Saving Fate

by Billy Wong

  The words hardly reassured Ashley. All Clint's attempt at comforting him did was make him feel more incompetent. "Yeah, but I'm training to be an officer in the militia. Shouldn't I at least be better than the average guardsman?"

  Clint picked up Ashley's sword, replaced both their blades in the rack, and shrugged. "There are plenty of nobles in high posts with less dedication—and no more skill—for their jobs than you. Don't worry about it so much."

  "But I don't want to be like them. I want to actually be worthy of my post."

  "Then don't whine about it, just get better."

  Ashley took a deep breath as he watched Clint turn his broad back to leave. He loved his brother, but had to admit to a bit of jealously. Clint was all too perfect—tall, strong, and charming, and already famous for containing the religious riot that had broken out during the last Harvest Parade. How could he understand the woes of an underachiever like Ashley?

  Already he was twenty-one years old, and all he did every day was walk around the militia headquarters doing nothing. Technically, he was supposed to be looking out for trouble. Few people started trouble in sight of the base. Half the guardsmen on duty there were new recruits, and Ashley knew exactly why. Like himself, they had not been judged ready for real duty. He didn't understand why Clint always pushed him to improve with such zeal, when it seemed so futile.

  His shift over for the day, he had taken the chance to practice his swordplay with Clint during his break. Now Ashley changed into his civilian garb and headed through bustling streets for home. Halfway to the manor, a young girl approached him.

  "Help, mister constable. My cat's stuck in that tree. Can you get him for me?"

  She must have recognized him from seeing him on duty. He sighed, not wanting to damage his fairly new clothes, but decided it would be mean to refuse. The tree was tall and thick, and the limb on which the black cat sat looked like it could support his weight. He began to skinny up, the cat's green eyes boring into him while he climbed. Feeling a bit unnerved by the time he reached the canopy, he extended a hand towards the feline. His arm wasn't quite long enough, so he crawled forward onto the branch. Suddenly, as he reached for the cat again, it snarled at him and sprang.

  Surprised by the fast movement, Ashley flinched back as the cat leapt into his arms. Sharp claws raked his cheek, scratching the skin. He felt his weight shift too far to one side, and slipped from the branch. The girl screamed below him while he fell, his pulse hammering in his neck. That would be something, he thought. Watchman killed trying to save cat.

  He landed hard on his back, driving the breath from his lungs. After a moment, he realized he was not seriously hurt, just quite sore. He had been lucky to land on grass. Wait—the cat! He heard it meow nearby, and looked to see the girl pick it up and pet it. It looked perfectly fine. Unlike Ashley, cats landed on their feet.

  Ashley struggled to his feet, rubbing his back. He noticed a tear in the sleeve of his blouse, no doubt made by a branch. "Thank you," the little girl said.

  Though inclined to kick the evil cat, he forced a smile. "You're welcome," he said, and staggered away.

  By the time he ascended the porch of his family manor, his back had stiffened considerably and was in desperate need of ice. His cheek too stung, though the wounds barely bled. With a wince, he grasped the brass handle and started to pull. But he stopped before the door had opened a hand's breadth, listening to the loud, rough-sounding female voice he heard inside.

  "He is my son, Owen! It's time he met the woman who gave him life."

  She could have been talking about almost anyone. But for some reason, Ashley did not go inside.

  "You will ruin his life," his father said. "He is content here, learning to be a productive citizen. He does not need his head filled with silly notions of glory."

  "I only want him to know the truth, and to know me. Does a mother not deserve that?"

  "I would say so, normally. But I cannot let you take him away. My wife loves him so, Brianna, as much as her own son. She would be devastated."

  Ashley believed now that they spoke of him. He was the younger of his parents' sons, and looked the least like them.

  "What makes you think I would snatch him from you," Brianna asked, "after almost twenty years?"

  "What mother, after meeting her long-lost son, would let him go again?"

  "I wouldn't want to go another twenty years without seeing him. But we can think of something. He can share our love, and I'll only visit. How about it?"

