~ 22 ~

Snow came and thawed, came and thawed, and finally came to stay. Mud that had mired the roads froze into miniature peaks and valleys and would remain that way until spring. The Milk River took on a thin coat of ice that thickened every day, hiding the movement of the water under a white cloak from the most recent snowfall.

And still Faulk did not return.

Anlin watched the coals shift in the central fire pit in the hall. Glowing castles formed and disappeared with each gust of wind that eddied around the large room and escaped up the smoke hole. She would be warmer in the solar or bedchamber with the double fireplaces, but she wanted to be quickly available if there was a messenger or word that Faulk and his two men-at-arms were approaching.

No, there weren’t two men-at-arms now. Kevin had been knighted. He was Sir Kevin now. One of the vagaries of war. Waylon had been badly wounded, but he would be returning to White Ford just as he had left it, as a man-at-arms.

Part of Faulk’s delay was waiting for Waylon to be able to travel. Hilmar fretted because she couldn’t be with the man she loved when he was injured. Anlin knew her maid’s wait was worse than her own, but this did little to speed these long, cold days of anticipation.

Somewhere beyond the shuttered windows, Anlin heard Telm’s quick, choppy laughter and an answering bark from Dragon. The hound was rapidly growing into the promise of his feet and ears. He stayed active, undeterred by one rear leg that hadn’t functioned properly since his brush with death. The two would be gamboling in the snow.

At least Telm had the dog. The human inhabitants of the fief avoided contact with the boy as much as possible. While the full story of Roland’s death would never be told, enough could be surmised that people feared Telm and whatever unearthly power he possessed.

Even Callip had been disconcerted when he heard of what had happened.

The Rennish shaman had returned to White Ford shortly after the battle on the plain before the King’s Eyrie. He brought news of victory, although Callip himself looked as if he’d been on the losing side. His skin had been sallow, his eyes dull, and his behavior listless. He had slowly returned to his normal vigor, but even now, he seemed to look inward.

He had evidently made friends with the priest in charge of the Eyrie’s extensive library, since royal heralds would periodically brave the roads to deliver brief and unsatisfying letters from Faulk and mysterious packets of scrolls for Callip. The shaman spent any time he was not working with Telm hunched over these parchments, occasionally asking her what a Fallucian word meant. Anlin wasn’t sure what he was reading, but she often had never heard the words Callip recited.

Anlin bent back over her small embroidery stand and continued work on a complex picture of White Ford she was making for Telm. As much as the knowledge hurt, she knew her son would be leaving with Callip in the spring. Before leaving Ridgemere, she’d agreed that it was Telm’s choice whether to stay in Fallucia or return to Rennic, and her mother’s heart knew he would never be happy here. Also, Callip had to return and Telm needed his tutelage. But, hopefully, they would both come back to Fallucia every two years to meet with the King’s Council. All parties had agreed it would alleviate suspicion in both countries to know what the other was doing.

Anlin had became engrossed in getting the roofline of the manor right and so was surprised when Telm dashed in shouting, “They come!”

Telm was immediately followed by the miller’s middle boy, who was red-faced and panting from his run from the village. “Papa sent me,” the boy said, casting an irritated glance at Telm, who had stolen his thunder. “He saw Sir Faulk and his party approaching from the top of the mill.”

Joy leaped up inside Anlin. She wanted to rush into the courtyard, but she made herself take time to praise the boy and his father for their timely report. Thanks cost nothing and did much to keep White Ford running smoothly. And then she could wait no longer. She met Hilmar coming down the stairs, dressed for the outside with Anlin’s heavy cloak in her arms.

“Finally,” both women said almost simultaneously, then they looked at each other and laughed. Anlin was not the only person filled with joy.

