Excerpt: The Chain of Being

Chapter 4

The emerald eyes of the serpent ring lingered in my mind; the vermillion gleam enlivened by moonlight the night Cael had taken it from his hand, to slip it on my finger. I wasn’t accustomed to wearing ornaments. Cael’s odd insistence about me taking it to battle doubled my reticence at having it seen; the tightening of his eyes, their heightened blue light, his risk in coming to me ensured I wore it. Letting my pen fall to my father’s desk, I checked that I had it still, secure under my tunic. My fingers met the metal studded leather of the armor I still wore.

I slid my fingers to the back of my neck to locate the knotted cord, induced to draw the ring free, to knead its carven details, and the forest of Oak Bend enfolded me, the soft current of air moving against my face and hands, its touch as intimate as the breath that moved through my chest, the slow dance of leaves dappling the ground around me, the murmur of forest song enticing me inward, enticing me outward, shedding me of the constraints of weaponry, armor, body.

Footsteps echoed in the hall outside of the study, jarring me from the trance. I stood, knocking the chair back behind me, a harsh clatter of wood on stone. I pressed Cael’s ring into the high neck of my gambeson, its sudden weight carrying it deep where it lay against my breastbone.

My sister stepped into the room and turned to shut the door behind her. Blowing out my breath, I closed my field journal, saved from the awkward scene of my father finding me here. I walked around the desk meaning to embrace her, but her furrowed brow stopped me. Instead I held her shoulders, examined a countenance so familiar---solemn gray eyes, long nose and striking jaw---so like mine, yet delicate, refined.

Zoleia touched my cheek, looking into my eyes briefly. “I’m glad you’re home safe. I’ve been frightened since father sent you and Convar to help the soldiers with the attacks on the river settlements.”

“Convar and I are both unharmed.” My thoughts skipped back to the skirmish at Oak Bend. I had seen men appear from nothing before my eyes: Yildrien soldiers guarding craftsmen who must be chelaroi---the wizards supposedly exterminated nearly three centruies past. Now my battle was with my journal; how to put into words what I had witnessed so I could explain it to my father.

I brushed a few strands of black hair behind her ear. “A few of the royal delegation did not make it.” Zoleia’s pallor alarmed me. She’d suffered nausea and poor sleep long since the early weeks of her confinement, so I rushed to reassure her. “All is well enough. We accomplished what we were sent to do. Have you been well?”

Zoleia pinched the tawny fabric of her overdress, pleating it, fingers unsteady. “I’m not sure how to tell you, but I must make a confession.”

“What is it?” I took her hands in mine to sooth her fidgeting. “Do you need help?”

“I need to tell you before you speak to father. I came to find you after you didn’t come to dinner. He expected you to find him on his rounds.”

“Events were…odd…at the river. I’ve been writing, putting my thoughts together.” I tried a smile to ease Zoleia’s stress. “You know how he prefers a prepared accounting.”

She squeezed my fingers before pulling away. “Please understand, Servatius, I didn’t want to hurt you, but while you were gone I spoke to him about you and Cael.”

“What?” I grasped my sister’s upper arm, winced at the tightening around her eyes. “What did you say to him?”

Zoleia did not meet my eyes, did not fight my harsh grip. She whispered her answer. “I told him I found you with Cael in his room.” She glanced at me, her eyes wide, spots of color rising high on her cheeks, yet the intractable nature of the Branomir clan held true. She lifted her chin. “I told him I saw the two of you…together.”

“Gods, Leia,” I dropped her arm and walked to lean against a window frame. “Not that.” I rubbed my face with both hands, feeling the growth of several days beard. After nearly two weeks on the road I wanted a bath, a shave, Marta’s substantial cooking. Sleep. Instead I stood, my stomach churning, my fatigued hands actually trembling. I’d taken great care to avert this particular confrontation.

My sister’s skirts rustled as she sank to a richly cushioned bench before the cold hearth. Above the fireplace, a commissioned tapestry of arbors and wine pressing and feasting lent its weight into the room.

Trying to regain my calm, I sat back on the edge of my father’s desk, arms folded. The sight of his copious furnishings, textiles and curios reminded me of childhood reprimands, the only times he invited me in this room. As a boy I’d sneaked in of course, trying out the desk, the rare volumes of poetry; once, sips of brandy I poured, hands shaking, from rare crystal. “What possessed you?”

“Servatius, I was so ashamed! I was frightened for you. Did Cael threaten you? Trick you?” Zoleia’s voice dropped again to a whisper. “Is he using magic?”

