by Matt Heppe
The inn would bring cool comfort where he could rest for tomorrow’s tournament. But it would not bring answers.
Nidon halted his horse in an intersection. “Rayne, come here,” he said. The boy rode Nidon’s bay rounsey, a good enough warhorse in its own right, while leading an old hackney pack horse carrying Nidon’s armor in a wicker basket.
“Yes, Sir Nidon?”
“Take the horses back to the Inn, brush them down, and clean my armor. Clean it in your room, not mine.”
“I have your key. I could just take it there, Sir Nidon.”
“Do as you’re told. Don’t go into my room.” Nidon’s thoughts went to the powerless Morin crammed into the chest. Nidon frowned at the disturbing image.
The boy shrugged. “Yes, Sir Nidon.”
“Rayne, don’t shrug at me. Just do as I say.”
Rayne lowered his eyes. “Yes, Sir Nidon.”
“Tell the innkeeper I’ll want a cold bath and a meal prepared for me as well. A hearty meal, nothing rich or fancy.”
“Yes, Sir Nidon.”
Nidon tapped Thunder’s flanks and turned the warhorse down a side street. He kept an eye on the crowds as he rode, not wanting to be caught unaware by another of the queen’s hot-headed knights. He wore his gauntlets and spare arming coat and carried his battle sword. He would accept any challenge to his right to go armed.
Nidon rode past the stench of the tanneries and then the leatherworkers’ shops, the smiths and jewelers, and finally past the bakers’ row, which made his stomach grumble, until he found the herbalists. There were only five shops. Nidon dismounted and entered the first he came to.
The shop was dark inside, and a thousand scents assaulted him. Dry bunches of herbs and flowers dangled from the already low ceiling so that he had to duck not to brush against them.
“My lord, how can I be of service?” The speaker was a wizened greybeard. Exactly the type of fellow Nidon had been hoping to find.
“You are the master of this shop?” Nidon asked.
“I am, Champion. Nearly forty years a master.”
“You are a healer as well?”
“A physic, but not a surgeon.”
Nidon wandered around the shop looking for the herbs he had seen in the basket by the king’s door. “Is there an illness you know of that requires the sufferer to remain isolated from all other people?”
“Isolation is beneficial in many cases, my lord. The presence of others often brings bad humors that can complicate an illness.”
Nidon spotted what he was looking for. “What is this herb? Does it have any medicinal purpose?”
“Lindweed? Not exactly medicinal. If burned the smoke calms a patient and sooths pains. Prolonged inhalation can lead to a sore throat and can even cause a patient to slip into a sleep they cannot be awakened from.”
Nidon nodded. “Could it render someone incapable of speech?”
“It could, given enough time.”
“A year?”
“Oh, certainly. More than enough.”
“And the patient… would they be in their right mind?”
The shop owner walked closer and took a sprig of Lindweed. “Impossible to say without knowing the quantities and circumstances of the environs.”
Nidon continued through the shop. “What about this flower? Does it have a purpose?” He sniffed at it and coughed at the powerful scent. The ones he had seen by the door had been fresh while these were dried, but he knew they were the same.
The old man chuckled. “Strong, eh? Some believe the powerful scent of the springrose drives off foul humors of the air, but I am not convinced. It will cover any stench quite convincingly. Begging your lordships pardon, but I place a sprig in the privy.”
“And what about salt?”
“In a wound it fends off corruption, although it is not the most comfortable treatment. Gargled with water it heals wounds of the mouth and throat. It calms a sore throat.”
“Such as caused by the smoke of the lindweed?”
“Yes, that would do.”
There had been quite a quantity of salt by the king’s door. A year’s worth for someone imprisoned in a cell? Someone kept stupefied by lindweed.
“You have done me a good service.” Nidon pressed a silver coin into the man’s hand. “I asked about treatment for a hard head from too much drink, understand?”
The man winked and went behind his counter to fetch a sprig of some herb. “Make a tea of this and it should bring some comfort, Champion.”
