A Test of Honor, Page 5

  Chapter 5

  "The dinner was hot and pleasant

  A most enjoyable meal.

  What began with roasted pheasant

  was ended with blood and steel."

  - Katisha Franklin, 8 Augesti, 1787 AC

  Aidan wrapped the borrowed cloak around himself a little tighter as he felt another chill of the approaching night air. He had left around the third hour, certain that it would give him plenty of time to reach Wishon and explore the city a little. But two hours out of the bandit camp, and still he saw no end to the trees before him.

  He spurred Midnight into a run wherever he found a clear trail, but that wasn't often, and he felt it better to be cautious and arrive a little late than trip his mount over a brown upturned root and kill them both. He stopped briefly at the hollow where he'd met Rodrig, storing his Kannitick Armor inside. He thought about wearing it to Wishon, but didn't want to offend the Deumars. They were risking enough hosting him for a dinner, they shouldn't be insulted by a choice that could be seen as distrusting Lord Deumar's ability to keep his own guests safe.

  Finally, a clearing appeared through the web of trees ahead of him, and judging from the sun's position it was near the end of the fifth hour. He wouldn't be late after all. He trotted Midnight through the last stretch of oaks, sycamores, and yews that grew at Graydon Forest's perimeter.

  He stopped for a moment on the edge of the forest, hidden within the shade of the tree line. Before him stood Wishon Estate, clusters of random-sized buildings and an intricate maze of walled paths that led to the Keep sticking up tall, square, its bottom three floors covered with dense water ivy that blended the Keep with the Wishon forest at its back and nearly rendered the fortress invisible. As beautiful as it was, Aidan couldn't help remembering the day a young Marke Deumar told him idly that the water ivy also served to slow any fires set by a besieging army. Even beauty has a purpose for war.

  Wishon Estate had grown considerably since Aidan had last visited. Outside of the labyrinthine walls sat cluster after cluster of cottages, some with roofs of cheap hay and more than a few with actual stagger-tiled brick shingles. The outlying farms were vast, and most were just dirt furrows with tiny green leaves peaking out, a sign of the plump and hopefully sufficient fall potatoes growing beneath. As he passed by one of the large wooden guard towers that ringed between the town proper and the outlying farms, he gave a small wave to the Archers above, and they raised their hands in acknowledgement.

  He dismounted when he came upon a crush of people trying to make one final trade or two before supper in the marketplace. Around him, people shouted requests and offers, stock on hand and prices, and all the haggling in between. He pressed his way through the ocean of traders, speculators, and consumers as gently and steadily as he could. The wrong bump, from either him or his horse, could trigger an angry, violent response from the wrong person, and he didn't want the Deumars to know that he had brought his mace and hidden it cleverly in a long leather pouch on the side of his saddle.

  He inhaled deeply, charmed by the familiar smells of fresh cut celery, roast pumpkin, spices like mint and cumin, and nearly all manner of seasoned meat. Lunch with the bandits was sufficient to quell his hunger, but did little to entice his palette. It would be nice to eat like a proper Knight again.

  As he reached Settlers' Road, he turned his head away from the open sewer spewing waste downhill to a gigantic cesspit outside the town border, a muddy river of human waste. He gingerly stepped over it and onto the road, then dodged as Midnight's hooves carelessly splashed through it. He closely inspected his boots but found no spot of churned waste. He cursed the horse, then mounted and rode to the entrance to the walled maze that led to the keep.

  Slits and tapered holes were carved in the walls, spaced evenly. While beautiful, Aidan couldn't help but wonder how many men just like himself had lost their lives trying to take this castle in the two thousand years it had stood. The walls were much too short for the average scaling ladder, which would force any would-be enemy to choose between mutilating those ladders for the sake of speed or gambling Soldiers' lives trying to overtake the ramparts that no doubt were constructed around each bend. When giving an enemy two choices, make sure they're both bad.

  Finally arriving at the keep's gates, Aidan was greeted by a page who took his horse's reins as he dismounted. Marching down the steps, dressed in a fine golden silk doublet covered in green embroidered cranes, hawks, and sparrows was his old friend Sir Marke, heir to the Duchy of Wishon and elder child of Lord Deumar. Marke clasped Aidan's hand, and Aidan immediately felt his heart warm at the welcome he hadn't realized he'd expected.

