CHAPTER 18
No matter how dark the night or how cold the winter, eventually the sun will begin to drive them away.
And so it did, slowly at first, the snow piled on village greens all over the Baronies beginning to melt. The days when the piles dwindled noticeably were often a time of small celebrations, miniature festivals where chores were eased, barrels were rolled out, and instruments recovered from dusty cases.
The celebrations focused on the passing of the most dangerous season and the joy of surviving it. A bit of fun before the backbreaking, monotonous work of spring began. Fields would need clearing, plowing, and planting. Fences, houses, sheds, and byres would need repairs.
But in the Baronies, this first hint of winter’s end had long since brought with it a kind of fear, a breath held all over the countryside. For forty years, spring had brought with it one inescapable fact.
War.
* * *
“Snow’s meltin’ on the green,” Tibult said, standing at the edge of the doorway of the large cowshed he, Mattar, and the others had made their home in for the past month and more.
Mattar lumbered up behind him. “No green here,” he rumbled. “Just a farm.”
Tibult turned, wincing as his weight touched down on his still-mangled hip. “It’s a sayin’, Mattar. Don’t have to be a green n’front of us fer it t’be true, aye?” He swallowed. “I think it’s time t’get movin’ again.”
“I’ll get ‘em up,” Mattar said. “Ya know…we were lucky t’get Waltin this far, I don’t know we’ll get ‘im ‘round the mountains.”
“We will. Let me go talk t’Jonas, see if he can be persuaded to pass us some bread or th’like.” With that, Tibult swung himself out the door, leaning heavily on the stout stick he’d used as a replacement for the crutch he’d tossed into Londray Bay. His leg and hip weren’t as bad as they’d been on the crutch, but as the winter had passed and he’d taxed himself doing whatever chores he could, along with Mattar and the others with them who could work, he’d felt it more and more.
Jonas was waiting for him at the door. The old soldier-turned-farmer was looking critically at the horizon, sweeping his grey eyes towards the distant peaks of the Thasryach to the north.
“’Spect ya’ll be movin’ on now,” Jonas said. His voice was gruff, raspy, ruined by years of yelling orders and smoking from a huge bowled pipe. Even now he was pulling the latter from a pouch at his waist, absently packing it with a thumb and forefinger.
“Aye,” Tibult said. “Can’t thank you enough for what you done fer us, Bannerman.”
“Ah, I left that behind me a long time ago. Besides, I was a footman. Never known one o’yer horse troopers t’salute me proper, not matterin’ how green his arse was.” He set the pipe in his mouth, sucked on it unlit. “I was happy t’take ya in. Plenty o’work needed doin’. Still will if ya’ve a mind t’stay.”
“We’ve got t’be on,” Tibult said, thinking of that one brief taste of healing compassion he’d once had. And in truth, Jonas had been inventing work for them ever since they’d shown up at his farm in the midst of a snowstorm, wearing ragged tabards or old signs, clutching sticks to walk with, and leading Waltin by a rope tied around his waist.
“T’Thornhurst, eh? Hope yer tales are true then. If ya come back, though, I’ll find work for your hands t’do. Even the blind fella,” he said. “Never seen socks n’long woolens darned so fast.”
Tibult smiled. “If ya could see yer way clear t’havin’ some extra bread baked—”
“I’ll do more,” Jonas said. “I’ll give ya bread, also flour and a big side o’ gammon, a small barrel of good fat and another o’brandy.”
“It’s too much, Jonas.”
The older man tsked around his pipe. “No, it ain’t. When ya get there, y’tell this paladin about m’farm and m’family and that there’s good men left in the world, men willin’ t’do a turn for strangers ‘cause they can. And when ya done that…ask his Mother’s blessin’ on us. ‘Specially m’sons. We’ve escaped the press so far…” He trailed off and shrugged as smoke gathered above his head.
“I know,” Tibult said. “Every spring a father has t’wonder.”
“Aye. Now go, get yerselves ready. I’ll ‘ave the dray n’horse ready in a bit. You’ll bring it back t’me now, when your hip is better, aye?”
