Duty (Book 2) (15 page)

“Well,
Lord
Blackshire, they have obviously not schooled your peasant mind enough in the matters of Rhugothian Court. I had to learn all the silly rules, and so should you! You were invited to the party by the Chalaine herself and yet you left to play a little game. Protocol dictates that you be here to present a gift for the Chalaine at least, if not for the Ha’Ulrich! Did you forget to bring one or did you just wish to snub the Court?”

Mirelle, face concerned, broke her conversation with Regent Ogbith and approached the gathering. Silence fell at the Ha’Ulrich’s words.

“I do have a gift for the Chalaine,” Gen said. “My gift to you is to keep your bride safe.”

“Then let’s see your gift for my fiancé!” Chertanne prompted. “We are all curious.”

“I will give it to her later.”

“So you did forget, then,” Chertanne teased.

“I have it.”

“Then out with it, man!”

Those nearby voiced their encouragement and approval, and Gen was dismayed to see the greater part of the remaining attendees gathering around the dais upon noticing the commotion.

“It’s all right, Gen,” the Chalaine said expectantly. “You can give it to me.”

He had no choice now, and he reluctantly drew forth his gift from his coat pocket. The nobles gasped disdainfully. Gen held an unremarkable smooth stone, flat and egg-shaped, dangling from a woven thong. Just a hint of bluish-green tinted its surface. Chertanne laughed out loud in derision, and Gen saw disappointment on Mirelle’s face. He could only guess at what the Chalaine felt.

“Let me explain,” Gen said loudly, trying to get everyone’s attention.

“Yes, please explain!” Chertanne said. “Did it cost a tin piece at a street merchant’s booth? I think the Chalaine will get along nicely with the necklace she has.”

“It is an Ial Stone,” Gen answered.

“And, pray, what is that?” Chertanne asked snobbishly.

“It is elven craft.” Gen spun at Maewen’s voice, watching her approach as she came in through the kitchen. Her travel stained clothing and unkempt hair set her apart from the nobles all around her, but so powerful was her presence that even the most nattering of propriety-mongers said nothing. Maewen came forward and retrieved the stone from Gen’s hand.

“It is very well crafted,” she announced after examining it. Those close by ‘oohed’ as the stone changed to the color of her hand, and those who could not see craned for a better look.

“What does it do?” the Chalaine asked. “Is it magical?” Gen opened his mouth to explain, but Maewen jumped in ahead of him, and he realized the half-elf thought he knew nothing of it.

“It is not. It is completely natural. It is not precisely a stone, either. It is made by collecting the sap from an Ial tree, what humans know as the frost pine. You add various herbs and spices to it, as well as the secretion from the Elne bird, which gives it the color-changing properties. The sap hardens over the space of few weeks into something nearly as hard as stone that can then be carved into a variety of shapes. The thong is woven from the bark of a fragrant Rail bush, which is worked until it is as soft as silk. While watching it change colors is interesting,” Maewen moved it over her green cloak and the sleeve of the Chalaine’s blue dress as demonstration, “its chief virtue is its smell, and not just from the bark. Hold the stone enclosed in your hand for a few seconds, Chalaine.” She complied. “Now smell.”

The Chalaine put the stone underneath her veil and sniffed while the assembly waited for her verdict.

“It is delightful!” she exclaimed.

“If you wear it close to your skin,” Maewen continued, “the warmth of your body will release the smell constantly. Where did you get this, Gen? This craft hasn’t been seen in over two hundred years.”

“I . . . made it,” Gen explained haltingly. “I realized that all the elements needed could be found within the Castle walls—the Chapel gardens, mostly.”

Maewen furrowed her brow in skepticism and curiosity. A question came to her lips, but a group of nobles swarmed around the Chalaine, asking for a smell or to watch it turn colors. It took a forceful demand from Mirelle several minutes later to break up the throng. As part of his new security measures, Athan ordered the Chalaine safely quartered precisely at the start of Gen’s watch. Mirelle and Regent Ogbith cornered Maewen as Gen helped the Chalaine out of the door and into the hall.

“I am sorry Chertanne was baiting you again,” she said, warming the stone in her hand and smelling it, “though, as usual, it turned to his detriment. I wish Kaimas would return. Chertanne was almost tolerable while he was here.”

Gen nodded. “I am sorry if I offended you by not staying around for the Presentation.”

