| |
Blades crashed, as I walked the training ground. The sound is one I’d known almost my whole life, at least from the time I was old enough to lift a sword. Now, though, the men salute me as I pass by. ‘Tis times like this that I understand my brother-in-law and mayhap ‘tis why we work so well together—me, his cannonsea, and he, my king.
~Carda son of Rian and cannonsea to Shawnahur, dragon king of Muintir
Cahar, Muintir
5767 AI
Cahar, Muintir
6126 AI
HEST JOLTED AWAKE, his heart pounding, his jaw clenched down on the roar that would have erupted from his mouth. Since reading Shawnahur’s journal and writing in his own, he’d had a much easier time controlling his emotional connection to the laubrach, but coming out of a nightmare was still the hardest. Siobhan touched his shoulder, startling him.
“Moor’neen, all’s well.”
He nodded, not trusting his voice, and waited for his breathing to ease into a more regular pattern. As his breath settled, he unclenched his fists, wondering if the indents he felt in his palm were from his nails or talons.
“Come, rest.” Siobhan shifted pulling on his arm to encourage him to lie back down.
“Nay.” He tried a smile to soften his words. “I can’t. If I close my eyes... I can’t keep the images at bay. Forgive me, moor’neen; I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll go into the library and read.”
Her hand lingered on his bicep for a moment. “I’m here.”
“I know.” He didn’t meet her gaze.
The dream was too real, too vivid. He needed to move, to escape. With a tender kiss he pulled the sheet back up over her shoulder and slid out of the room. In the library, he lit a candle and set it on the desk, then he settled into his chair with the journal that had become his solace.
At times I do not know how best to express myself. I wonder if I’ll ever be competent enough to keep this kingdom together. The conflicts are great, my enemies strong.
My only enemies are my own dreams! Hest rubbed a hand across his face and groaned.
His eyes wouldn’t focus on the page. Maybe he could write...
He only succeeded in dropping ink blots onto his page. He sighed. Could he do anything right?
He wanted to roar to throw the books across the room, to hurt something as he’d been hurt in his imagination. He wanted to feel powerful, to crowd out the helplessness of watching Siobhan plummet to her death, of feeling the bonds that held him back from saving her. The pain of it returned upon him three-fold at the mere thought. Pushing the chair back, he paced. A good fight with Kyeth would help set him aright, but the Rittider wouldn’t be awake yet; maybe he could work through the caines.
With a grace born of practice, he flowed through the motions, each one designed to affect a violent end to an opponent or to protect the soldier from harm, yet executed in slow deliberate shifts and turns that soothed his soul. But even the steady movements weren’t enough to completely quiet his fears.
With less desperation this time, he returned to the ancient book and flipped through the pages.
Be kind toward me, Jeeah,
For I cry out to you all the step long.
Make me glad, Jeeah,
Because I cry out to you.
Jeeah, you are good and forgiving.
Your love is great for those who call out to you.
Listen to my prayer.
Listen to my plea.
It was like a fire when both Handi and Tsiki had been extinguished. Hest closed his eyes and breathed deeply. If only he could write similar words. At least he’d found relief from the terror. Now to see if he could face his moonstep. He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering, not for the first time, how anyone told the passage of time without the moons.
“Moregot?” Finn called softly. “You’re awake?”
“Aye. What’s on my agenda for this step?” Hest turned to face the lad.
“The usual. Lugh would like a moment of your time, and Sydur suggested you may want to practice with Kyeth.”
“That sounds wonderful. Would Kyeth be ready now, perchance?”
“I could find out for you.”
“Please.”
Hest peeked around the corner at Siobhan. The candle glow was enough for him to see her face. She slept as if she had not a care in the world. He wanted it to stay that way.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he kissed her. “Time to get up, moor’neen.”
“Mm.” She turned over.
He smiled and smoothed her hair from her face. “Finn and Allya will find you still snuggled in bed, if you don’t get up.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t mind. Would you be with me?”
“Aye, until Finn returns at least.”
That got her attention. She sat up. “What does Finn have that would take you from your wife?”
“A training match with Kyeth.”
Siobhan stuck her bottom lip out with a teasing petulance. “You really would prefer being beaten with a sword over lying here with me?”
Hest leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Nay, but ‘tis been forever since I’ve been reminded of how much I still have to learn as Rittider. ‘Tis about time I experience it again.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
Although she was teasing, Hest thought she was being a bit selfish until she asked with a measure of sorrowful frustration, “Must I stay alone in my room again?”
Hest thought for a moment. “You can plan another nobles’ event with your mother. That should please both of you, and if I promise to actually attend it this time, that should please the duene.”
She laughed. “Aye, that ‘twould. Fine. I’ll get up.”