“I will, Jonas,” Tibult said. “I promise. I swear it.”
“Don’t swear,” the man said, rolling his lips around his pipestem. “But if ya can get word that ya made it safe, I’d appreciate it.”
“That I will do.” Tibult extended his hand for a shake. Jonas clasped it and said, “Brother o’Battle.”
Tibult grimaced lightly, nodded, but only said, “Brother.” Then he turned and began limping back to the barn on his stick. If he could’ve run, he would have. The snows were melting on the green and the roads were clearing, and the paladin and his healing Goddess awaited.
* * *
Allystaire, Gideon, Norbert, and Harrys were all running north along the road leading up from Thornhurst when they saw the wagon. Headed south, with a few riders alongside it, trundling slowly along the road, but making progress nonetheless.
They glided to a halt, Allystaire in the lead, and one by one, dropped the stones from their shoulders, letting them thump heavily on the road.
“Peddler?” Norbert’s voice carried optimism in it.
Harrys was hitching at his belt, itching for weapons that weren’t there; instead he bent and hefted the stone he’d just dropped, propping it back onto his shoulder but keeping his right hand bent under it, as if ready to hurl it.
“One way to find out,” Allystaire said, privately glad of the break and trying not to show it. He forced himself to stand upright, not to lower his hands to his knees, and to try to take in the sharp air at a reasonable pace instead of gulping it. He turned to the boy at his side. “Gideon?”
The lad nodded, closed his eyes for a long moment. Then suddenly they snapped back open. “One wagon with a man on it, four riders. Some small arms, but a peddler, I think. The wagon practically groans with wares. One of the men is a minstrel. Lute case on his back.”
“Well,” Allystaire said, “the roads must be well, and a peddler comes to Thornhurst for the first time in months. It will do everyone good.”
“Snow’s melting on the green,” Norbert said brightly as he bent to pick his rock back up.
“Come on, lads,” Allystaire said, hefting his own rock again. “Back to Thornhurst to spread the news. Quick now.”
By the time the wagon and its riders reached the village’s northern wall, Allystaire, Norbert, Harrys, and Gideon were waiting to meet them on horseback.
The latter had spread the news fast by letting Mol know even as they’d run back into the village, and the Voice had shared the news far and wide. Casks were being rolled out of the Inn even as they rode past, and Timmar had a wide grin on and a prybar in his hand.
As always, Allystaire turned his hands more practically, saddling Ardent and the other mounts, including his own palfrey for Gideon, Harrys’s dun courser, and the most docile gelding in the village’s stables for Norbert.
Lightly armed, Allystaire had told them, and meant it, though now as a wagon and horsemen hove into view, he wished for more than the iron-studded gloves on his hands and the sword on his back. He eyed the others; Norbert had his bow and arrows cased and slung on the wrong side of his horse, and had his reins drawn across it, pinning it against the saddle. Allystaire frowned, made a note of it. Harrys had thrust his falchion into his belt. When Allystaire had offered Gideon a dagger from the armory, the boy had frowned, but taken it anyway.
“Remember,” Allystaire muttered, “we are a welcoming committee, not an interrogating committee.” Then he cleared his throat and addressed the slowing wagon and Ardent stamped at the ground.
“Good morning,” he called out, across the few yards separating them. “Welcome to Thornhurst. What brings you?”
The driver of the wagon, a long, lean man with a close-cropped grey beard, stood up and raised a hand. “Greetings,” he called out in a fine, clear voice. “The open roads bring me! Rohrich of Ashmill Bridge, Peddler, Gossip, Tale-Teller. As for these others, one I pay to accompany me, two were stuck on the wrong side o’the mountains when the snows come, and the other, I’ll let him introduce himself,” he said, sweeping his hand past the men who rode with him, and finally to the man with the lute case on his back.
Though the weather had started to warm, this particular fellow was heavily bundled in a fur-lined, hooded coat that was pulled tightly down over his head. He pushed it back, revealing a face that was a solid shade darker than Idgen Marte’s, clearly marking him as a Concordat man.
