Liberation of Lystra (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  “So the Surchataine said, but she did not say how,” Nihl observed, so Kam told him of her confrontation with the emissary and her expulsion of him from Lystra, with the promise of invasion.

  The Commander smiled. “It is all the more remarkable, then, that I felt im-pressed to bait Asgard with the gold in Hornbound. His men will provide the invasion for us.”

  “Which saves our necks,” muttered Kam. “But it’s done Roman no good.”

  Nihl fixed his hard brown eyes on Kam. “Why are you all so convinced the Surchatain is dead?”

  Kam asked, “Wouldn’t we have found him by now if he was alive?”

  “Not at all. Most likely, you would have found him by now if he was dead. The killer would want his death known and proven, else how would he collect his pay? And how much would the Qarqarians profit from Roman’s mere disappearance?—which we should have minimized. No—the killer would not hide the body. But a living man can hide himself.”

  Kam looked thunderstruck at the obvious logic of this reasoning. Olynn went suddenly slack-jawed. “Why would Roman hide?” Kam whispered.

  “Let us suppose,” said Nihl, “that on the road to the outpost he made contact with the assassin—or rather, the assassin with him—and yet survived. Let us also assume the assassin escaped. Now, if you knew someone was out to kill you, and that this someone was roaming free, would you allow yourself to remain an open target?”

  “Or he could be wounded, recuperating from the assassin’s strike,” Olynn said dully.

  “That is another possibility,” agreed Nihl. “I tried to explain this to the Surchataine, but she is too distraught to think of it . . . what is it?” he asked, as Olynn was numbly shaking his head.

  “Commander, for what I’m about to tell you, you’ll boot me down to slophand. But it appears the Surchatain is indeed alive, and is staying at a villager’s hut, mending from an injury.”

  Nihl’s face sharpened in excitement. “Whose hut? Where?”

  “I don’t know,” gulped Olynn. “Just this morning, a peasant girl came to the palace demanding to speak to the Surchataine, and claiming to have an important message. The girl swore Roman was alive, but injured, resting in her hut. We . . . ah, we sent her away, thinking her full of foolery.”

  “Who else spoke with her?” Nihl asked calmly.

  “Sebastian, on guard duty at the gate.”

  “Summon him.”

  They waited as Olynn sent a guard after Sebastian. Nihl drained his ale and looked such the philosopher that Olynn sheepishly asked, “You’re not angry, Commander?”

  “I would not expect you to understand these things as I do. That is why I am Commander.” From anyone else this would have sounded intolerably arrogant, but Nihl’s flat tone made it just another fact.

  Sebastian entered, sleepy and disheveled. “Commander.” He barely suppressed a yawn as he saluted.

  “Tell me about this peasant girl who came to you with a message from Surchatain Roman,” Nihl said.

  Sebastian quickly woke up, glancing at Olynn. “She said he had sent her to tell Surchataine Deirdre he was wounded, but healing.”

  “Is that all she said?”

  “Well, no; she said he had given her a special message for the Surchataine—something like, he had been humbled, and from now on would listen to Basil—” Sebastian again glanced toward Olynn and exclaimed, “You think it really was from him?”

  “That is exactly what I think,” responded Nihl. “Do you know her name? Or where she lives?”

  “No, Commander,” Sebastian gulped. “We didn’t take her seriously.”

  “She’s probably one of those who live around the Village Branch,” Kam said eagerly. “What did she look like, Sebastian?”

  “A village girl, like any other village girl. Not pretty, nor ugly, just . . . a peasant,” he said helplessly.

  “We four will begin searching huts in the morning,” said Nihl. “Don’t ask permission; don’t say what you’re looking for; just look.”

  “We should have more men to help, Commander,” suggested Kam.

  “No. I order you to tell no one of this. The Surchatain may have good reason to stay hidden, in which case the cover of his ‘death’ will work well for us.”

  “Shouldn’t Deirdre be told?” Kam asked.

  Nihl paused, then uttered, “No. I will inflict no more pain on her until I can present Roman to her, alive and whole.”

