The lonesome crown, p.19
The Lonesome Crown, page 19
The night was cool and Mancellor groaned as he walked around gingerly, legs stiff, the wound on his arm crying out in pain. Still, he grabbed a horse blanket for himself and one for Liz Hen and Dokie to share. They huddled under the blankets on a length of pine deadfall under one of the pinnacled arches opposite the fire from Praed. Mancellor did not know if he would even be able to sleep in this place—a place straight out of his visions. Does this mean I am on the path Laijon set me upon? He felt it within his bones that he was.
“I’m hungry.” Liz Hen eyed the cooking meat.
“As am I.” Praed smiled. He had gaps between each crooked tooth, which gave his smile a cruel, spiteful twist.
“Best get some food in you.” Judi smiled too. “And we must get to know you a little better before Praed shows you the good stuff, the stuff you really want, no?”
“And I wish she’d never even tried the good stuff.” Dokie did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart. Liz Hen elbowed the boy before he could finish the action. “What did you do that for?” Dokie grumbled, pulling the horse blanket back up around his shoulders. An uneasy wind prowled about the abbey.
“That prayer does no good.” She glared at him.
“Not a believer in Laijon, are you?” Judi asked her.
A dark look came over Liz Hen’s face. She did not answer.
“I never believed in Laijon myself, either,” Judi continued. “Seems like a bunch of twatwaddle to me. Raijael too. And those who believe in Mia, demon worshippers all.”
Praed had an amused smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “The Untamed, we are none of us believers in the gods.”
“You shouldn’t blaspheme any of the gods, Laijon or Raijael.” Dokie’s fright-filled gaze was now fixed on the large gap in the crumbled abbey. The ten standing stones were silhouetted like dark ship sails against the moonlit bog below. “It’s not right to speak ill of the gods,” he continued. “And the holy book says Mia is to be revered, never worshipped.”
“Mia, Raijael, Laijon,” Liz Hen repeated the names. “Prayers to any of them are for the truly demented.”
“Stop saying such things,” Dokie exclaimed.
But Liz Hen would not be deterred. “Did you know I used to pray for the silliest of reasons, Dokie, asking Laijon for the most trivial of desires: to get a job at the Grayken Spear Inn, to bake the perfect salmon loaf for my pa, to find my favorite copper bracelet I’d lost. And when I got the job or found the bracelet, Laijon be praised. Or, on the other hand, if I burned the salmon, I’d just assume it was Laijon’s way of teaching me a lesson—don’t build such a big fire in the oven next time, dumb Liz Hen. But it was all folly!”
“How can you call prayer folly?” Dokie asked.
“Don’t you see, whilst I was praying for stupid things like lost bracelets and whatnot, Wyn Darrè was at war. Whilst I prayed for trivialities, Wyn Darrè children were in the midst of watching their families being slaughtered. Whilst I prayed for trivialities, Wyn Darrè children were praying for Laijon’s intervention. They prayed for Laijon’s help whilst stuffing the severed purple guts back into their own mothers’ and fathers’ torn bellies with their own bloody little hands. And Laijon ignored their horrified pleas. Why? Because, Dokie, because he was busy helping me get a job at the Grayken Spear, helping me find my missing bracelet!”
“God’s ways are not our ways,” Dokie said.
“But they should be,” Liz Hen snapped. “Are you telling me Laijon had no time for little children who cry out for his mercy? Are you saying Laijon has no time for little children getting ass-raped by Sør Sevier swords?”
“I have no idea what god has time for, Liz Hen. I am not the judge of what prayer is more important to Laijon, and neither are you.”
“I should be the judge,” Liz Hen said. “Either all the gods are completely impotent, or they have mixed priorities, or they are just plain cruel. And I for one shall never utter another prayer in their name.”
“It pains my heart to hear such,” Dokie said. “What would Bishop Godwyn think of you now?”
“Who cares what Godwyn would have thought?” Liz Hen said. “A lot of good belief in Laijon did Bishop Godwyn. He invoked the rules written within The Way and Truth of Laijon to his own death.”
“He invoked those rules to save you,” Dokie said angrily. “Bishop Godwyn was executed in your stead. A selfless sacrifice.”
“A foolish sacrifice.”
