by J Glen Percy
Meryam rode at the rear, the ambling wagon with its four-head team creaking and rattling just ahead. The party was large enough to preclude the absurdity of a woman traveling alone, yet subtle to avoid the attention of wanting idler’s and opportunistic bag-snatchers. The High Road was safer under her husband and – she was loath to admit – Unity, but like fleas to a dog’s backside, travelers attracted all manner of villains. If the driver, lady’s attendant, and steward’s advisor weren’t enough to ward off the depraved, the Fellsword at her side certainly was.
Wyn sat impassively atop Dhaneb, as much a part of his mount as his effortlessly-borne blade was of him. Eyes focused ahead yet all-seeing, he was one with the environment too. He was adamant that Ryecard had ordered her protection specifically, despite Meryam’s pleas that he remain with the children. Strangling forests to either side, fog that refused to lift until well past the noon hour, decay’s ripe and engulfing odor; she found herself grateful for the liegeman’s persistence.
“Difficult times are the best time to assess friend and foe alike, my lady,” the pale man was saying. “You can trust your enemies to harm, can you ever fully trust your friends to help?”
She never told Wyn the purpose of this trip, and he had never asked. He wasn’t some Rosemarked mollycoddle with more cents in his pocket than his head, though. He knew her purposes well enough. Curiously, the man had spared more than a few glances for the covered wagon over the past two days and trailed the cart especially close now.
“Friend or foe, the only ones you can truly trust are those with a common interest,” Meryam agreed. She wished she believed it. There were pantry rats she trusted more than Gerrit Fairfield. The man had advertised Breccyn’s slayings to the world; was his instruction to look northwards, the guidance that had her on this very road, merely another plot?
Rising mist signaled the onset of the afternoon hours, and Meryam insisted they keep moving. There was no telling when her husband would return to Shorefeld. She had sent word of the strange intruder to Ryecard but communicating events beyond that would be a... delicate matter. If things went according to plan, her brief visit to Whitehaven, capital of Northern Province, needn’t be one of those matters whatsoever. Meryam burned with internal shame. Add faithful spouse to the growing list of the untrustworthy.
Ryecard would not be pleased with the arrangement, yet she had secured fealty to the Stallion Crest from a man who in more than fifteen years had given none. The sky was darkening and soldiers, resources, information would be needed to weather the storm. Gerrit Fairfield had these things. Hopefully Ryecard and the children could be made to see. Hopefully this trip would justify her decisions. So much hope in an increasingly hopeless time.
Leaving her children was distressing. Three of the four managed to find mischief while supervised, what would they root-out alone? Beyond that, she had explicitly prohibited Breccyn from approaching the Grayskin. That woman had answers; it would not do for her son to exact short-minded retribution on the enemy’s tool any more than to dispose of a hammer on behalf of his smashed finger.
“I hate leaving that lot to their own devices,” Meryam said, revealing her mind aloud.
If it was anyone else staring at the discolored canvas that sheltered their supplies, she would guess her muttering had gone unheard. Not so with Wyn. “It seems as if we’ve brought one along, my lady.” A sudden flick of his wrist folded the cover back. There, between grain sacks and stacked crates, rested the youngest Starling.
“Mykel Starling!” The boy’s name came out an oath. “What are you doing back there?” Shri and Fennel, Meryam’s attendant and her husband’s advisor turned with a start. The driver, whom Meryam did not know as well, appeared particularly displeased by the discovery.
Mykel sat up, less put-together than usual, and certainly more defiant. “Just because I never sneak out does not mean I oppose adventure,” he declared, clearly expecting an argument.
“You never sneak out?”
“Never before,” her son clarified. “Every time I ask permission I receive the same answer, and every time I receive that answer, I obey. Gabe and Ary have done away with asking and obeying, and their punishment always looks identical to my own minding. So where are we going?” he concluded succinctly.
