“Your Majesty, surely you can’t mean to let these Scribers defile—”
“Enough, Uran!”
The High Commander shut his mouth sullenly, but his eyes were filled with rage, and though only I could hear them, the enraged voices did not cease.
The King waved a hand towards me and Illias. “Korus, help Master Illias with the arrangements. The guards will see Scriber Dennon out. We are done here, and I have a family matter to discuss with my niece.”
He could only mean the matter of Bryndine’s disobedience to the High Commander. I had nearly forgotten that she stood to be punished for trying to save the people of Waymark. It was an injustice, but there was little I could do about it, even if I had been allowed to speak for her—I could not have gotten more than a few words out past the terrible noise in my head.
I tried to catch Bryndine’s eye as the guards led me from the room, to give her some indication of my support. But she only continued to stand at attention before the King, her face a solemn, impenetrable mask.
* * *
“What was the King’s mood?” Tenille asked, pacing a matted path into the grass in the front courtyard of the Kingshome.
“Not pleasant. But he agreed to let Illias into the Garden, so…” I shrugged. “I can’t say how he will deal with Bryndine.” It was a weak answer, but I was too distracted to give better—Uran Ord monopolized my thoughts. There had been a powerful anger in him, and in the voices I had heard; it might constitute a danger to the King. I felt I should tell someone, but how could I explain it without sounding mad? And to whom?
Rubbing my temple, I surveyed the courtyard around me. It was large and open, with entrances to the different wings of the palace in all directions. The main doors, huge panels of varnished oak, sat at the end of a wide path lined with tall marble pillars. Guardsmen were posted at all doors, and there were a number of them gathered to one side of the area, standing around a patch of earth where the grass had been worn away over the years by many armored feet. Two men were sparring in the middle of the small crowd, while the others shouted their encouragement.
The sight of the guardsmen tempered my fears somewhat. The King was well-protected, and from threats more real than voices in my head. I took comfort in dismissing the voices as some flight of fancy, but there was a deeper fear beneath it—the fear that I was only lying to myself. Though I tried not to, I couldn’t help but think of Josia Kellen, lying dead on a dark hill.
But there was nothing I could do either way. Even if I tried to warn the King or his guards, no one would listen.
Sylla spat on the grass at my feet, bringing me back to the conversation. “We all know what Syrid will do,” she said. “He’s been waiting for the excuse.”
“The King could have disbanded us at any time.” There was no optimism in Genna’s quiet voice. “He might not now.”
“If Bryn hadn’t refused to let it drop, he’d never have let her wear Army colors to begin with,” Sylla retorted. “If she’s in the Army, at least she’s under his control. But that’s not going to be enough now that she’s disobeying orders. We’re done.”
“We’re not.” Deanyn leaned serenely against a marble pillar and spoke with a seeming lack of concern. “Whatever happens, I have no plans to go anywhere. We may not wear the same uniform after today, but you lot won’t get rid of me that easily.” An easy smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I say we go out tonight and get good and drunk. If things go one way, it’s a celebration; the other way, we’ll drown our sorrows.”
Unsurprisingly, Orya was the first to voice her support. “Now
that’s
an idea. All the cryin’ in the world won’t help more than a good drink. And if it’s good news, first round’s on me.”
Tenille stopped her pacing long enough to frown at the two women. “This is not something to be taken lightly, you two. Be serious.”
“I take drinking very seriously,” Deanyn replied, affecting a solemn expression.
Tenille snorted—a mix of amusement and annoyance. “You don’t have to convince me of that.” She paused, and her frown relaxed into a slight smile. “To be honest, I could use a drink.”
A chorus of agreement followed Tenille’s admission.
“Tonight then,” Orya said. “The Doused Tree. And Father bugger any of you who try to get out of it!” She looked meaningfully towards Genna—the quiet woman’s cheeks went red at the obscenity, but she indicated her acceptance with a nod.
“What delightful companions you’ve found since last we spoke, Lark.” I turned to see Korus standing behind me, eyeing Orya distastefully. “So ladylike.” He must have foisted Illias off on a subordinate as soon as he was able, just to catch me before I left.
