The War, page 12
“Huh,” Jedediah Crayes said. “I’m glad I don’t have to emulate your method of turning away questioners. But never mind. You did rather well. I’d still like to know how on earth you got in without a password—but never mind. Never mind. We’ll cover that another time, when you’re feeling better. How are you doing now?”
“I’m fine.”
“You are what—Listen, this is not heroics school. I am your employer. I need to know when you are going to be up and around again. I need to know how you are!”
Mordred sighed. “A bit more than uncomfortable. I’ll be up tomorrow.” His eyes drifted closed, leaving a face that looked suddenly very young and exhausted. He did not speak again.
Jedediah Crayes felt his forehead when he was sure that Mordred had gone to sleep. Clammy, warm. The unruly dark cowlick was damp with sweat. “Touch feverish, I shouldn’t wonder,” he muttered. His face softened imperceptibly. “Little fool . . . ”
Mordred did not stir. Jedediah Crayes sprang up lightly and left the tent.
CHAPTER 11
“IF THIS IS ALL THERE is to war, I can handle it.” Marcus stretched on the cot with an innocent ecstasy. “While the beds may not be quite as comfortable as those of home, they are a sight better than no bed at all.”
Sergeant Garin’s men had expected that they would return to Orden City after Adun Cerien was won. Instead, they had been marched on through the pass to the tall, white-turreted city of Mianu. After four peaceful days stationed in the barracks there, Marcus was—or claimed to be—resigned to a life of boredom.
“In fact,” he declared, “I am content with it, and that is so much the better.”
Bardrick shook his head with a slight grin, pretending not to be amused by his younger brother’s prattle. Others, knowing Marcus less well, took him literally.
“There’ll be fighting yet,” said one young man. “Haven’t you heard all the officers talking? Even Sergeant Garin. How great a simpleton can you be?”
Marcus only laughed and folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
“Marcus, there’s an ant on you,” said Bardrick, looking at the black insect that was making its way over Marcus’ arm.
“Oh?” Marcus said placidly. “How interesting.”
“On your sleeve. Get it off.”
Marcus twisted his head to one side and studied the creature. “To oblige you, my dear brother.” He flicked it away. “You know, after a battle, a few ants are nothing to fret about.”
Bardrick shrugged and was silent.
“It happened well for all of us, really,” Marcus remarked softly after a moment. He glanced around the damp, dark room. “You and I, and Braegon, and Therelane and Jared, and Fenris—we all made it out alive.”
“And Mordred, don’t forget,” said Bardrick. He looked at Fenris. Fenris’ eyes were on the ground.
No one knew what had happened to Mordred. Some people had seen him with Captain Rhodes the night following the battle, but it could not be found out why or where he had gone. All Sergeant Garin would say was that he had been called away by the captain, and they were left to wonder. The most logical guess was that the captain had reassigned him to a different division, and so they generally assumed, but why? What had they, or he, done wrong? It was then that Marcus had said to Bardrick, vehemently, “I hate the army.”
“Hush,” Bardrick had said, aching for his little brother. You are too young for this, Marcus . . . sixteen, too young for war, for death.
As for Fenris, he had taken it quietly, but everyone knew it had cut him hard. He ate little, and barely answered when spoken to. Maybe it would not have been so bad for him, Bardrick thought, if he could have said farewell to Mordred and known where he was going . . .
The painful silence that descended at Mordred’s name was broken only when Marcus said, “I wonder if anyone else from Ceristen is posted here in Mianu? We ought to have a look around, while things remain this quiet.”
“Aye,” said Bardrick; “that’s a fine idea, Marcus.”
One of the few older men among them spoke up obligingly. “You can go about the city most any time that’s not training hours. Just be back by sundown. Check the taverns; that’s where soldiers go in lee time.”
“Thank you,” Bardrick replied. “Braegon, Jared—any of you coming?”
Jared shook his head. He had taken a gash along his forearm in the battle at Adun Cerien, and since then he had been more laconic than ever.
“I think I shall come,” said Braegon, swinging his legs over his own cot. “Come, Therelane, we’ll make it a four of us.”
Therelane’s eyes lighted, as they always did when he was included among them. He came forward eagerly and joined them as they left the building for the blinding sun and keen spring wind.
~
With a rush of wings, the dragon made a delicate landing on the white paving of the courtyard. Mithissa rose up in the center, one among the many fair towers of Mianu, built after the style of Orden’s earlier periods which favored tall, slim pinnacles and scant outer facings.
The rider dismounted in an easy spring and strode within.
“I am here but briefly, only to verify that the defenses here are adequate and that all preparations are being carried out,” the general explained after he and Captain Rhodes had greeted one another. “You will accompany me out later?”
“Aye, willingly.”
The general paused, a frown gathering itself between his eyes. “In Captain Murray’s report, he said that Lord Mirden was not found in the city after you recaptured it. Is that so?”
“It is, my general. He must have escaped it when he saw the reinforcements arrive.”
The general’s eyes were narrowed in anxiety and doubt. “It is ill news, for he ought not to be still at large. I fear of what he may intend now. But it is done; and we can do nothing until we hear word of him.”
