The War, page 42
“Well—it is past, Laufeia. Never mind it. Mordred and I have made things right between us—did he not tell you?—or as right as they can be made.” His shoulders sagged again.
“Mordred is not one to speak of things that still hurt him,” said Laufeia. “I think for him the thing is not yet over.”
“Mordred, is he—” began Ahearn, looking down at his brother, and then broke off. “There are better places and times to speak of all this.”
“Maybe so,” said Laufeia. A strange loyalty would not let her accept help from Ahearn without Mordred’s acquiescence, even though she hated his disdain for what he called “charity”, and hated worse his accusations of like nature that he had made against Ahearn. She bent down to her sick, half-conscious brother and touched his cheek very lightly.
“Mordred,” she said when he opened his eyes. “Ahearn is here.”
She saw a deep pain twist in his face, and knew that her guess spoken to Ahearn had struck true. “What does he want?” he asked dully.
Laufeia looked up, frowning, at Ahearn, waiting for confirmation and specification to what she already knew.
“To help,” said Ahearn, a whipped, pleading look in his eyes. “To take you out of this hellish place and have you housed in Mitheren—as sister and brothers of a king.”
Laufeia did not repeat the words to Mordred; she saw his eyes bent on Ahearn and knew that he had heard. She did not know his thoughts, only that the silence was knife-like and that Mordred looked like a man caught between two fires.
“Do it,” he said, and his tone was both intense and defeated. And to Laufeia he looked, not as though he had won a battle, but as though he had won with a terrible loss, and she knew at once that there was something she did not understand, something beyond his mere pride that he had torn down. He slumped back, drained, and said so faintly that only Laufeia heard, “Inspector Dickson, too.”
“Aye, Mordred,” she said, grasping even as she answered that he did not mean for anyone except her to hear. “We would not leave him.”
~
Laufeia came out of the small side bath-chamber, feeling wonderfully cleansed and refreshed. Her hair dangled over her shoulder in a fresh, shining braid, catching the sunset light as it streamed through an arched window. Fenris was fast asleep on the small floor pallet; she stooped to drop a loving caress on his brow. Inspector Dickson, too, lay sleeping. He had seemed better almost directly after coming into the stone-cool halls of Mitheren. It only remained to talk to Mordred, if he were still awake—about what had happened earlier.
Mordred was not asleep, not at all. He could not be further from sleep. He was sitting up, his head bowed, his hands over his face, crying in helpless, jagged sobs, trying to restrain them and failing.
She stared at him for an instant, and crossed to him without a word.
~
With Laufeia gone and the others asleep, there was no reason to hold up the wall any longer. And yet he tried, tried with all his strength, to no avail. It shattered and he wept.
There was so much, too much for his mind to take in any longer without release. All the agony and confusion of Inspector Dickson, a turmoil still beating him. Two days of unrelenting strain, Captain Alétun, death, the tide of the war turned for good. And Ahearn.
How could Ahearn do that? How could he ask it of him?
Mordred wanted only peace, but Ahearn wanted more. He wanted the old brotherly fellowship, perfect unity, and all four of them together in the palace of Ederan. And part of Mordred yearned to give it to him, because, by all rights, he ought to give it to him.
Except that Ceristen was a home to him, and he had never had a home, a real home, and if he went with Ahearn he would lose it utterly.
How was one to know? Did loyalty lie in blood and brother or in a home that was like family?
Tonight, at any rate, he had chosen blood. And it tore at him like teeth in the flesh, because he had betrayed Ceristen, and because he knew that he had put hope in Ahearn’s heart, hope that he could never realize, and because he did not want to hurt Ahearn—he had hurt so many people—
Arms came around him, strong and protecting. He lowered his hands and caught a flash of shimmering reddish hair, but he already knew who held him.
“I didn’t—” he struggled to say through the unrelenting tears. “I didn’t mean—for you—to see.”
“Hush, no, Mordred.” She rubbed her hand against his back.