She sighed. “I forgive you. It is terribly tedious. I wish I could have watched your ‘little game.’ The nobles and even aristocracy certainly found numerous excuses to ascend the east balcony. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in need of fresh air.”

“I assume Chertanne gifted you the diamond necklace, then?”

“No. That was Dason. It was one of the crown jewels of Tolnor. It must have been quite a feat to get it out of the country.”

“Impressive. What about Chertanne’s gift?”

“The statues,” the Chalaine said, tone disparaging. “Why did you not come to find me after your ‘work’ with my strangely behaving mother?”

“I did, but you were busy.”

“I was?”

“Yes. You were dancing.”

“You should have waited. I had hoped to dance with you.”

“You were happy with your partner at the time.”

“Dason?”

“Yes.”

“That man has an insatiable appetite for dancing. He quite exhausted me.”

“For a dancing companion,” Gen commented, “you could certainly do worse.”

“And I certainly did on a couple of occasions, which is where I needed you to step in and save me,” the Chalaine said, stopping in front of her door.

“I offer another apology for my dereliction of duty.”

“I would accept it, if I thought you were sincere,” the Chalaine responded. Before he could protest, she quickly added, “I want to ask what inspired you to craft this for me?”

“I know you worry a great deal and have difficulty sleeping,” Gen explained. “I sense you pacing the floors late in the night. The scent of the Ial Stone is said to soothe the mind and relax the body, so I thought it might help. Wear it next to your skin as you sleep and breathe deeply.”

The Chalaine slipped it over her head and dropped the stone underneath her dress.

“Sleep well, Your Grace,” Gen said, inclining his head. As he straightened, the Chalaine put her hand on his cheek and held his eyes for a moment.

“Thank you, Gen,” she said. “You are very thoughtful. For a man. Goodnight.”

The Chalaine closed the door behind her and removed her veil. To her horror, both statues gifted to her by Chertanne stood at the foot of her bed. No doubt her mother had ordered them delivered as a joke. Sighing, she removed Dason’s rich gift from around her neck and fastened it around the neck of her stone likeness.

After reading for a few hours, she drifted off to the sweet evergreen scent of the Ial Stone, and for the first time in weeks had a deep and dreamless sleep.

“I have placed many protections upon the wagon,” Ethris explained, proudly pointing out the details of his work. Gen examined the runes, etched silver and black into the dark wood, wondering at the purpose of each. The Chalaine, Jaron, Mirelle and Cadaen stood nearby as Ethris lectured on about how the wagon could withstand crushing, burning, and magical attacks of several varieties.

Despite the impressive charms laid upon it, it was simply built, a dark wooden box on wheels. The craftsmen, acting on very specific designs from Regent Ogbith and Ethris, used oak wood the thickness of a hand and studded with iron bands to construct what most nearly resembled a prison wagon. Barred, narrow slits, one on each of the four sides, provided the only ventilation and light.

It had been constructed in a large outbuilding used for storage. Servants had worked through the early winter to clear and clean the large room, and the craftsmen had started their work as the snow fell deep. Today, servants of all varieties bustled about, loading wagons or preparing the four powerful black horses that would pull the heavy monstrosity. The dust kicked up by their stirring converted the diffuse morning sunlight into well-defined, slanted shafts from high windows to the floor. Summer approached, and the time to undertake the long journey to Elde Luri Mora had come.

“Now,” Ethris continued, as happy and enthusiastic as Gen had ever seen him, “what you may not realize is that the lock upon the door is only visible to those that have the brand. All others will be blind to it. Quite the feat, really. I will give one key to Gen and the other to Jaron, who will have sole charge over entry to and exit from the wagon while on their watches. Even if they were to be killed, however, the enemy would see nothing to place the key in!”

“What if both Jaron and I are slain and dragged off with our keys?” Gen asked. “Is there any way to open the wagon in that circumstance?”

“I can open it with magic,” Ethris replied.

“And what if you’re dead, too?” Jaron asked before Gen could.

Ethris stroked his chin, face perplexed.

“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Mirelle filled in during Ethris’s contemplation. “If you three are dead, it will likely be better the Chalaine not get out. Let’s get the Chalaine’s things in the wagon and get the horses hitched. We leave in an hour. The parade will slow us down, and we are already late.”

Mirelle left, Cadaen—and a still pensive Ethris mumbling to himself—trailing behind. Normally Gen would use the morning to sleep, but the First Mother had asked him to sit atop the Chalaine’s wagon during their crawl through Mikmir so the people could see him. Gen didn’t want to do it, but he acquiesced at Mirelle’s insistence.

