Avempartha trr-2

by Michael J. Sullivan

  They ate salted pork, hard dark bread, onions, and pickles. It was the kind of meal Hadrian would loathe to eat in a town, but seemed somehow wonderful on the road where his appetite was greater and options fewer. He watched Thrace sitting on the grass, nibbling on a pickle, being careful not to stain her new dress. She gazed off with a faraway look, inhaling the air in deep appreciative breaths.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She smiled at him a bit self-consciously and he thought he noticed a sadness about her. “I was just thinking how wonderful it is here. How nice it would be to live on one of those farms we passed. We wouldn’t need anything grand, not even a house-my father can build a house all by himself and he can turn any soil. There’s nothing he can’t do once he sets his mind to it, and once he sets his mind, there’s no changing it.”

  “Sounds like a great guy.”

  “Oh, he is. He’s very strong, very determined.”

  “I’m surprised he would allow you to set off alone across the country like you did.”

  Thrace smiled.

  “You didn’t walk all the way, did you?”

  “Oh no, I got a ride with a peddler and his wife who stopped in Dahlgren. They refused to spend a second night and let me ride in the back of their wagon.”

  “Have you done much traveling before?”

  “No. I was born in Glamrendor, the capital of Dunmore. My family worked a tenant farm for his lordship there. We moved to Dahlgren when I was about nine, so I’ve never been out of Dunmore until now. I can’t even say I remember all that much of Glamrendor. I do recall it was dirty though. All the buildings were made of wood and the roads very muddy-at least that’s how I remember it.”

  “Still that way,” Royce mentioned.

  “I can’t believe you had the courage to just go off like that,” Hadrian said shaking his head. “It must have been a shock leaving Dahlgren and a few days later finding yourself in the largest city in the world.”

  “Oh it was,” she replied, using her pinky finger to draw away a number of hairs that had blown into her mouth. “I felt foolish when I realized just how hard it was going to be to find you. I expected it would be like back home where I would be able to walk up to anyone and they would know who you were. There are a lot more people in Colnora than I expected. To be honest, there’s a lot more of everything. I looked and looked and I thought I would never find you.”

  “I expect your father will be worried.”

  “No he won’t,” she said.

  “But if-”

  “What are these things?” she asked pointing at the standing stones with her pickle. “These blue stones. They’re so odd.”

  “No one knows,” Royce replied.

  “Were they made by elves?” she asked.

  Royce cocked his head and stared at her. “How did you know that?”

  “They look a bit like the tower near my village-the one I need you to open. Same kind of stone-at least I think so-the tower looks bluish too, but it might be because of the distance-ever notice how things get blue in the distance? I suppose if we could actually get near it we might find it was just a common gray, you know?”

  “Why can’t you get near it?” Hadrian asked.

  “Because it’s in the middle of the river.”

  “Can’t you swim?”

  “You would have to be a real strong swimmer. The tower is built on a rock that hangs over a waterfall. Beautiful falls-really high, you know? Lots of water going over. On sunny days, you can see rainbows in the mist. Of course, it’s very dangerous. At least five people have died, only two are for sure, the other three are just guesses because-” She paused when she saw the looks on their faces. “Is something wrong?”

  “You might have said something earlier,” Royce replied.

  “About the waterfall? Oh, I thought you knew. I mean you acted like you knew the tower when I mentioned it before. I’m sorry.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Thrace finished her lunch and walked around looking at the stones, her dress billowing behind her. “I don’t understand,” she finally said raising her voice over the wind. “If the Nidwalden is the border, why are there elven stones here?”

  “This used to be elven land,” Royce explained. “All of it. Before there was a Colnora, or a Warric, it was part of the Erivan Empire. Most don’t like to acknowledge that; they prefer to think that men always ruled here. It bothers them. Funny thing is many of the names we use are elvish. Ervanon, Rhenydd, Glamrendor, Galewyr, and Nidwalden are all elven. The very name of this country Avryn means green fields.”

