Day 8. The Terrace/The Road

Chapter 19. 

      Kit was caught up in court duties for the rest of that day and only found freedom once the sun was setting and the throne room was empty. He waited till even Rogo left and then slumped down in the throne, trying to think of when he had been that tired of sitting. Surely not in a long while. 

   There was still much to do. 

   “She sings upon the highest peak, a language most will never speak, the words give strength to those who weep, the fairest bird with fairest beak!” 

   Kit tensed at the voice singing out to him and quickly straightened up from his slouch, looking around to see who had sung. Then, before she walked around the backside of the throne, Kit realized who it must be who would sing to a lonely king. 

   It was Hyn, the twin left behind. She wore a dress of pink and blue, with puffy shoulders and frilled wrists and a bow tied at the back of her waist that was large enough to hide a festival ham. She held no instrument but instead let roll across her fingers a pair of ink pens, both silver and dripping with ink, the liquid staining drops all along her dress as the instruments twirled. Her blond hair was tied up in a high bun held in place by another set of ink pens, these dripping as well and leaving two large splotches of black in her hair. And she wore that ridiculous pink scarf, the shade not similar enough to her dress to match. She walked carefully around the throne, down the steps, and across the throne room floor to the open terrace doors. 

   There would be no one out there, Kit had ordered Ulrig to only guard the hall entrance, and he watched as the strange bard woman exited outside, spraying little drops of ink everywhere. 

   He sat still for a moment, wishing for nothing more than a bit of rest and time alone, but he was far too intrigued by this bard and her curiosities. Besides, it did seem as though her and her brother felt they had full reign over the city, and that was one thing on Kit’s list he wouldn’t mind fixing first rather than last. He stood, stretching wide and folding his back until it popped, then he strode across the floor to the terrace doors the woman left open. 

   Kit found her sitting on a bench, overlooking the city. It was the bench closest to the wall where he had sat the night Eadric died, and her arms were spread wide on the back of the bench, the pens from her hands pushed up to join the ones in her hair. Kit walked to the bench but did not sit down, content to stand beside it. He turned and leaned on the wall, looking down at the woman. 

   “You’re getting ink everywhere,” he said 

   She shrugged with a smug smile, not looking at him. “What is your goal, Kit?” she asked. 

   “I’ll have to have several cleaners come and wipe those floors, all the way from where we sit to the throne,” Kit went on, staying on topic. 

   “You weren’t planning to rule, were you?” Hyn asked. “You poor boy, thrust upon with so much responsibility. If only there was a way to bring Eadric back again.” 

   Kit froze. It was the same thing Rusk had said. Kit hadn’t had a chance to meet with the monk yet, and wasn’t even sure what good it would do if he was in as rough shape as Valia said he was. Thinking of that made him think of Borneld and he found his list of duties growing long. 

   “What do you know?” Kit asked. 

   The bard tipped her head back, looking up at the sky. They were on the sunrise side of the citadel, and the shadows had passed long over them. There was a rough outline of the citadel cast over the city below, though the tower tops were slowly fading into the broad shadow as the sun fell lower. 

   “I saw you sparring this morning,” she said with a teasing tone. “You hide quite a lot of muscle beneath those royal robes.” 

   Kit wasn’t sure why but he found a blush rising to his cheeks. “You never answer a question, do you?” 

   “I’m a seeker?” said Hyn. “I like to ask my own questions.”  

   “Incidentally, that is an answer to my last question.”

   She grinned and tipped her head forward again, finally looking at him. “Information is currency,” she said, a serious tone now in her voice. “Communication is the key of that, of course, without both you have nothing. You may think currency is currency, but if you find a gold mine in the desert but have no one to help you dig the gold out and no place to refine it and no one to distribute it and nothing to buy because you know no merchants, then all you really have is a hole in the ground. History and story are a lesser level of currency, though if spun correctly, they can add or take away value from any current information.” 

   “What do you mean ‘add or take away’?” Kit asked. He had crossed his arms as the woman spoke and found he felt very defensive of her smug attitude, even if her jokes seemed to have slipped away. 

   “What if gold was never worth anything? Perhaps the history books are wrong, perhaps it is as common as bronze. Or even dirt. Perhaps no one in the past cared for it at all? What if all the stories spoke of copper rather than gold? Could we change the value of a metal simply by rewriting the songs and the stories and the history books?” 

   “Bronze is an alloy,” Kit pointed out. “You don’t mine it.”

   “You’re not any fun,” she said. 

   “What are you getting at?” Kit asked. 

   “We have the best interests of the kingdom at heart. We are not your enemies, Kit, we are not your friends, either, but we will seek to preserve the peace of the land if you do the same.” 