Strangely, as he relinquished his fight against the tears, they began to slow. The sobs diminished into broken sighs.
“What is it, Mordred?”
He shook his head.
“Is it cannot, or will not?”
“There is too much—for words.”
“You were so stubborn; you would not weep all the hours of agony before. Why now?”
“Ahearn,” he said wearily, and it came out, in bits and pieces, all roundabout and contradictory. Ahearn, the whole story of Captain Alétun, spying, captivity, his dreadful failure.
“I could not protect him, Laufeia—the leader almost killed him. And he did kill Bardrick . . .
“I destroyed something like a tenth of the army, the second time—I pretended to be a guide, and I led him false . . . It is strange that the thing he hates me for the most is the one I regret the most—I wish those deaths had been laid at anyone’s door but mine, oh, Laufeia, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mordred,” she said gently.
“I am afraid of him, Laufeia—so afraid—I still dream about him sometimes, in the night. The werevulture was sane, Laufeia, cruelly sane, but him—there is madness lurking somewhere inside, and I never know when it will leap out at me—”
Only about Inspector Dickson he said nothing, because he did not even know his own mind there, and he did not want to go there and try to fathom it. He fell silent at last, spent with tears and explanations, and the silence rested over both of them for what seemed a long time.
And then Laufeia said the words that he did not want to hear.
“What happened between you and Inspector Dickson?”
“Don’t, Laufeia,” he gasped, flinching away from her, from the name.
“No. This once, Mordred, you will tell me.”
“I hurt him, Laufeia,” he whispered at last. “He was a person, a person like you—like Fenris—and I hurt him. I wanted to make him hurt as much as I had, with all the hate in my heart, but even after it stopped hurting me I hated him. And he never was or did half of what I pretended, and I knew it. It was wrong—it was murderous—and then it was my fault that he was shot—really it was—if I hadn’t asked him to close the window—”
“Mordred, you can’t say that.” Her arms tightened around him, as though to quell his shivering.
“But it was a silly request, and I persisted in it—so—childishly.” He shut his eyes and clutched her like an anchor. “And I think in that moment I wanted him to die. I would have liked it to happen. So it was my fault, all along . . . ”
“And that was how you felt when he was shot?”
“No—no, it was so different then. It was horrible, I didn’t know what to do, I could do nothing, and he might have been dying there—it seemed as though he was—and it was my fault. And like lightning everything seemed to be so petty and baseless, all my hate and anger and the cruel words. And after all that—he saved my life.” The admission of greatest pain, the one he could barely manage to say aloud. “He saved it—no, more than that: he put his life at risk for mine. And what have I ever done except taunt him?”
“I still love you, Mordred.” She was giving him the only thing she could, trying to comfort him, trying to ease his mind, and he felt her clasp tighten on him again. “You can do nothing that will make me stop loving you.”
“That is not enough,” he said flatly. “I must make it right with him.” He shuddered. “But what can I ever do that will make all that right?”
There is nothing. That debt is a gap too wide to fill.
~
The Runnicoran army had lost.
They could still keep trying, keep trying to regain the ground, keep trying to open the pincer-tight defenses of Orden. But their back was broken. They had tried too long. They had bargained for speed, sudden striking and a quick victory, but the war had dragged out, weakening them little bit by little bit, and now Orden, with this fresh division of military strength, was easily their equal.
Yes, the best thing, as Lieutenant Dovurti Atta was saying, was to cut their losses and retreat with dignity to Runnicor.
“Dignity!” scoffed Cir Harrik. “Dignity in defeat, indeed!”
“Defeat may be dignified,” said the lieutenant coolly. “The king would be far less pleased if we returned to him after squandering our remnant of strength on a war we had already lost.”
“Nonetheless he will not be very pleased,” said Cir Harrik bitterly, “at our utter failure.”