Captain Rhodes nodded. “Tell me, my general,” he said, “did Mordred Kenhelm reach you safely in time with his message?”
“Concerning the enemy spy? That he did, and we were able to apprehend the man directly.”
“So, that is well . . . ” Captain Rhodes sighed, his face still troubled. “I hope that I did right in sending him on with the message. I had none others to relay it by, and he offered at once without my asking. Yet I fear that he will suffer something for his eager service, unless he has a solid tale for such a long absence.”
“He has a quick wit, and Jedediah Crayes at his back. Do not fear, Captain Rhodes.” The general smiled. “You care much for him, I think.”
Captain Rhodes hesitated. “Aye. There is a love in me for that little village of Ceristen, from the day I first saw it: an admiration for such hardy, close-knit, welcoming folk. But Mordred . . . he is strangely as a brother to me, though I have now met him but thrice. I would not readily see him hurt.”
~
Kenneth Denholm pinched the old, softening wood of the squarely fashioned table, not listening to the rambling of his comrade beside him. He was thinking of Marianne, her cuddling close to him and whispering with shining eyes and irresistible smile about the baby; then, barely a day later, seeing him off in the grey dawn, her eyes huge with fear and the sleepless night, face pinched and taut with the effort of not crying.
“Try to smile,” he told her pleadingly, cupping her face between his hands in the old lover’s way. “Sometimes. For the baby.”
She suddenly looked more scared still. “Kenneth—what if something happens—to the baby?”
“Hush, hush.” He placed his hands gently on her lower belly. “Nothing is going to happen to the baby. He’s going to be grand, big, strong.”
“Maybe it will be a girl.” She was almost laughing now, one tiny dimple half-visible in her beautiful smile. He caught her, crushed her in a quick hug, and turned and hurried out the door before either of them could cry . . .
“Kenneth!” The shout jerked him out of memories, and he looked up at Marcus Segelas’ winsome, infectious grin. Startled, and then delighted, he leaped up and met Marcus halfway in a somewhat rough hug.
“You—and Bardrick—land, how many of you are here?”
“We left two back at the barracks,” said Marcus, eyes dancing. “Anybody else with you?”
Kenneth blinked and recollected himself. “Fred and Daren Thorne, as a matter of fact. But they’re back in our own quarters. Not here.”
“Well, then, we can go there!” said Marcus cheerfully.
Braegon demurred. “Without warning, I shouldn’t like to do that. A barracks are the nearest thing to home a soldier has, and unannounced visits are not always welcome.”
“Oh, very well—” Marcus shrugged.
“Another time,” said Bardrick. “Come, Kenneth, tell us how it has been with you.”
So Kenneth told them of going down to Mitheren, how his division had been sent up to the West Gate. There had been some mild attacking there, half-hearted, the sergeants called it. “More probing the defenses than aught else. They never laid real siege to it and drew off early. I did nothing but fire a few arrows down myself.”
“Then we have you beat,” said Marcus, grinning. But his gaiety was tempered by an unusual gravity, and Kenneth, looking at his friends, saw a weary, burning look in all their eyes. They had been seared by war. They were not the same.
~
At first, it had seemed like one could not carry on.
How were ordinary things to continue? How, when the world had come crashing down? When brothers and friends had torn themselves out of the village’s peaceful framework to leave jagged, irreplaceable holes? How, when the eve of one’s own wedding had been stamped upon and blackened, and the betrothed had gone to a place whence he might never return?
But as the days went by, and the sun still shone and the trees began to leaf out, and no ravaging soldiers entered the village with axe and sword and fire, Fiona found that one could carry on. It was not quite the same. The holes were still there. A strange invisible shadow seemed to be cast over every moment. But it was a shadow that they could live with, that could fade only to the very edges and lie forgotten.
She walked with quick steps along the road, reveling in the greenness that was everywhere and the pure life that seemed to radiate from the trees, the ground, the whole world. Sixteen springs she had seen in Erahar, but this was so different from Erahar’s pale, austere springs that she felt like a child seeing for the first time, and everything was new and vibrant.
It would have been Fred’s first spring here as well.
The shadow deepened, and she walked on with sober face.
She had not seen Fred after the news came; in a way she was glad of that. The last memory she had of him was the glad, shining one of his face filled with love and peace and his strong arms holding her in a net of security.
Oh, if she could have one more moment like that with him, she would never take it for granted again . . .
Fiona came out of the trees and the open slope of the mountain was all around her, swallowing her up in a sense of vastness and might, the empty sky a thing of intangible, weightless, wild freedom. She shifted her bundle under one arm, picked up her skirts, and ran.
The Earles’ home was a comfortingly placid environment, warm after the brisk wind outside, and it almost seemed at first that the war had no place here at all. Fiona explained to Mrs. Earle why she had come—to return the carding battens that she had loaned to the Segelases—and Mrs. Earle accepted them with thanks and sat Fiona down by the fire with bread and butter and a warmed cup of cow’s milk, rambling cheerily on this and that.
“Aye, and the Staffords are looking at another young one this autumn, come harvest time or a little later, about the same time as Marianne’s, ’twill be.”