“I see Laijon’s hand in all things. Even Godwyn’s death!”
“And you are a fool.”
Dokie was silent.
“Please share your tale, Liz Hen,” Praed said. “I wish to hear of this bishop’s sacrifice in your stead.”
The girl recounted the story of how she had saved Leif Chaparral during the battle in the Saint Only Channel. How once Leif had discovered she was a female and fighting in his army, he had ordered her to hang. How Hugh Godwyn, a bishop, had stood in proxy for her execution, dying in her stead as was his right to satisfy the law. As she recounted the tale, Mancellor could tell Liz Hen was experiencing a bitter amount of guilt and shame over the event. The chaos of events leading up to Godwyn’s sacrifice had clearly shaken her faith to the point of killing it entirely.
“After hearing all that,” Praed said, “I am with Dokie. Seems this Bishop Godwyn was an answer to your prayers.”
Dokie nodded. “Just like finding Mancellor was an answer to my prayers.”
“Many have helped to save us these past few moons, Dokie,” Liz Hen said. “And none of them were Laijon. Shawcroft saved us and died. Culpa Barra and Roguemoore and Val-Draekin and Seita and Stefan and even Nail have fought by our side. And where are they all? Likely dead. And Bishop Godwyn became a bloodletter in effort to save you, Dokie. He was hung by the neck in my stead. And I fail to see Laijon’s hand in any of it. ’Twas just the self-sacrifice of humble folk for the lives of their friends. None of the gods ever acted so noble.”
“Regardless of your feelings,” Dokie said, “you will always be my friend. And I shall still pray when I choose.”
“And you shall always be my friend too.” Liz Hen’s voice dropped to an almost indecipherable mumble. “But the only prayer I wish for is for Beer Mug’s return.”
“What is Beer Mug?” Judi asked.
“Beer Mug was my brother’s dog,” Liz Hen answered.
“I’ve never much liked dogs,” Judi said.
“How can a person not like dogs?”
“They’re too noisy, for one,” Judi answered. “Too rambunctious, for another. Not at all the type of animal for a group of thieves.”
“Hey,” Llewellyn piped up, round eyes gleaming. “Remember when we were robbing that one manor house in Rokenwalder? Remember that mansion with all the dog-piss stains on the rugs?”
“Oy.” Clive pinched his nose. “It stunk something fierce, that place.”
“And the lady come home,” Llewellyn said. “Caught us scooping up her jewels and good silverware. Remember that, Clive?”
“Aye!” Clive slapped his own leg jovially. “Stupid bitch shouted at us, ‘How dare you come in and rob my home!’ ”
Llewellyn busted up laughing too. “And I shouted back, ‘Home! More like a four-hundred-thousand-pence privy for your dog!’ ”
Clive bellowed. “Ain’t never laughed so hard in my life.”
“Best insult I ever come up with, that,” Llewellyn guffawed. “Sayin’ her so-called ‘home’ was just a big ol’ expensive latrine for her dog!”
Praed and Judi were laughing now too.
“Well,” Liz Hen huffed. “Regardless of your opinion on manor house privies or dogs, my brother died some time ago, and he had a dog named Beer Mug and I loved him. Beer Mug was lost in the battle off the shores of Lord’s Point, lost in the ocean. But he will come back to me, I know it.”
Judi shook her head, laughing no more. “I myself am having a hard time believing you were in any battle, much less the battle in the Saint Only Channel!”
“Aye,” Clive agreed, stroking his beard in deep contemplation now. “That battle is rumored to have decimated Aeros Raijael’s entire army.”
“We all were in that battle,” Liz Hen answered somberly, motioning to both Mancellor and Dokie, too. “What good that battle did, I don’t know. But it does seem that we won, I reckon.”
“Gul Kana’s victory was sheer accident,” Praed said. “ ’Twas the bloody tide of the Saint Only Channel that took out those armies.”
To Mancellor, the entire battle was a farce. For it seemed King Jovan and the grand vicar had been on the side of defeatism from the start. They believed that there was scant point in stemming the dark tide of Aeros Raijael’s armies and that allowing Fiery Absolution to come to Gul Kana, as The Way and Truth of Laijon foretold, was as it was meant to be. But by sheer accident Leif Chaparral had made short work of all those plans for Fiery Absolution.