By the time the cavalcade arrived, the entire household was ranged on the steps, with Anlin and Telm at the front. Anlin had the impression the group clattering into the courtyard was larger than the one that had left, but once her eyes fell on the big gray horse and its rider, that was all she could see. Faulk, so straight and powerful in the saddle. Faulk, wrapped in a luxurious fur cape she had never seen before—and smiling wide enough to break his face.

She managed to maintain her dignity until a horse boy had come forward to take Fiddian and Faulk was swinging from the saddle—and then she ran. Laughing, he grabbed her and swung her around. The mail under his fine cape was cold, but his lips were warm, so warm the chill that had settled over her when he’d left began to dissolve like frost in the sun. He smelled of cold and horse and something distinctly Faulk. He tasted like the finest wine she’d ever drunk.

Her kiss of welcome went on an embarrassingly long time. And then she said, idiotically, “You’re home.”

“Sweet Cheelum, it is so,” he replied and stepped away to grasp Telm into a hug and pound him on the back. “I swear, you are growing like your pup,” he said. “I believe you’ve shot up nearly a hand span in the two months I’ve been gone.”

The comment must have been the right one, for Telm glowed.

With Anlin tucked under one arm and Telm under the other, Faulk made his slow way into the manor, exchanging greetings with all, grasping Callip by the arm and contriving to leave Telm with his mentor, nodding Hettle away with a whispered, “Tomorrow.”

Inexorably Faulk press forward into the hall. “We have a number of extra people to accommodate. I assume someone on the staff can handle this?” Faulk’s voice was loud, as if making a general announcement.

“I’ll take care of it,” Anlin said, reluctantly starting to move away.

Faulk’s hold tightened rather than released her. “No, someone else can do that. I have need of your private advice in the solar.”

He then hauled her up the stairs. She knew she certainly didn’t walk. As soon as they’d entered the solar, he turned and locked the door.

“Is there something of import I should know?” she asked, suddenly afraid the extra visitors were the harbinger of bad news.

“Only that I have missed you like life itself,” he said. “And if you’ll help me shed all these clothes, I’ll be glad to show you just how much that is.” As he spoke, Faulk had already dropped his gloves to the floor and draped the expensive cape over one of the chairs. He started the struggle to remove his mail.

“Let me help with that.” Anlin moved forward and pulled on the heavy shirt as Faulk leaned over to facilitate the process. It brought back memories of their trip to Rennic. How foolish she’d been to reject his advances for so long. Cheelum had smiled on her when Faulk had won the tournament—for he’d gone on to win her heart.

The mail slid off to fall clinking onto the floor. Anlin backed away, used to Faulk’s habit of hanging his mail shirt on the T-shaped tree in the corner of the room. To her surprise, he left it lying at his feet and began untying the laces of his gambeson.

He smiled at her. “Woman, I’d feel better if you were more enthusiastic in divesting yourself of your own clothes instead of just watching me.”

She grinned at her own foolishness. “Even with your head start, I’ll beat you to the goal,” she challenged.

And then it was all speed and laughter as they simultaneously helped and impeded each other. The result was a trail of clothing that spread from the solar into the bedroom and Faulk rising naked over her. And then she knew at long last her husband was home.

* * *

Faulk lay completely relaxed, a sensation he’d not enjoyed since his departure. The faint winter light had long ago disappeared from the cracks in the shutters placed over the windows for winter, and the fire had died to glowing coals, so the room was in darkness.

Anlin rested across his chest making the odd little poof sounds she did in sleep. He ran a hand over her lengthening hair and down her back. He smiled into the gloom. Anlin still foolishly fretted that she lacked a proper matron’s braid. As if he cared. One of the men on the King’s Council bragged his wife’s hair came to her knees when it was unbound, and a sillier woman Faulk had yet to meet. The mind that lay beneath the hair was of greater importance.

Anlin stirred and would have pushed herself to a sitting position had Faulk not banded her with his arms. She strained against his hold. “Sweet Cheelum,” she said. “I have no idea how long I slept, but it is full dark and the manor has guests and there is dinner to serve and—”

“—and all of this will take care of itself. Or not. Whichever occurs, the world will not end. I had thought to order some food and wine…and then stay here until morning.”