“What? Cael isn’t using magic.” I sensed the ring heavy on its leather cord. I felt its chill stone, despite the heat of my layered clothing of tunic, gambeson and leather armor, the sculpted shape of it pressed against my skin. I felt it quiver with the thud of my heart.

“But he is Yildrien.”

I joined Zoleia on the bench. I refused to give weight to her accusation of magic. Taking her shoulders, I turned her to face me, held her gaze to eliminate confusion. “Cael didn’t trick or threaten me. I wanted us to be lovers.”

Zoleia fought a wave of nausea, hand to her belly, eyes shut tight. “Servatius, you’re my brother. You’re soon to be a knight. How could this happen to you?”

“Nothing happened to me.” I shook her once, frustrated, hating myself, engulfed with the taint of my father’s habitual anger, anger I seemed ever more inclined toward. I pressed my hands to my knees. “I’m 25, Zoleia. Why do you think I’m not married? Why do you think, since you announced your pregnancy, I’ve petitioned father to name you devisee so your son can inherit?”

“I believed you wanted formal release from responsibility for Branomir, to be free to become Queen’s Champion.”

“You told yourself those things. We can’t have loved each other so closely as we grew up, and you didn’t know.” I sighed and stared at the barren fireplace, not really seeing. “Father already knew. It’s why he never tried to keep me here---a truth never spoken is a truth concealed.”

Neither of us spoke. The cooling breeze of the oncoming evening seeped through the windows, a chill rather than a comfort. I stood to shutter them. After some moments of this, I heard Zoleia gather her skirts as she stood.

“Perhaps you are right. Father in fact did not act surprised. Shocked to hear my tale of course. Shouting you down, disclaiming you. But I did feel he was angrier with me, for speaking of such things.”

Still facing a window, I asked, “Do you suppose I have time for a wash and change of clothes? Or must I present myself just off the road?”

I felt Zoleia’s light touch on my shoulder. There and gone. Anger and alarm vied for supremacy in the churning of my stomach. I couldn’t face her. My thoughts raced ahead to consider my words to my father.

“You’d better go,” she whispered, this time resting her hand on my biceps. “Father sent Cael away this morning.”

I froze under her touch, hearing tears behind her words.

“Serv, I am so sorry.” She rushed from the room.

I turned to watch her go. Cael sent away. My heart thudded so, I nearly heard it. I had to go after him. I’d bring Cael back to the manor. I would explain to my father that I’d leave for the capital early. That it would be best for all of us if Cael retained his position, for me to be the one to leave.

Cael’s future relied on remaining steward of the Branomir vineyard. Mine lay in my service to my country, my hopes for knighthood. We understood from the start we had the summer, no more. His livelihood should not be forfeit over a liaison fated to end.

I gathered my sword and riding gloves from where I’d discarded them by the door and hurried back out to the stables. Around me the business of the holding proceeded without interruption. One of the house maids drew water. Dogs bayed for the food the kennel boys distributed. Passing by the kitchen I heard the clatter and talk of dinner preparation, caught the savory smell of roasting meat. Servants left the scullery on their way to the great hall laden with jugs of wine and platters heaped with bread and cheese, the first offering of the meal. Zoleia’s revelation still roiling through my body, I had no temptation to stop one of them for food despite my dreams of the creature comforts due upon my return from the river mission.

Riding back to Branomir with Convar, once a sergeant in the Royal Service, engaged soon after I left home as chief of my father’s small garrison, he had ribbed me about the varieties of solace awaiting us, decent food topping the list. I had felt a bittersweet nostalgia as I came over the last rise before the shallow valley that held my father’s estate, almost feeling it could be my home: something I’d never felt growing up, something the soldiers’ tent quarters I’d been living in the past seven years never provided.

And I had looked forward to seeking out Cael. Convar didn’t need to know it, but I would leave the women to him. Cael rarely dined in the great hall, shyness over his Yildrien origin keeping him awkward despite serving as my father’s vintner for most of the last six years. I sometimes joined him. A meal and a game of chess were often enough more than a pretext, but for tonight I had imagined a walk after dinner, away from notice.

I picked up my pace, thinking of my father, waiting his dinner until he’d concluded our conference; my father; and Cael somewhere out on the road, alone in the oncoming dark. Entering the stable built just outside the interior gates, I found the head lad filling Isatra’s feed bucket. “Durin, I need to get him saddled back up.”

“M’lord, he’s just now eating, you can see that.”