“I wonder what could be keeping Fenna?” the Chalaine thought aloud. “She was supposed to meet us here for Ethris’s exposition about the wagon. Do you know where she is, Gen?”

“Yes, Holiness,” Gen replied. “The First Mother asked her to ensure that the bard Geoff was taken care of. He arrived from Tenswater last night.”

“Why did Fenna get chosen for that particular duty?” the Chalaine asked.

“As she made me understand it,” Gen continued, “the bard requested her specifically. He wanted to talk with someone close to the Chalaine and somehow knew of her. What his purpose could be, I do not know.”

The Chalaine nodded. “Geoff has played here several times. Quite good. He is familiar with the members of the Rhugothian court—and all others, I suspect. No doubt he remembered Fenna was my handmaiden.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a skinny, tall young man looking firmly and determinedly at the floor. He held a small chest in his arms.

“H-h-h-holiness? I have the first of your things. I, um, I was told to put them inside the chest in the w-w-agon, if you, well, of course not you, of course, but someone could let me in?”

The Chalaine smiled and tilted his head up with her hand. “What is your name?”

“I, well, my name is Rolf, your Grace,” he managed after a shocked silence and a great deal of blushing.

“I thank you for carrying that down. Gen is not on duty and will open the wagon for you. I would like to get a look inside myself.”

Gen unlocked the door quickly, hoping to spare Rolf as much discomfort as he could. The inside of the carriage did little to recommend itself to any occupant. A chest sat on the floor at the far end of the dark interior, and nothing of art or craft had been worked into the design to cheer a potential rider. Rolf clambered inside and started transferring the contents of the smaller chest into the larger one.

The Chalaine stared inside for a moment, hands on her hips. “Help me up, Gen. I want to get a look at my new accommodations.”

Gen proffered her a hand, but the wagon was tall enough that he had to practically lift her into it. She inspected the inside, knocking on the wood and staring out the barred slits in the walls.

“Leave it to Regent Ogbith to design a wagon. Am I being protected or punished? I don’t think I’ll even have enough light to read at full noon! I won’t even mention how hot it will get in here.”

Despite her complaints, Gen could sense her excitement at finally undertaking a journey that would lead her outside the confines of the castle. Her mood had gradually improved since the end of winter, and he thought it due to her anticipation of the road and adventure.

“And where were my Protectors when this was crafted? Surely this is something I need protected from? By the time I get to Elde Luri Mora, I shall probably be little more than cured meat. If they put any salt in here, I shall be sure of it.”

“We regret our negligence, Highness,” Jaron apologized. “We should have inspected the wagon sooner.”

The Chalaine turned back toward them. “I was only kidding, Jaron, though if you could cut a few more windows into this without Ethris noticing, I would be grateful.”

“I’m afraid Ethris will notice every scratch, Holiness,” Gen said. “I’m sure in the event of an attack he will check to make sure you are safe very soon after checking the wagon.”

Jaron cracked a rare smile and the Chalaine laughed. She ran a finger along one of the runes on the doorframe. “I hope I am worthy of a wagon that can resist hail, lightning, and battering rams while never becoming soiled.”

“It is with the wagon as it is with all other things,” Gen joked. “Of all that is good about the wagon, you are worthy. Of all that is bad, you are most undeservedly afflicted.”

The Chalaine was about to say something when Rolf cleared his throat to indicate he was ready to get out of the wagon. The Chalaine turned to see where he was, and as she did her foot slipped from the edge and she fell. Gen caught her before she hit the ground, spinning to keep his balance and to redirect the momentum.

“Are you all right?” Gen asked.

“Of course. Unhand me, knave,” the Chalaine teased, and set her feet on the ground. For a several minutes they were subjected to every variation of apology Rolf had at his disposal, some bordering on actual eloquence. Despite the Chalaine explaining that he was guiltless, he would not relent or leave until she explicitly forgave him twice.

The rest of the loading—consisting mostly of clothes, cushions, and blankets— took little time as the Chalaine only wished to bring but few of her possessions. Pureman Obard arrived with a small stack of books for her and bid her farewell. Fenna came soon after, the bard Geoff at her side.