With a final appreciative glance at her figure, Hest returned to the library and picked up his list. In such emotional turmoil, it seemed more important than ever to maintain the habit, and he wasn’t likely to have a chance to return to his quarters before the last meal. Reading each word with purposeful intent, he formed and held his conception of himself in his mind like an island amid the sea that was the laubrach. But when he came to protector his heart twisted. What of Bryan? His friend had been gone ten steps already, enough time to reach Boulick and return, but there had been no word. Was he safe, or had he been discovered? Would he say that he felt protected by his king?
“Moregot, Kyeth would gladly see you now.” Finn reported as he handed him a slice of ham sandwiched in bread. “You’ll need the energy for the match if you’re not going to break your fast properly before you go.”
“Thank you, Finn.” He bit into the food as he headed out the door.
Goshkeah fell into place behind him, and Hest suppressed a wearied sigh. He longed to be able to walk the halls of the castle with a friend at his side. Someone who would converse with him or joke, or even if they were silent, be there because he wanted to be, because he liked Hest’s company. Instead he had a Rittider trailing him and all who met him bowed and called him moregot.
By the time he reached the training grounds, his frustration had revived, and he was more than ready to take it out in a match with Kyeth.
“Greetings, Moregot.” Kyeth bowed. “I hear you wish to train again.”
“Aye, some bruises might be good for me.”
Kyeth raised an eyebrow. “Moregot?”
“All’s well, just need some excess energy beaten out of me.”
“You should warm up first,” his trainer reprimanded.
“I have; I went through the caines before the rest period was over.”
“Well, then, let’s begin.” The warrior motioned to the weapons rack.
Hest was grateful that Kyeth wasn’t one to pry; anyone else might have asked why he’d been up so early, but here he could leave those things aside. He chose a sword that fit his hand and took a few practice swings. Satisfied, he stepped into the circle, holding his sword up in defense. Kyeth smiled and saluted.
“At your mark, Moregot.”
With a nod, Hest circled and then attacked. The clash of metal on metal echoed off the building. Hest had worried Kyeth would hold back, but the warrior met him blow for blow and gave several of his own. Before long, he was panting, and while he didn’t give in, his form started to deteriorate. Irritated at his own ineptitude, he became reckless, attacking with wild swings which Kyeth easily avoided and feeding the frustration in an escalating cycle.
If you’re going to fight, at least do it correctly. Usheen’s voice was enough to help regulate Hest’s headlong rushes. That’s better. Shall I assist?
Hest shook his head, not able to take the time for a mental conversation. He saw an opportunity and lunged, but Kyeth had purposely prepared the opening and stepped aside. His sword slipped aside and a deft twist brought it down on Hest’s shoulder.
“You’re dead, Moregot.”
“Aye, well played. Ready again?”
“Do you need water?”
“Nay.” Hest raised his sword into position.
“Very well.”
Kyeth returned the gesture, and the two clashed again. Hest was proud that, though the Rittider was still clearly the better swordsman, Hest kept his feet and lasted longer than he had as a novice. Kyeth drove him back, cornering him against the wooden railing, and delivered a deadly blow with enough energy to make Hest wince.
“You’re dead, M—”
“I know,” Hest grunted and brought his sword up again, signaling readiness immediately.
If Kyeth was surprised, he didn’t show it only saluted and opened the new round with a blinding flurry of strikes, then circled around outside Hest’s elbow and forced him to sidestep away, scrambling to keep his feet and his sword. Drawing on his frustrations, Hest blocked every blow and then pressed forward, forcing Kyeth to retreat. Step by step, he drove his trainer back, feinting, and then striking into the openings he created. Kyeth gave ground easily and left the space between them wide, waiting and watching for Hest to start wearing himself out.
Not this time, Hest thought.
He dredged up the panic and helplessness of his dream, the worry and agitation over Bryan, even the aching lostness he sensed in himself when he read Shawnahur’s poems, and poured them out in his blade, emptying the emotions into his final match. Kyeth’s strikes slowed and seemed to announce themselves before they appeared; each jab, thrust, or sweep, Hest blocked, slipped, or countered. Then he launched a concentrated attack, sacrificing precision for speed. He had the satisfaction of seeing the Rittider’s eyes widen while he forced him to concentrate so fully on defense that he could no longer retreat. With deft movements, faster than even he could see, he pushed Kyeth’s sword aside and lunged.
The tip of the blade impacted Kyeth’s cuirass dead center and elicited a grunt from his trainer.
“You’re dead,” Hest panted.
“Aye, and I’m glad these are blunted,” Kyeth chuckled as a smile brightened his face. “Well played, Moregot. It appears you’ve gotten over your fear of inflicting a chest wound, as well.”
Hest paused a beat; the steps when the panic had prevented him from even attempting that strike seemed so far away now. “Aye,” he said slowly, “I had almost forgotten. ‘Twould appear so.”
“’Tis well,” Kyeth nodded decisively. “Again?”
