Authors: Brian Fuller
Gen brought his hand up, tenderly probing the scabby, shallow cut. He hardly felt like sleeping, but saw the wisdom in it. He hopped down from the perch atop the wagon and went toward the covered wagon that had been prepared especially for him and Jaron.
“Good work, Gen,” Tolbrook praised his former apprentice as he passed. Gen saluted him and waved to Volney and Gerand before catching the side of the wagon and swinging himself inside. The accommodations were simple—several blankets and one chest each for him and Jaron. During a brief halt, Gen summoned a squire to help him with his armor. Once the young man finished, Gen dismissed him and spread some blankets before opening his chest to place the bread inside. To his surprise, he found a note from Ethris along with several texts of ancient appearance.
More reading for you,
the note said simply. Gen thumbed through the books briefly, excited to read more about Trysmagic. He had found the books Ethris had loaned him over the winter fascinating and a little frightening. Trysmagic was unlike the Duammagic and Mynmagic that Ethris practiced, and all the stories of Mikkik’s horrors during the Mikkikian Wars became vividly true. Many reminded him of the dreams and visions that had tortured him when he had worn the training stones.
If the power of creation revealed the soul of the caster, as one book said, then Mikkik’s was truly black. Walking fire, amalgamated corpses crafted into monstrosities of flesh, diseased mosquitoes, poisoned waters. Every horror imaginable and unimaginable came to life in the pages of the books. The most horrifying were the tales of men and women slain in battle and then reanimated again to return and slaughter their unsuspecting loved ones.
Gen shut and locked the chest, closing his eyes and settling in on the blankets. He wondered what kinds of things Chertanne would do with the power or—more importantly—whom he would do them to. The early Trysmagicians among the humans found themselves worshiped and revered by the people, for the Trysmagicians were the only ones who could stand against Mikkik’s most malicious creations. Despite their importance to the battle—or perhaps because of it—pride infected the ranks of Trysmagicians, inciting division and destruction. Only when the plight of Ki’Hal turned its most miserable did they set aside their self-importance to unite around a shared desperation.
Sleep finally claimed him as the caravan lumbered forward. Gen awoke an hour before sundown, finding Mirelle sitting with her legs dangling over the back of the wagon. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, but there was tension in the stiffness of her posture and the tilt of her head. Cadaen rode a short distance behind, countenance upset. Gen straightened his clothing and came to sit by the First Mother.
“How may I serve you, Mirelle?” Gen asked.
“Saving my life was plenty for today, thank you. Or have you done so much now that you don’t expect anyone to notice or care about further acts of courage?”
“There’s an adage among bards that says, ‘play the same song thrice and none will listen but the mice.’ But you certainly haven’t come here to lavish me with gratitude.”
“Haven’t I?” said Mirelle.
“No,” he said. “The expression on your face seems more indicative of an impending rant.”
“Would you prefer the gratitude first?”
“The rant will be much more interesting, I’m sure.”
“Very well,” Mirelle said. “Seeing that I am predictable, I will begin. Have you puzzled out the mystery of our would-be assassins? Do you know who ordered the attack?”
“Well, it seems that. . .” he began.
“I’ll tell you who it was, Gen. It was that idiot of a future son-in-law that ordered it! Of course, I have expected something of the sort to happen for some time, since you are certainly not his friend—whatever he may be pretending now—and I have put forth no effort at all to hide my displeasure for him or my preference for you.
“But the sheer stupidity of it! Already the tale of the ‘Ilch’s attack spreads through the caravan! The Ilch! So people are expected to believe that the Ha’Ulrich rode exposed through a busy street, but instead of attacking him or the Chalaine, the Ilch decides to unleash his assassins on two people completely irrelevant to the prophecy!
