Sighing audibly, Catrain crossed her room, a
well-worn path marked through the dust and dirt from where her feet traveled
for the past hour since the sun peeked over the horizon and flooded her room
with golden light. That early in the morning, it was atrocious. Yet there
proved little she could do to smother it before her body adjusted to the
prospect of day and, despite the sleep lingering in her eyes, and forced her to
awaken.
Flynn confused her. He posed an enigma, a puzzle
demanding to be solved. Something about him failed to add up, and she sensed
something about him of which she unsuccessfully named. His story rang true, but
she knew he omitted much of it. She never thought well remaining in one place.
So she began to walk back and forth from the window to the opposite wall, a
path she now traversed with her eyes closed and her thoughts elsewhere.
Why
Corrthaine? Why run to Lord Joran? Why would Lord Joran accept him and promote
him to his right hand for that matter? The answers she sought, no matter how many times
she turned them over in her head, eluded her. More than once, out of sheer
frustration, she punched the wall, the pain exploding across her bruised
knuckles offering momentary clarity and an escape from the thoughts cycling in
and out of her mind in a ceaseless tirade of images and connections that never
yielded more information than what she already possessed.
She swiveled hard on her heel near the inner wall
next to the grate above the floor.
“Cat, are you pacing?” Muriel’s muffled voice
wafted between the walls.
“Nay,” her footsteps stopped. “Aye.” They resumed
again.
A groan sounded from the next room
along with the muted whump of a body
falling back against a mountain of pillows. “You will wear a hole through the
floor, and then where will you be?”
The princess smirked. “One floor
below, I suppose.”
Another groan, louder this time, and
Catrain snickered behind her sleeve.
“Cat.”
Startling at the closeness of Muriel’s voice, she
wheeled about and stared at the grate, which Muriel’s unamused, sleep-laden
face filled almost entirely, her temple pressed against the floor stones. Catrain
dropped to her knees and crawled to the grate, laying on her stomach on the ground
with her chin resting on her hands.
“When did you and Oliver plan for us to meet with
Morfael?”
“Mid-morning.”
Catrain nodded. “I have a few questions for
Skandar that I hoped to ask of him before.”
One of Muriel’s dark brows arched with curiosity.
“Of what nature?”
“Tiem nobility,” she sighed and rubbed the heels
of her palms against of her eyes until sparks of light appeared amidst the
blackness. “It is rather boring, actually. While in the dungeons, Flynn
mentioned his childhood in Tiem, and I wondered…”
“It poses an intriguing coincidence if he and
Skandar are somehow connected.”
“Coincidence or a divine plan? Personally I choose
to believe in the latter.”
“Alright, you piqued my curiosity,” Muriel scooted
closer to the grate.
“You are welcome to accompany me if you wish.”
Muriel beamed and lifted herself off the floor.
Catrain heard footsteps walking away from her as her friend called back, “Allow
me to dress and I shall meet you in the hall.”
Popping onto her knees, and then to her feet,
Catrain discarded her night clothes and tossed a dress over her head, pulled
her hair into a loose plait that hung down her shoulders, and waited outside
her chambers for another minute before Muriel emerged. Together, they strolled
down the walkway and stopped before Skandar’s door.
Glancing over her shoulder, Catrain noted the
sunlight streaming through the iron-lattice window and knew that Skandar was
more than likely awake. She knocked, and at a welcome shout hollered from
within, they entered.
They blinked as their eyes adjusted to the
darkness. Skandar sat with his back facing the window, over which hung a thick
blanket that dampened most of the sunlight. All the candles, misshapen sticks
of lumpen wax and sitting on metal holders, had long-since cooled and likely not
tasted the consuming bite of the fire since the night before.
"Skandar, how are you?"
Grimacing, he rubbed his sore arm. "According
to the physician, I fare better than I did yesterday. Thank you for
asking."
“He visited you already?”
“Earlier this morning, aye.”
Moving to the window, Muriel began to pull aside
the blanket, a crack of light shining on Skandar’s face.
Sharp needles of pain stabbed Skandar behind his
eyes. “Leave it!” he barked, his hands flying to shield his eyes, and she froze.
“Sorry,” he apologized softly, “Alasdair believes the fever weakened my eyes,
making them sensitive to light. He believes it will pass as I recover.”