  “Try and tell that to someone in a bar sometime and see how fast you get cracked in the head,” Hadrian mentioned, drawing looks from both of them.

  While they finished eating, Thrace stood among the great stones staring west, her hair and dress whipping about her. Her sight rose to the horizon, out beyond Colnora, beyond the blue hills to the thin line of the sea. She looked so small and delicate he half expected the wind to carry her away like some golden leaf and then he noticed the look in her eyes. She was little more than a child and yet they were not the eyes of a child. The glow of innocence, the sparkle of wonder was absent. There was a weight to her face, a determination in her gaze. Whatever childhood she had known had long since abandoned her.

  They finished their food, packed up, and set off again. Descending the far side of the heights, they continued to follow the road for the remainder of the day but as sunset neared, the road narrowed to little more than a simple trail. Farmhouses still appeared from time to time, but they were less frequent. The forest grew thicker and the road darker.

  As sunlight faded, Thrace grew very quiet. There was nothing to see or point out anymore but Hadrian guessed it was more than that. Mouse skipped a stone into a windblown pile of last year’s leaves and Thrace jumped, grabbing his waist. She dug her nails in deep enough to make him wince.

  “Shouldn’t we find shelter?” she asked.

  “Not much chance of that out here,” Hadrian told her. “There might be a few more inns on the road ahead as we pass near Alburn, but nothing that will help us tonight. Besides, it’s a lovely evening. The ground is dry and it looks like it will be warm.”

  “We’re sleeping outside?”

  Hadrian turned around to see her face. Her mouth was open slightly, her forehead creased, her eyes wide and looking up at the sky. “We’re still a long way from Dahlgren,” he assured her. She nodded, but held on to him tighter.

  They stopped at a clearing near a little creek that flowed over a series of rocks, making a friendly rushing sound. Hadrian helped Thrace down and pulled the saddles and gear off the horses.

  “Where’s Royce?” Thrace asked in a whispered panic. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, looking around anxiously.

  “It’s okay,” Hadrian told her as he pulled the bridle off Millie’s head. “He always does a bit of scouting whenever we stop for the night. He’ll circle the area making sure we’re alone. Royce hates surprises.”

  Thrace nodded but remained huddled, as if standing on a stone amidst a raging river.

  “We’ll be sleeping right over there. You might want to clear it some. A single stone can ruin a night’s sleep. I ought to know; it seems whenever I sleep outside I always end up with a stone under the small of my back.”

  She walked into the clearing and gingerly bent over, tossing aside branches and rocks, nervously glancing skyward and jumping at the slightest sound. By the time Hadrian had the horses settled Royce had returned. He carried an armload of small branches and a few shattered logs which he used to build a fire.

  Thrace stared at him, horrified. “It’s so bright,” she whispered.

  Hadrian squeezed her hand and smiled. “You know, I bet you’re a wonderful cook, aren’t you? I could make us dinner, but it would be miserable. All I know how to do is boil potatoes. How about you give it a try? What do you say? There are pots and pans in that sack over there and you�
��ll find food in the one next to it.”

  Thrace nodded silently, and with one last glance upwards, shuffled over to the packs. “What kind of meal would you like?”

  “Something edible would be a pleasant surprise,” Royce said, adding more wood.

  Hadrian threw a stick at him. The thief caught it and placed it on the fire.

  She dug into the packs, going so far as to stick her head inside, and emerged moments later with an armload of items. She borrowed Hadrian’s knife and began cutting vegetables on the bottom of a turned-up pan.

  It grew dark quickly, the fire becoming the only source of light in the clearing. The flickering yellow radiance illuminated the canopy of leaves around them, creating the feel of a woodland cave. Hadrian picked out a grassy area upwind from the smoke and laid out sheets of canvas coated in pitch. It blocked the wetness that would otherwise soak in. The treated fabric was something they had come up with after years on the road. But they did not have time to make one for Thrace. He sighed, threw Thrace’s blankets on his canvas and went in search of pine boughs for his own bed.