“I’ll show you ladylike.” Orya was completely unruffled, and followed up the statement with an obscene gesture.
Korus pointedly ignored her. “Why did you come back, Lark? Was it not enough to destroy a priceless piece of art? When this new idiocy of yours goes wrong, it will embarrass the King at a time when he needs the people’s support most.”
“I already told you, Korus, I didn’t want any part of this. I tried to tell Illias not to come.”
“Not hard enough, it seems.” A shallow, cruel smile played across his lips. “At the very least you are being kept out of it—I shudder to think what the Children might do if you were allowed back into the Old Garden.”
“They’re not letting you in, Scriber Dennon?” Wynne frowned. “It was your idea.”
“No, I… I told you, I don’t want to be part of it, Wynne.” Despite what I said, disappointment still lingered. The short time I had spent studying Adello’s songs in Highpass had stoked a long dead fire inside me; quenching it again was no easy thing. “Korus is right, it would only cause problems.”
“Mother in the Earth, Lark. You’ve somehow found someone with little enough sense to
believe
in you.” Korus sneered at Wynne. “You do know who this man is, don’t you girl? You would be hard pressed to find a Scriber less qualified for the work.”
“Don’t be so hasty, Korus. There’s always you.” Tenille stepped forward, putting herself between me and the Royal Scriber. “Leave off. Dennon hasn’t done anything wrong.” She had no more reason to love Korus than I did; he had been part of a very vocal opposition to her unusual training at the Academy.
He tried to maintain his bravado, but backed away a step at Tenille’s advance. “Tenille. Lady Bryndine does like to surround herself in false Scribers, doesn’t she? That’s hardly a surprise, I suppose—she prefers false soldiers as well.”
There was sibilant sound from behind, metal scraping on leather, and I turned to see Deanyn casually holding her drawn sword in hand. “Don’t mind me, Scriber Korus. Just playing with my false sword.” She tested the edge of the blade against her thumb. “But wait, that’s quite sharp, isn’t it? That can’t be right. We could hurt someone with these.”
Korus went slightly pale at the implication. “I am the Royal Scriber! I won’t be threatened by the likes of you!”
“What about the likes of me?” Orya cracked her knuckles, her wide eyes and wild hair giving her a distinctly unstable air. “Like you said, I’m no lady. I wouldn’t know if it’s good manners or not to hit the Royal Scriber.”
Orya and Deanyn’s show of defiance prompted the support of the other women. Wynne, who I had never thought of as threatening before, glared at Korus with an ire that I hoped never to see turned in my direction. Genna’s timidity evaporated as she clenched her hands into fists. Dark-skinned Leste placed her hand on the hilt of her saber; Debra needed no weapon but her heavily muscled arms to look threatening.
Even those I barely knew came to my defense—I had said no more than two words to Rylene during our travels, but the scowl on her scarred face was chilling as she stepped forward. Only Sylla remained still, but as she glanced between Korus and me, I got the impression that it was only because she couldn’t decide which of us she wanted to hit more.
Korus, finally realizing that these were not women to be trifled with, looked absolutely terrified. He half-turned to leave, then glanced back over his shoulder, opening and closing his mouth as though he couldn’t decide whether to stand his ground, call the guards, or simply bolt. It was priceless.
“That’s enough,” Tenille interceded. “Korus is right, we’d be punished for harming him.”
Masking his relief with arrogance, Korus gave a curt nod. “Yes, quite sever—”
Tenille continued, interrupting the threat. “Of course, a smart man like him must realize that whether or not we were punished, he would still be hurt. A smart man might leave Scriber Dennon alone and go.”
Korus opened his mouth to respond, but Tenille just tipped her head towards Orya and raised an eyebrow. He took another look at the wild-eyed blond woman, clamped his mouth shut, and stomped away in a petulant huff. Snorts of muffled laughter followed him; the women enjoyed his ignoble retreat as much as I did.
But in his absence, I found myself uncomfortable. I hadn’t expected these women to come to my defense so readily, and I didn’t know what to say to them. Embarrassed and awkward, I muttered an unintelligible thanks, avoiding eye-contact, and hurried towards the main gate to leave.