All eyes turned uncomfortably to the one in highest command, the one who would bear the fullest responsibility of the defeat and have to answer directly to the king who had trusted him with this plan.
But Cern Dersturi, the Paraki, met none of their gazes, fixing his dark eyes grimly on the ground with inward-turned gaze.
Little did any of them know, he was not going to answer to the king. He was not going to return disgraced at the head of a wretched, depleted army, to be stripped of his prestige and rank and more than probably sentenced to the dungeons or serf labor. He was not going back at all.
He was going to revenge himself—and of course it would end in death, but what a vengeful, glorious suicide death it would be . . .
“Send word,” Lieutenant Dovurti Atta was saying, “to withdraw forces from the north. As for the main body, we march at noon.”
“Lieutenant,” said Cern Dersturi harshly, drawing all eyes to him again. “There is a small patrol encamped west of here. I will go fetch them. You need not wait; we will catch up.”
Dovurti Atta looked back at him with searching eyes. He would know that there was no patrol in the west; and his narrowed, thoughtful gaze seemed to see his general’s intent. He gave a little nod, imperceptible to the watchers. This is your way? he seemed to ask.
Cern Dersturi’s grim jaw pulsed in answer, his chin lifting in the slightest proud gesture.
Lieutenant Dovurti Atta nodded again, and turned away.
~
Ahearn came to see that they were doing well in the morning. Laufeia assured him brusquely that they were doing quite well. Then she snatched his hand and drew him out into the hall.
“Mordred doesn’t need you hovering over him,” she said plainly. “He has enough on his mind without being reminded that he’s brother of the king every few hours.”
“What is troubling him?” Ahearn’s brow furrowed anxiously.
“More than I have time to tell you,” said Laufeia impatiently.
“He is my brother, too,” said Ahearn, begging in a mournful, baffled way.
She shook her head. “Another time.”
“There will never be ‘another time’,” said Ahearn bitterly; “you need not pretend. Why must I be the outcast? Mordred would be far better suited for that office!”
Laufeia froze in mid-turn and spun back on him, furious. “Tell me you meant that in jest,” she said in a low, hard voice. “And if so, a poorly chosen jest it was.”
Shaken, Ahearn stepped away. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think—”
“You should have. At least Mordred would rather sacrifice his pride than hurt you now.” She stormed back into the room and shut the door hard.
Avoiding Mordred’s eyes, the first pair she met was Inspector Dickson’s; he had improved rapidly, and was standing with his right side leaning on the wall. He raised his brows with a curious frown.
Laufeia was finished with interference from any quarter. She turned her back and sat stiffly in front of the window. Gradually her indignation faded, and she stared pensively out at the morning-lit city spread below, feeling sorry for Ahearn. After all, it was hard on him.
A knock rattled the door hours later. Somehow she expected Ahearn, but it was a strange face that entered.
“I was told that Mordred Kenhelm is lodged here,” said the man, whose grim features seemed almost carven out of stone. His eyes flicked around the room.
“Captain Murray!” said Mordred.
They were the first words he had spoken all day, and a light seemed to enter his face. Laufeia watched him, mesmerized, trying to understand. He had been drawn out of his pain for the first time in days.
“I was bidden to give you a message,” said Captain Murray, “by the general.” A slight smile was playing at the edges of his stony-firm mouth, and it cracked into an ungainly grin, as though he were not used to smiling so openly. “He thought you would like to know that the Runnicoran army was seen marching south and west in its entirety. A message came by dragon that those in the north have likewise departed.”
“Truly?” asked Mordred softly. “That means—”
“It is over,” said Captain Murray. “The war is over.”
“The war is over,” repeated Laufeia, so wonderstruck she could not even feel joy, turning the words this way and that to herself. She remembered the horse sale, the general’s words of sorrowful promise, Mordred’s white, rigid face, Linda Boccin sobbing wildly.
All that over.
They would go home, all three of them.
To Ceristen.
She found that she was crying.
