Chapter 45: Betrayal

The late afternoon sun, sluggishly falling towards the horizon in front of them, broiled everything. Even the air seemed leaden and unyielding. It was dead in the middle of summer, the hottest part of both the day and the season. The fiery orb in the sky had long ago burned away all of the clouds and turned the road dry and dusty. The occasional breeze, instead of providing relief, simply circulated hot air with a dry, dusty scent riding atop it.

Gillen Hawksley was only thankful the humidity wasn’t higher. Even without more moisture in the air, she felt she was roasting in her plate armor. She knew by the time the last burning ray of the sun’s light fell beneath the tree line, the padding under her armor would be soaked through – if it wasn’t already. It was one of the tribulations of knighthood. Even when a knight was relatively idle, the gambeson – the thick padded cloth armor worn beneath the plate mail – would quickly become soaked in sweat.

She’d known before leaving Callisto she would be wearing full plate constantly, so she’d planned ahead and packed three sets of the carefully fitted cotton under-armor. At night, she rotated into whatever set was next, carefully washed the set she was wearing and hung it and the third set out to dry. She knew from experience one night was not long enough to fully dry the under-armor garments.

Her saddle groaned as she turned to glance back at the large young man sitting in the jockey box of the lead wagon. Yren was journeying in plate armor for the first time and didn’t know the secret of rotating padding. He’d made his own armor and the plans he’d used as his template discussed the necessity of padding but not its reality. He couldn’t know the protective insulation would frequently soak through with sweat or that the insular nature of the wadding would hinder its drying. So, he’d only asked his seamstress sister to sew a single set for him.

The young man was beginning to understand his mistake. Gillen had thought about asking around to see if a spare set could be found but quickly gave it up as useless. Yren was so damn big, even Uud’s padding wouldn’t come close to fitting him. Not that Uud would have offered any of his padding, anyway. Like her, Uud had only brought three sets with him, and he needed every one of them. Uud had campaigned even more than she had. He knew he needed the extra sets to keep dry.

Honor Hawksley had to give Yren credit. He didn’t complain. She had watched him grimace the second morning on the trail as he realized he had to put on damp padding, but he hadn’t hesitated. He had been a bit slower to dress yesterday morning but still didn’t grumble. He had made another face as he dressed in the padding earlier this morning but other than a brief conversation with Elva, he’d not complained.

And his conversation with Elva was more in the nature of looking for a solution rather than complaining. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done. They were three days out of Hasp and, at the rate they were moving, at least another four to Knottline and no one had brought anything along which could be used as padding.

She’d have to say something soon. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. Right now, the moist padding was just uncomfortable but given time it could lead to a rash or worse. She wanted Yren to experience enough discomfort he’d remember to pack extra padding in the future, but she also needed to keep him safe. Experience was always the best teacher – but just enough experience to learn the lesson and not enough to become seriously harmed by it.

Besides, she still owed him for delaying the trip. She knew it was irrational. She knew he’d sustained an injury of some kind, an injury which had proven impervious to both her healing abilities through the grace of the god Burr and even Bena’s, the self-proclaimed High Priestess of Deia. She blamed him for the delay none-the-less.

She also knew the addition of the two wagons wasn’t really his fault. His mother had insisted on them and, to be truthful, they’d more than proven their worth even if they did slow the group’s travel a bit. The Rivens had fashioned crude, tall coverings for the weathered yet sturdy wagons before selling them to Elva. The wood the wagons were made of had become gray with age, and they tended to creak as they moved, but they held up to the rough road out of Hasp quite well. Even better, the two wagons were large enough to carry passengers as well as the smith’s traveling supplies. The tall, billowing burlap coverings also provided some shelter, keeping the passengers out of the sun while the openings in the front and back provided for any breeze which might crop up to travel through.

Chugad and Issa rode in one of the wagons, of course. Gillen visited the bard and his nurse every day to ensure his comfort, but she cut each visit shorter than the last. She could only tolerate short shifts of the bard’s artfully exaggerated suffering. She could not deny the devastating torture the man had endured at the hands of the Red Guard but, after being healed by both Bena and, later, herself, the largest part of the man’s pain should be behind him. Granted his fingers were no longer overly straight – a curse to a player of instruments – and the loss of his manhood obviously weighed on him, but the way his moans and lamentations would begin only when someone came within obvious earshot grated on the knight’s nerves.