After dropping the blanket back in place and
returning the chamber to darkness, Muriel sat on the edge of the bed and touched
his shoulder gently, wary of his wound. “Still, if it persists—”
“You will be the first to know,” he promised,
flashing her a quick, but genuine smile. Skandar’s gaze shifted past Muriel and
combed Catrain, taking in her weary face, plaited hair with wisps framing her
head like a halo, and the simple dress that fit her too loosely before focusing
on her hands, more specifically, her fingers, which she fidgeted with.
His vision narrowed. Does she mean to kill me? Paranoia seeped in, wrapping its cold
tendrils around his bones, and his vision threatening to gray. Now, while I remain in a weakened state?
Was that the reason for meeting Flynn in the middle of the night?
"You wished to inquire something of me?"
He guessed, pushing aside the doubts lest she note his hesitation and perceive
his innermost thoughts.
"Aye, I did."
Idiot, he berated, she extends her hand in friendship and you
see nothing but a cloaked dagger. Skandar sat up and mustered a smile, patting
the edge of the bed near his legs. "Sit," he offered, and she
complied. "I've been dying for someone to ask me something other than how feel,
or what I wish to eat, or treating me as an invalid."
"Well I can assure you,” her mouth tugged
into a smug grin, “you will not receive any coddling from me."
Amused, Skandar chuckled, then instantly regretted
it as the action sent needles of pain stabbing through him. When the spasm
passed, he propped himself up once more and turned an attentive ear to Catrain,
who stared at him with concern. Rising, Muriel strode to the pitcher on the
bedside table and poured a mug of water which he accepted gladly.
"Thank you,” he smiled at her when he
regained his breath. “Go on,” he urged Catrain eagerly after sipping the drink
and tasting instant relief. “Make your query; I am well."
"If you are certain," she folded her
hands in her lap, fidgeting with her fingers nervously. "Who were the
higher families in Tiem? And what of the nobility? Do you remember?"
This
concerns Flynn. I knew it. He suppressed the ire roiling in his stomach, wetted his
suddenly dry mouth again, and scrunched his face in concentration, mentally
compiling a list of names and people he saw regularly at market and counting on
his fingers. "Well, Lord Joran presided over the shire, but his Steward,
Bernard oversaw his personal lands in his absence. Since Peter and Elaine owned
their land instead of slaving over his, we hardly ever dealt with Bernard.
Fawkes, the sheriff," an involuntary shudder rippled through him, "we
encountered more often. One could easily mistake him for the lord of the
manor,” he added under his breath, disdain evident in his bitter tone. “The thanes
were," he listed several names, folding down a finger for each of them, in
addition to those for Bernard and Fawkes, until only two remained.
"Merchants traveled through, but never stayed long. Craftsman we had too,
but none I recall off hand."
"Did any of them by chance have a son? A few
years older than you at the most...?" She asked hopefully.
"Oliver, obviously."
Frowning, she folded her arms across her chest and
glared at him. "Besides Oliver."
"Cat, it was only in jest."
She smirked.
"Well then, Bernard was old, his wife too. Far
past the age to bear children.
“So their son, providing they had one, would be Sir
Reuben's age or older.”
“Aye,” Skandar concurred, “Most of the thanes who
married were too young to have a son the age you say. And Fawkes," he spat
the name like acidic poison, "was the last person to have a child let
alone love it."
Something that Flynn said in the dungeon struck
Catrain as odd in that moment, and she pondered, Flynn described his father as loving, caring for both him and his
mother. Yet he never joined them in Tir O Niwl unless...
"What about illegitimate children?"
Skandar scoffed, "If one conceived a child
out of wedlock, I do not believe it would be common knowledge. Tiem was a
relatively private community; people never questioned what you did not say. If
a father acknowledged his bastard within the confines of his home, tongues would
not wag unless permitted."
“Sounds lovely,” she mused.
“They were silent out of fear,” he stated,
unceremoniously ending her daydream. “The nobles maintained a tight grip on the
common folk, even those not directly subject to them. We feared stepping out of
line, else we suddenly discover ourselves indebted in some manner to them and
forced to repay them more than what we needed to survive.”
"How did I not know this? All this time and I
was never aware of the happenings of my own country," she sighed, then
voiced a new idea, "Did any of them die? The nobles, I mean."