  When dinner was ready, Royce called for Hadrian. He returned to the fire where Thrace was dishing out a thick broth of carrots, potatoes, onions and salted pork. Royce was sitting with a bowl on his lap and a smile on his face.

  “You don’t have to be that happy,” he told him.

  “Look, Hadrian-food,” Royce taunted.

  They ate mostly in silence. Royce made a few comments about things they should pick up when they passed through Alburn such as another length of rope and a new spoon to replace the cracked one. Hadrian mostly watched Thrace who refused to sit near the fire; she ate alone on a rock in the shadows near the horses. When they finished, she stole away to the river to wash the pot and wooden bowls.

  “Are you alright?” Hadrian asked, finding her along the stony bank.

  Thrace was crouched on a large moss capped rock, her gown tucked tight around her ankles as she washed the pots by scooping up what sand she could find and scrubbing them with her fingers.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m just not used to being out at night.”

  Hadrian settled down beside her and began cleaning his bowl.

  “I can do that,” she said.

  “So can I. Besides, you’re the customer so you should get your money’s worth.”

  She smirked at him. “I’m not a fool, you know. Ten silver won’t even cover the feed for the horses, will it?”

  “Well, what you have to understand is Mouse and Millie are very spoiled. They only eat the best grain.” He winked. She could not help but smile back.

  Thrace finished the pot and the other bowls and they walked back to camp.

  “How much farther is it?” she asked replacing the pots in the sack.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never been to Dahlgren, but we made good time today so maybe only another four days.”

  “I hope my father is alright. Mister Haddon said he would try to convince him to wait until I returned before hunting the beast. I hope he did. As I said my father is a very stubborn man and I can’t imagine anyone changing his mind.”

  “Well, if anyone can, I suspect that Mister Haddon could,” Royce remarked prodding the coals of the fire with a long stick. “How did you meet him?”

  Thrace found the bed Hadrian had laid out for her near the fire and sat down on her blanket. “It was right after my family’s funeral. It was very beautiful. The whole village turned out. Maria and Jessie Caswell hung wreaths of wild salifan on the markers. Mae Drundel and Rose and Verna McDern sang the Fields of Lilies, and Deacon Tomas said a few prayers. Lena and Russell Bothwick held a reception at their house. Lena and my mother were very close.”

  “I don’t remember you mentioning your mother, was she-”

  “My mother died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. Sickness?”

  Thrace shook her head.

  No one spoke for awhile then Hadrian said, “You were telling us how you met Mister Haddon-”

  “Oh yeah, well I don’t know how many funerals you’ve been to, but it starts to feel…smothering. All the weeping and old stories. I snuck out. I was just wandering really. I ended up at the village well and there he was-a stranger. We don’t get many of those, but that wasn’t all. He had on this robe that shimmered and kinda seemed to change colors from time to time, but the big thing was he had no hands. The poor man was trying to get himself a drink of water struggling with the bucket and rope.

  “I asked his name and then, oh I don’t know, I did something stupid like starting to cry and he asked me what was wrong. The thing was, at that moment, I wasn’t crying because my brother and his wife just died. I was crying because I was terrified my father would be next. I don’t know why I told him. Maybe because he was a stranger. It was easy to talk to him. It all just spilled out. I felt stupid afterwards, but he was very patient. That’s when he told me about the weapon in the tower and about you two.”

  “How did he know where we were?”

  Thrace shrugged. “Don’t you live there?”

  “No…we were visiting an old friend. Did he talk oddly? Did he use thee and thou a lot?”

  “No, but he spoke a bit more educated than most. He said his name was Mister Esra Haddon. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “We only met him briefly,” Hadrian explained. “Like you, we helped him with a little problem he was having.”