Her son’s unforeseen bravado had Meryam grinning internally. It also had her reflecting on where in fact they were going. Lord Fairfield had confirmed what Meryam suspected all along. Protests calling for Breccyn Scofflaw’s death were growing louder among the Rosemarked by the minute. Most interestingly, Gerrit insisted that certain families were sympathetic to the Starling’s dilemma, and more, would support an... expanded cause. Breccyn’s actions might just be the catalyst for something far bigger. Meryam had received answers from the man. Dearly paid-for answers. Answers she felt like she had rolled in the mud for. Now she sought assurances. If something bigger were to occur, the West would need allies.
“We does not include you, son,” Meryam said finally. “Fennel will take you home.”
“While I’m reading of heroes, Breccyn and the rest are off learning how to be one,” Mykel’s protest continued. “I love books, but no tot ever learned to walk by reading about it. I’m not good at anything.”
“Anything? Appealing to your mother’s flimsy heart is something.” Meryam looked to Wyn Fellsword, whose disinterest couldn’t be more plain if he were to begin whistling. Plain, and undoubtedly misleading. “Fine,” she said reluctantly. “But clear those heroic notions from your head. It is precisely those notions that may cost your brother his. And stay close to Wyn, understood?”
“Come, my lord. The back of a cart is no place for nobility.” The pale man lowered himself smoothly, offering a hand and a smile to Mykel. “Dhaneb will gladly carry you and I would be more than happy to walk alongside my companion for a time.”
* * *
Several hours later, Wyn and Mykel led the small caravan through the evergreen corridor, the boy sitting proudly on horseback. As dark as her owner was light, Dhaneb was a magnificent animal, and Mykel’s beaming posture suited perfectly. Neither the bleak environment, nor the current conversation could spoil his mood.
“Stones?” Wyn asked, gliding effortlessly on foot. “You win ten bouts for every loss.”
“I want a real talent; swordplay, archery. Games count no more than books.”
“Yet academies turn out commanders using little more,” Wyn refuted. “Are these men talentless? Do you know why your father is an adept leader?”
Mykel’s enthusiastic grin relaxed. “Because he is smart?”
“Smart answer. Now tell me who is smarter; the man who lives his life experiencing everything, or the man who experiences a thousand lifetimes through the recorded words of those that came before?”
Mykel’s lips pursed into focused consideration. “So what?”
“The warrior rules the earth he stands on. The wise rule the earth. I’m not condemning experience, only that wisdom, wherever harvested, has value well beyond knowing how to thrust a blade. If you wish to be good at something, be good at who you are, my lord.”
“And if who I am isn’t who I want to be?”
“Not much point living if it was. A soul’s health is measured by its ambition, its death marked by idleness. Whether by book or experience, or some other means altogether, bettering ourselves should be a ceaseless endeavor.”
Mykel sat chewing his inner-cheek, absorbing the lesson like his texts back home. “How about the priesthood? If I had the priesthood I could help anyone.”
“No more than a fairytale meant to inspire some children and strike fear into others, my lord. Grimlings and shades. Its wonders died when the Ferals did.”
“Father just fought a Feral at the aqueduct,” Mykel argued. Wyn offered a conceding nod. “Oh well. He would not approve anyhow. I would have to hide my powers.”
Wyn was silent for a moment. “Can I offer some advice, young master?” Mykel nodded. “The lifelong hunt
for your identity is not akin to stalking wild game. Never sneak.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it means you feel you are doing something wrong.”
“And if it is wrong?”
Wyn hesitated unexpectedly, his self-assuredness waning temporarily like a cloud passing the sun. “Then you know better.”
Like an echoing stag’s call in deep autumn, the Fellsword immediately took up a desolate melody. The dispiriting hum, combined with the wraithlike faces of moss and ivy that watched from the trees, gave Mykel chills that the weather could not account for.
It was simple for Mykel to prescribe Wyn’s guidance to this very journey, to the physical act of sneaking into the cart, but the boy knew the message ran much deeper. Wyn’s sudden uncertainty ran much deeper. Mykel also knew that only fools waded into unknown waters – anything giving Wyn pause was certainly unknown - and he took the shallow route as a result.
