The War, page 46
He brought the legs of his chair to the floor with a crack, and looked at Mordred intently. “But I will come back here. Look for me in a year, or two, or three—I’ll come back, and bring whatever news of the wide world you care to hear.”
“I shall like that,” said Mordred.
~
“How do you like it?” Mordred put the question airily, hands clasped behind his head and a lazy grin flashing out at Inspector Dickson.
“Ceristen?” Inspector Dickson cast his mind back over the past few days. “I like it—very well. It has been pleasant, restful; not to mention interesting. Do you often have so many visitors in a day?”
Mordred laughed, as he did so often now, his head flung back and his eyes alight. “Well, Jedediah Crayes is gone, and he will not be back again for a long time by his own account! But we have all just come back, and everyone wants to welcome us home again—and welcome you, of course. I daresay many of them think you plan to stay here.”
“They have been very welcoming,” admitted Inspector Dickson. “Yes, I could even say this feels like home, more home than Bulca does. It has a warmth and closeness that I have not felt since—well, for a long time.” He looked out idly over the clean-swept floor, the scoured walls, the long gold fall of sunshine through the open window.
“Suppose you did stay,” said Mordred in a different tone—quiet, earnest.
Inspector Dickson’s head jerked up. “Stay? Mordred, I could not! I have to return to my king with a response that I was barred from delivering for months—and besides, I have a position, things to oversee, everything that has been on Harris’ shoulders alone while I’m away.” He turned up his hands with a gesture of closure. “You see?”
“You could send the response to your king by a different courier.” Mordred leaned forward. “And you could send a request with it, a request to be released from your position, as long as they can find a replacement for you. It could work, don’t you see? And you could have the same sort of job as in Delgrass, only here in this village. I’m sure the new lord of the castle will find some useful capacity for you.”
Mordred’s quick, leaping reasoning swept by too swiftly for Inspector Dickson to follow and grasp. He shook his head, helplessly bewildered. “I could—but why would they say yes?”
Mordred was not bemused, or agitated. He had never appeared so cheerfully calm. “Why not try it? The worst they can do is refuse. Anyway, it’s not a decision to make in one day. Think on it for awhile and be sure it is what you want. It was just an idea, but if you do want to stay here, we ought to try to make it happen.”
“Of course.” Mordred’s logic was beginning to sort itself out in Inspector Dickson’s mind. “Aye, I’ll think about it.”
“At any rate, you are required to stay for at least one thing,” said Mordred with a certain satisfaction.
“And what is that?”
“I hear,” remarked Mordred dreamily, “that there is supposed to be a Thorne wedding soon . . . ”
CHAPTER 41
FIONA STIRRED, WITH THE SOFT embrace of the blanket warming her cheek, and the sense of having slept very deeply, though perhaps not long.
“Fiona! Are you awake?”
Peony’s intense half-whisper startled her upright, and in the mid-light between darkness and dawn she remembered why she was so fully awake, why she had not slept till the waning hours of the night, while Peony held her hand and the sinking moon lit the bedroom. And why such a consuming expectancy filled her being, and underneath it a quivering, twisted unease, as though unforeseen ruin might again fall on the day before the morning was come.
“Oh, Peony,” she whispered, clenching her hands around one another, the fear and the expectancy and the joy all melding into one nameless emotion that hurt with its strength. “I am so—so glad—or maybe it isn’t gladness—I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“There, there.” Peony’s lovely, sea-blue eyes were warm with understanding. She tucked stray ringlets of hair back into her braid and sat up, leaning forward to stroke Fiona’s entwined fingers.
“I lost him,” Fiona murmured. “Now it is the culmination of all I thought I had lost. Oh, Peony, the wonder of it is breaking me.”
“What’s the wonder to me,” said Peony briskly, “is that you slept at all when you said you couldn’t even close your eyes. I must have been more excited than you after all! Come, I know what’s to be done even if you don’t. Make something out of your tousled hair, to start with.”