The other wagon had been large enough to carry the princess and her ladies, if just barely. She had expected the princess to loudly lament the meager accommodations, but Ataya had been largely silent about them. The quarters were cramped and didn’t hold the luxury of the Princess’ carriage, but Gillen had found them adequate – if just. Though several of Hasp’s residents had tried to repair the Princess’ carriage’s wheel and axle, which was found to have cracked in several places, no one was up to the task. There just wasn’t an experienced wainwright in the small town.

Honestly, it was to be expected. There was no need for a wainwright in a town which rarely saw a carriage. Even the Rivens’ two wagons were rarely used except for deliveries.

The ladies Caprice Worthton and Mulet Gyrin, the princess’ attendants, had groaned a time or two early on but evidently the princess had spoken to them. For the past day or so, they’d been as silent as Ataya. Their eyes still held their discomfort, but eyes made no sound. Gillen found she could stand their suffering, as long as it was done quietly.

In a pinch, of course, the Princess could have ridden a horse, but it was better she had taken the slight protection afforded by the covering of the wagon. A leatherworker in Hasp had gifted a set of leather armor to the Princess which fit surprisingly well given she’d not been measured for it, but Gillen, while insisting the Princess wear the protective covering, was not about to risk her most precious cargo.

Elva and Bena split their time between the two wagons, usually slipping from one to the other during infrequent stops. Lately, though, they’d taken to spending most of their time with the princess. Gillen couldn’t blame them. She didn’t want to spend any more time with Chugad than was absolutely necessary.

She was surprised to find Yren didn’t know how to ride a horse. He’d never had cause to learn. Even the sword and shield training he had was more to make him a better smith than to become a soldier. It wasn’t until he’d proven uncommonly proficient with the weapons that Sir Givens had offered to continue teaching him.

And he was more than uncommonly proficient. He was gifted.

Gillen had been dissatisfied with the skill of the Knottline Guards. She wasn’t expecting trouble, but she hadn’t truly expected trouble earlier. Besides, “be prepared in enemy territory – and we’re always in enemy territory” had been more than the unofficial motto to the Third platoon. It had been words they’d lived by.

Before this chaos-riddled journey, anyway. Now most of them weren’t living anymore.

She cut the thought off before it could take hold. She still had a job to do. She would hold her misery and pain until Callisto. Once she’d delivered her cargo back to the palace, she’d take a week or three and drink herself senseless in honor of her fallen comrades.

She’d known of the Knottline Guard’s deficiencies even before the journey had started. During the interminable wait while the Princess’ champion recovered, she’d taken to leading them through small, tournament-style practice bouts as a way to supplement their training. She’d discussed her reservations with Sir Givens and the bouts were his suggestion. He’d even taken to working with the Guard to teach them, as had Syl and Uud.

They’d continued the training each night after setting up camp and Yren had enthusiastically joined in. She’d found reason to spar with him every day. Publicly, it was to demonstrate correct technique to the Knottliners, but privately she wanted to prove herself against him. After the stories she’d heard from the Princess and after the things she’d thought she’d seen, she wanted to prove the tall young man was human and not some demon.

She admitted there might also be some jealousy involved. The Princess had remained adamant that he was her champion. Even when Gillen had explained the entire Third platoon was meant to be the Princess’ champions, the young woman had held firm. Deep down in a part of herself she didn’t enjoy visiting very often, Gillen’s pride was wounded even though she knew Ataya had not meant it as a slight.

She had yet to beat the smith. Swordsmanship had advanced beyond what Sir Givens had experienced in his long and storied career, so she thought she’d have an advantage. She’d tried new tricks on Yren, ones she’d learned long after leaving her former tutor. Though they’d startled the young smith many times, he managed to defend against them. Occasionally, he’d instinctively found a way around them and managed to press the attack back against her.