“I need escape, Wyn. Holding myself prisoner, I’d end up as uncivilized as the bloody Gray that attacked Breccyn.”
“Uncivilized? My lord might prefer the Grayskin life given his sudden lust for adventure. Warring with each other over every scrap and puddle. Battling beasts you’ve only encountered in your nightmares. Skilled warriors, every one of them, and well before the last infant tooth is lost.” Wyn’s tune continued between thoughts. “Most Grays can hold pace with a horse over long distances and outlast them besides.”
“I doubt that’s true for Dhaneb here,” Mykel replied with a distracted pat for the mare. What would he even do with a weapon? With a warrior’s spine? Likely lop his own head off. “Perhaps all this talk of invasion should be settled with a simple race,” he mumbled.
“Interesting notion, my lord. It would certainly spare blood. To think, Grayskin and colorless vying for the fate of Cairanthem in a simple footrace across the continent.”
“Colorless?”
“Their word for us,” Wyn replied. “Their skin no longer varies from region to region, person to person, as does ours. The Drablands baked variety from their flesh long ago.”
Mykel hardly acknowledged the response. The boy’s scant experience traveling had provided more questions than answers thus far, quite opposite of his intended outcome. Texts both fictitious and non were bloated cover to cover with purpose-driven adventurers. Wyn was the tale-turned-truth of that. Mykel didn’t know if he wanted to rule the world or the ground he stood on. He simply wanted to know what he wanted. If only he had some place quiet to think.
Mykel mustered a halfhearted grin. “You are more colorless than most, Wyn.”
“That I am, young master. And you more brilliant, if you take my meaning,” Wyn replied. “Your father did not build the aqueduct in a day, nor by himself. Keep that chin up and you’ll find yourself. We all will. For now, let it be enough that I am glad for your company.”
The kind words left Mykel feeling warmer. All of the words, really. Mykel patted Dhaneb’s neck. Perhaps contenting oneself with the ride could be just as productive as guiding it. Breccyn, Gabryel, Aryella, his parents; they knew who they were because they were who they were. Finding themselves wasn’t some detailed roadmap with arrows marking every decision; it was life.
The two spent some time alone – the wanting boy in thought, the want-less man sustaining his soulful hymn – before Mykel could no longer handle the dreary atmosphere in silence.
“What are you humming?” he asked, searching the wooded shadows for anything that might be lurking there.
As answer, Wyn added lyrics to the notes.
“A chap of leather sought a maiden of lace,
Fighting from the start.
Not each other, but the maiden’s mother,
For the lass’s stolen heart.
‘It’s for the better,’ the maiden said,
‘Perhaps you best depart.’
But the chap of leather had been through weather,
‘What is better than your heart?’
Now battle called as it often does,
For young men and their leather.
The chap packed the cart for his depart,
To heed the war drum’s tether.
‘It seems at last your mother wins,
On the morrow I shall part.
My only plea, remember me,
You’ll live on in my heart.’
The morn had come, the lass gave chase,
The mother howled quite a tart.
‘Your head of feathers changes swifter than the weather!’
‘Why mother, it’s better than my heart!’”
The melody concluded to the steady clop of hooves against gravel. “Does she find him? The girl who chased after the soldier?” Mykel asked curiously.
“The song never says,” Wyn answered solemnly. “What do you think, young master?”
“I think love turns people barmy, though the mother in the song sounded barmy to begin with.” Mykel considered Wyn Fellsword for a long moment, both his wisdom and talents. “Wyn, how do you know so much?”
“I do?” Wyn stared off into the trees.
“You know a lot.”
“About some things,” the man conceded distantly. “Others I can only sing of....”
Mykel was about to ask his meaning when the liegeman halted suddenly. Without direction, Dhaneb paused alongside her master, the wagon behind grinding to a standstill as well.
