadow. “Begone or face your doom!” He twirled the flaming staff in a dizzying display, then swung it toward Sir Brennus, who dodged it with expert grace.
“King of All Lands, preserve us!” Lyssanne cried, as steel hissed beside her.
Sir Brennus lunged forward. His sword clashed with the middle of the fiery staff, and both men held still.
The stranger’s hood turned toward Lyssanne. “You serve the King, miss?”
“Y-yes,” she said.
“And these ruffians accompany you?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Ruffians?” said Sir Fizzil. “We’re knights o’ the Seven Lands, ’cept the squire here.” He pointed to Jarad. “You the shaman? Sure y’are. We followed the smoke.”
“If you honor the King, you are no enemy of mine,” the man said. He took a step away from Sir Brennus. “Forgive the theatrics. Let us dispense with them, shall we?”
He backed toward the wall then tipped his staff to plunge one end into a bucket. A loud hiss and plume of steam arose. He did likewise with the other end of the staff before taking a step forward and extending a hand toward Sir Brennus.
“The name’s Fescue, but yes, some persist in calling me Shaman of the Wood.”
“Keep your distance, sorcerer,” Sir Brennus said, stepping in front of Lyssanne.
“I am no wizard, Sir Knight,” the stranger said, throwing back his hood to reveal waves of silver and onyx hair. “This was merely the work of powders and air, not unlike what fuels a torch. The title your elder friend affords me springs from the curse of unwarranted notoriety.”
“I know a thing or two about curses,” said Sir Brennus, lowering his sword.
“Yes, well,” the stranger said, as if at a loss for how to respond. He turned to Lyssanne. “You startled me, riding up so late, but servants of the King are most welcome here.”
“Sir,” Lyssanne said, her voice still tremulous, “did you say your name is Fescue?”
“Indeed, Seanan Fescue at your service, Mistress…?”
“Lyssanne,” she said. “I think we may have a mutual acquaintance.”
“That is possible. As a former Steward of the King, I’ve traveled most of the Seven Lands at one time or other. Whence does this acquaintance hail?”
“His current residence is Cloistervale, in northern Lastarra,” she said.
“Ah, wouldn’t be Gierre DeLivre you speak of, perchance?”
“You jest!” Jarad said. He glanced at Lyssanne. “Our Mr. DeLivre?”
“We know him well,” she said, breathless. “How are you acquainted with him?”
“Met him in Lyrya many years ago,” Mr. Fescue said. “I believe he was serving at court, scribe or clerk to Lyrya’s king. Good man, Gierre.”
“Yes,” Lyssanne said, her heart swelling. If this man was a friend to Mr. DeLivre, she could be safe here. “He has been like family to me. I miss him terribly.”
“Lyssanne…” he murmured. “That’s why your name sounded familiar. He wrote of you, I think. Said you were his most prized student, the granddaughter he’d never had. Taught you Lyryan, did he?”
She nodded. “He wrote about me?”
“We keep in touch. How is my old friend?”
“Quite well when last I saw him.”
Mr. Fescue smiled then spun in a circle, surveying the group as thunder rumbled overhead. “You are all welcome to dine and rest. I treat the sick, so I have beds aplenty if you wish to shelter here for the night.” He turned back to Lyssanne. “You and your elderly friend look ready to collapse where you stand. Do allow me the honor of assisting you.”
Despite Lyssanne’s trepidations, she could have wept at the thought of sleeping in a bed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Well then, by all that is good, let us not stand out here tempting the rain. Come, take your ease inside.” He swept a hand toward the tower. “After you.”
As Lyssanne picked her way around the tower’s base, Sir Brennus strode up beside her. “You’d be foolish to trust this man, any of you,” he murmured.
“Perhaps,” Lyssanne said, “but I do trust the King, and I’m past tired.”
Fat, cold droplets began pelting her from above, fast turning into a hard onslaught.
“Pardon, Mr. Fescue,” she said over her shoulder, “have you shelter for our horses?”
He glanced toward Sir Brennus’s stallion and Reina, who’d again hidden her true nature. “I have an old gray gelding stabled out back of the tower. Afraid it’s little more than a shed, but there should be room enough for your steeds.”
As Sir Brennus strode toward his stallion, Reina trotted in the direction Fescue indicated.
“Intelligent mare, that one,” Mr. Fescue said. “Now, let’s get indoors.”
12
Wisps of Darkness and Light
While Sir Fizzil regaled Mr. Fescue with tales of an old battle wound that refused to heal, Lyssanne glanced about the circular chamber. The grasshopper she’d once found at the bottom of her stone cistern must have felt akin to this. The lofty ceiling gave the small room a more expansive ambiance and doubtless supported a stack of single chambers, similar to this one.
Shivering, she stepped nearer the flames flickering within the arched stone fireplace. Lamps and candles warmed the edges of the rounded interior, setting the few, tidy furnishings aglow. The flickering dimness
soothed her weary eyes, and she suppressed a yawn.
As she turned to warm her back, an open book on a table beneath the window caught her eye. She strode over to it and peered at its ornate pages.
Mr. Fescue paused in the midst of dragging a chair toward the hearth. “Do you read, mistress?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Is this your work?”
“Indeed, the writing and the illustrations, that is. The words are those of another.” He showed her a tattered, yellowed volume open to the same passage of text. “How did you guess?”
“I recognized your handwriting.” She went to her cart, which Jarad had parked beside the door, and withdrew the book Mr. DeLivre had given her the day she left Cloistervale.
“My word!” Mr. Fescue said. “Ha, or rather, the King’s. I never thought to clap eyes upon this again. Quite a thick volume to copy, that.” He laughed. “How did you come by it?”
Lyssanne told him.
“She taught me to read, too,” said Jarad. “So, when her eyes are weary, I can take over.”
“Well, I’m blessed!” Mr. Fescue said. “I gave you a way ’round the limits of sight? And you, passing on the King’s words to this young fellow, turning a weapon of the enemy to good purpose—That’ll put a wasp in the old Thief’s whiskers.”
He shuffled off but soon returned to hang a kettle over the fire.
“Sit, warm yourselves while I heat up a pot of soup,” he said, his smooth voice comforting, almost musical. “Won’t take long.”
Sir Brennus strode into the tower. “Tell me, old man,” he said, his tone souring the harmonious atmosphere, “are you acquainted with a talisman peddler in Westerfield?”
All eyes turned to Brennus, Lyssanne’s shoulders jolting as if his appearance startled her. Brennus locked his gaze on the stranger, lest he make any sudden moves. A sorcerer in close proximity to a kettle and fire was nothing to trifle with.
‘Westerfield, you say?” Fescue straightened, his eyes wary.
“A squat, bedraggled man, selling trinkets and charms,” said Brennus.
“You met him too?” Jarad asked. “The man with the animal claws and stuff?”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 18