She had to grudgingly admit his knowledge of the Sword and Shield might be as good as Sir Givens had boasted. She may have been slightly faster than him, but he was much faster than he looked. She was more agile, but his reach and size overcame her slight advantage. Sir Givens had trained him well. She took comfort in the fact he had been unable to beat her, either. Their matches, limited to 15 minutes by Sir Givens’ convention, had so far produced nothing more than a draw.

She couldn’t help but feel the young man was holding back, though. It irked her.

Disgruntled, she turned away and scanned the tree line but the thick, scrub bushes and tall, leafy trees gave away no secrets. Worse, the dark, mottled shadows they cast might hold secrets of their own. Some of the Red Guard must have escaped and she half expected them to make an appearance any time now. She would have been vigilant anyways, but now she was almost paranoid. She had Uud and Syl dragging close to a mile behind and was rotating Knottline guards in and out on each side beyond the tree line. They were given strict instructions to alert the party at the slightest problem. Yren’s sister, Teran, and her mentor, Ranger Ledic Scollaw Ellsworth, were scouting ahead with the same orders.

Teran Tulat was a bit of an enigma. Gillen had resurrected more knights than she cared to count and seen others raised by priests and priestesses of any number of different gods. She’d never seen one brought back in quite the same way as Teran. To simply appear, unharmed, in an out-of-place patch of grass and flowers was perplexing.

Of course, she only had Bena’s word Teran had actually died. Teran herself didn’t speak of it, turning the conversation or walking away silently if pressed. Still, even if Gillen discounted the apparent death of the young woman, the patch of grass and flowers was a mystery. Such a flowery glen simply couldn’t have been in the basement of the town hall where sunlight would never have been able to touch.

Gillen wondered, briefly, if maybe this whole thing hadn’t been a hoax of some kind. If it was, it was masterful. She certainly couldn’t see how it was done. Then her thoughts turned to the rest of her platoon and the hoax theory fell apart.

It had to be real. She’d lost too many friends – too much family – for it to be anything else.

-- ∞ --

Elva deftly crawled from the back of the wagon into the jockey seat beside her son. The wood of the wagon was well worked but she still had to be careful not to get any splinters from the baseboard separating the jockey seat from the rear of the wagon. She paused a moment to catch her breath, her nose wrinkling at the earthy smell of horse which was drowning out any other scents that might be on the wind. She turned to her son as the steady, muffled ‘clop’ of the horse’s hooves striking packed earth greeted her.

“I’m going to jump off and visit Issa and Chugad,” she explained as she gathered a handful of her skirt into her hand.

Elva was still in mourning and would likely remain in some form of mourning for the rest of her life, but she refused to allow her deep sorrow to stop her from doing what needed to be done. Her children needed her.

Yren just grunted in reply, his eyes ceaselessly scanning their surroundings.

Elva stopped and sat back down, her grip never wavering on the cloth of her faded blue skirt. Her gray-blue eyes narrowed as she considered her adopted son.

Yren had never been an overly demonstrative boy and that hadn’t changed as he’d grown into a young man. He’d never been loud or boisterous, and even his smiles and laughs were generally subdued. Quiet and contemplative, he could be drawn into a conversation, but he rarely started one on his own. It tended to add more weight to his words when he did decide to say something.

His silence of the last few days, however, was too quiet even for him. She’d noticed his melancholy at the outset, but she’d felt it was something he needed to come to grips with on his own. She’d watched carefully, looking for signs he was pulling himself out of his funk, but he only seemed to be wallowing deeper.

Firming her lips, she came to a sudden decision. “You’ve been rather quiet lately.”

Yren was never rude. He’d been taught to look into the eyes of people he spoke with.

He barely glanced at her, his shoulders shrugging almost imperceptibly in the thick, ghost-steel armor. It was only through a gentle rise in the spaulders and breastplate along with Elva’s knowledge of her son’s habits which allowed her to know the gesture he’d used.

“What’s wrong, son?” Elva asked softly. She had a glimmer of an idea but knew he needed to come out with it on his own. It was something her mother had taught her long ago: to resolve a problem, you first had to identify the problem.

The silence dragged on for so long, Elva began to get concerned. Although frequently quiet, it was unlike the young man not to answer a direct question. Just as she was about to reiterate her question, Yren spoke.