He shifted his position on the pine log, injured arm smarting. The horse blanket slid off his shoulder, revealing the Sør Sevier slave brand on his wrist. He caught Praed looking at the mark and then looking away, turning the spit of stag meat.
There was a sudden racket of buzzing from the swamps below. Fireflies by the thousands rose up through the pine trees as one, twinkling and blinking their way into the sky. Mancellor watched through the open roof of the abbey as the bright swirling bugs flew off.
“Look at that,” Liz Hen exclaimed, clearly enchanted at the sight.
“On a full Fire Moon, the moths and fireflies will never seek the light of a campfire,” Praed said, dark-pitted eyes also focused skyward. “They would rather fly straight up into the black reaches of the heavens, in search of that one round bright orb suspended above.” He looked at Liz Hen then, eyes narrowing. “Though they will never reach that which they seek, still they chase it.”
Liz Hen’s face reddened as she watched the fireflies rise into the sky. The arching buttresses of the abbey were naught but shadowy silhouettes against the thousands of twinkling lights. And the blinking lights disappeared and the fireflies were gone.
“Is it true that you are really thieves?” Dokie broke the silence. “The Untamed? The worst of the worst? Making your way stealing from Rokenwalder dog owners and such?”
“ ’Tis true,” Praed answered. “According to the rules of thievery, I suppose we are thieves.”
“Thievery has rules?” Dokie inquired.
“Aye.”
“Would you share some of the rules?” Dokie asked.
“Share the rules?” Praed’s voice was aghast with mock incredulity. “How can I when the first rule of thievery is never to share the rules of thievery?”
“But I’d be ever so grateful,” Dokie plowed on, completely unaware that Liz Hen was again visibly bristling at the conversation. “Thievery intrigues me.”
“Bullocks,” Liz Hen blurted. “Thievery has never intrigued you.”
“I enjoy learning new things,” Dokie said. “Gathering information and whatnot.” He looked at Praed again. “Like I said, I’d be ever so grateful.”
“You’d be ever so grateful?” Praed shrugged with nonchalance. “Well, in that case, how can I not share information with an information gatherer such as yourself?”
“Splendid.” Dokie was actually smiling now.
“Most splendid indeed,” Praed continued.
“Well, go on,” Dokie pleaded.
“I shall.” Praed nodded. “The second rule of thievery is to develop both a refinement in manners and a complete disregard for them.”
“Refinement in manners?” Liz Hen barked, having none of it.
But Dokie nodded as if he completely understood what was being said. “He claims it’s the second rule of thievery,” he said. “And I’m inclined to believe him.”
“Are you daft?” Liz Hen huffed. “Just look around. They live out here in the woods, you clodpole, not in some vast expensive manor house, sipping cinnamon tea and scrubbing dog piss out of their expensive rugs.”
Dokie shrugged. “The third rule?” he asked Praed.
The outlaw looked from Dokie to Liz Hen, then settled on Mancellor. “The third rule is that thievery is not a game to be played with any but those in whom you trust.”
“And the fourth?” Dokie asked as if he understood the third.
“To be honest”—Praed again met Dokie’s enthusiastic gaze—“there really are no rules to thievery.”
“Oh,” Dokie muttered. “That is disappointing.”
“As I imagine it would be, for you look like you have the makings of a good thief.”
“I always thought so myself. And I was enjoying the rules.”
Liz Hen punched Dokie hard in the shoulder. “Bloody rotted angels, what are you goin’ on about? Why are you even engaging these people in casual conversation?”
Dokie looked at her, a wounded look in his eyes, rubbing his shoulder. “They said they wanted to get to know us, you know, before giving you the good stuff.”
“Yes, when do I get the good stuff?” Liz Hen asked.
“You must be patient,” Praed said.
“I was once being a lady of some civility and patience,” Liz Hen said. “That was before the White Prince sacked Gallows Haven and killed most everyone I know. Before then I tried to avoid all manner of swords and spears and such, mightily I tried. But I have since taken up the blade.”
“I can admire that,” Praed said.
“Then when do I get a taste of Blood of the Dragon?”
