They named Voniss’s child Aydon and held a celebration for his safe birth.
But I was not there.
The smell of grass is a strong one. It is not something many think about. It fills my mind because I do not want to think about anything else. The smell is strong and cloying, especially when it is caught by a tent, lucent blades crushed by the boards beneath my knees, fermented by the heat of yearslife and concentrated by the enclosing canvas and rags until it becomes almost unbearable. It is stronger than sweat, stronger than armour, stronger than mount dung and piss.
But it is not stronger than death. What is?
In the stories of the days of balance, for every death there is a birth. And maybe Rufra had brought us closer to those fabled days for it had been that way in the case of Aydon. He had come into the world, squalling and strong despite being born early as the cavalry of war rode around him.
And back in Rufra’s camp, Feorwic, my sweet and smiling apprentice, had lost her life protecting her friend. I had always thought it would be my life that would be spent in protection of Rufra’s family. I had never considered it could be hers.
I sat in a dark tent before the table that held her body: So small, so slight. Had you not been able to smell death you may have thought the black and red flag on the table covered a small feast, not a small life. Twice I had reached out to remove the flag and bare her face, but I could not bring myself to do it. Outside I heard the clash of cymbals as Benliu, priest of Torelc, danced to drive away hedgings and the misfortune they may bring young Aydon and I wondered where he had been when Feorwic gave her life.
“It is not your fault, Girton.”
My master, despite her crutches, had come in so silently I had not noticed. Now that I knew she was there I could feel her behind me, her skin emanating warmth soaked up from the blazing sun.
“But it is my fault, Master. You told me I should not have brought her, that she would never make an assassin.”
A pause, a footstep, the creak of board under the point of a crutch and she stood near enough to me that I could feel her breathing.
“And I was wrong in that, Girton. When the moment came she proved me entirely wrong. She would have made a fine assassin. She had the spine for it. The will.”
“Tell me what happened, Master.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Girton, her killer is dead, rehashing events will not—”
“Tell me.”
“Very well.” She let out a sigh and I heard a chair creak as she lowered her weight into it. “Feorwic was playing with Anareth and Vinwulf.”
“They were not guarded?”
“Celot guarded them, but you know what he is like. A royal gives him a command and he obeys without thinking.”
“Who commanded him?”
“Girton, there is no mystery here. Yesterday a concerted move was made against Rufra and it failed.”
I placed a hand on the edge of the flag, felt the slick material against my fingertips.
“Who commanded him?”
“Anareth commanded Celot. She sent him to pick flowers.”
“It is fortuitous.”
“They are children. The assassin could have been waiting all day for his opportunity.” She waited but I did not reply and so she carried on. “When Celot was gone he came, dressed as one of Rufra’s guard. A guard’s body was found by the stream, hidden in the reeds.”
“Where is the assassin’s corpse?”
“In another tent. You can see it if you wish.”
I nodded.
“I will, later. Carry on, Master.”
“He approached with his blade out and Feorwic challenged him.” I could see it in my mind’s eye: little Feorwic, her small knife in her hand, her face full of indignation. A child, but still brave when in a position many adults would quail from. “He raised his blade to her, attacked. She dodged, even managed to cut his leg before he stabbed her, caught her mid-spin. I think she was trying for the maiden’s pass. Anareth screamed, which brought Celot running. By the time he was there the attacker was dead. Young Vinwulf had used Feorwic’s distraction to cut him down.”
“And you find nothing suspicious in this?”
“No, Girton. I do not.”
“A real assassin comes for Voniss, but they send an amateur who can be bested by children for Rufra’s heirs?”
“There are few real assassins, so tell me, who would you have sent one after? The children, or the woman guarded by a small army and you?”
I remained quiet. She was right. I wanted to hurt someone. I could feel it within, that need. A dark tide that wanted to tear at the earth, to rend and burn. I wanted there to be a culprit near, someone I could blame for Feorwic’s death and, in a way, there was. As if reading my mind, my master spoke again.
“It is not your fault, Girton. Do not feel guilty for what is beyond your control or knowing.” I reached out and removed the flag from Feorwic’s face, but she was gone. What lay before me was only flesh, it had no life and no humour. Where the warmth of her laugh should be within me was a cold place. I pulled the flag further back. “They will give her to Xus tonight,” said my master.