“Thank you.” Nidon tucked the herb into his belt pouch and left. It was late afternoon and his stomach grumbled as he caught the wonderful scents coming from the bakers’ street. For a moment he considered stopping to eat, but decided against it and rode for the Dancing Horse.
The king isn’t ill. He’s a captive. He’s a captive and I’ll see him free.
The innkeeper greeted Nidon with a cheerful wave as he entered the empty great room. It was a popular inn, but it was too early for most to take their meals. Nidon tried not to let the relief at the innkeeper’s calm demeanor show on his face. He had spent the last part of his ride worried that Morin had made some sound and had been discovered in his room.
“Your bath is drawn, Champion Nidon. I will prepare your meal myself. Your page said you wished to have a hearty meal.”
“A bath will be welcome. Yes, I want a peasant meal. Beef or stew with bread. Nothing rich. I have to fight tomorrow. Have you seen my page? I expected him in the stable.”
“He came in the back a short time ago and took your harness upstairs, Sir Nidon. Haven’t seen him since.”
Nidon nodded and headed for the stairs.
“We are with you, Champion,” the man said behind him.
Nidon paused. “What do you mean?”
The innkeeper glanced around the empty room and then to the door. “Tomorrow. We are with you. You’ll keep your title. We can’t imagine one of those silver eyes as Champion of Salador. Wouldn’t be right.”
“No it wouldn’t,” Nidon said as he continued toward the stairs.
He took the stairs two at a time, grimacing against the pain in his protesting hip. Despite what he said to others, the injury still nagged him and affected how he fought. He hadn’t wanted to face the truth himself at first. It was a first for him – an injury that he had not recovered from in full.
Bad hip or no, I’ve killed four varcolac since then. Just have to defeat one more.
Nidon’s blood went cold as he reached the top of the stairs. The door to his room was ajar. Walking carefully on the wooden floor, Nidon crept to the door. He placed his hand on his sword hilt as he paused, listening.
Nothing.
The door creaked in its hinges as he pushed it open. His room was undisturbed except for the figure of Rayne lying on the bed, his hands folded across his chest.
In three strides Nidon crossed the room. The boy seemed unharmed. Nidon shook his page by the shoulder. “Rayne, are you well?”
Rayne’s eyes fluttered open – confusion crossing his face. “Why are you in my room, Sir Nidon?” he asked. His eyes grew wider. “Have I forgotten something?”
“You have forgotten why you are sleeping in my bed in the middle of the day when I expressly told you not to enter my chambers.”
Rayne sat up, his eyes darting around room. “What? Why am I here?”
“I think that is my question,” Nidon said. “And yours to answer.”
Rayne hopped out of bed. “My apologies, Sir Nidon. “I, ah, I don’t know what happened. I took care of the horses and when I came upstairs I thought I heard something in your room. I unlocked the door—”
“I told you not to enter.”
“Yes, Sir Nidon, but I thought it might be a thief.”
“And then what happened?”
“I, ah, I… I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Nidon glared at his page, resisting the urge to go straight to the chest and see what had become of Mo
rin.
“I… I must have fallen asleep.”
“Just like that? You walked into my room, saw no intruder, and then fell asleep in my bed.”
Rayne’s face fell. “Yes, Sir Nidon. I beg your apology.”
“Is this the behavior of a valet-at-arms?”
“No, Sir Nidon.”
“There are many a knight who would dismiss you.”
“I understand, Sir Nidon.”
“I told the innkeeper to prepare a bath. Find him and make certain it is a cold bath. The last thing I want to do is to boil in a tub after practicing at arms.”
“Yes, Sir Nidon.” Rayne started for the door and then paused.
“What?” Nidon asked. “What are you waiting for?”
“Sir Nidon… what has become of Prince Morin?”
Nidon couldn’t help but glance at the chest. “Why do you ask?”
“I had a dream. You will think me a fool. But I dreamt that Prince Morin was in your storage chest and that he came out of it and talked to me.”