“He’ll have to wait, like me,” I offered a smile to keep my tension in check. “He’s a campaigner. It won’t be the first time he’s had a meal interrupted.”

My father presented me with the destrier this past spring, in honor of my bondservice in the militia completed, and a dower essential to my bid for knighthood and to the Royal Service. Isatra came from the stables of Teynius, my mother’s brother, who raised warhorses for the king at his manor near Fennsidar.

As I lifted my saddle from the wooden rack, Convar stepped into the stable. “Servatius, I just heard from your lord father about the vintner being banished. I’m sent to fetch you.” The cold set to the old soldier’s features told me he’d likely also heard about Zoleia’s confession. “His lordship wondered why I was at table, and you weren’t giving report to him or at least with me in the hall, tucking in. It left me in a bad position, no report made. That duty was given to you.”

“I’m going after Cael, Convar. He’s not safe out there. No one is where the Mirok Road has no patrol. He’s less so, as an outsider.”

Durin lead Isatra from his stall, having bridled him. I circled to the destrier’s far side, hoisted the saddle over his back, and buckle the cinch while Durin held his lead.

“My orders are to bring you to the hall.”

“You know my father’s impulsive. He’s reacting to a private issue that has no bearing on Cael’s value to the holding. I’ll bring him back and then speak to my father about his concerns.”

I faced Convar and looked in him in the eye, adding the steel I’d developed in years of armed skirmishes against the Simrit protecting Domin’s eastern border. “I leave for Laithmar in two weeks time. I can be on my way tomorrow if M’lord requires for one of us to be gone.” I nodded to Durin, took Isatra’s lead from him. He continued to prepare the feed and water buckets.

“Servatius, you’d best abide by your father’s ruling. I guess what you get up to for your whoring is none of my business, but that man is Yildrien. Should never have been allowed here, and your father has learned the truth of it now. Cael’s suspected as a spy, maybe a sorcerer.”

“Away two weeks and suddenly we employ Nethera’s Fiend?” Closing my eyes, I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply to fight fatigue. Zoleia had suggested the same absurdity. I blew out my breath. “Convar, I will let the insult pass. Once. But Cael has served my father steadfastly for years, and brought great success to the winery. How has that changed?”

“Yildrien raiders have been provoking the homesteaders along the river since spring. Now we both know as certain as our own eyes tell us that it’s been the Yildrien military breaking the treaty, not robbers, and we both saw the conjurers and their fires trying to burn Oak Bend. None of the Domin officers wanted to name it any more than we did. Today your lord father told me there have been reports from Domin spies in Yildrien of weather magic, that the Yildrien king conscripts anyone that shows sign of the old skills.”

“What has this to do with Cael?”

“It means the Yildrien King has been working long to raise an army of sorcerers! King Ladicus has decreed every Domin noble must do all in his power to gather information and stamp out any Yildrien insurgency that crops up---even the smallest of actions.” Convar’s eyes narrowed at the loud protest in my sudden exhale. “Even suspected actions.”

The intensity of Convar’s look forbade me to question further. My fear mounted for Cael’s safety, speared by Convar’s aggressive indictment; no---by the absurdity of the charge, by the wash of suspicion regarding what my status might become in my father’s household.

“You have lived alongside Cael his entire time as vintner here. What evidence is there that Cael has anything to do with his homeland at all? So much less so, then, with magic?”

“M’lord, as a campaigner and a second noble’s son, it is your sworn duty to your father, the king, and the land to follow orders from your superiors. The concerns originate with the Crown. My orders come from your father.” He took a step toward me, pointing his finger at my sword. “Lord Akaius directed me to take you to him, and to relieve you of your arms if your attitude became insubordinate. Are your orders clear?”

“What evidence, Convar?” I heard Durin slipping into Isatra’s stall. I rested my hand on the pommel of my sword and took a step forward, making the distance between us strategic. Convar carried no weapon that I could see, but I was not going to relinquish mine without a fight. Maybe so many years on the eastern border had softened me to foreigners. A number of the enlisted men were Yildrien. I’d soldiered along side Simrit who scouted for us. Maybe loyalty to my liege, Lord Vadaris, so far from the center of Domin and King Ladicus’s rule had skewed my loyalty. But I knew in my gut the things spoken of Cael were lies. “You know Cael is not a spy.”

“We know it now.”

“What are you saying?”

“Information by any means necessary, Servatius. Cael was questioned this morning. Let this go.”

I braced myself. Breathed. A dread cold slid through my body at the specter of my lover hurt. My face stone, I held my sword free between us.

