Mordraud, Book One (42 page)

Mordraud
had no need for a pause to think. He already knew what to ask for.

“
My brother would like to study. He’s heard about this man, Saiden...” The tension had steered Mordraud to gesticulating again, while his voice was racing wildly. “He doesn’t live in Cambria! He’s not an enemy. But to be able to study under him, he requires... a letter of recommendation. Perhaps if you could write a few lines...”

Mordraud
didn’t mention the money also necessary. He wanted to see to that on his own. It would be humiliating to beg gold allotted to Eldain’s cause.

“
I know Saiden,” Eldain replied, nodding slowly. “Not well, but I’ve met him a couple of times. An inscrutable man. He descends from a family of chanters from Cambria, even if he’s never lived there. He’s been passing through here regularly in recent years. He comes to buy food supplies, and he also drops in to ask how the war’s progressing. He doesn’t seem especially friendly towards Cambria, but isn’t our direct supporter either. He never sides with anyone. But more importantly... I also know of a few noblemen who’ve tried to send their sons as pupils. What does he charge, quite a lot?”

“
That’s not a problem,” Mordraud responded with a confident air. “I just require the letter.”

“
You’re a proud lad, aren’t you?! Okay, we’ll settle for a letter. I’ll draw it up straight away. But now it’s your turn... Tell me it all again, bit by bit. And don’t skip the details – they’re the best part of any story.”

Eldain
selected a clean piece of parchment, took a pot of ink, and began writing. Mordraud swallowed a deep breath and set about telling the tale of the battle again. But however long he might have waited to finally give all the details, about every single man he’d killed with his own hands, the wounded, the teeth knocked out, the arms chopped off... he couldn’t manage it. Until that moment, standing out before Eldain’s eyes had been his sole objective. But the elderly nobleman’s words had shattered all his ambitions as a great brave and invincible soldier.

***

She had no more books to read. The tales, stories and fables she had consumed in her urgent leafing through the pages had lost all their appeal. Mordraud alone had been capable of stirring her interest, reading to her during the long monotonous days. And now that he was no longer in the house, at the ready to indulge her every whim, her reality had lost its core. The bread was staler, the wine more watery. The air, the books, her dreams, everything... The world had grown opaque. The light was waning.

Adraman
had been a good pretext, while it had lasted. Deanna knew only one method enabling her to feel something for him: to quarrel with all the rage she had in her body. To empty herself. Only then could she let herself go, with no more resistance, to what life had in store for her. She had to overcome her pride, wear it down, suffocate it, before she could stand even a single caress. Fantasising about Mordraud had made things a little easier. But it was no longer enough.

It was one of those nights whe
n she knew sleep would never come. A rare moment of clarity amidst an endless chain of foggy days. Deanna was aware that most of her suffering was conjured up by her mind. The life she led was exceptionally better than that of all the other women in Eld. A kind attentive husband. A beautiful house. Riches – more than she could wish for.

But
.

All her
torment was condensed into many
but
s.

‘
I have a good husband.
But
he’s never home, and he comes close to getting killed every day. But he’s old. But he’s not the passionate man I’ve always dreamt of.’

‘
I have a lovely house, but it’s empty, and has no heart. It’s not mine. It doesn’t belong to me.’

‘
I have money and comfort, but I don’t know how to use them. My family made sure I could want for nothing, but they ditched me in this flea-ridden fiefdom.’

She could have gone on for hours,
but that was one of the rare nights when she could finally look at things through slightly detached eyes, without losing her head. Mordraud had left, as was right should happen. A boy, a war foundling. That’s all he was. A pastime she’d clung onto for too long. Unfortunately for her, the pastime had swelled to become dangerously enticing. But she could get over it, one night at a time.

Bursts of c
larity in a restless and hazy sea.

‘
When Adraman’s home next time, I’ll tell him everything. I know I can do it,” she muttered to herself, absent-mindedly thumbing the pages of the book that was once her favourite –
Faraway Songs on the
Horizon.
Mordraud was brilliant at acting it out.

‘
I’ll tell him, and convince him to stay home with me. So he doesn’t set off again. I have to make up for the lost time. Yes... I can manage it.’

‘
There’s still hope...’

***

The night was too long to be wasted between the sheets. The air was still heavy with the smells of the battlefield, evoked and relived in Eldain’s company in the Great Hall. He had never felt so foolish, boastful and infantile. A few words from the old man, his gaze, his experience and the wisdom exuding from every wrinkle on his face were enough to make the younger man feel small and petty. How could he get excited at the idea of proudly narrating how and how many people he’d slain in a single day? Why had he found it amusing? Where had he gone wrong?

Mordraud
wandered around the fiefdom driven by contrasting desires. His feet steered him in one direction. His head, instead, struggled to drag him to bed, pursuing long-deserved rest. A pointless effort. In the end, all the fief’s roads would nevertheless lead him there – to within a pace or two of the door he already knew he’d find open. Adrina never locked the entrance to the kitchens. And his pocket still held the key to the gate at the rear – the only key he had with him.

The house was steeped in
silence. He didn’t know what he hoped to find at that hour. He wouldn’t have had the courage to cross the threshold in broad daylight, but it was a different thing at night.

A
covered dish was still on the stove that had gone out. Breadcrumbs were scattered around it – a sign old habits were still alive. Mordraud went into the hall and over to the stairs. At the top, on the floor above, flickering candlelight traced out the shape of a door. The library. Deanna’s lounge.