“Who am I, mom?” he asked almost in a whisper. A thrill went through Elva as Yren used the term of endearment and her eyes watered. She hadn’t realized it before, but she had despaired of Yren ever calling her ‘mother’. She had always been just ‘Elva’ to the boy. “Who am I becoming? Am I ... am I Yren? Am I a blacksmith? Or am I a warrior? A faceless, nameless killer who burns his enemies with blue fire and two black swords? Or am I a mage, who can pull magic steel directly from under the ground?”

“Who do you think you are?” The woman asked carefully. She had thought the steel tombstone for her beloved husband had been Deia’s doing but she found she wasn’t altogether surprised to hear it was Yren’s accomplishment. He was trained as a blacksmith, after all.

The silence stretched for so long, Elva thought her son wasn’t going to answer the question. Like before, though, just as she drew breath to ask the question again, he responded.

“I feel so lost,” Yren said with a voice that was barely above a whisper. “I feel like the whole world is spinning around me and I just want to grab hold of something and hold on. Except, I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.”

Yren’s head fell. “I miss him,” he whispered. “I feel lost and alone without him.”

“We all miss him, Yren,” Elva said softly, her hand reaching for him but falling back to her lap. Bena had warned everyone not to touch his armor.

“I think,” he started before falling silent. Silently, he passed the reins back and forth between his gauntleted hands for a few moments, before starting again. “I think if I could just figure out what I’m supposed to be, I’d be able to stop the world from spinning. If he were here, maybe he could tell me.”

The older woman pursed her lips, considering her response. Her voice was flippant when she replied. “What were the choices again? A blacksmith, a warrior and a mage?”

Yren looked at her sharply, his face slightly hurt.

“Why do you have to be any of those things?” Elva asked with a smile. She raised a hand to place it on his forearm but drew back again when she remembered Bena’s warning. Although she’d gladly give her hands, her arm, her very life for any of her children, she would not do so recklessly.

Yren glanced back at her in shock, his face showing his lack of understanding.

“I’m serious,” Elva asked. “Why do you have to be any of those things? Or why do you have to only be one of them? Can’t you be all of them?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Yren said lamely, his voice echoing his unease.

“Why not?” Elva asked, leaning forward. “We all make our own destinies, son. The paths of our lives are forked and twisting. The paths separate and overlap, allowing us to be anything we want. Ardt...”

Her voice drifted off in pain as her thoughts turned once again to her dead husband. “Ardt was a blacksmith, sure. He was also your father. My husband. A friend to people in Hasp.”

“That’s not the same,” Yren disagreed.

“Those are...” the young man’s voice drifted off as he tried to put his thoughts into words.

“Those aren’t what he was,’ the young man finished lamely.

“Aren’t they?” Elva asked with a wan smile. “Ardt helped Goodman and Goodwoman Dewerty plant their crops on occasion. His mothers and fathers were farmers, so he knew the trade well. Was he not then a farmer?”

“He repaired the Giventon sister’s loom many times,” Elva continued on quickly, before Yren could say anything. “His sister, who passed many seasons ago, was a seamstress like Issa. Unlike Issa, she learned to make her own cloth. Ardt learned the basics of weaving from his sister, and many was the time when Dorony Giventon regaled me with his deft fingers at her loom as he was testing a repair. Was your father not then a weaver?”

“No,” Elva smiled at Yren’s confusion. “He could have been those things. He had the skill to be any of those things. But your father defined himself as a blacksmith.”

She drew her hand to her son’s cheek and turned him to face her. She was careful not to touch his armor, though, Bena’s adamant warning to the townspeople echoing in her mind. She wasn’t sure what to make of Deia’s residence in her daughter’s head. After all, most people who spoke of voices in their head were a bit touched, but she could not put her daughter in that category. If Bena said Deia was whispering to her in her mind, then that is what was happening.

“Like your father, you define who you are,” Elva said seriously, her eyes boring into her son’s. “You decide what you want to be. If you want to be a blacksmith, be a blacksmith. If you want to be a warrior, be a warrior. Be a mage. Be a farmer. Be a weaver. Be all of them, if you want. Or be none of them. Be whatever it is in your heart to be. It is, now and forever, your choice. No one and nothing can ever make the choice for you.”