~
Captain Murray left. And even the news of victory could not lift away Mordred’s cloud for long. He sat quiet, staring distantly away. He and Inspector Dickson both avoided even looking in one another’s direction, and the silence between them was thicker and tenser than it had ever been.
Towards evening, Inspector Dickson heaved a sudden sigh and got up abruptly. “I want to walk a little,” he said. He disregarded offers of help and limped out.
If he wanted time alone, Laufeia thought, she could not fault him. She began to think that she would like to walk a little herself—
But not alone, she decided. She would bring Fenris. He needed to hear what she had heard from Mordred last night—he, above anyone else, deserved to know it.
“Do not worry if we are gone long,” she told Mordred as Fenris waited for her by the door.
He nodded. She wondered if he had really heard—so lost in his hopeless suffering.
“Mordred,” she said more deliberately, cutting through to him. “Mordred,” she repeated, softly. “Is there no way you can make yourself at rest?”
His face twitched in pain. “There is an immeasurable gulf of wrong between us, and an unpayable debt. I must unmake that, I must make it all right. But how can I do that? There is nothing that will cover my words. How am I to repay the unpayable?”
She spoke tenderly. “Mordred, you want the impossible. Listen to me—your wrongs cannot be unmade, but maybe they can be mended. Your gulf cannot be filled, but maybe it can be bridged. Mend it, Mordred, in whatever way you can.”
He met her gaze intensely, drinking in every word. Silence hung between them for an instant.
Then an answer came into his eyes, and peace with it, and a confused, turbulent look that had underlain his countenance for a long time faded away.
“Yes,” he said. “I will do that.”
~
Inspector Dickson walked mindlessly, not noticing when his side set up a fiery ache of protest. He needed to be alone, very badly, so that he could sort through matters.
Every time he remembered Mordred’s quiet, costly “I thank you” in the darkened courtyard, he struggled not to weep. He knew in a way that few people did how fierce and how inexorable Mordred’s pride and anger were when aimed together at one man. That he had laid them aside—that he had repudiated them!—shamed Inspector Dickson to his innermost depths. He could not bear to think how hard it had been for Mordred to say those words.
They had come so close to apology, to reconciliation. Yet neither one had done it. Why Mordred had not done it was of less concern to Inspector Dickson; why he had not done it was what nagged him. And the reason was simple; he was afraid. Afraid of rejection.
He did not simply want Mordred’s respect, Mordred’s good will. He did not merely want Mordred’s face turned to him in tranquility instead of anger. He wanted Mordred’s friendship.
He wanted this strange, passionate, tender-hearted young man to like him. He wanted that bright, flashing grin that he had almost never seen to be turned on him in welcome. He wanted that sensitive heart to care for him like it cared for Fenris, Laufeia, Jedediah Crayes, the general, and even a Runnicoran captain.
He already cared for Mordred, he realized blindingly—it seemed stupid that he had not realized it before—he had cared about him for a very long time. That was why he had not wanted him to die, why he wanted friendship, why he feared rejection, the answer to all the whys. He wanted that brotherly love reciprocated more than he had ever wanted anything in the world.
He saw the scene in his head; he had imagined it a thousand times.
“I’m sorry, Mordred.”
At best, a flat answer. Maybe a complete ignoral. Mordred had broken his pride that once for him, but would it stand for another beating? Inspector Dickson shook his head. Mordred might barely think that he owed him an acknowledgement of the apology. Probably not forgiveness. Certainly no further.
After all, Inspector Dickson reminded himself wearily, did Mordred owe him any of that? He needn’t think that he deserved anything from that face.
Just remember what you did to him.
He remembered. His readiness to give an insult for an insult. His readiness to give an insult even where none had been given, simply on memory of earlier times. His prejudice. His resentment. He remembered it all and shrank from it with loathing.
He stumbled, and sank down on the winding, silent steps that he had been descending. A musty smell drifted up into his nostrils. And something in him snapped.