“That is nice,” said Fiona, a smile breaking out as she thought of a fifth infant in Mrs. Stafford’s arms. And then the hurt constricted in her heart again, and she said no more.
“ . . . but you know Irene Grey, of course?”
“Know her?” Fiona hesitated. The Greys were so secluded, the only one she could say she knew was Therelane. But Irene—yes, Irene was the one who was able to sense ailments. “I remember her. What is it?”
“Why, she’s leaving! That’s what.”
“Leaving?” Fiona stared in perplexity at the other woman. “Why?”
~
“I—don’t—understand.” Fourteen-year-old Lewis Grey panted as he lengthened his steps to keep up with his sister’s surprisingly quick stride. The last thing Therelane had said to him was, “You and Adolphus are the men of the house now, you know; be good to Mother, and keep Irene company.” “I don’t understand. Why are you going?”
Irene whipped coolly on him, her dark hair swishing. She was short, but her eyes were still barely on a level with him. “I have been hiding up on this mountain for sixteen years, Lewis, with the rest of my crazed family. Haven’t you been doing the same?”
Lewis did not know what to answer. He shrugged and scratched behind his ear.
She swept his hand down. “Don’t do that. Now, some of the family has a real excuse for hiding up here—like our father and Ledelia. I never did. And now that there is a war, I truly don’t.”
Lewis frowned. “But you have the curse, too, like them. Therelane and Adolphus and I are the ones who don’t.”
Irene’s eyes snapped with impatience. “Of course I have the curse! But I’m not mad, am I? Nay, the curse gave to me a gift, if gift one can call it. For a long time it was almost dormant, because I didn’t care to use it, but lately I have been testing; and the more I test, the more powerful it grows. Pains and ailments that used to be a vague blur because of distance are now clear to me from a mile away. I can focus on a particular person and block the others out with greater ease than I could before.
“Now you see, Lewis?” Her cold, abrupt tones were almost gentle. “I have to use this. I can help the world, and I must. It has been my calling since I was an infant, and I ignored it long enough. I am going out to the cities, to the hospices, wherever there is the most sickness and wounds; and while I have no gift of healing, my gift of sense may prove its worth yet.”
Suddenly to Lewis his strange, cynical, sharp-tongued sister seemed a whole new person, wonderful and brave. He gulped back the babyish lump in his throat and told her so.
She looked like she might snort, or roll her eyes; instead she sighed and gave a light pat to his head. “You little, idealistic dreamer-boy. Just like Therelane.”
CHAPTER 12
“RICHARDSON! OVER HERE, BOY!”
Mordred came across the dim tent and stood before his superior, waiting for whatever tongue-lashing or reprimand Captain Alétun had in store. But the man merely handed him a letter, and said sharply, “Deliver this to the Paraki at once.”
“Aye, sir,” said Mordred, taking the folded paper and walking carefully out of the tent. It was the second day since the flogging, and his shoulders and back still smarted fiercely and threatened to break open at the least sudden movement. It gave him, though he did not know it, a still prouder look than usual as he walked through the camp.
The leader was, surprisingly, alone when Mordred found him—quite alone, staring into the dimness of the shadow beyond the torches. He turned about swiftly as Mordred entered, and fixed him with those grim dark eyes, holding out his hand for the note. “Who sent it?”
“Captain Alétun, sir,” Mordred answered.
He started to read it, but checked, the paper fluttering in his fingers as he studied Mordred. “You are not Runnicoran by your face or speech.”
“No, sir.” Mordred wet his lips, willing his eyes to meet the older man’s.
“What is your name?”
“Gerald Richardson, sir.”
He waited for some sign of recognition, but the leader made none and Mordred realized in relief that there was no reason for him to recall one boy out of possibly dozens of Ordenian deserters in the past se’ennight. The leader transferred his attention to the letter and read it through at a glance. When he was done he rubbed his thumb over it and began to feed it in a detached way to the candle-flame beside him.
“Shall I carry back a reply, sir?” said Mordred.
Cern Dersturi halted and looked at him, then shrugged and continued burning the parchment. “A captain’s petty concerns are not mine. There will be no reply.”
Something of a wholly new nature seemed to strike him. He dropped the smoldering paper on the grass and turned to the side, frowning in thought.
“Did I not dismiss you?” he barked suddenly at Mordred.
“Forgive me, sir,” Mordred started, but Cern Dersturi cut him off.
“Can you read and write?”
“In the common tongue, sir, and in my birth language—but not Runnicoran.”
The leader waved it aside. “No matter. You are educated—you are intelligent.”
Mordred stood quite still, having no idea what to say. The entire conversation was bizarre, unreal; did the leader somehow suspect him of—of . . .
And then came the questions, a great number of them, sharp and quick on the heels of one another, and Mordred was quite sure that he was being tested, though he did not know why. Quick they came and quick he answered them, a taut silvery dance where the balance might fall wrong at any moment. Some questions he knew he could not answer with the truth, and an answer would come just when there could not be another millisecond of waiting. The balance never slipped.
At last the questions stopped; Mordred could not remember what a single one of them had been.