“If Chertanne had even a diseased shred of intelligence, he would have at least paid an assassin to kill someone near him so it would appear as if he were a target, as well. As it is, he might as well have stood up on his horse and yelled, ‘Heap all suspicion on me!’ I half wish the Ilch would show up and take a chunk out of Chertanne. Eldaloth knows he has some chunks to spare, and a fright would do him good! How dare he try to kill me on the streets of my own city!”
“Mirelle,” Gen said, keeping his voice soothing, “you cannot with certainty lay this to his charge. The day I defied Chertanne for the Chalaine, I made many enemies, even in Rhugoth. When you named me the Chalaine’s Protector, you made some of your own. While most Rhugothians now fall on our side of those events, most Aughmerians do not. This is the first time in months either one of us has traveled away from secure places, the first chance that assassins had to reach us.”
“Perhaps,” Mirelle replied, “but I feel the answer in my heart and it angers me. I haven’t been this upset in some time.”
“First time to face your own mortality, then?” Gen asked.
“Yes. I’m not quite so practiced as you.”
“And I hope you never are. But I have something that might help.” Gen reached back and pulled the sweet bread from the chest. “Do you like the heel?”
“No,” she answered. Gen took his knife from his boot, cutting the heel for himself and slicing a generous piece for the First Mother. The bread was still warm and moist.
He handed her the slice. “See if that doesn’t taste better than you remember. Once you get over the initial shock of almost losing your life, I think you will find you have a keener appreciation for simple things. ‘Spring would only be half as beautiful if winter weren’t before,’ as they say.”
The First Mother ate in silence as the sun, light diffuse in the dust of the wagons behind, sank into the faint outline of the city Mikmir. While her muscles relaxed, the anger around her eyes did not fade, and Gen feared what she might be planning and he hoped the plan wasn’t rash. Determination in the hands of the powerful, intelligent, and vengeful created disaster as often as not, and the First Mother wasn’t the type to give up when her mind was set to a purpose.
“Your watch approaches,” Mirelle said, licking the crumbs and sugar from her fingers, “so I had best get on to the gratitude.”
“There is no need, Your Grace.”
“I meant for the bread.”
“Oh, of course. You are welcome.”
“As for the other matter, there must be some reward. You can’t save an aristocrat’s life and get nothing. Honor requires something be done.”
“You have already given me rank and land beyond what I could ever expect. No more is needed or required. It is my pleasure to help you however I can.”
“Well,” she continued, taking his hand and kissing it, “it is by your hand that my house has its honor and its health. It will be my pleasure to reward you when I decide on something suitable. Do come talk to me when time permits. I will not be so busy on this long trip and could use someone to talk to.”
The caravan slowed and turned off the road before the sun fully sank. The wagons circled, forming a protective ring with the host of soldiers surrounding the outside. Once stopped, the caravan exploded into activity. Horses were unhitched, watered, and fed, and servants unloaded tents and cooking equipment. An angry Regent Ogbith wandered around barking orders.
“You should sleep in the wagon with your daughter, Your Grace,” Gen suggested. “For all we know, the assassins might be in the caravan behind us.”
“Cadaen already requested I do the same. I will not cower. Do I have any crumbs on my lips?”
“No.”
“You didn’t look,” Mirelle said.
“Yes I did.”
“If you say so. . . Have my daughter heal that wound. I will come and clean the blood off your face momentarily.”
“A servant can do that.”
“Then I will be your servant. Cadaen! See to the tent. Make sure we are next to Ethris. Help me down, Gen.”
When Gen arrived at the Chalaine’s wagon, Geoff was there helping Fenna out of it. Jaron locked the door behind her.
“How are our accommodations, Gen?” Jaron asked.
“Plain and functional, just like us.” Gen quipped.
Jaron slapped him on the back on the way by. “Excellent.”
“Gen!” Fenna exclaimed, embracing him. “Is it true? One of the arrows was meant for you? How awful! Who would do such a thing?”
“We may never know, Fenna.”