  "I fear that if he were to know you, he might run away with you. I am an earl, and powerful. But you are the warrior of legend, of whose life young men dream. I cannot match that."

  "I don't even think of myself that way. I'm only a tired old woman, who wishes to find the son she never stopped loving."

  "Please leave, Brianna." Ashley's heart raced with excitement. What was the greatest hero of their nation doing here? "Already, I am afraid to think what the servants might have overheard. Spare my family."

  Brianna's voice seethed with sudden rage. "At the expense of mine?"

  "You gave him up."

  "Do you hate me, Owen? I know your beloved cousin was one of the men executed at the end of the Vorhen War, and I'm sorry. That guilt has faded little over the last seventeen years."

  Listening to his father's choked voice, Ashley could almost see tears flowing from Owen's eyes. It was a strange thought; he had never seen Father cry. "I did hate you, but I am a man who cares about the facts. You did not demand the slaughter; that was Helrish. Your only sin was that you did not stop him. I would be a petty man to still hate the woman who saved our country after seventeen years, for one moment of weakness."

  "But I cannot see my son."

  And then, Owen did something else Ashley had thought he would never do. He lied. "Find him, if you must. He is not here. But think about my family."

  "Where is he?"

  "He went to Ajenede, to visit my wife's brother."

  Owen must have been getting desperate, because it should never have worked. All Brianna needed to do was ask around, and she would have found out that Ashley was still here. But she must not have considered that Owen might lie, either.

  "Ajenede is too far away. I have a friend in Perfia City who urgently requests my presence. But I'll come back when I'm done, and if Mark is not back by then, I will go find him."

  "You might die first," Owen whispered. Ashley hoped it was only an allusion to her dangerous lifestyle, and not a threat.

  Brianna laughed. "If that's my fate, so be it. But either way, I know great things are waiting for my son. His life will be the stuff of legend!"

  Ashley heard footsteps thud closer and closer, and pressed himself up to the wall next to the door. He held his breath as a tall woman with faded blonde hair stormed past, clad in a blue surcoat over chain. Her figure seemed young and fit, with muscular shoulders, a waist neither slender nor fat, and lush hips. She did not look back as her long, strong legs carried her down the street. Soon she was gone, leaving Ashley alone with his pounding heart.

  He stepped inside to see his father sitting on the guest couch in the lobby. Owen's face was pale, and his eyes stared into nothingness. "That was my mother," Ashley said. He tried to keep his voice even, but his body was shaking. Owen nodded. "So I'm adopted."

  "Yes. Forgive me, son, I only-"

  "Tell me everything."

  Owen leaned back and inhaled deeply, like he feared he might collapse. "Your name is Mark, and you are the son of Brianna the Brave. My own son Ashley died when he was two years old, and though Lena badly wanted another child her health would not allow it. At the same time, you were marked for death by the Vorhen and their demonic assassins. So I took you in, keeping Ashley's death a secret, and raised you in his place. Since the Vorhen's defeat, I have feared Brianna might return for you. But she never did—until now."

  Ashley had figured out much of the story before Owen explained it. While angry at being deceived
, he was not as shocked as he might have been. He had, after all, always felt a bit out of place in his family.

  But a legendary hero being his mother? Now that was unexpected.

  "So all this time," he said, "you've been lying to me."

  "I did not lie, but only hid the truth. Are we not your parents, after raising you for so long? Perhaps I should not seek to downplay my dishonesty, but I did it for you."

  "Why? I'm not ashamed to be her son, only angry that you didn't tell me. She is a great heroine, and I would be proud to have her for my mother."

  "You are a grown man now, and even so can barely hold your anger in check. How much would this have hurt you when you were a young boy?"

  Ashley knew he should understand, that he should be able to forgive his father. He would have had he not been the son in question. As it was, he feel a red-hot rage clawing its way up from his stomach. What chances had Owen's deception cost him? His muscles tensed and his knuckles clenched with the urge to attack his father, to strike him, choke him, beat him. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't help it.