“No,” I said, turning her body to see the wound on her back. “I do not want her to feed the pigs. I will bury her like they do in the far lands. I will put her by a tree. She always loved the trees, she dreamed of seeing a forest one day. I told her I would take her to one.”
“People will think you odd.”
“Master, I am dressed as a dancing skeleton.”
A quiet laugh from behind me and I heard her stand.
I studied the small body, the wound in Feorwic’s back bothered me but I did not know why. Given the events described it made a sort of sense, caught mid-twist by a thrust from a sword. It was possible the wound had been made that way. It was an awkward strike, but maybe it was not the wound that bothered me. Maybe my master was right and it was simply guilt. Suddenly, I could bear to look at her no longer. Something inside swelled and if I looked at her a moment longer it would burst, a dark sea, sweeping from me to wash away the pain. Without replacing her covering I turned, finding my master stood before me, barring my way.
“I will miss her,” I said, and my voice began to break. My master stepped forward, taking me in her arms like she had done when I was a child.
“I know, Girton, I will too. I know.”
“I want to see where it happened.”
“You should go and spend some time with Aydor.”
“I am not in the mood for Aydor.” I pulled myself away.
“You never are, until you are with him.”
“He is an idiot.”
“He is your friend and today you could do with a friend.” I bowed my head.
“Imagine you had told me that twenty years ago, Master, that Aydor was my friend. I would have thought you mad.”
“Well.” She brought her hands up, making two “L” shapes which framed her face in the gesture of surprise. “I am talking to a man dressed as a skeleton.”
It is strange how a moment’s touch and kind words can fill an emptiness, though it is only ever temporary.
“I would still see where Feorwic died. And I would talk to Celot, Vinwulf and Anareth.”
“Very well. Go to the copse where the river bends.” She pointed out through the back of the tent, but I did not follow her finger as it would have meant looking at Feorwic’s corpse again. “Celot and Vinwulf will be no problem, but Anareth, well …”
“She is hurt?”
“Not in body, no. But she has not spoken since the attack and clings to Voniss as if her life depends on it.”
“I will speak to her still, we have always got on.”
“Give her time, Girton.”
I nodded and left the tent, heading to the copse where Feorwic had died. A peculiar numbness had settled over me, the type I had not felt since my master stopped cutting the Landsman’s Leash into my flesh nine years ago. The heat of the day did not touch me and the singing of the flying lizards sounded like nothing but unpleasant noise. Even the cheery gurgle of the river brought me no joy. I could see why the children had been left to play here. The River Dallad was wide and looped back to almost touch its own banks. In a few years this copse would be an island but for now it made a place where the children could easily be protected. The only way in by land was a thin path that was easily guarded.
Blood on the ground by my boots. I knelt to study it. I had hoped to find the action written in footprints and broken grass, but it was far too late now. Anareth’s scream had brought half the camp running and no blade of grass stood upright. The cloying scent of crushed grass filled my nostrils again, making me feel nauseous.
“She died there, Girton.” I turned to find Aydor, huge and armoured, not smiling. His long hair fell to stick to the small enamel plates of armour shirt, his gap-toothed mouth worked on food behind his long beard. “She fought well, by all counts. Cut him twice before he got her.” He saw me wince at his words. “Sorry, Girton,” he looked truly contrite, “sometimes I do not think. Too long a soldier. I’ll miss her, Girton.”
“I know.” More than once I had caught Aydor ruining Feorwic’s training by running around with her on his shoulders while he huffed and growled, pretending to be a mount. The thought made me smile. “Where did the attacker die?”
Aydor pointed to the middle of the small clearing.
“Feorwic distracted him. As he struck her. Vinwulf cut him down with a strike to the throat. Say what you want about the little monster but he can fight.”
“Aye, and Anareth?”
“She ran for the wood by the banks. When Celot returned Vinwulf was going after her in case others came.”
“How is Celot?” It may seem odd that it worried me. Celot had been Aydor’s Heartblade, once, long ago, but Aydor had told him to protect Rufra and now he did. Celot was a feared warrior—one of the best I had ever seen—though in his mind he was little more than a child.