Praed stood, hollow eyes roaming the forest, coming to rest upon their three ponies tethered to the trees just up the hill. His hard gaze narrowed, fixed on the burlap sack tied to the back of Mancellor’s mount. “You’ll be staying with us for a time, girl,” he said, not taking his eyes from the burlap sack. “Make no mistake about that. You will be guests in our camp, if you take my meaning. That is, until you find a way to pay us for the Blood of the Dragon you are about to receive. That is, until the Untamed decide what to do with those precious things you’ve brought us. In fact, you may just be our guests until Black Dugal comes and claims you as his own.”
One must cease trying to control every little thing. Let the rivers of time flow, let the waters run where they may, for what destiny is yours shall remain the same and polished from the journey.
THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
CHAPTER FIFTEEN TALA BRONACHELL
13TH DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
The one-eyed, toothless old man walking Amadon’s cobbled streets beside Tala Bronachell sent people a-scurry with horrified looks. A Bloodwood relies on illusion to survive, Hawkwood had taught her. And the stooped old man was actually Princess Jondralyn Bronachell in disguise—clothed in a ragged and stained dockside raiment that smelled of seaweed and moldy food. Jondralyn’s dirty fingers were curled around a cane she tapped on the cobbles as she shuffled along, barking to everyone in her path, “Out of my way! I make no idle threat!”
A scraggly gray beard and eyebrows covered the princess’s rough and wrinkled face. Hawkwood had spread hurion tac paste mixed with birch whiskey over Jondralyn’s skin earlier in the day, causing the deep wrinkles. The most disturbing thing about the disguise: Jondralyn’s eye patch was absent. She walked the streets with naught but a dark hollow eye socket. It was this cavernous hole in Jondralyn’s face and her mad ramblings that startled folks into giving her and Tala a wide berth.
Tala was also in disguise, though her costume was much more tempered. She was dressed as the one-eyed old man’s granddaughter. She was shoeless, with dirty calloused feet, tan breeches, and a brown shirt similarly stained and as ripe as Jondralyn’s. She wore a wig of scratchy white hair over her sun-worn face. Hawkwood had stuffed the same hurion tac paste into her lower and upper lips. He had even jammed some of the paste into her nostrils and eyelids, all to make her face unrecognizable.
This was the first time Tala and Jondralyn had ventured outside the Val-Sadè together since Tala had arrived on the abandoned ship. It was part of their Bloodwood training. Small silver daggers were all Hawkwood had armed them with. He had been teaching them both some tricks with the blades. But for their first journey, he had set them a simple task—to pray at the feet of Laijon.
“We’re almost to the temple.” Jondralyn’s voice was rough and scratchy. Then she shouted to a group of fish merchants gathered on the cobbled street ahead. The merchants scooted out of her way.
Tala’s heart thundered as they drew closer to the Temple of the Laijon Statue. The dirty market stalls along the cobbled streets of Amadon rang out with the clatter of trade, barter, and just a touch of danger. Or is it just because I am a princess in disguise that I feel danger at every corner? The River Vallè and its aqueducts were near. The riverside district was a haunt of the bloodletters and witches. She shuddered as the rank stench of foul waters grew in the air. These were Bloodwood games of a different sort Hawkwood had set them to.
Over the last few days, Tala had noticed how Hawkwood treated Jondralyn. Despite her sister’s real scars and deformities, she could tell the man really did love her. She could tell Jon was in love with him. And the most impressive part was that they seemed to treat each other as equals. She had not heard a cruel word spoken between the two. If I could have a relationship like that someday too… Sometimes her own heart would flutter in her chest when she watched Jondralyn and Hawkwood’s interactions. Other times she wondered if being in a relationship with anyone was the right path for her at all. Alone is safer, better, less painful than caring for another. But she did not want bitterness like that to set in and take root.
As Tala and her older sister rounded the next street corner, the Royal Cathedral and the Temple of the Laijon Statue rose up before them. Both grand buildings towered to over three hundred feet high and were constructed of Riven Rock marble. Silver Guards with pikes lined the entrances of both edifices. Tala guided her sister toward the fountain in the center of the temple’s outer courtyard, Jondralyn’s cane tapping the cobbles. The lively fountain was circled by marble pillars carved with shooting stars, crescent moons, crosses, circles and squares, and other symbols. The temple’s stairs and arched entrance were crowded with people, pilgrims and worshippers and flagellants.