Geoff was much younger than Gen expected, in appearance not even thirty. Large hazel eyes sparkled on a lightly tanned face framed by shoulder length hair the color of straw. The corners of his mouth seemed permanently pegged upward, and so cheery was his demeanor that he practically bounced at every step. As he talked with Fenna, his gestures were as broad as they were lively.

His clothes evidenced his success at his craft, a fine green coat with golden buttons and yellow hose, accented by a green cap complete with the feather of some exotic bird. He and Fenna had just shared some joke together, and they were laughing as they entered. Gen felt a stab of jealousy. Both genuflected before the Chalaine.

“Chalaine,” Fenna introduced, “I believe you are familiar with Geoff of Tolnor, master bard.”

“I am. Welcome. We are glad to have your considerable talents with us on this journey. I’m sure you will make the long miles more enjoyable.”

Geoff bowed again, flourishing his yellow cape and bending to the point where his elbow nearly touched the top of highly polished black shoes with pointed tips curling upward.

“It is my honor to entertain and to chronicle this historic event. I couldn’t have been less deserving or more blessed to garner such a position! That the rest of the world will see the event through my eyes is a weighty responsibility, but I am so overcome with gratitude that I feel it not. I assure you, that I will strive to be accurate and not exaggerate. I hope you will not mind if I ask you some questions from time to time?”

“Certainly not, master bard,” the Chalaine replied.

“Excellent. And you must be Lord Blackshire? Correct? Hard to miss a face like that.”

“I am.”

“I have so many questions to ask you, I hardly know where to begin!” Geoff said. “Winning the Trials, slaying Cormith, battling the demon! I feel a song coming on every time I think of it! And besides all that, the Lady Fairedale informs me that you were but a winter away from starting your life as a journeyman bard! From songs to swords! What a story that must be! I insist that you sing with me some time. Fenna says you have a delightful voice.”

“Lady Fairedale is too kind,” Gen said. “I would certainly be a frog in the swans’ pond singing next to you, if your reputation is of any substance.”

“You are too modest, I’m sure. Have you heard him sing, Chalaine?”

“I have not, though I would like to.”

“That settles it then, for you cannot ignore the wish of the Lady,” Geoff concluded. “We shall have a song from you before this journey’s over. Well, the lovely Lady Fairedale is to show me what my accommodations are, Chalaine, before she returns to your service. I could hardly be blessed with fairer company or a finer day to be in it. Are those plans acceptable to you, Holiness?”

“That will be fine," the Chalaine agreed. We should leave soon, however, so do not be over long. I would have Fenna with me so I may have some company in my cage.”

“Excellent!” Geoff said. “I look forward to speaking to you again. Chalaine, Lord Blackshire, Jaron.” He bowed and extended an arm to escort Fenna. Before they had taken four steps, Geoff had Fenna laughing again.

“No offense to either of you,” the Chalaine stated matter-of-factly, “but that is a handsome man.”

The swinging open of the large wooden doors of the building filled the silence that fell after the Chalaine’s comment. Mirelle, sidesaddle on a beautiful black horse, led a riderless horse of the same color. Cadaen gripped the reins of the animal, leading it toward Gen.

“Did you see Geoff, my daughter?” Mirelle asked. “Gorgeous man! Quite the talker.”

“I had just commented the same to Jaron and Gen.”

“So how did
you two
find the bard?” Mirelle asked Jaron and Gen as she dismounted.

Gen glanced at Jaron.

“He had bright clothes,” Jaron said, flatly.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Gen concurred. The First Mother glanced from one to the other, expecting further comment.

“I see,” she said. “A little jealous, perhaps?”

“Not at all,” Gen answered quickly. “We only fear that with men about such as Dason, Kimdan, and now Geoff, only the scraps of womanhood will be left to squander their love upon us, especially as we are afflicted with a persistent case of ugly. What say you, Jaron?”

“Speak for yourself, lad,” Jaron said. “I’ve won the heart of a barmaid at the
Quickblade—you know, the sickly widow with three children and crooked teeth?”

“Oh, right,” Gen replied. “Does she have a sister?” Mirelle and the Chalaine laughed, Cadaen grinning behind.

“Well, Lord Blackshire,” the First Mother said, coming close and throwing Gen a sultry look, “if the barmaid’s sister doesn’t work out to your satisfaction, you always have me.”

Gen swallowed hard and forced himself to smile in return.

“Mother!”

“Merely teasing, Chalaine. Gen, I have changed my mind. I wish you to ride beside me behind the wagon. Crescent is a gentle horse and you should find him to your liking.”