“Distraught of course.” Aydor kicked at the ground. “Rufra told him to ‘look after’ the children. If he had said ‘guard’ the children Celot would never have left them. I think mother kicked that into him, ‘Guard means never leave, you idiot!’ I can still hear her screaming it now.” He grimaced. “But ‘look after’? To him, that puts them in charge so he does what they say. They are royals, he is their servant. Celot’s world is very simple.” He shrugged. “The king was furious with him, though it is Rufra who is at fault.”
“Good luck getting Rufra to see that.” Aydor nodded. “I will speak to Celot, make sure he knows I do not blame him.”
“Thank you, Girton, it will help. But it is for Rufra that I am here. The naming of Aydon is finally over.”
“And you have an heir named for you.” I tried to smile for him but could not manage it.
“Aye, it should be you though. You were not led away by an obvious ruse, and it was you who saved the queen.”
“That will never happen,” I said. Aydor looked away. “Besides, it was you, not I, that acted as midwife while all about us panicked.”
His face crumpled up and he looked comically horrified. “You know, Girton, I would rather face down a cavalry charge on my own with nothing but a stick than see another babe born. Thank the dead gods I am not a woman.”
“Well, you would be an uncommonly ugly one. Your parents would think they had crossed Dark Ungar to deserve you.” He let out a laugh, a great, thick laugh that could not help but raise my spirits a little.
“I would call myself Adrin Milkcurdler and hire myself out to the cheesewrights.”
“You would make a fortune.” He grinned and I let out a sigh as I tried to stand, a sudden shot of pain running through me from my club foot. Aydor put out a hand.
“Come, let me help you, mage-bent. The king awaits.”
We trudged through Rufra’s small camp and all around us were signs of celebration. I glimpsed the priest of Torelc, god of time, in his night-blue clothes as he sat and drank with a group of mount archers. My early experiences of priests, with Neander and Darvin, one treacherous the other insane, had taught me not to trust them, but Benliu was a gentle soul. I think he had been surprised to find himself at a king’s court as Torelc’s priests were not generally popular. Their god was blamed with causing the wars of balance that left us godless, apart from Xus, the god of death. After Darvin’s treachery—which nearly cost Rufra the crown sixteen years ago—the king had made Danfoth his priest, but that relationship had quickly soured. There was something very dark in what Danfoth brought to religion. Atrocities had occurred and, though Rufra could never prove it, he and I were sure that Danfoth and his cult—the Children of Arnst—were behind them. At some point his religion had passed from a worship of Xus to a belief it was their duty to hasten the living toward him. What made this even more uncomfortable was that I remained, to them, the Chosen of Xus. I was a figure of veneration, having gained this lofty position by my part in unmasking the murderer of Arnst, the original leader of the cult, and defeating him in single combat. Though, like in all the best jester’s stories, I had cut off the head of one serpent only for more to spring up in its place, and, although few knew it, I had not even beheaded the right serpent.
Eventually, Rufra cast Danfoth out of his court and he took his followers with him to Ceadoc, where he found a welcome in the high king’s palace. It was, in truth, not an acquaintance I was looking forward to renewing, though I knew Rufra would have me use my influence to try and win Danfoth’s support.
Personally, I would sooner put a knife in the man.
After the Children of Arnst had gone, Rufra had been unwilling to honour the dead gods’ priesthood and so invited a priest of Torelc, the most despised of the dead gods, to Maniyadoc. I had little to do with Benliu but Aydor assured me he was “a man who could hold his drink,” which to Aydor’s thinking was high praise—and I had found Aydor to be a surprisingly good judge of character.
“Girton, you can make your own way to Rufra’s caravan. I should join Benliu and receive some spiritual instruction,” Aydor said.
“You mean drink.”
“Of course.”
“Before you go, what sort of mood is he in?”
“Benliu? A drinking one I hope …”
“You know what I mean.” The smile fell from Aydor’s face.
“You would think, that just having had his queen saved and a new son brought into the world, he would be in a joyous mood.”
“But he is not,” I said.
“No, Girton, he is not.”
I nodded. I could not find any fault in what I had done to save Voniss.
But I had no doubt Rufra would.