   “You put me in this position,” Kit argued. “Without your reach there would have been no knowledge of the Spokesman’s death, and another could have taken the throne.” 

   “Another?” she asked. “Valia? Is that who you mean? You would rather a woman sit upon the seat of power? Not very manly of you.” 

   Kit felt flustered and couldn’t pin down why. He did not think it was her looks, for though she was an attractive woman she was older than he and in her current attire looked more clownlike than ladylike. 

   “You say you are not my enemy, but you believe I am your puppet?” 

   “I don’t see any strings,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. 

   “You mentioned bringing Eadric back from the dead, that is what started this whole conversation. I would like to know what information you have on this topic.” 

   Hyn shook her head and looked away from him to her lap where her hands sat, wiping ink on her dress. “There is no magic in the world,” she said quietly. “Only the things we can’t yet understand. The spokesmen may have something, perhaps the thing I understand the least, but still, I am determined to believe it is not so esoteric as others would assume. It would take magic to bring your friend back from death.” She looked at him then, sharply, piercing. “Once one is truly dead, there is nothing more for them.” 

   He almost told her then, told her of the underground city and the room with the men and women sleeping on cots. But that would reveal his hand and he held his tongue, doing his best to keep his face placid. 

   “Your only goal is to keep the kingdom’s peace?” Kit asked. Hadn’t he heard something similar from the Spokesmen?

   “Our goal is to learn the stories of the world, and change the ones we don’t like, of course,” she said with a smile. “Kit, dear, you have a few decisions to make in the coming weeks that could put you on a path of interesting or boring. Please be so kind as to find the former.” 

   “I’m trying to run a stable ship,” Kit said. “I’m not interested in your tales.” 

   Hyn stood and reached out with an inky hand, her fingers held delicately as a courtesan might, awaiting a kiss from her lord. Kit found himself trapped between following custom and wondering if this bard was really a lady and if he wanted ink on his hands. 

   He finally reached out and took her hand, though he gave it no kiss. She smiled and it seemed to be enough. 

   “I’ll be nearby,” she said. “Don’t go sparring without me next time, I would much like to watch you again.” 

   She turned and left, her pink and blue dress swishing behind her, the massive bow bouncing with each step. Ink stains spread down her dress and Kit thought she was the most ridiculously attired woman he had ever seen, and there were plenty of wild women in the forests that he had encountered in his youth. 

   “It’s supposed to be a closed training room,” Kit muttered to himself as he turned back to the city. “There are far too many eyes in this place. Far too many.” 

Chapter 20. 

   The first day of traveling brought the relic seekers out of the southern quarter of Taro Myule and into the flatlands below. They camped at night and Hyg played a few drinking songs that the men seemed to enjoy, albeit reluctantly. The leader of the soldiers, an older man named Oren, had forbidden all recreational drinking, and the men seemed in poor spirits though none of them complained. 

   Valia slept well with her maid beside her, the younger girl brought her own bedroll, a thing embroidered with two horses that the girl said she had done herself. Her name was Alett, and she had made the bedroll for her father, one of the king’s guard. He had been killed in the fight in the throne room and Alett had seemed rather eager to join Valia, as she was one of the few who asked to travel in the interview. Perhaps she was escaping memories as much as Valia was. 

   The morning broke and they rode on, Valia thankful that the bard had yet to bother her. His singing the night before was enough. 

   Neither of the Spokesmen seemed interested in talking to her, and the soldiers all were content to talk and laugh among themselves. Captain Oren was kind to her but she didn’t take him as the chatty type. So it left the young maid. 

   They spoke of familial things at first, the girl answering all of Valia’s questions with smiles and little bows when Valia gave her compliments. She was born on the citadel grounds, both her parents had worked for Godsmar since he became king at the death of his father, King Gorol, and she had rarely ventured into the city. She was thirteen and had two older sisters and a younger brother who was only four, and she told Valia that her mother thought the boy was an illness for a while because she felt she was much too old to be pregnant. Alett talked of the friends she had in the citadel, other girls who were raised there just as she was, who cleaned and helped the cooks in the kitchens and cleaned more. It was a massive palace, nearly a small city of its own, and required much upkeep no matter who sat on the throne. 

   The noon day meal came as the riders continued along the road leading south toward the border of Raelle where it would meet Midcharia. It was through that kingdom that much of their continental travel would take place, and then they would be onto the Quakeslan, the narrow stretch of land that stuck down from the continent’s body like a singular leg, supporting the land all the way to the Pits. Or so the stories told. 