“What? People will wonder what it is we’re doing behind a closed door.”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “You goose. Everyone over the age of six knows what we’re doing—and I suspect a good many of the men from White Ford who returned with me are doing the same thing.” He chuckled. “Shortly after harvest next year, there is likely to be a surge in the fief’s population.”

She poked him in the ribs and pushed back against his arms. This time he let her go. “You are being such a…such a…man.”

“I hope you noticed that fact earlier.”

That earned him another poke, but as she started to rise, he caught her hand. “Stay. I do have something serious to discuss and would like to get it done before the rest of the world intrudes.”

He felt her body stiffen. “You’ve not taken any hurt, have you?”

“Since you’ve just carefully examined every inch of my body, you know this is not the case.”

“Waylon?” she asked. “I didn’t see him. Please tell me he hasn’t died. Hilmar will be inconsolable.”

“No, Waylon is on the mend. But his fighting days are over. He will never earn his knight’s spurs. He will, however, make an excellent seneschal. As the chief steward for one of the Lords of High Places, Waylon will have the same honor as a knight, and I think he will be good at the job.”

“I assume you have already made the arrangements, and I am glad for him. But I’ll so miss Hilmar. I know they planned to marry when he had something to offer a wife.”

This brought them to the heart of what he had to tell her, and yet, he still found himself reluctant to address the topic. It was supposed to be good news. Nay, incredible news. But Faulk wondered if, like him, Anlin would be uncertain of what was loss and what was gain.

“Hilmar can stay with you as long it pleases you. Waylon will be our seneschal. Perhaps as penance for something evil I did in one of those past lives Callip believes in, I have been named one of the Lords of High Places. I have the Letters Patent in one of my trunks. I—” He stopped when Anlin leaped from the bed and began rummaging in her chest. She drew out a heavy robe and draped it over her.

“I’m telling the truth,” he said, surprised at her actions. “There is no need for you to immediately check the paperwork.”

“Now you are the one being a goose. I’m going to order the fires built up and to arrange for dinner to be brought to our chamber. And I think at least two flagons of wine. I am not going to discuss something this important naked and in the dark.”

He had no choice but to follow suit. He wrapped himself in a quilted robe and went into the solar to find Anlin issuing orders and the trail of clothing gone. The large room seemed packed with servants, all dashing about on their own errands, but each of them wore a broad grin. No one was fooled. Anlin might as well have left the strewn clothing where it lay.

Finally, his wife had all she wanted and the last of the servers had departed. Faulk gratefully slid the bolt on the door and went to join Anlin at the small table stacked with food. As he seated himself, she poured him some wine and said, “Now, please explain how I went to bed with Sir Faulk of White Ford and woke up with Lord…?”

“Tarn,” he muttered into his wine glass.

Her hands hit the table with enough force to rattle the dishes. “Sweet Cheelum!” Her eyes were turned upward, so perhaps it was a prayer.

“I wanted no lordship,” he said, “least of all Tarn. During the whole battle before the Eyrie, I did nothing. Fiddian and I were simply the tree Callip climbed so he could turn the king’s magic back upon itself and win us the day. Consequently, I had a fresh horse to chase Lord Tarn—I guess I should specify the late Edmund Tarn—up to the castle where he was attempting to kidnap King Fremmor’s heir.

“The queen stood before her child with a fireplace poker, and I’m sure she would have fought to the death to protect him, but Edmund was forced to face me.”

“You slew him in battle, or so you wrote.”

“Close enough to the truth. I killed him…and became the King’s Protector. The queen, whose strength of will is second only to yours, would have it no other way. And this, naturally, sent the entire King’s Council into complete disarray. There has never been a King’s Protector who is not a Lord, nor a Lord who is without Talent. It was a conundrum. But there was one of the major holdings in all of Fallucia lying empty…suffice it to say compromises were made and after nearly a week of wrangling, I somehow outrank all the other Lords of High Places.”