Skandar scratched an itch beneath his hair, then
stilled and answered somberly, "One thane died in the first bought of the
Plague, the wave which stole my mother; the second, coming a decade later,
killed another thane, a couple knights in the sheriff’s manor, and Sheriff
Fawkes himself succumbed eventually."
"I see," she muttered glumly.
"Why the sudden curiosity, Cat?" he
asked, although he knew the answer already. Flynn.
Rising from her seat, she smoothed her skirt and
shrugged, "No reason. As you said, it was merely curiosity."
"Then why do I sense you concealing
something? Come, Cat, do you not trust me?" he prodded.
“Do you not harbor secrets of your own?” one of
her eyebrows raised condescendingly. "I suspected so. But if all reveals
itself the way I believe it might, we may have one more ally than we thought. For
the time being, rest, Skandar," she advised, "You must be hale and fit
to continue your quest." Silently, she added, Both of them.
She was nearly out the door when she turned and
poked her head into the room. “We planned to meet with Morfael in two hours.”
“And you hoped I would join you for moral
support?”
“We hoped you would join us because you are a
member of our company. A critical one, at that.”
“If that be the case, I shan’t miss it,” he
winked, but felt no mirth inside as his mind roved to find the connection around
which Catrain’s questions revolved before she produced it. He yearned to be one
step ahead, to maintain at least a semblance of advantage in one miniscule
area. To know his enemy entailed knowing Flynn, and already, Catrain ran far
ahead of him. But he resolved to catch up. To catch up and to defeat Flynn
before they turned against him.
Feigning another coughing spasm, he assured them
that he only required rest and promised to see them soon and in better
condition than the present. When they departed, he leaned back and retreated
into his thoughts when the answer he knew all along struck him. “Ally? Oh Cat,
you could not be further from the truth.” He balled the sheets in his fists,
his body quivering with rage. Loathing erupted within him, coursing through his
veins from a bottomless well.
King Morfael, with Princess Brynna and his wife
seated at either hand of the large table in the great hall, leaned against the
hard back of his chair and listened, stone-faced, as Oliver explained to him in
little detail the nature of their quest. He recounted their flight in the dark
hours from the Capitol in Corrthaine, their journey across the country, and
their ambush by bounty hunters, but omitted Skandar’s eyes and Catrain’s
bloodline. Whether Morfael chose to acknowledge Catrain as a servant as presented
earlier or a lady such as Muriel, Oliver left for the king to decide.
From time to time, the others
interjected and commented bits and pieces of forgotten information to Oliver’s
account, but for the most part, they stood silent at his sides with the
exception of Skandar and Flynn, who, exhausted from the walk from their
chambers to the hall, sat at the table, a fair distance from each other.
When Oliver completed their tale at the point of
their imprisonment and release, they all held their breaths, waiting.
The fire crackled in the hearth and
the speckled falcon grazed its talons across the platform of its perch, but
otherwise, the hall remained utterly silent. Morfael’s scowl deepened with
every second that passed, seconds in which no one moved lest some spell break
and judgement fall. Brynna cast questioning, curious glances at Aidan as though
seeking his confirmation to their story. The queen, ever wraith-like, stared
ahead, her gaunt countenance pale and wrought with worry.
Then Morfael shifted, startling the
Corrthainians, and stroked his chin thoughtfully as a dark glimmer ignited in
his eyes and spread throughout his expression. The falcon spread its wings,
beating them against the still air, opened its curved beak and let loose a
screeching cry that resounded throughout the stone chamber. Even with the hood
cloaking its beady eyes, Skandar felt threatened by the bird and its master.
Any
moment now guards will be summoned to drag us away to the dungeons, no doubt,
Skandar grimaced, certain of their failure and resolving himself to death. If
he barely survived prison once, he surely would not see release a second time.
Swift execution, he reasoned, would be a mercy. The longer Morfael
contemplated, the more antsy Skandar grew. I
cannot survive another night among the mold and rats. I cannot. Then all this
would be in vain. His legs bounced against the bottom of the table, urging
him to summon whatever strength he retained and fly as far as possible before
being stuck full or arrows or spears from the guards. His gaze shifted around
the expanse of the hall, not daring to settle on any one particular thing,
drawn immediately to any sudden movement.