   They sat around a quickly made fire while one of the soldiers cooked a quick roast of quail and potatoes. Spirits seemed high, the sun was up, and the bard had gone ahead foregoing the meal, claiming that he must ‘scout the road’. Captain Oren assured them they were nowhere near bandit territory, and they were certainly too large a band to be overtaken even if they were. The Bard trotted off anyway. 

   “I don’t like persimmons,” said Alett as she sat beside Valia on the grass. “They make my nose itch when I eat them.” 

   Valia looked at the girl, watching as she picked through the bones of her meal looking for any more bird meat. “I’ve never had one,” she said. 

   Alett looked up at Valia with a near shocked expression. “No persimmons? Forgive me, miss, but it seems that you’re more rare than I thought!” 

   Valia had insisted the girl call her ‘miss’ rather than ‘my lady’ or ‘your highness’. She wasn’t a lady, she had no familial ties to any royalty, and she certainly wasn’t royalty herself. Valia preferred if the men referred to her with the more respectful monikers, but she felt a different way about Alett. 

   “I don’t believe they grow very well in the forest,” Valia said. 

  “What does grow well?” 

   They talked about vegetables and fruit for a while, even beyond the completion of the noon meal and their resumption of the day’s travels, and Valia realized she had never spoken about grown food more in her life. The talk eventually came to the beans. 

   “Do you know what happens if you eat them?” asked the girl, her eyes as wide as could be. 

   Valia nodded, thinking about it. “They’re poisonous,” she said. “You lose whatever the goat meat might have given you, be it strength, speed or intellect, and you go crazy, don’t you?” 

   Alett nodded gravely, then lowered her voice as if she were sharing state secrets. “I have a friend who has a brother who works in the stables of a farmer near the northern plains, and he knows a man who tried the beans straight from the field. He couldn’t speak anymore, and then he went blind, and then his ears turned to stalks of corn, and–” 

   Valia couldn’t help but laugh at the girl’s dramatic tone. “I find that difficult to believe, Alett,” she said. “The loss of speech and blindness perhaps, but I don’t think a bean would make a man’s ears turn to corn.” 

   “That’s what I heard,” said the girl, folding her arms and puffing out her lip. 

   The spirit on this girl, thought Valia. She said, “Have you eaten any goat meat?” 

   Alett’s hands flew to her face to frame a mouth that made a perfect little circle. “Oh miss, to ask such a thing! I’m no soldier or scholar! Girls don’t eat that, I don’t think women do either.” 

   “I have,” said Valia with a pleased smile. “It tastes salty, nothing special about it.” 

   “You’ve eaten sild?” the girl asked, hardly able to believe it. 

   Valia shook her head. “Goma.” 

   If Valia kept with the revelations the girl might begin melting and fall right from her horse. “Goma’s for soldiers, to give them strength,” she said. “It’s for men.” 

   “It’s just goat meat,” countered Valia. “I did feel quite manly though,” she said and grimaced, then raised her arm and flexed her bicep, fully aware that it was hidden beneath her plate armor. 

   “The king is strong,” said the girl with a sheepish smile. 

   “You think so?” asked Valia, dropping her hand back to the reins. 

   Alett nodded quickly but didn’t say anything. 

   “He’s a soldier,” Valia said, looking ahead and letting her eyes fall out of focus. “He doesn’t even need goat meat to fight.” 

   “I believe that,” said the girl, and Valia looked over to see a vacant stare on her face, one of an entirely different nature than what Valia just had. 

   One of the two Spokesmen contenders slowed his horse until he was riding on Valia’s other side. He was young but handsome, with narrow eyes and a wide frame, and shoulder length hair that curled at the ends. Valia hadn’t yet gotten either of the boys' names. 

   “Fine day,” said the boy. 

   “It was,” muttered Alett, though her words were hardly perceptible. 

   Valia smiled sweetly and extended a hand to the boy, palm down in the custom of the land. “Fine indeed,” she said. 

   The boy took the hand and kissed it gently, his lips hardly touching her skin, and then let go of her fingers and smiled brightly at her. 

   “What is your name?” she asked. 

   “Ben,” said the boy. “I’m pleased to journey with you, my lady.” 

   “Are you afraid of what is coming?” Valia asked. 

   He shook his head and sat up a little straighter in his saddle, his shoulders flexing out. Surely he was the son of a blacksmith or a mason. “I do not fear death, if that is what waits for us,” he said. 

   “Oh?” Valia asked. 

   “I only fear living less than I am able,” he said.

   Valia nearly burst out laughing but coughed to save herself. She heard Alett moan beside her. “I’m sorry, the dust from the road,” she explained, clearing her throat as ladylike as she could. “That is a very, erm, poetic thing to say,” she said. 