  They understood him. Harboring the intensity of suppressed excitement, the three went back to their rooms for an hour of sleep while Nihl went in to Izana.

  The next day Nihl, Olynn, Kam and Sebastian rushed through perfunctory duties so that by midmorning they were able to meet secretively at the stables. “You three search every hut along the Village Branch,” whispered Nihl. “Sebastian, you and Olynn watch for that girl. I have an idea to search elsewhere.”

  The others saluted, and they all casually rode out the front gates, which stood open. Nihl watched as the other three turned westward toward the branch of the river around which the poorest of Westford lived in clustered huts. He himself then went north along the market road, where Roman had last been. Nihl rode a measured distance, scanning the sides of the highway continually, until he selected a place to turn off into the forest, where he began his own search.

  That morning, Effie awakened late—again—and roused quickly to make breakfast, aware that her visitor was probably hungry by now. When she had finished boiling goose eggs (quietly, in case he was still asleep), she peeked into the lean-to. “Are you ready for—”

  He was gone. She stood mutely staring at the rumpled blanket on his bed. She went over to the cot and mindlessly folded the blanket. He was gone. “I guess he felt good enough to leave,” she explained to herself. “That’s to be expected.”

  What was unexpected was the way it rattled her. “What difference does it make?” she demanded. Then she realized that she had counted on it—on him—to make a difference in the treadmill of her day-to-day existence.

  She shrugged violently. Who needed him? Oweda and Mathias wanted her. They wanted her to come live with them . . . didn’t they? Yes, of course. They would be back to get her . . . wouldn’t they?

  Effie sank down onto the cot, drained of faith in anyone. She put her face into the blanket, hiding from habit as she sobbed out the pain of abandonment. It was an outpouring that she had not allowed herself in a long time.

  A movement in the room hushed her sobs, and she thought with dread that Pax had returned. She kept her face down in the blanket. But then whoever it was knelt before her and a hand closed over hers, gently pulling the blanket away. She looked up into Roman’s pained face.

  “What’re you doing back?” she blurted gruffly, rising to spread the blanket back on the cot.

  “I was just walking outside, stretching my legs,” he said softly, not adding aloud, seeing whether I’m strong enough to leave. “You thought I had left?”

  “Makes no difference,” she said carelessly. “You can leave anytime you want.” As he regarded her, Effie’s fragile façade crumbled. She began crying afresh, reaching out to him. With his one good arm he gathered her to his chest and held her.

  “I won’t leave you alone, Effie,” he whispered. “I promise.” But inside he was in turmoil. I don’t want this. I can’t help her. With the crises facing Lystra, he must return to his first responsibility of rulership as soon as he was healthy enough. But he had promised her, and he would not break his word.

  She shook her head in his chest as if denying that he owed her anything. But she could not even stop crying long enough to say it. Lord Jesus, pleaded Roman, what am I to do?

  Chapter 27

  Deirdre met with Basil that day, and as they sat in the library to talk, he noted with relief how bright and refreshed she looked. “Did you hear Nihl’s report?” she asked eagerly, the first thing.

  “Yes, Surchataine,” he smiled. “All our fears seem to have been banished in one sweep.�
�

  She sighed. “True. And now, is there any reason our soldiers can’t be sent to protect trade routes to Crescent Hollow?”

  “None that I know of, Surchataine. And it may precede what could be a valuable alliance with Calle Valley.”

  “Then go make arrangements with Nihl and Kam to dispatch the soldiers. And tell the emissary,” she said lightly, “that I accept Caspar’s invitation. He can expect me in a week for the fair.”

  That day passed in a string of routine events for most folks at Westford. The first installment of copper and iron ore from Qarqar arrived at the smiths’. The Qarqarian merchants knew nothing of the recent turmoil, having set out with their payload when the chief emissary’s companions had returned to Hornbound with the trade agreement. So the copper smith, blacksmith, and armorer took their ore gladly, paid them, and sent them cordially on their way. It was a good deal for the smiths, because the ore was very cheap as compared to refined metal, and the smelters around Westford were superior to those in Qarqar anyway. These particularly profitable transactions promoted general good feelings among the townspeople, providing a strong economic pulse.