Instead, no knights with clanking
weapons and heavy footfalls appeared in the doorway to haul them away. Thrice,
the king tapped a finger on the table, the dull thuds echoing faintly off the
stones. “What you say, provided its honesty, unravels much of what I did not
comprehend. But by your story, you do not sound as those who are friends of
Corrthaine, and seeing as though I am a friend of Corrthaine, I cannot directly
aid you without breaking my alliance with King Fendral.”
“Do you fervently believe in your
friendship with Corrthaine? A country with leaders who would just as soon manipulate
you and therefore assume control over Tir O Niwl,” questioned Oliver.
A sly, if sober grin tugged at
Morfael’s lips. “Do you think me a child that I do not know when I am tethered
by strings growing ever taut? My awareness of the noose around my throat became
present the very minute my father died.”
“Then speak plainly, Morfael, and
end your ceaseless riddles. They are tiresome and a waste of precious time,”
demanded Flynn.
Morfael’s smile curled and his fist tightened
where it rested on the notched face of the table. “As I said before, I cannot
help you directly. What I can do is have the memory of your stay slip my mind
if and when questions arise from our mutual friend. After all, you have
embarked on an honorable venture, and I feel as though I should atone for
delaying you. What a mighty feat the discovery of Bródúil would be. Many passed
through Tir O Niwl during my father’s reign. Unfortunately for some of them,
they did not request my father’s gracious permission beforehand and were struck
down in our market squares. I am not my father, and I am willing to extend protection
to you from my soldiers as long as you tread within my borders. What say you to
my offer?”
Before the travelers agreed to a
decision amongst themselves, Oliver said, “We accept, but ask what you desire
in return. Such an offer cannot go unrepaid and we would be rude guests to not
inquire your price and endeavor to pay it to the full extent of our purses,” he
patted his sides. “Although we appear to be at a loss of funds in our treasury
at the moment, courtesy of our bounty hunter friends. They helped themselves to
all our supplies.”
“I require nothing save that, when
you locate Bródúil and return, you elevate my reputation as king among my people.
Rumor spreads through my country that I am incapable of leadership equal my
father’s.”
“And are you?” Flynn goaded.
“That remains to be seen. Merciful and
helpful, I wish to be at times, and just and fair at others,” said Morfael. “Now
appears a time to exercise the former, to forgive past wrongs in order to
accelerate a better cause and a future. Tell me, please. What are your plans
once you attain Bródúil?”
“A great ill lies upon Corrthaine,” Skandar said
after a moment’s hesitation, “I wish to avenge those fallen in its wake of
death and ruin.”
Learning forward with interest, Morfael concluded
simply, “You desire to kill King Fendral and Lord Joran. Fear not,” he chuckled
upon observing the color drain slightly from Skandar’s ruddy complexion. “this
conversation, also, will conveniently slip from memory.” He settled back in his
chair again, exuding comfort and calmness. “Understand, though, that should
Corrthaine call for aid during your conquest, as an ally, I am duty-bound to honor
our treaty and give it. To deny so, I risk pouring Corrthaine’s wrath upon my
people.”
“It is not Corrthaine’s wrath you should fear,”
mumbled Catrain.
Cocking an eyebrow, his scar puckering, Morfael
inclined his head in her direction. “Pray, good lady, if not Corrthaine, then
whom should I fear?” He maintained an air of skepticism, although Skandar
perceived the king knew more than he let on, in fact, he appeared to test
Catrain, to evaluate her bluff.
Staring him unwaveringly in the eye, her gaze cold
and dead, Catrain responded, “Our mutual friend, as you so name him.”
As though an arrow skewered him to the high back
of his chair, the young king sat bolt upright, the color draining from his tanned
cheeks. Smug pride inflated inside Skandar at the shift in the tables, but it
quickly evaporated with he noticed how Brynna surveyed her bother with wide and
fear-filled eyes, tears brimming in their depths and shining in the flickering
firelight. The weight of her concern for her brother touched him; these people,
same as himself and his companions, struggled to survive however they could in
the moment, seizing every opportunity to gain the advantage. Over them. Over
their mutual friend.
No one but Lord Joran instilled that aura of
terror. Anger replaced smugness and boiled within Skandar, festering inside him
upon the realization that to this exact moment in their quest, Lord Joran had
them on strings, pulling and tugging, manipulating them like wooden puppets in
a child’s story in the middle of a market square for all to see.
