“The king is drunk, but he has asked for you,” Darid said, snapping the flap to the side and stepping into the tent. Gail lay on her cot, sore, stinking from a coating of sweat, blood, and dust. She had thought of disrobing, treating her wounds, and washing her blood and the blood of others off her, but upon entering the coolness of the tent, the battle over, she had collapsed into a shallow sleep, only dimly aware of time passing. She was in a space where the washing and treating of wounds—mere movement—remained only distant thoughts. Already the horrors, the close calls of the battle, the intimate combat when mortality and suffering were laid so bare before her eyes, were intruding upon her mind as they would in nightmares for a lifetime.
New ones to add to old.
But at Darid’s entrance, she was forced back to the present moment, the aching of her wounds, the stench of her body, and the spinning of the room. Soot was perched next to her head, as if standing guard. She was so thirsty. She could not remember the last time she drank or ate. She lifted her head to look at her master.
“Surely he would want to see me when he is feeling more . . . dignified.”
“Not likely,” Darid said, still in the mud and blood-stained armor he had worn to the fight, a cut above his eyes still untreated. “We’re all fresh from battle, a battle in which you saved us, perhaps the king himself.”
“Does he drink to celebrate?”
“He drinks while the healers tend to him. He was wounded.”
She sat up. “Badly so?”
“A spear grazed his side. A wound that will call for cleaning and stiches. Likely he calls for you to distract himself from the pain.”
“Then I best be going,” she said, pushing herself up to her feet, Soot flapping off to the corner with an angry squawk. Darid moved to her side and offered his hand.
“Best you should.”
She had been inside the king’s tent before for meetings. Then she had been protected from scrutiny by sheer numbers. When she had met the king in Darid’s tent she had just been a squire, no one worth paying attention to. But this time was different. This time the cavernous interior of the king’s tent was dark and empty. The high-backed wooden chair of the king sat without an occupant and without the company of the men of note that usually took knee around it. A ghostly white light from the moon cut in from a gap in the tent’s canvas to fall on the seat, as if to highlight the air of abandonment. It would be impossible to hide from scrutiny this time.
Darid led them to a curtain in the rear of the tent. Bright candlelight flickered behind, casting shadows of moving figures against it. She could hear the sound of dripping water, or wine, along with the soft murmur of attentive voices. Darid announced themselves quite before she was ready, and the voice of King Talamar himself, rough with an edge of discomfort, answered back. “Enter.”
The space on the other side was filled with more figures than Gail had anticipated. Half a dozen healers and their accompanying apprentices tended to the king. Talamar himself was shirtless and laying half prone on a camp bed, satin pillows propping him up. The pillows were stained with his blood and the boiled wine the healers were cleaning his wound with. The wound was a gash that rent open the left side of his torso. It had been a thrust aimed to impale him through the gut but with luck or good swordsmanship, it had been parried so that it only sliced the flesh beneath his ribs. On another less fit man such a wound would have only opened up the yellow layers of fat most men carried in their middles. But the king was not a fat man. His upper body was molded with muscle and tapered down to a hard torso. The flesh of his wound was red with muscle and sinew, the healers digging into his flesh with heated pincers and forceps. Gail’s stomach turned as she contemplated the pain. The king, but for a sheen of sweat on his brow, was stoic, aided more than a little by the wine that one of the apprentices kept pouring for him. His face was flush but his eyes were surprisingly alert—no doubt the pain of the operation kept him from sliding into a drunken stupor.
She had expected to be disappointed, even uncomfortable, at the sight of the king so humble, so wounded, so mortal, but he maintained a sense of grandeur. He was a leader so different than her father who ruled through threats and force. The King, by contrast did so through building rapport and respect. She never would have thought such an approach could work until she had borne witness. It was a revelation that transcended her previous expectations.
Darid took a knee and she followed, casting her eyes to the floor. She had to remember she was a young and humble boy. Not an experienced warrior or woman. She wondered, could a leader, with nobility in his blood—a king—see through her disguise? Did he have such perception?