  Other events took place that day which in comparison were much less visible but far more important. Deirdre took Ariel out to the grounds to practice archery with his half-size bow and arrows as Roman had done so often. But once at the grounds, Ariel refused to shoot. He stood patiently waiting, watching the army’s archers take practice.

  “Ariel, don’t you want to shoot?” Deirdre pressed him.

  He looked at her with a grown-up face of mild irritation. “Wait for Fada.”

  Deirdre lowered herself to be eye level with him. “I explained that to you, Ariel,” she whispered. “Father is not coming. He is never coming back. He is dead.”

  Ariel did not answer, but imperially looked over the archers. “Come practice, Ariel. Show me what you can do,” she urged.

  “Wait for Fada!” he insisted.

  “Baby, he’s dead! He’s not coming!” Deirdre cried, shaking him.

  This time when he turned his face to her, it was the picture of impassiveness in a crisis that was perfectly molded from his father’s face. Deirdre released him, moaning, and he dropped the little bow to go inside with his nursemaid.

  Deirdre maintained her composure until she could get to her chambers and send the maids away. Then she locked herself in and flew to the window. Grasping the casing, she screamed, “How could you do this? How could you leave us like this? Stubborn, proud fool, to think you are indestructible! How could you get yourself killed when we need you so?”

  She inhaled calming breaths and uttered, “I love you, Roman . . . oh, how I wish you were near me again. . . .” She leaned back against the window, eyes closed, to relive his caresses.

  A knock at the door interrupted her dreams. She tried to ignore it, but it was insistent. So she tore herself from the window and opened the outer door of her receiving room.

  Basil stood outside. Before speaking, he took her hand in both of his and simply held it. Then he told her, “Surchataine, the emissary from Calle Valley was delighted that you accepted Caspar’s invitation. But he begs that rather than delay, you return with him now to Calle Valley. He says that his Surchatain is most anxious to see you.”

  “But . . . unannounced . . .” murmured Deirdre.

  “If you accept, he will send a fast messenger ahead today to Crescent Hollow. You and your retinue may then leave with the emissary tomorrow morning, and be assured of a welcome waiting.”

  She stared off blankly. The Counselor added in the gentle way so becoming to him, “Deirdre, I think you should go. You need to leave this palace for a while. And . . .” he continued delicately, “it is prudent for us to—to not discourage Caspar at this point.”

  That jerked her attention back to his pale blue eyes. Perceiving that he was talking about paving the way for a marriage alliance, her mind filled with a stream of vituperation for his callous disloyalty to Roman. But as his face braced for what was coming, Deirdre’s eruption vanished. Again, she was forced to see that he was the best advisor she could possibly have, his main concerns being what was best for her and for the province.

  So her protest was reduced to the sole murmur, “But Basil, there must be a period of mourning. I must have that.”

  “You will,” he said earnestly. “But what would Roman think of a mourning period which weakened Lystra before her enemies?”

  Bowing her head, she whispered, “I will do as you say.” But Roman—know that I will always love you.

  A few more pivotal conversations took place that afternoon. Nihl, Kam, Olynn, and Sebastian met again at the stables after a long, fruitless search. “We went inside every hut along the Branch, Commander,” said Kam. “Not a sign, not a hint of him anywhere.”

  “I didn’t see the girl, either,” added Sebastian with a weary shake of his head. Olynn did not comment. They were tired, and their faces expressed their reservations plainly enough.

  “I did not expect you to find him at the Village Branch,” Nihl replied. “It is too crowded there for a wounded man to hide and no one know of it. But I wanted you to search it anyway, to make certain we have covered all ground.”

  “Where were you looking, Commander?” asked Olynn.

  “In the forest, near the northbound market road. I did not find him either, but I did find that there are isolated huts along that route. I believe he may be in one of those.” The others glanced at each other dubiously. Most of the conviction they had worked up in the predawn hours had now been put to rest.

  Noting that, the Commander said, “You are dismissed from duty for the day.” But as soon as the others had departed the stables, he climbed back on his horse and went out to search further, while daylight remained.