  "Sir Aidan of Franklin, seeing you is like a breath of air after falling headfirst in a lake." Sir Marke clapped a hand on Aidan's shoulder, and Aidan nearly wept with joy. It felt almost like old times.

  "And seeing you, Sir Marke, is like seeing the sky for the first time." Aidan smiled, willing his sorrow to make way for his joy. "Your home is a welcome sight for this unfortunate traveler."

  "We will speak further about your fortune," Sir Marke said, leading him up the wide stone staircase to the massive front doors, "but later. First, we eat!"

  "And how is your father? I have heard rumors-"

  "They're probably true." Sir Marke led Aidan up a narrow, winding staircase that he knew from memory led to the second-story dining room. "Most days he can barely move, and when he can, there is pain. His knees are a horror to behold - red and swollen. Pray you never see their like!"

  Aidan thought of replying that he'd seen many and more horrors during his tour fighting on New Mongolia. Unbidden, his mind filled with visions of men desperately trying to stuff burnt entrails back into their abdomens or trying to jigsaw their compatriots' bodies back together after a mortar strike. How could he even begin to explain the manner of random, honorless, senseless chaos given form that the rest of the galaxy had named war?

  "I'm sorry, Aidan," Sir Marke said, as if reading his thoughts, "I didn't mean ... I'm sure your time on the battlefield saw sights worse than my father's red-apple knees."

  "It's nothing. Let's speak of other matters." Aidan parsed his brain for a new subject and found one quickly. "How is your sister?"

  "Ygretta?" Sir Marke shook his head. "Still thinks she's a man, despite mountains of evidence to the contrary."

  Aidan chuckled with the memories of little Ygretta challenging them to fight wooden swords and fashioning play armor out of great-tortoise shells and sequoiavine. "Is she at least taking the discipline of weapons seriously?"

  "Is she!" Sir Marke suddenly wiped any manly amusement from his face, replacing it with genuine approval. "You should have seen her at the last tourney! She jousts better than me, no question. And I'd wager she'd give you a decent challenge in melee."

  Aidan nodded, feeling happy for the first time since he'd returned. Finally, he was playing his part again, talking with Sir Marke about tourneys and Knightly contests, laughing about his sister's refusal to accept Ladyhood, preparing to share a meal with good friends. It was as close he'd felt to being home since his return. He took a few silent moments as they approached the dining hall to breathe the moment in and hold onto it as long as he could. Before the dark talk over what must come next.

  Aidan took the guest seat, left of the head, Sir Marke sitting across. The table was covered in serving bowls bearing fine interlaced silver-and-gold patterns, smooth ivory silk napkins, ornate white plates with depictions of various famous battles of Caledonia's mythic past, and tall bronze goblets with a stark simplicity that provided a balance to the decadence of the rest of the setting. Aidan took note that his own plate depicted the Siege of Bacturne, where a single Mardoni tribesman defeated three entire divisions through cunning, smart use of superior position, and savage fighting. Was this plate chosen for me on purpose?

  Ygretta walked in, brown eyes piercing Aidan almost accusingly as she stalked into the room. She wore a dress, to his surprise, and her hair was
organized into three neat braids: a narrow rope tightly wrapped at the top of her forehead, the other two thickly cascading over each shoulder.

  "Sir Aidan," she said after a graceful curtsy, "it is truly a pleasure to see you again." She glided to the seat next to her brother, who rose to pull the chair out. Aidan rose as well, customary when a Lady entered the room.

  Something about the willowy movements of Lady Ygretta had sparked in him a longing he thought long quenched. He exhaled a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. They were never officially betrothed, but there was an understanding that some day a union would benefit their families. She was fiery and never held back an opinion, and Aidan was likewise bullheaded. Yet seeing her now made him feel like an idiot. He had spent the last three years fighting a war that seemed irrelevant to Caledonia when he could have stayed and married, produced children. Perhaps averted my family's death.

  "My Lady," Aidan said, finally recovering his voice, "it is good to see you again."

  She peeked under one of the covered serving bowls then, as if suddenly remembering that a guest was present, hastily closed it. "I am glad you survived to see us again."