Recovering, Morfael said softly, “Then I suggest
you gather your belongings and ready yourselves to depart as soon as your
companions,” he indicated Skandar and Flynn with a finger, “are well enough to
travel. If our mutual friend is to be feared and the outcome predetermined despite
our efforts, time is essential and I swear on my father’s grave I will help you
however I can. We all are slaves to this man, whether we realize it or not, and
I believe this present situation we now find ourselves addressing may be tailored
to benefit us all,” he rose and made for the door, beckoning them to follow. “Whatever
you require,” he continued, “I shall bestow it to the best of my abilities.
Forget our arrangement. My reputation among my people matters naught in light
of this. After all, of what use serves a favorable reputation for a dead man?”
He chuckled in spite of the situation and stood, crossing the distance between
them in a matter of mere steps. “Compile a list of all the bounty hunters stole
from you with as much detail as possible, and I shall endeavor to recover them
and return them to you before you are ready to resume your journey.”
“If you care not about your reputation, yet you
claim to see mutual opportunities, what then do you name your price from us?”
Morfael paused at the doors, “Freedom out from
under the thumb of a tyrant. I did not become king to become subject to another
man’s authority, nor subject my people to his rule. Your success on your Quest
is all I ask. Succeed, and you free us all.”
“Succeed? One minute he sought to deliver us up to
True King knows who or where, and the next, he burdens us to succeed, saying it
will deliver him. We have not
numbers! We do not even possess our weapons, because our weakness and the
traitor among us,” Skandar shot Flynn a wicked glare and wished his sword hung
at his hip so he might smite the knight, “caused us to lose them.” His hands trembled and his vision darkened as his grip
on his anxiety and rage slipped. “How are we to face Corrthaine and Tir O
Niwl’s armies combined—because Fendral or Joran or whoever rules at the time
will call upon Morfael for aid and Morfael already declared himself his
obligation to supply it—when we could not even fend off a band of thieves?” His
breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he struggled to calm his
inhalations. Panic escalated within him and he began to pace frantically across
his chambers, ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulder. They needed to
leave. And he needed answers.
Flynn shot
to his feet. “Traitor?” he hissed, reaching for a dagger, but he grasped only
air and his hand fell back to his side. “I ran to try to spare you, to draw
them away! I ran to protect you imbeciles. Your capture is on your own head!
Your injury on your head because you failed to listen to my instruction!”
“You call beating me and belittling me training
and instruction?” Skandar’s voice rose along with his anger.
“Only because you refused to listen like a petty
child!”
“You killed my friend!” roared Skandar, the world
flashing black. “You cut him down when he was defenseless, and you expect me
not to despise you for that with every fiber of my being? If my only crime is
pettiness then so be it! You murdered the innocent. You left children
fatherless.” Just like your father.
Before Skandar’s eyes, something inside Flynn
broke. The fire died in his ice-blue eyes and his shoulders drooped, his
appearance withered and weary. “I am a murderer. That sin I confess to you and
to the True King. But I have not betrayed any of you since stepping foot
outside the Capitol walls. That I swear to you on my life.”
“You might have to give it before I could ever
trust you,” Skandar muttered, the world returning to normal. He became aware of
the others’ as they stood warily around the room, poised and ready to drag
Flynn and Skandar apart should they resort to blows.
Uncomfortable silence settled about
the chamber, thick with tension as Skandar and Flynn retreated to their
respective sides, locking eyes and glowering at each other with unspoken
malice.
Then Catrain cleared her throat. “I
realize now that I should have told you about this sooner. Forgive me for the
delay.”
“Told us what?” asked Eoin, his query
supported by curious nods from the others.
“Not a fortnight before we left
Corrthaine, a messenger arrived from Tir Thuaidh with a letter for Sir Reuben.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
said Skandar.
“Patience. The letter was from my
father.”
Skandar’s jaw dropped and his
attention snapped from Flynn to her. “I believed Prince Garren was dead.”
“We all did,” Oliver agreed, “Cat? The
Prince is alive?”