“Did they perhaps decide this because they knew the old Lord Tarn had fathered you?” she asked.

“May Cheelum weep. I would hope none of the Lords know anything about that. Edmund taunted me with the fact when we fought, but the Queen was gone by then, and I doubt he ever told anyone. I certainly haven’t, and never will. I think it was just one of those jokes that Cheelum, or the Goddess, or Whoever pulls Fate’s strings, likes to play on humans.

“But when my elevation became inevitable, I did fight for some important things. If you look at the Letters Patent, you will see I am styled as Faulk of White Ford, Lord Tarn. And I have made it very plain I am to be addressed as Lord Faulk. But you will have the choice of being called Lady Faulk or Lady Tarn or even Lady Anlin, as has always been your right. And I refused to ever fight under that damned banner of a hand holding a bloody sword. I convinced the other lords the Tarn crest was attainted, and so the Lord Harold is designing a new one.”

“Which is?” But the smile on Anlin’s face suggested she already knew.

“A flying nightpiper.” He held up his hand to ward off any comment. “I know you’d be happier if I chose something you see as more heroic, but I promise you that little bug eater, as you originally called my symbol, will be here long after all the falcons in the world are gone.”

“You’ll get no argument from me, Lord Faulk,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’ve spent hours trying to learn how to embroider a nightpiper, and I would hate to see that as wasted time.”

He laughed and took a sip of wine as he steeled himself to give the last bit of his bad news. But it was something she had to suspect was coming. “We will have to take up residence at Tarn’s Mount. It is by far my principal holding and there’s no way around it.

“But I’m not relinquishing White Ford. I had to pay your father three knights’ fees for scutage, since it’s now impossible for me to swear service to him, but I would not let it go. While the castle at Tarn’s Mount is massive and the lands go on for further than the eye can see, White Ford was my dream, and I’m not willing to let a dream go. Sir Kevin will hold it in my name.”

She nodded, her eyes misty. Perhaps White Ford, or someplace like it, had been her dream as well. “Are there any other life changing events you conveniently left out of your letters?” she asked.

“No, this is all. And I wasn’t keeping any of this secret. It has just taken some time for me to get my mind around all that has happened.”

“Good, because there were some essentials I, too, could not put into a letter, and I think you should know them.”

* * *

Faulk picked up a slightly withered apple and took a bite. All the hot dishes had now cooled and looked unappetizing. How ridiculous that two people, who were now some of the wealthiest and most powerful people in the land, would act as if someone had died? And Anlin realized what she had to impart wouldn’t do anything to lighten the mood. At least there was plenty of wine. She took a drink.

“My brother Roland’s death may have been more complicated than I indicated when I wrote to you,” she began.

“You said he had run mad, attacked you, knocked over a lamp, which set his clothes alight, and later died of his burns. Which part of that was inaccurate?”

“The part about the lamp. We were in the barn, so there was no lamp. There was only Telm, who was tied up and gagged. But he caused Roland to burst into flames. Callip has interrogated me about the event, and kept asking about Roland’s clothing, which were burned from the inside out.”

She reached out and touched his arm—wanting to make contact, needing to pull some of his strength into herself. Her worry had eaten at her since the event had happened.

“Faulk, my son caused a man to burn up from inside. Even Callip was disturbed. He said it was a piece of Great Magic that no one could do anymore. That no one should be able to do, particularly a young, untutored boy.

“Callip has been reading all of the ancient scrolls the librarian at the Eyrie will send him, trying to learn more about how this magic is performed and more importantly, how it can be controlled.”

“Callip made me feel as if I were being burned alive when we first went to Rennic,” Faulk said.