“Dennon, wait.”
I looked over my shoulder to see Deanyn striding after me.
“What is it?” My voice came out more snappish than I’d intended, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Come out with us tonight.”
I was taken aback by the offer. “What? Why?”
“You seem like you could use a drink. Banned from the Old Garden and all.”
“I didn’t want to be part of that,” I insisted, though it rang false in my own ears.
She shrugged. “Come anyway.”
“I—Perhaps. I will think about it.”
Not one to push, Deanyn just gave a simple nod. Her easy manner made it difficult to maintain my embarrassment.
Mustering my courage, I asked her, “Why did you all… do that? Defend me.”
She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t we? We’ve been travelling together for weeks. You’re not bad company on the road. You might be a bit of an ass sometimes, but who isn’t?” She grinned to show she was joking. “And you’ve helped the Captain out a few times; I can count on one hand the people who are willing to do that. I like you. Most of the others feel the same way. Wynne in particular, though your pin might have more to do with that than your personality.”
“Most of the others barely know me,” I objected. “And I
know
that Sylla loathes me.”
“Sylla is a different story.” She looked like she might explain, but instead she just smiled teasingly and said, “In any event, it needn’t be entirely about you. Korus insulted us too.”
Once again, I didn’t know how to respond. Not to the mild accusation of narcissism—which, I was fairly certain, had been said in jest—and certainly not to the admission of affection. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came to mind.
Mercifully, she did not wait for me to say more. “You really should come out with us. You have few enough friends that I’ve seen; I could be one, if only to show you how it’s done.”
I gave her a weak smile. I couldn’t refuse the offer now; she had been kinder to me than I deserved. “I will be there, but I may come late. I have to see the Scriber Registrar here first. Obviously I cannot work out of Waymark any longer, and the Academy will want to know where to collect my dues.” That, at least, gave me an excuse not to spend the entire evening in some run-down tavern.
Just then, the great oaken doors of the Kingshome creaked open, and Deanyn whirled to look. Over her shoulder, I could see Bryndine’s tall form silhouetted in the massive doorway. The women turned towards their Captain as she approached, waiting for news, dreading what it might be.
But I did not have to wait for Bryndine to speak to know the King’s decision; I needed only to look at her. On her face—usually so carefully composed—she wore an expression of absolute despair.
Chapter Fourteen
They say that Bryndine Errynson recruited her company from all corners of the Kingsland, saving many of them from dungeons and stockades, and sometimes even the gallows. I can believe it, though not for the reasons that most do. The truth is, in most baronies, they’d probably clap a woman in irons just for daring to go against the conventions laid out in the Book of the Divide. And the women Bryndine leads do no small amount of that.
Sky and Earth, people can be so stupid.
— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark
It was near sunset when I finally arrived at the Doused Tree; after leaving the Scriber Registrar, it took me more than an hour to find the place among the mess of roads in the Commoncourt. It looked much like any other dilapidated building in the Commoncourt, but I knew it by the sign outside: a flagon of ale upended over a flaming tree. There was no doubt it was the tavern Orya had named.
The tavern was lively that night. Even from the street, I could hear the sounds of drunken revelry within. No surprise, that—by its poor lighting and general state of disrepair, I assumed it to be the sort of low-price, low-standard place that would make great profit from the refugees coming into the city. Even the poorest and most wretched of those living in the tents beyond the walls would part with their coin for a stiff drink; it let them forget their dire situation, if only for a night. I was not overly eager to spend the evening in such a place, but I felt obliged to at least make a brief appearance.
At least I was arriving late. It would be easier to excuse myself given the hour.
Bryndine’s women had already claimed three tables and were well into their cups when I entered. The other patrons gave them a wide berth, watching them with sideways glances full of suspicion, but the women didn’t seem to care. The entire company was there as far as I could tell, and their attitudes were surprisingly buoyant, given that they had been officially discharged from the Army hours before. The drinking may have had something to do with that—the tables were littered with empty flagons.