  The Counselor was not able to locate him until the dinner hour, after which Basil summoned both Nihl and Kam to his chambers. After exchanging formalities, Basil asked, “Commander, what do you believe is our position with Polontis?”

  “We are secure,” Nihl said. “I see no reason they would abandon their quest for Qarqar’s gold to return to Corona, or to come here.”

  Basil nodded. “And Qarqar?”

  Nihl almost smiled. “I am eager to hear the scouts’ report of what they do when Asgard comes.”

  “Then we have nothing to fear from them, either,” said Basil.

  “All this you know, Counselor,” said Nihl. “What is on your mind?”

  “I am thinking that there is no reason to withhold our soldiers from protecting the trade routes as the Surchataine promised.”

  “What?” exclaimed Nihl. Regaining his impassive demeanor, he stated, “No, Counselor. Surchatain Roman denied the emissary’s request for protection of their trade routes.”

  “True, Roman denied it, but Deirdre has granted it now. I think we should acquiesce and do it,” said Basil, a firm edge to his voice.

  So saying, he went to a cubbyholed desk and drew out a scroll. “Here is a map of the routes in northern and western Lystra. You shall begin posting men immediately, for the Surchataine leaves in the morning for Crescent Hollow.”

  “Why is she going to Crescent Hollow?” Nihl asked, eyes widening. Kam was uncharacteristically silent throughout this exchange.

  “To meet with Surchatain Caspar,” answered Basil. “To establish grounds for a marital alliance.”

  “No!” Nihl exclaimed, jumping forward in strange passion. “Counselor, she must not go to Crescent Hollow yet!”

  “Mind your place, Commander!” Basil barked. “Remember your loyalties and your duties, or I will remove you from your post!” Kam closed his eyes as if suddenly in pain, but Basil, recalling all too clearly how Troyce took advantage of him, was not about to let another transplant repeat that maneuver.

  Nihl straightened, his face rigid. “Now you will dispatch your men as ordered,” Basil instructed, thrusting the map at him. “You are dismissed!”

  Taking the scroll, Nihl
bowed. But outside Basil’s door, he handed it over to Kam. “I am charging you with coordinating the men. I will not take an active role in this until I find Roman,” Nihl said.

  “Commander,” Kam saluted, not daring a word of protest or doubt.

  Nihl went down to the chapel then, feeling an intense need for help. He looked in the doors and saw Brother Avelon on his knees at the front of the chapel, head bowed on a bench before him.

  Nihl slipped in quietly to kneel at his side. “Brother Avelon, please pray for me,” he whispered. “And for Roman. I know he is alive, and I must find him soon. . . .” When the holy man did not respond, Nihl touched his shoulder. “Brother Avelon?”

  The old man fell back on the bench, and Nihl saw that he had died peacefully while in prayer. Sighing, Nihl looked up at the rough wooden cross to carry his petition himself to the Lord.

  One final turning point occurred that day, this one totally invisible. While Effie was cooking dinner over the hearth in the hut, Roman sat on the cot in the lean-to, trying to work his left arm.

  The arm appeared uninjured to the eye, but was stiff and numb. It would move only with intense effort and considerable pain to his shoulder. He could grasp, but not strongly enough to hold a weapon reliably. The arm even pained him when it dangled loosely at his side.

  Like a cripple, he thought grimly. Taking one of the cloth strips Effie had used as a bandage, he made a sling to hold the arm more comfortably. Better to look wounded than crippled, he thought.

  Then with a jolt, he realized he was crippled. He—the pugiling champion, the Chataine’s personal guardian, the warrior Surchatain—could hardly heft a spoon in his left hand.

  Being forced to face the reality of his own sudden limitation was almost intolerable. In all the crises of his life, at least he always had his physical resources to draw on. But this—Oh God! Let me face anything but this impotence!

  My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Roman closed his eyes. If anyone had dared recite that scripture to him at this time, he would have exploded in rage. But from the mouth of the Creator, the One who had formed him in the womb and then saved him from destruction many times over, it carried an indisputable weight of righteousness. He was right, and there was no ground in heaven or on earth for arguing.