  "It wasn't easy," he laughed, feeling suddenly foolish as she frowned, "but I ... well ... here I am."

  "Yes! Here you are, home at last. A Knight with no land wearing traveling clothes to a dinner." She shook her head at him, and his heart filled with hot anger. Suddenly he remembered why they had never officially betrothed. "Perhaps you should have stayed behind."

  "Ygretta, do retract your claws," Sir Marke lazily said. "Our old friend has run into a patch of bad luck, but-"

  "But what, Marke? Is our arthritic father going to don armor and ride once more for death and glory?" Sir Marke seethed under the insult to their father, but Ygretta's expression showed that she was in no way finished. "It's no wonder you almost enlisted with Sir Aidan the Trunkhead."

  "That's enough." A voice boomed from the arched entryway. Lord Deumar half sat, half lay in a small cart just big enough for him. If he were any other man, he would have looked simply pathetic and sickly, but Lord Deumar somehow retained an air of regality despite his condition. His page, a big-chested lad of around fifteen summers, wheeled him to his place at the head of the table and took up a position by the doorway, long-faced and morose. "Ygretta, if you can't keep a civil tongue at the table, I'll have the servants bring a tray to your room. You will not insult a guest!"

  "Father, I-"

  "Hold your tongue, or I will excuse you!" Lord Deumar suddenly grimaced, his elderly face twisting with onset pain and his fine-kempt snowy beard suddenly looking scraggly and ancient. He recovered himself and narrowed his sunken eyes square at his errant daughter. "You may think you're a man, but I won't have you sullying our name with your lack of manners. Am I understood?"

  Ygretta looked at her empty plate as if it were a dead pet. Her voice was coated with bitterness and hostility. "Yes, Father. I hear and obey."

  Lord Deumar sighed and grimaced, turning to Aidan, who bowed his head in respect. The infirm Duke of Wishon smiled as if being reunited with a long-lost child, and Aidan felt his heart warm at the paternal expression.

  "Sir Aidan, it is soil and seed to lay eyes upon you once again. We have missed you, my friend, as we miss your father and siblings." A stiff silence overtook the room for a few moments, and the occupants quietly observed the dead. "You must be hungry, let's not waste time on pleasantries."

  Lord Deumar clapped his bony, long-fingered hands, his bulky page vacantly ringing a gong, which sat in a wide niche on the far wall between two banners bearing the rooted tower that was the Deumars' House Crest. Immediately, servants bustled into the room, and they filled goblets, scooped out servings from the intricate serving bowls, and brought smallish bowls full of steaming-fresh entrees.

  For a brief moment, Aidan imagined that his good friend, Marke, was his brother, Troy, and that Lady Ygretta was Latisha. Instead of a broken man sitting in a repurposed mining cart at the head of the table, he pictured his father, sitting tall and regal as he waited for the servants to finish scooping his meal onto his plate. It was a hollow shadow of a memory, and any brief comfort it provided was replaced once again with a heavy, crushing despair.

  The scents of savory pork, sweet crunchpeas, carrots, and a thick hearty stock wafted into his nostrils, and he breathed deeply. He nearly lost his patience waiting for the last Footman to garnish the meat with butter-fried onions and a wedge of garlic, but he held his temper, distracting himself from the overpowering hunger by wondering why the plate next to Marke had been served despite its vacant chair. As if to answer his silent question, a bell rang a single sharp note, and the pages opened the massive arched doors.

  "You have begun without me." Lady Deumar sneered, looking straight at Aidan with eyes of icy death. "Just as well. You won't be staying the night, so the sooner you leave, the sooner you can arrange appropriate lodging."

  "My Lady," Aidan said, glad that he'd spent time on his way reciting what to say to her, "I apologize for my condition. I only hope we can speak with the same candor that you and your Lord husband shared with my father."

  "You desire candor, Aidan?" She sat across from Ygretta, who slumped in her chair as if trying to sink into the floor. Aidan refused to get angry that Lady Deumar addressed him without title.

  "I desire the truth." The servants finally left the room, as if cued by the approaching argument, and Aidan carefully cut a pork chunk to a little smaller than bite-size, taking extra care to use the proper fork and knife and not eat as quickly as his hunger demanded. "My father valued your friendship, and so do I."