Hest shook his head and lowered the sword to wipe sweat out of his eyes. “Now I could use some water.”
Kyeth gestured with his chin toward a pair of water skins hanging near the weapons rack. Hest took a grateful draught and then asked, “Has anyone heard anything of Bryan?”
Any remaining hint of a smile slipped from the warrior’s face. “Nay, Moregot. I wish I could say I have.”
“I thought as much. Kyeth, what if I sent him to his death?”
“Moregot, if there’s one thing you must learn, ‘tis this: The risk of death is part of being a Rittider and a soldier. We have sworn our pledges knowing that. You’re not responsible for every death in your service.”
“But, I am. They go on my command; if they do not return, ‘tis on my head.” Hest replaced the sword on the rack, his gaze down.
He had only fractions of a second to react as Kyeth lunged forward, blade extending toward Hest’s head. Only a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision had given his instincts and reflexes time to grab his sword and throw himself aside and into a roll. Coming up, he stood ready for another attack, but none came.
“What was that?” Hest demanded.
“My own choice, Moregot. If in that moment of panic you had defended yourself, and I were to have been killed, whose responsibility would you call that?”
Hest felt the horror flow over his face. “Mine. I should have better control than that; I should make sure I know what’s happening before I react.”
Kyeth tipped his hand back and forth, a partial concession “You cannot know more simply because you wish you could, or think you ought to. But we, those who follow you, who have made themselves yours to command—we have chosen based on what we know. We have made our pledge fully aware of the risks. If you seek wisdom and listen to reason, and we die in your service, there is no one who will blame you. Not we, not our comrades, not even our families.” Kyeth set his sword against the weapons rack. “As commanders we’re responsible for dealing with the situation as best we may, but the outcome is never guaranteed. Now, even knowing that, there will be guilt. You will second-guess; you’ll be haunted by everything that you can only see in the mirror of time that’s already gone. But what you do with that guilt will determine the king you will be.” Kyeth paused, weighing his words, then continued with slow deliberation. “Quash it, and you’ll be a tyrant with no regard for the grief of others. Let it rule you, and you’ll remove your own spine, no good to anyone but your own conscience. But let it temper you, and you’ll be wise, compassionate, and effective. The best king a mere man can be.”
The words didn’t set Hest at ease; it only added to the weight he felt. He’d been thinking only of Bryan, but if it came to war, or if the fiahat were indeed planning some kind of revolt... Athair had attended the funerary rites of hundreds of his soldiers and Rittider after the Aeguskey had attacked the previous synod. Many of those men had to have been close to him, the warriors who’d safeguarded his family for so long. He sighed. Maybe this was why his friends distanced themselves from him, so they could help ease the guilt. It wasn’t working, only making him feel isolated and even more to blame.
“Moregot—“
“Why won’t anyone use my name?” Hest flung the sword down. “Moregot this, and Moregot that! My name’s Hest. You used to address me that way all the time.”
“Aye,” Kyeth drew the word out, “’twas before you became king.”
“So, that changed my name?”
Kyeth’s brow crinkled in a morose form of surprise. “Nay, we honor you.”
“Couldn’t someone honor me by using my given name?” The question sounded petty even to his own ears, but he couldn’t feel properly ashamed of it.
“If we did, then imagine what ‘twould be like for those who aren’t close to you. They’d think we didn’t respect you, and they’d be more apt to despise you and your position.”
Hest dropped his head into his hands. He wasn’t even sure if Kyeth could hear him. “I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to be king.” He laughed. “I didn’t even ask to be a scubhear! I thought I was being sold into slavery.”
Kyeth rested a hand on Hest’s shoulder. “You’ve had many changes in a short time. We forget where you’ve come from.”
In the silence, the scent of baking bread rose up chimneys and wafted across the training ground, and Hest’s stomach grumbled.
“If you would like, we could continue these early step meetings, and as long as no one else is around, we’ll revert to what ‘twas like when you first became a Rittider.”
A hopeful delight twined its way around Hest’s heart. “You’re serious?”
“Never been more so. You need a friend, and we need our king, ah... stable,” he teased. “Besides, I could use the workout. Who knows? Maybe you’ll teach me a thing or two. What do you say, Hest?”
Hearing his name was like water after a long walk on a dusty road. How long had it been since anyone had used his name? It wasn’t so bad hearing Siobhan call him moor’neen, but he still longed to hear the sound that meant himself: who he was apart from everyone else. Lugh wanted him to maintain his own identity, but how could he do that when his whole life had become a tangle of obligation and affection for others? He blinked back the emotions that threatened to spill onto his face.
“Aye, sounds as welcome as Tsiki after a good rest.”
Kyeth frowned. “Tsiki?”
Hest laughed. “Maybe I won’t teach you as much about fighting as I will about Skymna.”
“Aye, ‘twould be welcome indeed.”