“Saving the First Mother,” Geoff said, extending his hand. Gen shook it. “Yet another item on a long list of brave deeds. At this rate I will need to compose two or three songs to proclaim them all. Perhaps I shall divide them pre- and post betrothal. The betrothal, or rather the failed one, will be a song by itself. Did the First Mother visit you to offer her thanks?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! I must have every word!” In an instant his book and quill appeared. “Did she cry from gratitude or perhaps sob from the awful memory? A hug or royal kiss? Promises of wealth?”
“You don’t know the First Mother very well,” Gen answered.
“Oh, come now! Don’t be so close-mouthed. It should be recorded for history!”
“It was a private conversation. Suffice it to say that she thanked me and we shared a bit of sweetbread.”
“You have sweetbread?” Fenna asked. “From whom?”
“Marna.” Gen answered.
“Who is Marna?” Geoff inquired, scribbling quickly. “Is she the beautiful daughter of a Duke or Regent giving you a token to remember her sweet embrace by?”
“Well, no, Geoff,” Gen grated, starting to feel irritated. “She is the rather plump cook of the castle. She has five children and a husband who love her dearly. I really must be about my duty.”
“Come, Geoff,” Fenna said, taking the bard’s arm and steering him away. “I will tell you about how Gen first met Marna. Quite funny, actually. I will see you soon, Gen.”
Fenna waved as she led Geoff away. Gen thanked her silently, breathing out and standing at attention in front of the wagon door. The day was finally starting to cool, and the settling of the dust was of itself a reason to rejoice.
“Hello, Gen,” came the Chalaine’s quiet greeting from behind the wagon’s bars.
“Good evening, Chalaine. Are you well?”
“Because of you, I am,” the Chalaine said. “I could not bear to lose my mother, and I owe you a great debt. I have always known the danger is real but never really felt it. I hope I can manage all this worry.”
“You will do well.”
“I am not like you or my mother. I am not strong in the way you two are.”
“You have never had to be,” Gen said, “and I hope you will never have to be.”
Silence passed between them for many minutes as the activity of the caravan continued noisily around them.
“I do have a question, Gen.”
“Yes, Holiness?”
“Where is the sweetbread?” the Chalaine asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you are a liar now? A shame to tarnish your reputation so soon after polishing it up, don’t you think? You're lucky I'm trapped in this wagon. You bring me a piece of Marna’s sweet bread tomorrow or we will have words.”
“Yes, Holiness. Provided there is any left. Jaron may smell it and devour the whole loaf before sunup. He has quite the appetite.”
Gen realized the bread would not last long and resolved to eat a large chunk of it as soon as possible.
“He will be severely punished if that is the case,” the Chalaine said. “So what did my mother say to you?”
“Just the standard things aristocrats and nobles say when someone saves their lives. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Humor me.”
“She said, thank you. I answered, there is no need. She said, yes there is. I said, no there isn’t. She said, there is too. I said, I assure you there isn’t. Then she said. . .”
Her hands were on the bars now. “Will you stop it? Did she give you some reward?”
“Well, she said, I must reward you. I said, there is no need. She said, yes there is. I said. . .”
“Can’t you just give a straight answer, Gen? In the name of Eldaloth and the vow you took to obey and serve me, I command you to give me a straight answer!”
“Answers, like roads, are the most fun when crooked.”
“But just like travelers, listeners get frustrated when the journey takes too long!” The Chalaine sighed. “You are a private person, aren’t you? Did she flirt with you again?”
“Not really.”
“So, a little then?”
Gen chuckled. “Hard to say. Flirting is at its most successful when the recipient can neither confirm nor deny it.”
“Confirm or deny it? ‘If the barmaid’s sister doesn’t work out to your satisfaction, you always have me.’ And that look! Not hard to confirm that, now is it?”
“Don’t confuse flirting with jesting, Holiness.”
“Don’t be coy,” the Chalaine said. “I know my mother. I have never seen her act the way she does when she’s around you. She’s up to something. She’s never been so . . . relaxed . . . around any other man.”