  "Well," Lady Deumar collected carrots on her fork, "you certainly have a strange way of expressing friendship. The most wanted man on the planet, and where do you flee? To our home."

  "If there was any other-"

  "This is pointless." Lady Deumar spoke the words without rancor as if reciting some ancient history. She took a sip of water from her goblet, dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Because of you, my son is stained with the reputation of being friends with an assassin, my daughter thinks she is a boy, and my Lord husband nearly committed treason. Make no mistake, Aidan, I will be happy with you only when you have gone to meet your family in person."

  "That is quite enough, Lucretia," Lord Deumar spoke, his voice tired and weary, "unless you wish to be excused. We have no time for womanly hysterics; House Franklin was our ally, and we will do everything within our power to aid its remaining member."

  Aidan nearly choked at Lord Deumar's words. Was our ally. He swallowed without showing any distress and took a deep swig of his water, silently praying to his House gods that it was a mere slip of the tongue, and not an indication of House Deumar's policy.

  "If I may ask, my Lord, what do you think ought to be done?" Aidan asked, taking a bite of his vegetables.

  "Sir Aidan, your situation is quite serious, I'm afraid."

  "I regret losing my temper in the Palace, but the Lord Deputy Meadows baited me."

  "Yes, and you took the bait like a spring perch. You always did have a temper."

  "Should I be cast out, disinherited, because I refused to tolerate insults to my family?" Aidan had been working on this speech as well, and he delivered it confidently. "Would you, my Lord, or you, Sir Marke, tolerate such insults to yours?"

  "Never." Marke said, his voice rising with anger at the imagined scenario. "I would bathe my longsword in Meadows' blood before I allowed them to steal what our ancestors built."

  "I would have gutted him where he stood." Ygretta said, using a more casual, measured tone that Aidan found somehow unsettling. She crunched on water chestnuts as if she had just made a comment about embroidery technique.

  "So good to have you back, Aidan." Lady Deumar muttered, her face twisting with contempt and her words dripping with venom. "You always did bring out the very best in our children."

  "Lady Deumar, you are excused." Lord Deumar said, never raising
his voice or displaying any anger.

  Sparing one last fiery glare for Aidan, Lady Deumar rose with the practiced movement of a proper princess, back straight through the whole motion and walking with a subtle gait so that her feet remained unseen beneath her heel-length dress. She behaved as I expected.

  "Lucio!" Lord Deumar boomed. One of the pages by the door came over as quickly as he could without breaking into a jog. "What is the time?"

  "Half past the sixth hour, My Lord."

  "Thank you." The page returned to his post, and Lord Deumar's face twisted with what Aidan assumed was pain from his condition. "I am sorry, Sir Aidan, for what is about to happen."

  "My Lord?" Aidan put down his fork, loaded with pork, vegetables, and gravy far beyond what was polite.

  "There's no way to soften it: we cannot shelter you from the storm you've created."

  The words hung in the air like poison gas, and Aidan found himself unable to breathe. What was the point of inviting him for dinner if they had no intention of providing him the protections due a guest? As he felt his world once again come unhinged, he realized that Marke was talking.

  "-must object. Deputy Meadows has no hold over us! Others might bend the knee, but as long as-"

  "Do you really think, boy, that I haven't done the math?" Lord Deumar's voice, so subtle and void of passion until now, suddenly boomed with anger much as fizzed wine spews forth when it comes uncorked. "Locklear, Mullens, Schroeder, Jones. Our closest neighbors answer to Meadows, plain and simple. Do you really think our fifty spears and hundred foresters would keep their thousands at bay?"

  "A hundred fifty ..." Aidan couldn't believe his ears. Wishon had always been better at trade and economics than warfare, but those numbers were less than a quarter of what they commanded three short years ago.

  "Yes, Sir Aidan, 150. Providing that none desert at the jingle of Meadows' notoriously jangly purse." Lord Deumar recovered his measured tone, conveying only resignation to the inevitable. "Taxes and opportunism stole away most of our readily-armed men. It didn't help when Wishon Forest became so infested with those damned Black Hand Bandits that it was unsafe to hunt or travel the nearby roads for fear of being robbed and murdered."