  "You were afraid of her, afraid that she was better than you—and you were right to be. With her, I might have been something!"

  Owen's voice rose with his. "That is not why I did it! This is exactly what I feared, that you might mistake Brianna for the perfect parent of your childish fantasies. She is only a human being, as I am, though weighed down further with sin. Don't you remember the Bronze Wolves, and what she did to them for nothing?

  "And look at her now! Even in the tranquil streets of Julpy, in my very home in fact, she feels the need to wear her armor as though confronting an enemy. She was taught by, and a lover to, the monster Helrish, whose deeds are legendary in their infamy.

  "I am not saying she is evil. I do not know her well enough to say that. But heroine or not, you cannot pretend she is faultless."

  "And are you, father? You tricked her into leaving without me."

  "There is always the matter of degree, Ashley."

  "My name is Mark," he snapped, "not Ashley!"

  "Lena and I raised you from infancy. I doubt you can even remember anything of your life before we took you in. How can you forsake the name we gave you so easily?"

  "Because it's not my name. The boy who owns that name is dead and buried."

  "I love you, boy, and so do your mother and Clint. Will you renounce us after all the time we have spent as kin?"

  "No," he said, calming at Owen's soft, shaken voice, "and I don't hate you either." The Kanwicks were his family, he realized, and that would never change. Besides, the fear Owen showed of losing him proved how much he loved him.

  Yet that did not mean he wouldn't welcome newly discovered kin into his life too. "But my name is Mark, and I will find my mother. As she said, she deserves to know me."

  Owen nodded stiffly. "Will you come back?"

  "Of course. No matter what, I'll never forget the love your family has given me."

  "Say goodbye to Lena before you go."

  #

  He went upstairs, where in the opulent master bedroom he found his mother on a cushioned chair, mending a pair of trousers he had torn training. A well-padded woman with a gentle face, she worked with the slow care of someone who rarely needed to rush. Looking up as Mark entered, she instantly recognized something was amiss and waited for him to explain.

  "I found out about Brianna," he said. "I'm going away for a while."

  Lena's face was stoic, but her eyes moist. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't worry. I've had it out with Dad already. I still love both of you."

  "Stay here. Why do you have to leave?"

  He hadn't really thought about that. Somewhere in the heat of his anger, he had resolved to go after Brianna, and perhaps then he had been determined to frighten his father. But now, he realized it would make more sense for him to wait for Brianna to come back. She'd said she would return.

  "I guess I should have thought about it more. I won't go."

  She kissed him on the cheek, and he smiled gratefully. Mark went to bed early that night, though he had trouble falling asleep, but returned to his normal schedule the next day. He did not mention Brianna again, and when Clint asked about his mood he brushed it aside. In truth questions for his birth mother nagged at his mind, and he could concentrate on nothing. He thought and thought about whether or not to leave, but found himself unable to choose. It would not do anyone much good for him to stay here moping, but should he worry his family by going?

  Three uneasy days later, Clint approached him after dinner. "If there's something you need to do, do it. There's no use in going on like this."

  "Clint? What do you mean? Do you know-"

  "I know everything. Think about what I said."

  Mark slept over it, and at breakfast the next morning told his family he was leaving. He had been torn over the decision, but his brother's approval gave him confidence enough to make it.

  "Don't go," Lena said. "The road to Perfia is long and dangerous for a lone traveler, and you've never gone on an extended journey before."

  True, but there was a first time for everything—including for him to stop being a wimp. "I'll be fine, I promise."

  She and Owen reluctantly wished him luck. He hoped they wouldn't worry too much. They asked if he wanted anyone to accompany him, but he saw no need. He was a grown man now, and thought he could take care of himself. He bought a humble pilgrim's tunic and cloak, hoping to avoid unwanted attention from unsavory types, and packed his things.

  It was Clint who came to the stable to see him off. "Perfia's a long ride away. Think you remember enough of my lessons to survive, little man?"