Fiona laughed, and began to comb her fingers loosely through her tumbled, heavy curls; and the tightness bursting her heart seemed to slacken, and reality rushed over the world again, though wonder still tinged the edges.
Together they smoothed it into a rippling, heavy curtain, muted-gold under the growing light, and Fiona braided it around her head, while Peony darted out to forage for flowers in the woods, coming back with her arms full of cockles and bluebells. “These will make a fine wreath,” she averred, plumping down cross-legged on the floor. “Nothing complements your eyes so well as bluebells, Fiona.”
Fiona only laughed again as she slipped into a fresh kirtle and knotted a strip of leather about the waist. She did not care whether her head were bare, or crowned with all the wildflowers in the woods. She cared not whether her garments were undyed wool and linen, or the deepest crimson that pigments could yield. She bent her head and let Peony weave the blossoms into her braid, but the only thing in her mind was the knowledge that today she was one man’s, forever.
Sitting there, busy as they were, they did not notice the intruder until he cleared his throat in a slight, affected cough. Peony squeaked, flowers flying out of her hand, and Fiona looked up. There was Marcus, hair ruffled, feet planted apart and mouth puckered in a look of bashful masculinity.
“I truly hate to disrupt the bride’s toilet, but, er”—his tone grew plaintive—“is there anything to eat?”
“Oh—you!” Peony shooed him away. “There’s bread in the cupboard, and scrape out the last of yesterday’s lentils if you need more. Don’t come asking me to cook anything this morning!”
Marcus dutifully disappeared.
“So, that’s done,” said Peony exuberantly, straightening and kicking aside the stray stems. “Do you want any breakfast yourself?”
Fiona shook her head and stood up, panting a little in her impatience and excitement. “I want to go.”
~
“Help me, Daren,” Fred murmured, fumbling with the buckle of his boot. His hands were not quite steady, and ever since his awakening his eyes had not seen with their old clarity, especially in such dimness.
“Someone open the window for goodness’ sake,” said Sandy, slamming open the shutters even as Fred’s brother hurried to his aid. “You would think this was a funeral.”
Daren uttered a half-chuckle and knelt by Fred. “Lean back and rest a moment, my brother. You need not exert yourself on this of all mornings.”
The buckle was settled in a trice. Daren fitted on the other boot and helped Fred to his feet. “The day is hot already. Come, let us make for the green!”
They passed Runa, the cow, who was picketed and grazing placidly outside the house, and slowly covered the open, hilly stretches between them and the woods rising up on higher ground.
“What a wonderful morning,” said Sandy, breathing the air in deeply. “We haven’t gone somewhere all together like this since—”
“Since before the war,” said Daren.
“Yes,” said Sandy. “The horse sale.”
Gwenda’s small fingers crept into Fred’s, closing tightly on his hand. He enfolded hers in answer, looking down at her silent, staid little face. “I am here, Gwenda,” he said, sensing a need for reassurance in the sudden gesture.
She nodded, a contented half-smile easing back into her face. “I know,” she said. “I like your hand. It is so big and strong, and safe.”
Fred smiled back, his heart swelling and humbled by her trustful love.
“Don’t get tired,” she added.
Daren laughed. “True womanly caution speaks! Your sisters are raising you well.”
They passed through a belt of trees, and as they came out of it and crested another rise, the path swung left and the scattered buildings of the village proper were spread out before them. Miry puddles from yesterday morning’s rain dotted the road, cracked at the margins; the lake lay on one hand, full and glittering, the green on the other, a flat sward cleared of trees and brush. Already knots of people gathered on the dew-dripping grass.
“Fred!” Marcus cried, tearing toward them with a gangling, incredibly rapid gait. “If you were half as excited as Fiona was to get here,” he said reproachfully, pulling up in front of them, “you would have been here at the crack of dawn.”
“Fiona,” Fred murmured, his heart suddenly tripping in his breast, his eyes searching the small crowd.