She smiled, and it irked Skandar
that she had not seen fit to trust them with this information until now. “It
was necessary for certain people to believe he was dead. In truth, he has been
amassing a steadily growing force in Tir Thuaidh. For over two decades now
refugees on the run from my grandfather have been smuggled out of Corrthaine
north into Tir Thuaidh and west into Tir O Niwl. Those in the north are
gathering, preparing to march on Corrthaine at summer’s end. Those hiding in
Tir O Niwl are waiting to receive the message to begin their exodus.”
“Why continue on the quest for Bródúil?
Why not, when Skandar and Flynn’s strength return, travel instead to wherever
your father is? We would join his army. If the prince is alive, Corrthaine is
saved!” Aidan rejoiced, his face alight with eagerness and hope. “Who has need
of a legend, after all, if the True King is on our side?”
“Bródúil holds no significance to me
aside from presenting an intriguing tale,” admitted Catrain with a sideways
glance at Skandar, “but Edmund is still lost, and my father’s letter mentioned
nothing of him.”
“What did the letter contain, Cat?”
Oliver shifted his weight, leaning toward her with interest.
“Instructions. He and other refugees
forced to embark on the Quest are scattered about the clans in the north, but
are slowly congregating. Others will join him, but my mission is to warn them
and urge them to begin to move. We have precious little time to act as it is. If
given to the right person, the one my father names the Wolf, word will spread
to the other sanctuaries.”
“Do you know who this Wolf is?”
She shook her head. “He was from
before my time. And if he was charged with the Quest, his name is forbidden to all
in the castle save the Keeper, but Reuben told me that to protect the Wolf, he
would not speak his name. Walls have ears, as I am certain you all are well
aware.”
Eoin lifted his hand. “Where hide
the refugees?”
“I cannot disclose their exact
locations to you. Unfortunately,” she continued, her expression downcast, “I
myself know not where they all lie. Which proves a hefty problem if we aspire
to achieve success of this mission. Due to the manner of its orchestration, no
one person knows where they all hide. Specific people in Tir O Niwl who express
sympathy to our cause aided and supplied some locations, but others were lost.”
“Spies? The knight who died…” understanding dawned
in Eoin and his mouth opened to query again, but Flynn, who sat beside him, raised
his leg and brought his heel down hard upon Eoin’s foot. The younger man yelped,
falling into the wall as he massaged the top of his boot and stared at Flynn,
his face twisted with befuddlement. “Right, ears everywhere,” he mumbled.
Muted whispers ensued, planning, questioning, examining
every contingency possible in the time that followed in vague detail as they
all wondered how much Morfael ordered the guards to relate to him during a debriefing
council later. Only Skandar feared not the guards stationed outside who
undoubtedly eavesdropped with the intent to report back to Morfael. No, he
feared the ears inside belonging to Flynn and the information he sent to his
master.
For two days they plotted and schemed, devising
traveling actions and scouring the castle maps for directions, which Princess
Brynna readily provided, along with anything else they requested. She often
stopped by their chambers, offering up what information she knew about the
terrain and travel time, and delivering extra food upon Aidan and Eoin’s frequent
requests.
Skandar recalled the spare hours in his youth
spent bending over maps of the Four Kingdoms, however incomplete his supply, and
enjoyed adding more information of the plains, forests, and mountain ranges to
his memory. So far, their plans consisted of traveling further west into the
heart of the forests. Although Catrain refused to show them the framework of
Sir Reuben’s plans until they were miles away from the castle, she appeared
confident about the general direction and that it contained what they sought.
Skandar slowly regained his strength, although his
sensitivity to light lingered on. Muriel and Oliver asked about it each day,
and every time he responded, “It has not changed.” With each acknowledgement of
his condition, his heart sunk deeper into confusion and discouragement, and he
itched to run.
The second night, he crept out of bed and walked
the length of the hall, pushing his stamina to the limits. He strolled from
window to hall entrance, smiling feebly at the guards who otherwise left him
be, stopping to rest only twice during his five laps. Exhausted, he slunk back
to bed and promptly fell asleep as soon as he dropped onto the mattress, too
tired to dream.
The following afternoon, Princess Brynna arrived
at their doors with summons from Morfael. They gathered in the hall eagerly,
their spirits rising when they beheld several servants standing silently along
the wall with large bundles cradled in their arms.