“My name,” he said, sketching a half bow from his saddle, “is Andus Carek.” His voice was rich and smooth, filled the air without sounding too loud, carrying the slightest shade of an accent. “Bard, minstrel, troubadour, jongleur; choose the word that suits your tongue. The open road brings me as well, but also a woman I met some months ago whom I believe I could find here, a lady named Radys Glythe.”
“There is no Radys Glythe here, I am afraid,” Allystaire said, frowning faintly. “Or if there is, I do not know her. You are welcome all the same. I am Allystaire Stillbright,” he added. “Come in peace to Thornhurst.” He stepped Ardent to the side, raised a gloved hand and gestured towards the open gate.
“Don’t remember any villages out here having walls and gates, to be honest,” Rohrich said as he grasped his reins. “Then it’s been a fair few years since I’ve driven this way,” he admitted.
“You will find it much changed,” Allystaire said. “You will still find this track leading straight through to the green, where folk are beginning to celebrate the snowmelt.” Rohrich gave his reins a flick and his team perked up, began dragging the long, low, covered wagon along behind them.
Allystaire watched the wagon pass, then the men trailing the peddler’s wagon. Only one of them was openly armed in a meaningful way, with a heavy flanged mace dangling from his belt, and a crossbow cased against his saddle.
He cleared his throat and flung out a hand, called to the guard, “Goodman!” His voice snapped through the air, turning everyone’s head. He pointed towards the bow. “I will be collecting that while you stay in Thornhurst.”
“Collectin’ what?” The man grinned faintly, showing gaps in his teeth.
“The crossbow. Maces and the like, knives, swords even, you may keep. The crossbow will be given back when you leave.”
“Doesn’t seem like part o’the Baron’s law,” the man said.
“Baroness,” Allystaire corrected. “And if you wish to ask her, you may,” Allystaire said. “Just keep following the road. Unless I miss my guess she will suggest that you do as I have asked. And frankly, friend, it is not the Baroness’s law that matters inside these walls. I meant it when I said you are all welcome. Crossbows, though,” Allystaire shook his head, “those I do not welcome. Please hand it to my associate, who will take excellent care of it. Harrys.”
At the sound of his name, the old soldier and new squire gave his horse a nudge and rode forward to take the bow from the saddle of the unconvinced guardsman.
“C’mon now, Myron,” Rohrich called back, twisting in his seat. “We’re plenty safe among these folk. Give it o’er.”
Myron unhooked the strap that held it over his pommel and held it towards a smiling Harrys, who told him, “No worries now, man. I know how t’take care of a crossbow. I’ll keep it dry’n’warm. Y’want it stored unstrung?”
Myron nodded, grimacing, then turned his horse and rode on, with a backwards glance at Allystaire.
Andus Carek, nimbly riding a fleet-looking roan, had let the wagon and the other riders drift past, then pulled up closer to Allystaire. “Are you certain there is no Radys Glythe? I met her just a few months ago and she told me folk here were desperate for music, would pay well. She was from my part of the world. Concordat folk are not so abundant here, especially in winter, that she should go unremarked.”
“Why did you not come then?”
“Well,” Carek said, rubbing his chin with one thickly gloved hand. “Word on the road was keeping most away.”
“What does word say now?”
The bard cleared his throat. “Lot of things,” he said. “Some of which might make a song if I can hear more.”
“Well,” Allystaire said, “I have a feeling I know the woman you met, and yes you will find her here. Her name is not Radys Glythe.”
The man smiled broadly, crinkling his hard-planed cheeks. “I thought it might not be.” Then, tilting his head to a side. “Temple Proclamations were slow to reach towns in the north, but did they speak true?”
“Probably depends on the Temple. If it comes from the Sea Dragon, I am inclined to say no. From Fortune, perhaps.”
“Well,” Andus Carek said, lifting one hand, palm straight up. “They said the same thing. Just a question of how they said it. The Baron died here. Murdered, said some. Defeated, said others.”
“I killed him, if that is what you are asking. But it was no murder.”