Her shining head broke free of the rest, her slender figure came thudding against him in a moment of impetuosity unusual for her. He laughed softly, holding her fast as she buried her head on his chest and the uncertain fragrance of the flowers in her hair drifted up to him. “Could you wait no longer, my love?”
She raised steadfast dark eyes to his. “Not a moment longer.”
“Then we will stay right here.” Fred drew her head against his shoulder and settled his arm around her waist. “The time for waiting is truly past.”
~
Fiona, tense with happiness in the circle of Fred’s arms, felt the hush overcome the crowd and knew that the moment was upon them. She turned and saw the people drawing up in a rough ring around them, eager faces waiting.
“Who binds this man to this woman?” The slow, measured question rang out from Edrach Stafford’s tall, blonde-bearded figure.
“Arad Earle,” came the murmured answer from several throats among the crowd. Braegon King stepped into the center.
“As an elder man of this village,” he declared, his clear, clipped voice carrying over the green, “and the one wisest and most respected among us, it is the duty of Arad Earle to bind this man and this woman.”
Mr. Earle stepped gravely forward as Braegon retreated. “Fred Thorne,” he said, his patient face tender. “Will you take your bride’s hands in love?”
“Fiona Segelas, I love you.”
Fred’s strong-boned hands closed securely around hers, firm and gentle. “I will.”
“Will you be her protector?”
“I will.”
“And you, Fiona, will you be his helpmeet?”
“I will,” she answered, wondering at the steadiness of her own voice.
“Will you, Fred, be strength where she is weakness, and cherish her above all else? Will you walk with her faithfully, in love, sufferance, and humility, as husband and wife?”
“I will,” Fred responded, and this time his voice trembled.
“And you, Fiona, will you do likewise?”
“Will you wed me when the first trees of spring are budding?”
“Will you be my wife tomorrow?”
Fiona lifted her gaze to Fred’s, and now, at last, the tumultuous joy pouring from her eyes could find expression on her lips. “I will.”
The moment when Mr. Earle looped a cord about their hands and lashed them fast together, she never knew. Fred’s face had already bent down to hers, and the long, painful eons of fear, hope, and expectation had at last become reality.
I will never, never let you go.
~
“I never saw a couple kiss so long!” Mrs. Earle tittered fondly with her sister, Lissa Boccin.
Lissa nodded very fast. “Methought he would faint in another moment—not that he’d be to blame, the poor lad, what with all his war wounds. Ah, but they’ve waited long for this.”
“That they have. And who do you think will be next to go?”
“Aliria, sister, is that even a question?” Mrs. Boccin was the one who giggled now. “Look at Therelane there, blushing like a maiden! He hasn’t taken his eyes off Mirda the whole morn.”
“Indeed not! I am glad you are so observant, my dear . . . but it is good, very good, to see the young so happy now.”
Food, dancing, gossip—it was the sum of all that the day had been, and all that it would likely be till evening. Mordred shifted, trying to subtly work the cramp out of his leg. Another week till the promise of healing was reached; for now, he was still not permitted to walk on it, and Smoke had borne him again to the wedding, much to his chagrin.
“Mordred!” Linda Boccin came flying toward him, black-haired, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, holding her hands out coquettishly. “Come—dance with me? They’re starting the next.”
He frowned up at her, surprised that she was unaware of his broken leg. “I don’t want to dance,” he said a little coldly, which was true as far as it went.
“Oh—” She stared at him, turned unwillingly, and wandered away with a dejected slump.
Mordred watched her go, wondering if all her queries had been so rebuffed. Then another voice exclaimed his name from behind, one both more familiar and more welcome.
“Braegon,” he answered gladly, turning his head as his younger friend sat down with a deep, relieved sigh. “Is it the leg bothering you?”
Braegon shrugged for answer. “Aye, rather.”
“It has been a long time since you took the wound,” said Mordred, an unspoken question in his words: the question of the thing he had feared, ever since the moment he had heard of his friend’s injury.
Again, Braegon’s slim shoulders twitched in a shrug. “They say I will not walk straight on it again.” His dark eyes met Mordred’s frankly. “In a battle, a soldier expects that much and more. It might have been my life.”