“Yes, you are a fool,” Nidon said, forcing a smile. “Did this ghost of Morin say anything to you?”
“Not that I remember, Sir Nidon.”
“Go. Do as I asked.”
Rayne fairly ran from the room. Nidon closed the door behind his page before turning his attention to the chest. He took a breath before opening it.
Empty.
***
A knock sounded at the door as Nidon finished running a comb through his hair. He had missed civilization after a year and a half in the field. Feeling clean was one of the things he had missed most. That and good food.
“Who is there?” Nidon asked.
“Rayne, Sir Nidon.”
“Come in. Is my food ready?”
Rayne stepped in and stood by the open door. “Nearly so. But a man downstairs asked if you would join him for your meal.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Master Vilios. He says he is one of the merchants you sat with when—”
“I remember.” Nidon paused. He was in little mood for company. For good or ill, tomorrow would be a critical day.
“He seemed to feel it quite important.”
“Tell the innkeeper I want a table in the far corner of the room, furthest from the door and nearest the stair. Tell Master Vilios that he is welcome to join me.”
“Yes, Sir Nidon,” Rayne said. He closed the door as he departed.
Games of intrigue held no interest for Nidon. He had lived a life of martial service to the throne. Unquestioned loyalty to the elementar king of Salador. A king with the blood and magic of Handrin the Great coursing through his veins.
I’ve let myself become distracted from my true duty. My king needs me and instead of doing what is right and just, I dream of escape. He would see it out. Through intrigue or force of arms. He knew he would never forgive himself if he rode away from his obligations to pursue his own dreams. Not a dream. A fantasy. A fantasy that she will even remember who I am.
Nidon fastened his gold champion’s belt around his waist, and then his battle sword. “Gods, what has become of Salador that I wear a longsword to dinner?” Disgusted, he shoved a pair of heavy gloves through his belt and shifted the position of his dagger’s sheath.
He found Rayne standing in the hall by his door. “Your dinner is ready, Sir Nidon.”
“Go down to the kitchen and get something to eat. When you are done, finish cleaning my armor and then get to bed. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
Rayne grinned up at him. “I can hardly wait to see you fight, Sir Nidon. You are the only Champion of Salador.”
“There have been many Champions before me, and there will be many after. This will be my last Champion’s Tournament.”
“You could stay,” Rayne said, hope was clear in his eyes. “You are young and the greatest knight in Salador.”
Nidon tousled the boy’s hair. “Of course I could keep on winning,” he said, smiling. “But I’ve been Champion six years now and there are other things that I want… that I have to do.”
“But—”
“Go along, Rayne.”
“Yes, Sir Nidon,” he said, his expression glum.
Nidon went downstairs, conscious of the diners’ eyes upon him, and the sword at his waist. From some he saw hope, but others wore expressions of guarded neutrality, at best. Master Vilios was already seated, but stood as Nidon approached.
“I am glad you would join me, Sir Nidon,” Vilios said with a short bow. He was dressed in the finest green summer linen.
“My pleasure, Master Vilios. There aren’t many I know here and I would otherwise be dining alone.” He sat with his back to the wall, facing the door, motioning for Kendor to approach.
The innkeeper rushed to their table with a pitcher and two fine horn cups set in silver. “Arossan red. My finest with my complements. What can I bring you to eat, Master Vilios? Champion Nidon has already given instruction.”
“Do you have those wonderful scallops in garlic sauce?”
“We do.” Kendor beamed. “Our most favorite dish.”
“I’ll have that, and please bring out a platter of bread and cheese.”
“Very well.” Kendor bowed and departed.
“I offer you a toast, Sir Nidon,” Vilios said as he poured wine into the horn cups. “A toast to your success on the morrow.”
Nidon took his cup and raised it. “Thank you, Master Vilios.” He took a long pull. “It is excellent.”
“The Idorians do know how to make wine.”