“Paladin, some stories said.” The bard stroked his chin with his gloved fingers, resting his other hand on the pommel of his saddle. “Fair of face and voice, a veritable giant among men.”
“Stories lie,” Allystaire said flatly.
“They do and they do not,” Andus Carek said. “If I might trouble you later for some commentary on said stories, I would be most grateful.”
“I have a feeling you are going to trouble me whether I say yes or no. Is that feeling correct?”
Andus Carek grinned, and his dark eyes nearly twinkled. “I suspect it might be.”
Allystaire couldn’t help but chuckle, then wave a hand. “Go on. You will find the woman you seek if she wishes to be found.”
“A curious way of putting it. Might I know her real name?”
“That,” Allystaire said, “will be up to her.” He nodded to the open gate. “Be welcome in peace.”
The bard knew when he’d been dismissed. He tugged the hood back up over his head and lightly touched one heel to the flank of his horse, and it trotted on.
Once they men were all well clear of the gate, Allystaire waved Harrys and Gideon on, but held out a hand to stop Norbert. As Gideon turned to look at him curiously, he thought, I want you there to keep an eye on everything. Let Idgen Marte, Torvul, and Mol know who comes.
The boy nodded and turned to go when Allystaire suddenly smiled inwardly. On second thought—let Torvul and Mol know. Let Idgen Marte learn on her own.
Gideon’s smile when he heard was a match for Allystaire’s own, and the boy let his horse run a few paces to catch up to Harrys.
Allystaire then swung his gaze towards Norbert, frowning. Once the squire caught the paladin’s look, he winced.
“Draw your bow, Norbert,” Allystaire said.
The boy’s left hand slide to his side, and his wince deepened into a close-eyed grimace. He then reached to his right side, fumbled, started to draw the weapon free, only to have it suddenly tug on his reins and pull them out of the too-loose grip of his hands. His horse took a couple curious steps to the side, then raised its head and sent an almost mournful look at Allystaire. Meanwhile, Norbert struggled to grab bow and reins both, succeeding only in getting them more thoroughly tangled.
“What have you learned, Norbert?” Allystaire said as he rode over and took hold of the gelding’s bridle. The horse snorted, in thanks, Allystaire thought.
“Make sure I put m’bow case on my left side.”
“And?”
“To make sure my reins are clear.”
“Those are the specifics of the lesson, yes,” Allystaire said, assuming the tone of a tutor nearing the end of a vast store of patience. “Now induce to the general.”
Norbert thought hard for a moment. “Always be…ready?”
“Close,” Allystaire said. “Be certain that nothing you can control comes between you and the means to do your duty. You can control the placement of your weapon, your reins, the movement of your horse. None of those things should ever impede you. It is not enough to assume that they will not. Be certain of it.”
“And things I can’t control?”
“Those are usually the things you will want to put arrows in. But there are others, of course,” Allystaire said. As Norbert finally untangled weapon and reins and grasped one firmly in each hand, he let go of the gelding’s bridle and the two of them began riding, side by side, back into the village. “You cannot control what other men, those with you, or those against you, might do. But you must always control what you do.”
“I’m sorry, Arm,” Norbert said. “I will work harder.”
“Not today, no,” Allystaire said, cutting him off with a hand slashing through the air. “Today, the snow is melting on the green, as they say, and even squires are given the liberty of the day. Do you as you wish this day. Take joy in the celebration. Now, give that horse its head and let us have a run back to the green, eh?”
Without waiting for a response, Allystaire gave Ardent a flick of his heel and the grey’s muscles bunched and gathered beneath him, then set them rocketing down the track, churning cold mud into the air. Norbert did the same with his gelding, who joined the run with spirit, though it had no hope of catching the warhorse.
Though the air still stung with cold, the quality of the light held a promise of spring. As they often were in the Baronies, the season of the new would be brief and quickly give way to the pounding heat of summer. But at least on the day that winter officially ended in the minds of the people under their care, Sir Allystaire Stillbright and his squire Norbert briefly filled the air with laughter at the joy of a simple race.