It was sometime later when, from within the lead wagon, Bena moved forward and placed her elbow on the front wall separating the wagon from the seat. Her fingers absently tugged at a protruding splinter, pulling it from the wooden board. Elva had long dropped from the wagon to go visit her middle daughter and Chugad. Yren had spent the intervening time considering his mother’s words.

“How is the Princess’ Champion doing?”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Yren demurred. In his mind though, he felt the burden of yet another thing he wasn’t certain he was ready to be. Blacksmith. Warrior. Mage. And now, Princess’ Champion. How was he supposed to hold up underneath all of those heavy titles?

“Do what?” Bena asked disingenuously.

“Refer to me as the Princess’ champion,” Yren rejoined. “You know it makes me uncomfortable.”

“But it’s true,” Bena declared with a slight laugh. “You are the Princess’ champion. You need to get used to it.”

“Mom says I need only be what I want to be,” Yren said stubbornly.

“I’m not sure mom considered the princess,” Bena laughed. “She can be very ... forceful ... and she’s decided you are her champion.”

“So you keep reminding me,” Yren replied with a sigh. “I’m still not certain the Princess didn’t make a terrible mistake.”

“She didn’t,” Bena said, suddenly serious. “You can be certain of that. I am.”

“How can you be so sure?” Yren said, glancing at his youngest sister. “I mean ... she’s the Princess! I’m just a nobody.”

“Don’t ever say that again, Yren,” Bena admonished. “Never. The Princess’ champion is supposed to defend her. After the display you made with the Red Guard, no one can doubt your ability to defend her.”

“A trick,” Yren cut her off. “I’m not sure how I did that.”

“Some trick,” Bena immediately replied. “And whether it was a trick or not doesn’t matter. You did it. Plus, you saved her at the clearing. She told us about it.”

“I did what anyone would have done,” Yren argued.

“Keep lying to yourself,” Bena snorted. “I can think of plenty of people who would not have thrown themselves in front of a fireball. Not for her. Not for anyone.

“But protecting her is only part of it,” Bena continued hurriedly to keep him from interrupting. “Being the Princess’ champion also means she’ll look to you to counsel her. To stand up to her and tell her when she’s making a mistake.”

“How in chaos am I supposed to do that?” Yren asked incredulously. “She’s a princess! She’s been educated for all her life to take over as queen one day! I’m just ... me. What good is my counsel?”

“You sell yourself short,” Bena responded. “You forget I was there when Momma was teaching us.”

“Then you remember all the times I was wrong!” he interjected.

“Yes, you were wrong sometimes,” Bena replied calmly. “We all were. That’s how we learn. I also remember you never made the same mistake twice.”

Yren paused for a moment. “Maybe. I was learning math, reading and other things I’ll need to be a good smith. She was learning about diplomacy and how to be a queen. How can I possibly help her?”

“It’s because you’ve learned all those things,” a voice called quietly. With a slight smile at Bena, Ataya crawled forward and sat opposite her.

She leaned against the baseboard, inadvertently capturing her long, red hair between her and the wood. As she sat, the trapped hair pulled causing her to jerk forward. With a frown, she pushed the offending locks behind her ear and returned to leaning against the base board once again.

Her face turned rueful, and she blushed as she realized how awkward she’d looked. She couldn’t understand why she was so ungainly and childish around her champion. She had been around nobility all of her life. Though never as an adult, she’d attended court for many years. She’d charmed the daughters and sons of Grand Dukes and barons for most of her life. So why was she so tongue-tied around this commoner?

She swallowed her indecision and continued. “I learned reading and writing, the same as you. And, yes, I learned about the court and nobility and diplomacy – but I learned it from the perspective of ruling people. You learned from the perspective of the people I’ll be expected to rule. Your knowledge complements my own.”