  "Aidan, listen," Marke began, Aidan bristling that he had likewise neglected to address him by his proper title, "we can hide you. There's a merchant caravan leaving in the morning, and I heard the crew captain bitching about a lack of suitable men to act as Guards just this afternoon. He's staying in the-"

  "That plan is null."

  "But Father, no one would-"

  "We cannot take that chance. Besides," Lord Deumar sighed and gazed at his plate, looking every inch a sad crippled old man, "I have already taken measures to ensure that no one can accuse us of secretly harboring Sir Aidan."

  "Father, you didn't!" Ygretta yelled. Aidan turned to see that her face was streaming with tears and nostrils flaring with anger.

  "I'm afraid I did. I had no choice." Aidan looked at each member of House Deumar; his last allies in all the world. None would meet his gaze.

  "My Lord?" Aidan asked, refusing to acknowledge something he was nonetheless certain of.

  "Sir Aidan, your horse is saddled and waiting for you at the foot of the entry stairs. You need to leave as soon as possible, or they'll overtake you."

  "You invited me into a trap?" Aidan's heart burned with rage, but he couldn't bring himself to direct it at the Deumars. His father's pragmatic voice suddenly echoed through Aidan's mind. Two things you need to know: what you can do, and what you can't.

  "I contacted the Palace when you arrived. The Royal Guard will be here no more than fifteen minutes from now. If you hope to keep your freedom, live long enough to bring a proper suit before the king, and if you hope to give us the time we need to lobby on your behalf, you need to flee right now!"

  Aidan fled, knocking over his chair and nearly tumbling down the spiral staircase in his mad rush. He cursed leaving his armor behind; it would have helped enhance his speed and agility. He had no time to ask help from any gods, only to get out. Reaching the bottom of the stairs at last, he raced across the mosaic-tiled floor, time slowing with each step, until he was finally outside the large open doors. A stable boy waited at the foot of the stairs, holding Midnight's reins and looking bored.

  With what felt like one motion, he quick-nimbled the steps three at a stride and jumped straight onto the horse's back, surprising both the animal and the dim stable boy. Yanking the reins from the boy's hands, he spurred the horse as hard as he dared lest he injure the poor creature, and it shot down the ramp and onto the King's Avenue.

  His first impulse was to hide in Wishon Forest, but he remembered Lord Deumar speaking of the Black Hand Bandits with an almost reverent fear. He felt lucky to escape with his life from one bandit group; he didn't imagine it would go well for him to be cornered by another, especially in his fine clothes and without armor. With long-practiced skill, he removed his mace from its hidden pouch and mounted it at his waist, ready to draw in case of danger.

  Graydon Forest would have to suffice. The last squad of Guards who pursued him had refused to enter, and he felt confident that he could lose any pursuers in the confusion of the oncoming darkness and tree cover. It was a better bet than unknown territory in either case, and he followed his instincts to get out of Wishon swift-as-a-fletch and into the protection of the trees.

  He wheeled the horse around corner after corner, cursing the defensive maze but also thankful that it would take the Guardsman that much time to go up the other end since they would be riding toward the Keep's entrance. He galloped through the formerly crowded marketplace, a few straggling merchants still broadcasting their wares with boisterous shouts. A daffy merchant wandered into his path, and he strafed Midnight as far aside as he could, still knocking the aloof idiot into the mud, but keeping him clear of the hooves.

  The horse was running hard and breathing heavily as if she shared his urgency. They raced past the guard towers, the light from their torch projectors painting orange circles on the ground below. While galloping on a compacted path between two furrowed plots, Aidan felt fear grip his heart as he heard a shout. More shouts followed, and an arrow hit the ground about five feet in front of him. He zigzagged the horse as other shafts pierced the air around him, feeling the wind from one that nearly grazed his ear.

  Why are those idiots in the tower trying to kill me?

  "For the Crown!" shouted a clutch of voices to his right. He turned his head to glance, and his heart sank at the sight of five Guardsmen in Kannitick Plate on horseback coming at full speed from the King's Avenue about fifty feet away, pikes upright but each with the purple glow of a Plaz round.

  It became clear; the Archers were responding to the Royal Guards. He cursed his haste; had he waited a minute longer, the Guards would have been still navigating the hectic maze of Wishon's defenses while he rode away in the moonlight like a hero from the old stories. Instead of being hunted down like a deer.