“My men recovered your weapons and other effects
in several outlying villages yesterday evening. It appears they wandered about
attempting to sell them. I fear they consumed your rations and spent your money
on ale among other articles of leisure,” a bemused look transformed Morfael’s
countenance from its usual glower. “Perhaps the latter helped you. They were
all too drunk to protest or resist. Tis also fortunate the craftsmanship of
your weapons is so magnificent, especially this sword,” he reached into a pack
and withdrew Skandar’s sword. His heart leapt at the sight of it; the gold
knotted cross weaving itself intricately around the hilt and crossguard
glinting in the torchlight, familiar, and bringing back a flood of comforting memories
of Sir Reuben and his family, of a better time and a better life.
Holding it aloft, Morfael examined it, caressing
the blade with a gloved finger. “Utterly magnificent,” he breathed. “To whom
does it belong? You?” he pointed at Oliver.
Skandar stepped forward. “Me. It was a gift from a
mentor and friend.”
“You are fortunate to know such a man,” Morfael sheathed
the sword and handed it to Skandar. “Never lose his favor. A handful of close
friends is worth more than an entire army.”
“My thanks, your Highness,” Skandar bowed, and
then fastened the sheath belt around his waist, smiling as the comforting
weight rested against his thigh.
“You need not concern yourselves with the rogues
again,” added Brynna as the servants relieved their bundles on the floor and
Skandar and his companions scurried to dig through them for their belongings. “Bounty
hunters we pay. Thieves we imprison.”
Skandar stared at the young woman. For all her softness
and grace, she possessed a hidden ferocity and determination that mirrored her
brother’s. A grin crept onto his lips, and he followed her line of sight to
Aidan, who beamed at her even as he unfolded his axes and tucked them into his
belt.
“Seems the princess fancies your brother more than
I thought,” remarked Flynn to Eoin as they rummaged through a bundle beside
Skandar.
Eoin choked on air as he inhaled sharply and his
eyes flicked to Catrain, who was elbow-deep digging around in a bag. “What?”
Flynn smirked and nodded at Brynna. “That princess.”
Eoin threw a glance over his shoulder at the
blonde-haired woman lingering behind him, her attention riveted on Aidan with
timid curiosity,
“You are mistaken,” Eoin argued, steadfast in his
denial.
“It appears losing one’s heart to royalty is
common in your family.”
Eoin’s eyes bulged, and Skandar fought the urge to
laugh, ducking behind his hand. Chuckling, Flynn rose to his feet and snatched
up his ebony sword, strapping it to his side.
For the better part of half an hour, they swooped
upon various piles, sorting through the mess and trading others’ property for
their own, making quick work of the haphazard assortment.
“I have five daggers unaccounted for,” Flynn
declared when the large pile dwindled into smaller, organized stacks of folded
clothes.
“How large?”
“Small. The length of my hand.”
Sweeping the room lazily, Skandar said, “I fear
they are gone. Something so small would sell for a lower price while a sword
would be too expensive to purchase, thus the reason most if not all peasants
are defenseless,” he spat the last
word, envisioning Peter.
“You think I have not known poverty?” Flynn uttered
hoarsely, so low only Skandar, who sat closest to him, heard. And ignored.
“For one with such a weapon himself,” Morfael
implied the sword resting beside Skandar’s embroidered cloak at his legs, “how
came you by such personal wisdom?”
“I was raised in a farming village. I learned to
barter, how to ensure a greater profit, what common people tend to purchase and
what they overlook and dismiss as too great a cost for something they would not
use in their lifetime. As I said, many peasants spend their lives providing for
their families as well as possible. They cannot defend themselves, especially against
mercenaries who abuse their power.”
Morfael stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder,
what would happen if I trained those interested in learning to fight? Imagine
the prospects if an entire country knew how to defend itself as a military
unit. You pose an interesting idea; one I hope to pursue with every faculty
available to me.” He cleared his throat, “Five daggers, is that all you lack?”
“I believe so,” replied Oliver after receiving a
general tacit consensus from his companions.
“Good. Whatever happens from this day onward,
please remember the aid I have provided you and the hand I extend to you in
alliance. Remember me as I am here, for I cannot promise the same the next time
we meet. These only I request of you. Succeed, and remember me.”
As always, comments are welcome and appreciated if you have any thoughts or questions.
I would love to read what you have to say!
Thank you for reading!
-Abigail