The handle
squeezed down with a faint squeak. She was still awake, her head bowed over a novel he had read to her many a time. One of their favourites. Mordraud felt like the worst of thieves.

“
Deanna...”

She startle
d with a muffled cry, and jolted round. She could only make out a dark shape looming in the shadows. Mordraud entered and shut the door behind him.

“
I wanted to see you before leaving.”

“
You...”

She was beautiful. Dreadfully beautiful. Much more
so than in his memories, far better than in his fantasies. The candle irradiated a red glow that tinged her cheeks and eyes with fine wavering flames. Her raven hair was the essence of fire. Fragile. Like porcelain. Mordraud bent over her and, before all else in the world, kissed her.

‘
Reject me, please! Send me away.’

“
You’re a bastard.”

Deanna
turned her face, but only for a moment. Just long enough to look him in the eye. To see the boy who’d become a man. To let him grasp how much he’d hurt her. Mordraud was struck by the blow, but didn’t stop.

‘
Tell me to go!’ he thought, angrily.

“
You deserted me,” she murmured, without interrupting the kissing. “You left...”

Mordraud
hoisted her from the chair. Her naked legs around his pelvis. Her bosom pressing on his chest. He held her up without any effort. His body had grown at an inhuman rate. But his mind was still the same as when he’d set out for the war.

“
You’re injured... You could have died. You left me alone...”

Mordraud
pressed her against the wall, between the window where they’d often sat reading and the small balcony overlooking the courtyard. His hand slid beneath the dark blue dress he’d fantasised over many a night.

“
You’re a rotten bastard, Mordraud.”

She kissed him with agon
ising force. Claws of nails ran over the cuts on his neck and cheeks. She wanted to open up his wounds, feel the blood on her fingers, maul him. To rip him to shreds. And Mordraud was ready to accept it.

He
’d fought. Risked his life. Slain innocent and guilty men. He thought back to Eldain’s wife and son. To how the leader had lost everything. Yes, Deanna was right. He was a bastard. But that night wouldn’t slip away like all the others. He wanted to journey to the depths. And touch them, to then rise up stronger than before.

‘
Stop me, please...’

Deanna
’s hands groped for his belt. His trousers fell to the floor. Her smooth legs clasped around him in a burning embrace. Mordraud gripped her hips and pushed, first tentatively, then swelling in urgency. She moaned, a breath from his mouth. Their eyes never left each other. Deanna guided him, moving at her rhythm. He didn’t know what he was doing. He was learning with each new thrust. The pleasure was a brutal lash. Mordraud crushed her against the wall when he came, clutching at her so as not to flounder. The candle flame flourished and then went out.

“
Don’t leave...”

They
observed each other in the dark for a long moment. The smell of Deanna’s skin. Floral and sweet, of something closed up in a cramped box for too long. ‘I’ll stay here,’ Mordraud thought. ‘I’ll stay with her, and that’s that.’

But
the depths had been plumbed. An instant later, he’d left the room.

He
’d fought. Risked his life. Slain innocent and guilty men.

He
’d killed The Stranger. He’d killed his father.

And
now, he’d betrayed a friend.

***

The camp had remained as it was on the day of his departure. A month or so had passed but it seemed like a morning. The slightly injured had recovered. The seriously wounded had died. New recruits had come from every corner of the region, driven by the wave of pride and patriotism the Battle of Fire had sparked among the people. Cambria had not attacked again, not there, nor at any other point along the front. Winter would soon be with them, sealing forever that year, 1635, as one of the best for the Alliance of the East.

Adraman
was sitting on the Rampart, busy giving orders to the labourers reinforcing the wall where the Empire’s assault had hit hardest. The skies were tinged with the colours of sunset. Mordraud sat down beside him and dangled his legs down the side of the Rampart. The odourless air was chilly and biting.

“
Everything alright at home?”

“
Yes, the people celebrated for days after news of the victory.”

Adraman
took two identical pipes from a leather case. Simple and straight, with no adornment, and carved from a smooth dark wood.

“
Like a smoke?”

Mordraud
had never tried. He took the pipe and awkwardly copied the cavalryman in the delicate art of filling the chamber. “My father taught me to press the tobacco, not too tight nor too loose. Use your index finger, and if you can’t manage it, then your little finger. Well done, that’s it...” Adraman observed him with the pipe in his hands. He was both a boy and a man. A shadow of new beard that couldn’t decide whether to grow, with smooth skin browned by the sun.

He could be
taken as being Deanna’s age, he thought, wondering how it was possible.

With a confident movement,
Adraman struck the flint block and lit the first shreds of tobacco. Mordraud did the same, but had to try many times before succeeding. Once the bowls were glowing, they puffed their first mouthfuls of white smoke together.

“
The flavour’s good...” whispered Mordraud, choked by a cough, “but it’s very strong.”

“
This is evening tobacco. It seems strong because you’re not used to it. It’s aromatised with slivers of orange peel and a dash of malt liqueur. I made it myself.”

Adraman se
emed calm, far more than usual. Mordraud had wondered countless times whether he should tell him the truth, but had never managed to entirely convince himself. The sunset was pleasant, and smoking and watching the works on the Rampart was pleasant. He couldn’t bring himself to ruin everything. He didn’t want to lose Adraman before even getting to know him.

“
I’d never smoked a pipe before.”

“
Like it?”

“
Yeah, I really like it.”

Adraman
stayed silent for a good while, enjoying the full flavour of the tobacco. Instead, Mordraud had to relight his. Sometimes he drew on it too much, others too little.