  Mark laughed. "It's only a little over a week, and I've got rations enough for the trip."

  "I like the courage you're showing. Now do you understand why I pushed you so hard?"

  "Huh? What are you talking about?"

  "You didn't notice how hard I tried to drive you towards your potential? You've certainly shown enough frustration at it, and me."

  "Well, yeah. But I thought you just wanted me to live up to your standards. Not to be a disappointment."

  Clint smiled. "You're right enough, in part. But that's not all the reason. Your mother, Mark. Before she gave you to me, I listened to her saying her farewells to you. Her last words were, 'Your life will be the stuff of legend.' Now, I never really believed it—still don't—but I did want you not to disappoint her if you ever met. She deserved to have her son raised properly, hero that she is."

  "You think she would approve of my rearing? She was no noble."

  "Well, you didn't quite become what I tried to make you, either. But you're a decent boy."

  Mark rolled his eyes. "You're no good at trying to be nice."

  "Maybe you just look too hard for a bad meaning to my words. Good luck, brother. I wish I could come with you. I want to challenge Brianna to sparring!"

  "You'd lose."

  "Haven't even met her, and already sticking up for your mother? Bring the horse back, all right?"

  "Of course." He mounted, and rode away.

  #

  The beginning of Mark's journey went easily enough, as he rode his horse over the flat roads surrounded by crop fields near the city. Nervous as he felt, it was hard for him to sleep outside on the first night, but he was exhausted the next day and dozed off easily when evening came. After that, he found sleep without great difficulty.

  Slowly, the tall grains were replaced by shorter wild grasses, but the roads remained even and comfortable. It was only after nearly a week that things truly started to get tough. Sloping ground grew more and more commonplace, and stretches of forest interrupted the fields. Often, Mark had to get off his horse to guide it up the steeper inclines. Nonetheless, he was not discouraged. He knew he had reached the fringes of the Perfian highlands, and would soon be able to meet his mother.

  Two more days passed, and Mark began again to see cultivated land and the smoke of n
earby houses. He went to sleep happy, knowing how close he had to be. Sometime in the night, he was interrupted by his horse's whinny and rose to investigate. He peeked out of the tent to see two rough-looking men standing near his steed. The first thing he felt was anger; one of them was untying the horse from the tree. Then the fear overtook him.

  "Dammit!" one of the unshaven, leather-clad ruffians said. "Get the kid before he wakes up!"

  Oh, no. He had to run now, before the men got too near. But he didn't want to go out the front, which would put him closer to them and in their view. Instead, he drew his sword and cut a hole in the back of the tent. As he made to step through, a wide, gap-toothed face interposed itself before him.

  "We're not that stupid, boy!"

  Mark scrambled back and fell, tripping over the fabric below his makeshift exit. He could hear the other two men approaching from behind him. The potbellied bandit in front of him advanced, smiling. He stood and raised his sword in shaky hands, knowing fighting would do him little good. With luck, he might surprise and defeat this man. But two more? He didn't even know if there were others somewhere out there.

  Still, he had to try. He lunged, stabbing at his opponent's gut. The big man parried easily with his axe and struck back, narrowly missing the chance to open Mark's skull. He felt the passage of the blow as a breeze on his scalp. Desperately he attacked, jabbing rapidly with the point of his blade. A lucky thrust grazed the bandit's cheek and he backed up, wiping at the cut. Mark charged even as he heard footsteps at the flap of his tent, driving his shoulder into a broad chest.

  At first the man did not fall, only stumbling back against the canvas. Then his foot caught against the bottom of the hole like Mark's had, and he was falling out of the tent. Mark landed on top of him and stood quickly, running past his grasping hands.

  "He's getting away!" the man shouted. Mark hoped none of his companions would be directly in his path.

  But two were, lean, hard-eyed men holding rusty swords. Mark veered right, knowing he had no chance of breaking through. Another warrior awaited him. He spun left. Two more. How many were there? Their unwashed stink filled the air. His heart felt like it might explode before the bandits could even kill him. He was doomed...