Chapter XX

Author's note - I forgot to write in Dardon in the last chapter. *hides face in shame* I went back and added him in the previous chapter, but I haven't updated the blog. So, don't be surprised if he shows up here out of the blue. In truth, he has been with them all along. :)

- Rachel Rossano

Tourth

A chair, a table, and bare ground were austere surroundings for a king. The scent of trampled grass filled my senses. Heavy canvas separated a small area from the rest of the tent leaving barely room for five men to stand abreast, shoulders almost rubbing. Wren paused at my left, Keaton’s dark body perched on her far shoulder. Tyron flanked her other side. Together we looked like an honor guard for her and her bird. Dardon chose a spot at my right, closer to the men guarding the exit.

“Budget problems?” Dardon regarded the rough-hewn wood of the table legs and the unpadded seat of the chair with raise eyebrows.

Lord Portan frowned pointedly at him. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the larger area of the tent.

I caught Wren eyeing her surroundings, no doubt marking the exits and the two men flanking the opening to the outside. Tyron edged about uneasily while Dardon slid his sword a few inches out of the scabbard. As I tried to catch Dardon’s gaze to signal him to behave, the canvas parted and Orac stepped into the room.

He looked the same as when I saw him last. A short man, he barely surpassed Wren by an inch or two. He moved with the grace of a boar, but the power of each movement commanded its own form of appreciation. His cool silver eyes scanned us, beginning with Wren.

“My lady.” He inclined his head slightly to her and Keaton. “We are honored by your presence and your noble bird.”

“I am not of noble birth, your majesty.”

Orac tilted his head to one side. “An honest admission, lady. That alone is worthy of the regard.”

I continued to study his face. He assessed Dardon with a glance, deciding not to comment on the glint of metal at his hip. Avoiding my gaze, he frowned at Tyron’s livery instead.

“Do you bring greetings from Enforcer Hawthorne?”

“Hardly,” Dardon muttered.

“No, my liege,” I said over him. Stepping forward from the group so he couldn’t ignore me any longer, I knelt before him, right arm extended wrist up before me. “I come to make a claim on my family’s title and swear allegiance to you.”

The following silence rang in my ears as no one moved. I doubted Wren was even breathing, she was so still.

Finally he broke it. “That must have tasted bitter in your mouth, Mynth.” He reached down and tapped my head. “Rise. I can’t bear groveling.”

He waited until I gained my feet before demanding, “You know what stands between us, Mynth. What makes you risk my wrath a second time?”

“Your sense of justice and love of country gave me hope.”

His eyebrows rose. “Enough that I would honor my son’s killer? Did you bring this man to voice Hawthorne’s support of this plan?” He jutted his chin toward Tyron.

“Nay, my king,” Tyron protested. “I am here to do the opposite. I bring news of Enforcer Hawthorne’s deception and treason.”

“One of yours, Mynth?”

I shook my head. Lord, speak for me, for I have no words to change his mind.

He frowned up at Tyron. “Very well, lad, speak!”

“Enforcer Hawthorne has hired a company of Tarins 4,000 strong. He intends to force you to give him title and valley should his other means not persuade you.”

“Other means?”

“He plans a celebration of your ascent to the throne culminating in the death of the foreigner Svhen, the traitor Mynth and his rebels upon your arrival.”

“Yet Mynth stands before me and I assume at least one of his rebels.” Orac eyed Dardon with amusement. “Who is standing in the mighty Mynth’s stead?”

“The brother of Earl Philon Eryant, Lord of Sidle Valley, Lord Hiller.”

I closed my eyes. Foolish, Hiller, oh, so foolish. When I opened my eyes I found Orac peering up at me.

“Does he speak truth, Mynth?”

Wren answered in my stead. “He speaks truth, sire. Hawthorne plans all this and more.”

“How would you know, lady?”

Calm golden eyes meeting his piercing silver, Wren rose in my estimation even more. Orac’s presence overwhelmed me, and I towered over the man. He had inches on Wren as well as twice her body weight in muscle, yet she didn’t even flinch when he confronted her.

“I am Wren Romany, your majesty. Perhaps you have heard of me.”

He nodded slightly. “There was news of a bounty hunter of that name. According to Hawthorne, he knows you well.”

“Nay, he knows me not at all. However, I can attest to Tyron’s testimony. Hawthorne intends to attain his goal no matter the means.”

“Surely he wouldn’t attack the crown giving him power.”

“Hawthorne knows no limits when lusting for power,” she retorted. “I saw him kill men for less cause.”

“Is he so foolish?”

“No, but he is not wise, Sire.”

“Hmm… And you, man?” Orac turned to address Dardon. “Have you nothing to add?”

Dardon met the king’s gaze without reservation. “I am Mynth’s man, Sire.”

“Bodyguard?”

“Swordmate, but I can be a bodyguard should it be necessary. Will it, Sire?”
Instead of answering, Orac turned away. Striding to the chair, he lowered himself onto the seat. Lord Portan stepped to his side.

“You are a brazen bunch, I will give you credit for that.” His gaze fell on me, studying me as though of two minds about whether to kill me or not. For Kat’s sake, please spare me, Deus, I prayed.

Then abruptly, he snapped his fingers and tapped the table top before him. Portan disappeared behind the canvas.

“This is what I shall do. Mynth, you have proven yourself trustworthy to a point. I admire your real or assumed unwillingness to speak against Hawthorn. You produced witnesses to plead your case for you. A wise move.