Mordred nodded, struggling to take it with the same forthright ease that Braegon did; but he could not stop thinking of Braegon’s quick, high-stepping stride that had been such a part of him, now another thing twisted and stamped on by the war . . .
The hurt and the feeling of ugliness stayed with him all afternoon, and he found that he could not bear the thought of displaying his physical limitation to all eyes again. When Laufeia next passed by him, he stayed her.
“Laufeia, will you help me onto Smoke? I can leave now, while everyone is still busy, and go home on my own. You and Fenris needn’t come with me. Stay as long as you like.”
Laufeia knew, of course, why he wanted it. A faint line of exasperation drew itself between her eyes, and then faded into a brief moment of sympathy. She patted his arm. “Whatever you like, Mordred.”
~
Inspector Dickson was enjoying himself to an extent that surprised him. He had found Mordred’s young friend Jerithan again, listened to his remarkably precocious observations, and readily let the boy introduce him to everyone. Jerithan did it with a child’s ease and innocence, and so meetings that might have been awkward, had Inspector Dickson been alone, were passed over as though they were nothing at all.
“This is my sister, Marianne,” said Jerithan proudly. “She isn’t really my sister—she’s my brother’s widow—but she lets me call her sister now.”
Marianne Denholm was small and tired, looking too frail to carry her swollen belly, with hair of an astonishingly vivid red escaping into strands around her pinched, freckled face. There was a gritty endurance in her eyes, and she managed a smile for Inspector Dickson and nodded politely.
“We’ll let your sister rest,” said Inspector Dickson. “Who else have I got to meet?”
Jerithan reflected. “Gwenda Thorne,” he said. “She’s Fred’s youngest sister. See, there she is with Filian King.”
“She doesn’t resemble her brother,” remarked Inspector Dickson mildly.
“No,” said Jerithan, “I suppose not. Sandy looks more like him.”
Inspector Dickson cast another absent look at the dark-haired child with a sweet face, her small hands stroking a half-grown, hairy pup as she listened earnestly to the boy beside her. His thoughts were straying from the present conversation to other, older ones.
“Do you like Sandy?”
Inspector Dickson rubbed his brow, frowning. “I wonder—where has Mordred got to?”
~
The midafternoon air was hot and stifling. Smoke ambled down the road, even his usually brisk gait sluggish under the burning sun. Mordred nudged him tiredly with his heel to pick up the pace, but Smoke snorted and shook his head as though brushing away a bothersome fly. In spite of himself, Mordred wished he had waited for the others instead of slipping away on his own.
He heard the hooves under the sound of Smoke’s, striking asymmetrically like a bad echo. Even as he pulled up to listen better, they appeared over the rise ahead of him—a large horse’s head with a crooked snip dribbling down under the eye, and then a girl’s small head that was only more dwarfed as the rest of her broad mount came into view.
A waving mass of bright hair blew lightly back from her face, the very edges glittering in a haze of sun—a hair that was not the pure red of Marianne Earle’s nor the pale reddish-blonde of Laufeia’s, but something in-between: a rusty, coppery fire-gold. She reined in as she drew abreast of him.
Strands of that blazing hair curled damply around her pale features; she met his gaze with flecked hazel-grey eyes, large in a slender, pointed face. Suddenly Mordred was aware of the faded bruise on his cheek.
“Is this Ceristen?” she asked.
He gave a fairly imperceptible nod, which she must have nonetheless seen for her shoulders eased and she went on:
“I am Lethira Gerisson.”
“You should not be so quick to give your name to strangers.” He had not meant to interrupt her. He had not meant to say that, or anything like it. Above all, he had not meant it to sound so gruff.
“I—” She regarded him as though she did not know what to make of him. He noted conscientiously that though her horse must have been two hands taller than Smoke, her head was barely level with his. “I am looking for the Earles—if you can direct me to their house? They are kinsmen of my family, and we hoped that we could come to them.”