  They were a pike's length away now, gaining with impossible speed right as he crossed the tree line. The forest was black and foggy, and he had no idea where to find the rugged path that led him here from the bandit camp. It was completely unsafe for Midnight to run in the dark, and he spun her around in a large clearing just inside the woods, drawing his mace as he accepted the inevitable. If they want me, they will have to earn me.

  He parried two spears as they thrust at his trunk, raising his knees to his chest and angling his heels firmly against the seat of his saddle. Standing still in battle is death. He waited for a gap in their attack rhythm, then leapt from the horse's back, tackling one of the Guards around the neck and pulling him to the ground.

  The Guard wriggled under Aidan's hold, wrenching one hand free and punching him a few times in the ribs. They cracked with every blow, the enemy's gauntleted knuckles even piercing his skin. He rolled over so that the Guard was on top of him, hoping the man would be fool enough to sit upright to g
ive his blows more strength. He took the bait, and as he raised himself, Aidan let loose and smashed his mace into the hinge on the side of his faceplate, knocking him to the side.

  Two Guards stabbed at him as he rolled away, one of their blades ripping his doublet. The other two dismounted and drew stunsticks, a weapon Aidan despised above all others. A coward's weapon. Each black bar, about a forearm's length, glowed with a menacing blue arc of lightning at the tip. Its magic buzzed, eager to bite into Aidan's flesh and turn him into a drooling heap.

  He lunged at one of the stunstick Guards, parrying his magical tool and grabbing the fool by the top of his breastplate under his throat, which was exposed because he wore no gorget, either from haste or laziness. Aidan stepped in close and shoved the Guard into the tip of a mounted bastard's pike. Panicking clearly from inexperience, the mounted Guard discharged his Plaz round right into his fellow's back. Had the man properly maintained his armor, he would have merely been knocked forward. Instead he dropped to the ground like a heavy sack, a gaping black crater smoking on his back.

  Aidan parried the other Guard's stunstick when something fell onto his shoulders and pinned him to the ground. There were too many. He found himself subdued with swift, brutal precision. One Guard stepped on his weapon arm and pried his mace from his grasp. A voice demanded surrender. He had but one option, the very thing he'd been avoiding since his return. Yield if you are trapped.

  "I yield," he said, spitting the words out as if they were poison, "I am yours."

  They stood him up, two attending to him and two inspecting the husk of their compatriot. They removed his helm, and Aidan was surprised to discover that it was a fellow black-skinned Iridonian like himself.

  "He killed Chester." One of the Guards attending the body said, dangerous anger rising in his voice. From the way the others gave silent reverence, Aidan guessed this was their commander. "Hawkins, baton."

  The other Guard handed him his stunstick, and Aidan got a sick feeling in his stomach as the commanding Guard approached him. He raised his faceplate, his face red and twisted in rage. The nostrils of his bulbous nose flared, and he twisted his thumb against the black baton as the glowing blue tip grew brighter and brighter.

  "Let go his arms, boys." His breath was heavy, but his words measured and calm. He's saving his rage for me. "This one needs tenderizing."

  "I am sorry the boy died," Aidan began, "and I submit myself to your authority."

  "Good!" The Guard's face opened in a smiling grimace as he thrust the bright magic tip into Aidan's chest. His head was immersed in color and pain. Knees buckling, his face smacked the ground as his hands failed to catch his fall. Tremors racked his body; it moved of its own counsel, and smoke filled the corners of his mind. Appropriate, since his body felt like it was on fire.

  Metal boots were kicking his sides as he tried to curl his body to protect his ribs and the vulnerable soft midsection. He tried to cry out in pain only to find he could neither open his mouth nor scream. Shrieks more similar to a wounded animal than a man escaped his throat as the Guards joined in the human football game.

  Magic fire exploded once again from every pore, and he prayed that his suffering might end soon. Just as he became convinced they were going to kill him, they raised him to his feet and held him under his shoulders.

  "By the authority of King Ethan of Caledonia, I place you under arrest." The head Guard declared, holding his head high as he articulated the words. He felt something clapping over his wrists, which he took for steel manacles but he couldn't be sure. All he could feel was fire.