“What is going on?” Meryam asked, trotting to the front, her eyes anticipating ambush.
“I’m not sure,” Wyn responded. The man unsheathed his fabled blade in one expertly agile motion. To the delivery of several gasps, a ghostly radiance like winter’s halo encircling the moon emanated from the weapon itself. Several horses whinnied, Dhaneb adding a few nervous stamps. “Last Quarter sings as if it were calling to something. Or perhaps called by something.”
“The Five above,” Fennel cursed from behind the scene.
“In all our years....” Wyn began. The sword’s aura cast a deathly light over the man’s reverent features. “Something indeed calls.”
Mykel pressed his shirt and adjusted his pants, wishing for a sturdier cloak to wrap about himself. The woods, all but alive in their stifling presence, were unrelenting, the blade’s ominous glow only strengthening his discomfort. It was the second spell of hesitation he had seen from the unshakable force known as Wyn, pushing his discomfort ever closer to outright fear. Perhaps adventuring was best left to men like Wyn. Hardened men. Resolute men. Men worthy of such swords and stories.
CHAPTER 15
“There now, Dawnglow,” Cecily reassured, smoothing the gray’s mane with a gloved hand. “Tomorrow will bring an end to the road and a start to the best grains had in the West.”
The unwaveringly docile mare had grown rather skittish alongside the steadily lowering sun, a mood Cecily attributed to long days on the road and not the presently lengthening shadows. Tonight would be the pair’s tenth inn. It was an unusually long duration for the journey between Rosemount and Shorefeld, but Cecily was an unusual traveler. For a princess traveling alone in secrecy, abundant, time-scorning caution was a must.
Cecily would not win a race against her father’s summons regardless of her pace. The aviary was a favorite place within the citadel, and she had ducked neatly out of sight upon hearing her father’s temper rising up the stairwell. Immediate as her leave-taking was, it was well after Tobiah Jago had dispatched the hawk. Well after her father admitted to Ozias Stellen Fellsword that executing the Starling boy would crush his oldest daughter.
Hiding amongst a wagon train several days back, she had seen Breccyn’s father riding the wind itself as he thundered by. Surprising, and in many ways not, Breccyn was not with the lord steward to answer the summons. It was undoubtedly for the best. It also provided hope that she would reach her love in Shorefeld without parental interference.
The journey had been an experiment in anonymity, a fact of everyday life that was not so everyday for a p
rincess. Was it always this difficult to find a warm meal or a suitable place to bathe? Were people always so blunt, unconstrained by the perimeter of etiquette that surrounded the royal family? Or was this simply the way of mongers? Fleeing into the wilderness with Breccyn as planned would have her growing accustomed to such things regardless.
Manners and etiquette – or the lack thereof - were minor learnings. In conversation, both partaken and overheard, she quickly gathered the population’s mood regarding everything from the moisture content of the clouds to the prospective Grayskin invasion. Everyone had an opinion, everyone had a solution. It was overwhelming and it was thrilling. Her own name was mentioned on a dozen separate occasions, and mostly favorably too. Mostly.
Of the infinite issues deliberated, one topic moved more tongues, traveled more prominently, than all others. It was the very event spurring Cecily’s journey. Young or old, innkeeper or beggar, the verdict was unanimous; every monger spoke of Breccyn Starling slaying the Rosemarked, and all did so favorably. So prevalent was the praise, in fact, that it was quite easy to identify capital-born by their crusty sneers. Fortunately, the general nattering was shy of treason – though unquestionably beyond appropriate - allowing Cecily’s conflicted mind to observe and dismiss without contacting the local magistrate.
Her heart was not so conflicted however. Breccyn’s life was more precious than any number of capital-born, perhaps all of them. The rose adorning her wrist and the bareness of his had already complicated their ever-so-delicate future. She would not let the mark destroy it altogether. Wherever she found him – and she would find him – she intended to warn him of her father’s likely decision, then convince him to leave his family as she had done hers.