“So it is you,” Talamar said, followed by a quick intake of breath as a healer pinched out a crumpled mail ring with tweezers, “that we owe our lives to.” He took another sip of wine. It made him seem more human and she was able to stutter,
“Y-you are too generous, your majesty.”
“Humility is fitting for brides and birth maids, not after battle.”
“This is the most important time, my liege,” Gail said. “So that men do not lose sight of their mortality and the luck the fates may have visited upon them.”
Talamar examined her wordlessly for a while before saying, “Well met. You’ve taught him well, Darid.” He motioned for both of them to rise with his cup hand.
“I wish I could claim such influence,” Darid said, a proud smile on his face. “But Alex is wise beyond his years.”
“That is clear,” Talamar said, his words beginning to slur a bit from the pain or the strength of the wine. “Where does one so young gain so much wisdom?”
She fell back to the lie that had served her well so far. “My father was a warrior before he was a farmer. He fought in the war of Izlay.”
The king nodded, taking a deep, relieved breath as the healers withdrew, announcing that the wound was clean. One of the apprentices began to ready thread for stitching while his master heated a needle using a candle flame.
“Did your father show the same proclivity for insubordination?” the king asked.
The word caused Gail to look up into the king’s face, but he was smiling.
“He always taught me the importance of thinking for myself. After all, few plans survive contact with the enemy.” Her confidence was growing now. Talamar chuckled and reached his cup out for more wine.
“Careful young squire, else I promote you to replace one of my captains,” he said, taking another sip. “Who were your allies as you rallied the squires?”
“In truth, sire?”
“This is no time for anything other,” Darid said.
“Two friends who are loyal, and well . . . deception was an ally as well. For I knew the squires would not act unless I spoke falsely that you had ordered the reinforcements yourself.”
“Bold,” Talamar said.
“I was willing to be so, sire, for I felt the need was great.”
“You were so certain of a trap?”
She picked her next words carefully, “It was in keeping with the Maurvants’ tactics so far.”
At this the king nodded, the corners of his mouth tugged downward. “For this you will be lauded but also resented, young man. Your insight, while averting calamity, exposed the deficiencies of my generals . . . and even me.”
“I meant no such disrespect—” she said, her armpits suddenly itching, hot, and weeping. “I will be more than happy to share the responsibility with my master. I could say he left me with such instructions, casting me in a role of obedience and the battle ken his own.”
“Humility again,” the king said as the healers moved in with the needle and thread. He winced as they made the first puncture and drew the thread through the flap of skin. “Damn if the repairs don’t smart more than the injury itself,” he said, his knuckles white around the cup, his voice overly loud.
“Sadly it is often the case, my liege,” Darid said. Gail envied him for his comfort speaking to the king. She could sense her own limbs trembling. Perhaps the king could too, for his tone grew soft and laudatory again.
“Rule and ranks aside, young Alexander, you’ve done a noble and good thing today. And if I do not show more gratitude you may blame it on the pains of this repair. I am in your debt, young squire. That is no small thing. Although it might be prudent to share some of this glory with your master, as to save face for my generals, I will not forget to whom I owe my life.”
She swallowed and managed to croak out, “You are too generous my liege,” and dropped back to her knee.
“I am alive—provided these healers do not kill me—and I am grateful.”
The apprentices wore expressions of dismay but the oldest of the healers, the man threading the king’s wound, smiled and said, “If that spear thrust did not take you, majesty, my needle hardly will.”
Darid, understanding some level of unspoken etiquette lost on Gail, asked, “Shall we take your leave, majesty?”
The king raised his cup, his arm wobbling a bit, the wine affecting him. “You are dismissed. Go with my blessings.”
It was not until they had left the king’s grand tent and had taken several paces in the direction of their own that Gail looked up to Darid and said, “I hope I represented you well, sir.”
“Quite well indeed. You were as honey-tongued as the offspring of a cantor and a diplomat.”
“I was nervous, more nervous facing him than the enemy.”
“As we both were, considering what secrets we conceal from him,” he said, his voice low. “But worry not. I am fairly certain you have his favor. And like he said, that is so small thing.”