   Ben nodded as if she had been sincere, and patted a bag on the saddle behind him. “I keep a journal of some of my thoughts,” he said. “My mother taught me to write at a young age, and though it’s not exactly necessary for work in my father’s carpentry shop, I like to have the skill.” 

   “Carpentry,” Alett whispered beside Valia as if the girl was trying to figure it out as well. 

   “Surely it is important to know your figures for carpentry?” Valia asked. 

   “Numbers, yes,” said the boy, “though letters have not yet come in use. Not for anything other than my thoughts, of course.” He laughed a little and though Valia hadn’t heard anything funny, she gave a small giggle. 

   “I heard Captain Oren loves poetry,” said Alett, loud enough for the boy to hear.

   “Is that so?” asked Ben, tipping his head toward the front of their group where the older soldier rode. He looked back to Valia with an apology ready in his eyes. 

   “Carry on,” she said before he could speak. “We are well met, Ben the poet.” 

   He nodded kindly to her and then clicked his teeth, snapping the reins once and riding forward toward the front of the train. 

   “Silly boys,” said Alett with more than a jovial amount of disdain in her voice. 

   “He was only attempting kindness,” rebutted Valia. She looked sharply down at the girl. “Never mock kindness, no matter how rustic or clumsy. Boys must trial through much to learn grace and poise. Most boys, that is.” 

   She was thinking of her brother’s charm, but Alett spoke up, breaking her thoughts. “The King has poise,” she said dreamily. 

   If only you knew, thought Valia. 

   They rode on and talked of forest life compared to life in the citadel, and passed a small town called Oxenhall before riding another hour until the sun fell and called for camp. 

   The soldiers hobbled the horses in a small meadow and the designated cook began making a stew while the others gathered brush from a small copse of trees, to build and feed a fire. They had passed a number of travelers on the road but none of them stopped the party and hardly any of them gave any hello at all. It was a quiet place where they stopped, and Valia wandered about the meadow looking at the yellow summer flowers that grew there, their color fading as the sun disappeared. There was a small brook babbling along on one side of the meadow, furthest from the main road, and she walked along the banks of this looking for smooth stones. 

   She came upon a little pool fed by the brook, and stopped, watching behind a tree. The two Spokesmen bathed in the pool, each of them standing up to their waist in water, their tunics in a pile on the bank of the pool, a lump of soap floating on a little wooden dish between them. Ashamed, Valia hid her face behind the tree and nearly turned away, but their words froze her in place.

   “It’s worse being away from them,” said one, and Valia realized she hadn’t heard either of them speak enough to discern which man it was. 

   “Yes,” said the other, “as though we’re all part of the same thing.” 

   “Jovis would have said so,” said the first. 

   There was silence, then a bit of splashing, and Valia found the mystery to be killing her. She would peek, only to find which one was speaking. She began to move her head around the tree but they started talking again and she froze, afraid to bring attention to herself. 

   “What if the stone is no longer there?” asked one. 

   “There’s no use thinking such a thing,” said the other. “We won’t know until we reach the valley.” 

   “Is it worse with more of us?” asked the first. 

   There was a pause and Valia peeked around the tree, unable to contain her curiosity. They were still there on opposite sides of the pool, though they were lower in the water now, only their heads above the still surface. The soap boat bobbed between them. 

   “Protection or bait, I’m not sure,” said Luc, the dark haired one. He was sitting in such a way that Valia could see his face, albeit hidden by the faint moonlight. 

   Meino, the redhead, nodded, sending a few drops of water into the pond. “Jovis brought this upon us,” he said. 

   The other man shook his head, sliding down in the water even further until his chin touched the surface. “Jovis wanted to go back anyway. Perhaps this was his plan all along.” 

   The other man didn’t answer and Valia realized she had been watching for too long. She leaned back as quietly as she could, then stepped away, walking only on stones until she thought she was far enough away. She returned to the meadow and found the fire. It was easy to find, for Hyg the bard had returned and was playing a bouncy tune on a red painted lyre. The men were singing along, one of those songs that had a simple enough melody that could have lyrics added to on a whim. 

   Valia walked to where Alett sat watching the men laugh and sing, and sat beside the girl. 

   “Off for a stroll?” asked the maid. 

   Valia shrugged. She found it difficult to think with the Spokesman's words in her mind. Protection or bait, I’m not sure. Valia would need to have a conversation with these men, Luc in particular. She thought briefly of the image of their torsos out of the water, and though she put much of her mental power on the image, she could not remember where the dark color of their hands met the lighter color of their faces. It was as though she was looking at two men bathing and her innocence had blotted out what she had seen. Perhaps for the better, she thought, and let herself get caught up in the soldiers’ songs.