“Lady Romany, you are right. Hawthorne did not speak truthfully of you. He has lied to me, which counts against him. I suspected him of lies before, but your appearance has been the first proof.

“Dardon, loyal swordmate of Mynth, keep at his side. He will need you before this matter is settled.

“Portan, hurry!”

Portan appeared parchment, ink, and pen in his hands. Within moments only the sound of Orac’s pen scratching along the surface of a scrap of parchment filled the space. Dardon slid the first inches of his sword in and out of the scabbard under the watchful eyes of the guards. Portan shot an irritated glance his way, but Dardon ignored it.

Keaton woke. Wren lifted a hand to signal he stay. He eyed the situation with one bright eye and then another, tensing on her shoulder like a hunter ready to strike. His restlessness a strange contrast to the cool profile Wren presented. She didn’t meet my curious glance. She stared straight ahead; hands relaxed where they lay, one on Keaton and one at her waist. Despite the casual stance, I was willing to bet she would attack at a word if necessary. Her focus surpassed most of the warriors I had ever encountered.

“Done,” Orac declared, pressing his signet ring into the last wax seal. “Now, Portan, see they are carried out.”

“What about the visitors?” Lord Portan hesitated over his choice of words.

Orac leaned back in his chair and regarded me over steepled fingers. The expression in his eyes caused my gut to tense. Instinct demanded I protect Wren, I almost opened my mouth to speak.

“They can share a tent. Let them catch a few hours rest before we march.” Orac thrust up to his feet and plowed back through the canvas into the depths of the tent.

We all stood there, slightly stunned.

“You heard the king,” Lord Portan said to the guards behind us. “Take them to a tent to sleep. Keep an honor guard on them for their own safety.” Then he departed too.

“This way,” one of the guards instructed, heading out into the night. We followed silently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wren

Tourth was wound like a spring. The muscles in his forearms corded as his fists clenched. He paced the constrained interior of our designated tent. Tyron watched his movements with obvious concern, but Dardon dedicated more attention to sharpening his sword than his friend’s agitation.

“Ignore him,” he advised Tyron. “He does this before every battle since Catrona. He fears the coming battle.”

I had seen that in some warriors, a fear of dying. However, Tourth didn’t strike me as one of them. More likely he feared losing control. In light of his recent struggles, he probably feared the moment of the kill. I could relate to both fears.

Tyron lay down on the grass, saddle bags under his head, and rolled to face the canvas.

“We need to sleep,” Dardon pointed out as he sheathed his sword.

Tourth acknowledged the statement with a blunt nod and threw himself down on the grass, back to the center support and the two men desiring sleep. He remained tense and in motion, though. Forearm muscles cording and relaxing as he clenched and released his hands.

Dardon snuffed out the lantern, plunging us all into darkness.

I remained where I was, sitting cross legged, Keaton on my shoulder, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the night. Gradually moonlight crept under the edges of the canvas, glowing where the opening flaps parted. Tourth’s features were still in shadow, but I made out his form, a black shadow among the gloom.

I slipped across the distance between us, so I could speak without anyone overhearing.

“I need to leave.”

He jumped slightly, instinct summoning hand to sword hilt. I stopped him from drawing it with a touch.

“If Hawthorne sees me arrive with King Orac’s company, he will be on the alert for betrayal. He knows I will thwart his plans if I discover them.”

“I doubt Orac will allow you to leave.” He leaned forward, resting elbows on knees, hands still moving.

“I don’t intend to ask him.”

“What do I tell him when he asks?” Amusement tinged his voice. I could almost see his raised eyebrows in the darkness.

“Tell him I left.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know what he will do? He might blame me?”

“I don’t, but I am certain he won’t kill you.”

“I doubt he would pass up the opportunity.”

“Trust me. He doesn’t want to like you, but he respects your integrity. The death of a son is a hard thing to get past.”

Tourth’s head lowered to his hands. I instantly regretted the reference.

“I don’t remember his son.” Tourth’s words hung heavy in the air between us. “That is the worst of it. The madness took hold, blocking out everything. I could have killed my own sister if she had been there. I was lost to anger and bloodlust such that I cannot even recall his son’s face.” His voice quavered and died.

I reached across and laid a hand on his arm. “It was war. You were fighting for your king, and he for his. It doesn’t make it right or good. But, it was a matter of his life or yours and I am thankful that Deus spared yours.”

“Wren.” He whispered my name as though seeking reassurance. “I don’t want the madness to return. The darkness waits, hungry for my anger, and I fear I will slip into it again. This time my actions might stand between me and God forever.”

My hand found his bent head, fingers slipping through his hair. “Deus is greater than the madness. He can master your anger.”

He sighed, a labored effort as though something pressed against his chest. “Pray for me, Wren.”

“I will.” Although it was the perfect opportunity to leave, something held me back.

He lifted his head, catching my falling hand with his own. Instead of letting go, he held it.

“Take care, Wren.” He turned it over, stroking the palm with a calloused thumb. A pleasant shiver climbed my spine before settling in my belly. “I will pray for your safety.”

“And I yours.” I savored his touch a moment more before finally murmuring, “I must go.”

“Aye, and I must sleep.” He released my hand.

I rose before I had a chance to change my mind and strode soundlessly toward the opening. After listening long enough to place the position of the guards, I slipped between the flaps and into the moonlit night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2011 Rachel Rossano

A question: What is your assessment of Orac?