“They certainly don’t know how to make war. Unless it is with each other.” The other man laughed too much at the joke. “Where is your friend?” Nidon asked.
“Master Denne? He had business to attend outside the city.” He shrugged. “A merchant’s life.”
A serving girl appeared with a tray of bread and cheeses. She was pretty, despite the half veil covering her eyes. She departed with a smile.
“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” Vilios asked. “The varcolac are vicious are they not?”
Nidon spread a soft cheese on a thin slice of white bread. “They are strong. And fierce. But they can be defeated. They only know how to attack and are blinded by their fury. If you can withstand the initial rush, you can win.”
“You might. Not I. We are not all Nidons.” He waved his hand in a gesture to the other diners in the half full room.
Nidon only half attempted to hide his scowl at the effusive praise. “Any trained soldier can do it. My men have won battles over and over against charging varcolac. Keep your weight forward, your shoulder into your shield, and brace your spear. The varcolac will break on your wall and then you attack. But if the wall falters, you’d better have a reserve to plug the gap.”
“I can hardly imagine!” Vilios said, his eyes bright. “You understand, I’ve seen a few scraps in my younger days, when I was out on the road with just a few wagons. But nothing like what you are talking about.”
Nidon ate in silence for a few moments. The food was delicious, but some of the pleasure was reduced at the thought of his men, still encamped in tents at the river’s edge.
“So you are confident you will win? Even with your injury?” Vilios asked.
Nidon took a sip of wine. “Are you planning on making some wagers? What are the odds makers saying?”
Vilios grimaced. “I do not agree with them, of course, but they are somewhat against you. It is your leg….”
Nidon didn’t reply, but glanced around the room instead. Three quarters of the guests were men. Men and women alike were finely dressed. Guildsmen and lesser nobles and their wives. A few men wore Idorian robes, but that was not unexpected with Pardassa so close.
And how many serve the queen?
The serving girl approached again, placing a deep bowl of beef stew in front of Nidon and a plate filled with scallops in front of Vilios. For a short time the men ate in silence.
“These are… dangero
us times,” Vilios said, his voice low.
Nidon shrugged as he took another bite. “They’ve been worse.”
“I am not so sure.” Vilios glanced around the room, and then spoke so quietly Nidon could barely hear him. “The queen endangers us all. We think she has killed the king.”
“I think he is still alive.”
“But you have not seen him?” Vilios asked. Nidon shook his head. “Even if he isn’t dead,” Vilios continued, “it is the queen who rules. And her rule is destroying Salador.”
“She is the queen.”
“We should have a king. Either Boradin if he is alive.” Vilios paused. “Or Handrin.”
“Handrin will be king. The queen is devoted to him.”
“He will be her puppet.”
Nidon shook his head. “I am not so sure of that.”
“Even so, how long will we have to wait? The queen will ruin us before too long. We need Handrin to be made king now, and for a regent to help him rule. Even now she plots in the South Teren to have her man Grax made duke.”
Nidon took a long pull from his cup, emptying it. The man’s words had merit, but he was not about to say so. Who knew where the merchant’s loyalties truly lay? Vilios filled Nidon’s cup again. “Her Majesty will not give up the throne until Boradin has recovered, or Handrin has come of age,” Nidon said.
Vilios wiped his brow. Sweat had started to seep through the fine linen of his shirt. “Perhaps she could be made to agree.”
Nidon nodded as he ate another bite. Vilios’s food was hardly touched.
“If there was someone the people loved, who could guide the young king, she would have no choice,” Vilios said.
“She would fight. It is her army now. And her father is Duke of the West Teren.”
“The army would rally to someone they respected.” Vilios leaned closer. “They would rally to a hero. And if it happened fast enough, Duke Pereval would not have enough time to react.”
“So this hero marches up to the queen and demands she step aside in favor of her son? And she will agree?” Nidon cleaned the bottom of his bowl with a piece of bread. It was good food. Food you could fight on. He drained half his cup in a single pull.