“Yes, he told me. But he could only make you think it was happening. He couldn’t make it actually occur. He said Telm had learned to control fire enough to light a candle or even start a fire that had already been laid. This falls within the ability of most shamans. And given enough time to do so, Telm could have burned through his bindings…which he did, in no time at all. But the other, the immolation, should not have been possible. And so Callip worries and tries to prepare. Evidently, Telm will not begin to reach his full power until well after puberty.” She shook her head, not sure what else to say.

Faulk gave her a ghost of a smile. “I think Callip is a man undergoing a crisis of faith, and this adds to his concern,” Faulk said. “He has found that many of the tenets on which he has based his life are in error. Perhaps part of his apprehension is caused by this and the problem with Telm is not so dire as he presents.”

She returned his faint smile. She knew he was trying to lessen her own concern. “There is some truth to what you say. Callip is also worried about the reaction of other shamans and seerin when he tells them what he has learned. He hopes to find proof of where the Rennish fell into error in the Archive at Ridgemere, so he also frets about what he will discover when he returns.”

“I fear he will discover that everything didn’t happen eight hundred years ago.” Faulk pitched his voice so he sounded much like Callip, and they both laughed in that odd way some men do after battle when they discover they are not among the dead. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll make sure Callip feels it will be safe for both of them to return to Rennic. He is well respected and has the greatest magical ability.”

Faulk paused for a beat. “You do realize this proves that Telm must go back with Callip. There is no one in Fallucia who can even begin to teach your son. And Callip may say no one can do Great Magic now, but that is what he called what was done on Eyrie’s plain.”

“Judging from how destroyed he looked when he returned here weeks after the battle,” she said, “the effort nearly killed him. He also said it took a dozen Fallucian magicians to cast the spell, all aided with amulets, and that he was only able to counter it because he was reversing a spell that had already been cast and he, too, had dozens of magic enhancing stones.”

She clasped Faulk’s hand tightly. She wanted him to feel as well as hear her sincerity. “I know Telm can’t stay here. However, Callip has made Telm take a vow that if Callip should die before Telm is thirty, Telm is to move heaven and earth to get back to be with you. You. Not me.” The hurt still showed in the last three words, but when Callip explained his reasoning, Anlin could understand it. “Callip said I would mother him and this is not what Telm needs. He believes that you would help Telm grow straight. Magic can warp a mind, and Callip has great confidence that you would not let this happen.”

“And I wouldn’t—at least to the best of my non-Talented self. But I sometimes think this is a strength both you and I possess. We don’t have the crutch of magic. Everything we accomplish we do ourselves, standing only on our own two feet. In every decision we make, we must examine our weaknesses and determine how to strengthen our defenses in that area. Perhaps it is this Talent of self-reliance that is something we can teach.”

He yawned. “And I now recognize my limitations. We will not solve this problem tonight, if ever, and this knowledge makes us melancholy. So, I think we should go to bed and hold one another until we wake in the morning with the sure knowledge that we will begin again and eventually get where we should be. For now, let us imagine the future. Have you ever seen Tarn’s Mount?”

“No, have you?” If Faulk thought a break would refresh them both, Anlin was willing to try it.

“Once. It’s a mammoth building. One of the early Lord Tarns obviously wanted something even more impressive than the King’s Eyrie. But instead of choosing blindingly white stone as the king did, the builder of Tarn’s Mount went for size rather than quality, and the whole massive place is made from ugly, gray stone.”

He suddenly stood and pulled her to her feet. “How would you feel about painting the whole place pink?”

“Pink? Faulk, every other Lord would be looking for your Letters Patent in the hope of spilling ink on the page and obliterating your proof of ownership.”

“Oh, I don’t know. We could carry out the theme by having the Lord of Heralds put a pink ribbon in the nightpiper’s beak.”

She leaned against him as they wandered into the bedroom, exhaustion suddenly catching up with her, too. “Faulk, sometimes you are the most absurd man.”

“I know,” he said, “and that might be another of my hidden Talents.”