“It’s true,” she continued when it looked like Yren was working himself up to mount an argument. “Appointing you my champion in the clearing was an appreciative response to ... well, to watching you throw yourself between me and that terrible ball of fire. I admit to having a ... romanticized ... idea of my noble champion, at my side, righting wrongs and carrying out my justice like in the stories I grew up with. I admit my words were driven by an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I might even go so far as to say I felt indebted to you for saving my life.”

“Princess Ataya...,” Yren started, shaking his head.

“Stop,” she ordered, interrupting him. “If gratitude or a sense of debt was all there was, I would not have pushed my claim afterwards. I would not be insisting on my claim now.”

“I’ve had a chance to consider you,” she explained with a rueful smile as she dared her hot cheeks to blush further. “In the week while you were ... incapacitated, I’ve had time to ask about you. I’ve had time to research your life. I’ve talked to your family and your friends. Which, honestly, means all the people of Hasp because all of them consider you to be, at the very least, a friend. Through their eyes, I’ve gotten a better idea of who you are.

“No one had anything bad to say about you,” she continued, her smile turning more genuine. “They all spoke of how smart you are and how clever. They spoke of how kind you are and of how skilled you are. Their words echoed their pride in you. In the world I come from, loyalty such as they’ve displayed towards you is almost unheard of. In court, loyalty is often purchased, either through coercion, money or some other currency. The people around you give you their loyalty not because you ask it of them but because you’ve earned it. Loyalty such as that cannot be bought – and is the loyalty I hope to inspire when it is my turn to rule.

“Yes, asking you to be my champion was probably reckless and impetuous,” Ataya admitted, her face turning grave. “It might also be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. The more I’ve gotten to know you, the less I regret it. It was impulsive but inspired.”

Yren paused, staring at the Princess. “I still think you’re wrong.”

“You’re allowed to think so,” she replied, her face breaking out in a shy smile. “Only you, though. To everyone else, I’m infallible. I’m pretty sure there’s a law which says so.”

Bena and Yren watched her as she nodded at them with a light chuckle and retreated back into the covered wagon.

“The more I talk to her, the more I like her,” Bena declared with a soft, echoing giggle. “Deia does, too. If it makes any difference, Deia thinks she made a wise choice as well.”

“So, the goddess has chosen my destiny,” Yren said with a frown.

“No,” Bena said softly, looking away. “It isn’t like that. People use that as an excuse. They use it as a crutch. Yes, the gods and goddesses intervene in our lives. Yes, they try to manipulate us. They don’t control us, though. They can’t control us. We are in charge of ourselves. If we succumb to their manipulation, that is on us. If we rebel against it, that’s on us, too. They don’t control the weather ... well, not often. They don’t control our lives and they don’t control our deaths. They nudge us from time to time. They have goals for us, but they can only point the way. It is our decision whether we go where they’re pointing, which one of them we follow and whether we do what they ask.”

“I don’t understand,” Yren admitted.

“I’m not sure I understand either,” Bena replied. She glanced at her brother, then looked away again. “Deia says when everything here was new, before our world was even fully born, the gods and goddesses agreed to certain rules and restrictions. They agreed to limiting themselves because they feared their direct involvement would ruin this place. So, while they certainly could lay out our lives like a trail on a map, they don’t. It’s one of the limitations – no direct involvement in our lives.”

“‘No direct involvement’?” Yren snorted. “What does she call whispering in your ear?”

“Not all of the gods and goddesses were happy with the rules,” Bena said softly. “A few rules have been bent to the breaking point. Her ‘whispering in my ear’ as you call it, is in retaliation to the actions of another. I don’t wholly understand it and she’s being purposefully vague because there is only so much information she can impart without breaking the rules herself. The choice to have her here, the choice to have her in my head, was mine. I agreed to this.”

“Bena,” Yren groused in warning.

“I know,” Bena replied as she nervously fiddled with the intricate necklace he’d given her before the Battle of Hasp. She often found comfort in having her fingers trace the sigil woven there but not this time. She knew he was having a hard time dealing with her being the Goddess’ High Priestess. He was having an even rougher time dealing with her having the Goddess’ voice inside of her head. She also knew if they were going to be wed, he’d have to get over it because neither she nor the Goddess were going anywhere. She wasn’t sure now was the time to have that argument, however.