  “The question is why is he keeping tabs on us?” Royce asked. “And how since I don’t recall dropping our names and he couldn’t have known we would be going to Colnora.”

  “All he told me is that you were needed to open the tower and if I left right away I could find you there. Then he arranged for me to ride with the peddler. He’s been very helpful.”

  “Rather amazing isn’t it, for a man who can’t even get himself a cup of water,” Royce muttered.

  Chapter 3: The Ambassador

  Arista stood at the tower window looking down at the world below. She could see the roofs of shops and houses. They appeared as squares and triangles of gray, brown, and red pierced by chimneys left dormant on the warm spring day. The rain had washed through, leaving the world below fresh and vibrant. She watched the people walking along the streets, gathering in squares, moving in and out of doorways. Occasionally a shout reached her ears, soft and faint. Most of the noise came from directly below in the courtyard where a train of seven coaches had just arrived and servants were loading trunks.

  “No. No. No. Not the red dress!” Bernice shouted at Melissa. “Novron protect us. Look at that neckline. Her highness has a reputation to protect. Put that in storage, or better yet-burn it. Why, you might as well salt her, put a garnish behind her ear, and hand her over to a pack of starving wolves. No, not the dark one either; it’s nearly black-it’s spring for Maribor’s sake. Where’s your head?-the sky blue gown-yes, that one can stay. Honestly, it’s a good thing I’m here.”

  Bernice was an old plump woman with a dough-like face that sagged at the cheeks and doubled at the chin. The color of her hair was unknown as she always wrapped it in a barbette veil that looped her head from crown to neck. To this she added a tall cloth filet that made it seem like the top of her head was flat. She stood in the center of Arista’s bedroom, flailing her arms and shouting amidst the chaotic maelstrom that she had created.

  Piles of clothes lay everywhere except in Arista’s wardrobes. Those stood empty, waiting with doors wide, as Bernice sorted each gown, boxing the winter dresses for storage. In addition to Melissa, Bernice had drafted two other girls from downstairs to assist in the packing. Bernice had filled one chest but still her bedroom remained carpeted in gowns and Arista already had a headache from all the shouting.

  Bernice had been one of her mother’s handmaids. Queen Ann had kept several. Drundiline, a beautiful woman, had been her secretary and close friend. Harriet ran the residence, organizing the cleaning staff, seamstresses, and laundry. Nora, whose lazy eye always mad
e it impossible to tell who she was actually looking at, handled the children. Arista remembered how she would tell her fairy tales at bedtime about greedy dwarves who kidnapped spoiled princesses, but how a dashing prince always saved them in the end. In all, Arista could remember no fewer than eight maids, but she could not remember Bernice.

  She came to Essendon Castle nearly two years ago, only a month after Arista’s father, King Amrath, was murdered. Bishop Saldur explained that she had served the queen and was the only maid to survive the fire that had killed her mother so many years ago. He mentioned Bernice had been away for years suffering from melancholy and sickness, but after Amrath’s death, she insisted on returning to care for her beloved queen’s daughter.

  “Oh, Your Highness,” Bernice said holding two separate pairs of Arista’s shoes, “I do wish you would come away from that window. The weather may look pleasant, but drafts are not something to toy with. Trust me, I know all about it-intimately. Pray you never have to go through what I did-the aches, the pains, the coughing. Not that I am complaining, of course, I am still here, aren’t I? I am blessed with the vision of seeing you grow into a lady and, Maribor willing, I will see you as a bride. What a fine bride you will make! I hope King Alric picks a husband for you soon. Who knows how long I have left and we don’t want people gossiping about you any more than they already are.”

  “People are gossiping?” Arista turned and sat on the open windowsill.

  Watching her on the edge, Bernice panicked and froze in place, her mouth opening and closing with silent protests, both hands waving the shoes at her. “Your Highness,” she managed to gasp, “you’ll fall!”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No. No, you’re not.” Bernice shook her head frantically. “Please. I beg of you.”