Convar did not flinch, weapon or not. He was not my superior, but he had orders from my father. He waited, ready for me, possibly staking my next action on my years of service to the realm, the duty to obey he kept mentioning, my outspoken devotion to Domin, but also staking his safety on his training and experience. The stable contained plenty of possible weapons.

“He left on his own two feet, M’lord. Your lady sister begged clemency for him. Zoleia is a good woman, but if Cael creates problems before he makes it back to Yildrien, she’ll pay his debt confined at the castle in Laithmar. Lady Zoleia fell far from your father’s favor today.”

I sheathed my sword, eased my shoulders and neck to release the punch of battle lust. Convar stepped down, and stood aside for me to pass in front of him through the doorway. I took the moment to swing onto Isatra’s back, and spurred him on through the doorway, my head tucked close to his neck. I heard Convar crash to the floor knocked down as we pressed by, and his loud curse.

I did not look back, but drove Isatra on through the gates of the manor, through the buildings and homes within the wall, the gardens and winery structures beyond it, and started through the arbors dominating my father’s land. Cael would head for Mirokmar first. He had friends and some money banked. He’d need supplies for the trip north to Yildrien. Maybe he would hire an escort.

Convar said Cael left on his feet, yet he’d make slow progress. Questioned through violence and banished. How had such actions come to pass at Branomir?

The lowering sun created shadows, forcing me to ride more slowly to look for sign of his passing. If Cael did not stay on the road---which if he had sense enough to do something to protect himself, he would not---it meant following the road using the cover of the arbors closer to home, and then the stretch of grasses and scrub evergreens bordering Branomir, and eventually the Mirok forest. The thickening cover meant listening for him and moving at an agonizing slow pace.

My decision made, I guided Isatra off of the Mirok Road, but remained close enough to watch for Cael there. I couldn’t decide on calling for him, the idea of ambush in the agricultural quiet of my homeland left me taut, on edge. But I took this lunatic concern as a warning, and kept silent.

Our plodding pace, the intermittent rustle of birds and animals, the incremental deepening of evening, supplied the turmoil in my body. Worse, the extremity of my father’s actions against Cael frayed my composure. I pressed myself to cease imagining Cael in pain, to dismiss conjured pictures of his injuries, to instead tap the skills of my years of mobile combat.

The rocky ground prevented a clear foot trail, but occasional dislodged stones or scuffed tree fall gave evidence of someone’s progression. An area of grass flattened and slowly unfolding told me someone had rested there. My heartbeat picked up at the sign of a small number---Two? Three? --- joining the negligible trail from deeper among the trees.

Broken undergrowth and the bent branches of saplings suggested a runner and pursuit. I urged Isatra on, but restrained the impulse to move much faster. My heart echoed in my ears. The small sounds of the four-legged and the winged amplified and the forest smells of earth and evergreen, limestone and distant water intensified as I pressed every sense to work for me. I detected nothing amiss, no indication of the people who traveled ahead.

I kept moving. A few lengths further on I caught a low moan and slight scrape, as of leather on rock. Dismounting, I tethered Isatra to proceed on foot. I wanted to get as close to those sounds as possible, undetected. Inching forward I wondered if I had heard Cael, or unfortunate prey of the robbers who at times harried this uninhabited stretch of road.

Entering a small clearing, I found Cael’s still form among the scattering of boulders that claimed the spot. I ran to kneel by his side, seeing immediately the wound to his stomach. His eyes were closed, but at my touch he opened them, flinching away from my hand. It took him effort to focus, but recognition lit the dulled blue.

“Careful.” He tried to take my arm. “Maybe still here.”

I moved to unbuckle my cuirass, to pull off the padded tunic I wore underneath, to use as a compress to stop his bleeding. Instead I felt cold steel against my neck.

“This man is prisoner to the Crown.” The speaker’s voice, modulated for my hearing only, came in the measured cadence of command. “Do not move.” He added pressure with the dagger. “Unless you wish to be considered a threat to the King.”

Pinned thus, it was impossible to turn my head to see the assailant, but he wore military boots. Not a soldier, however, a knight. I held still, realization soaking in that to protect Cael, a civilian, an innocent man, meant fighting one who I hoped to join as a confederate in a few weeks.

At the flash of warning in Cael’s eyes, I feinted to the right, away from the blade, my weight on my right foot. At the same time, I snapped my left foot into the assailant’s ankle. He sprawled back giving me enough time to scrabble to my feet and draw my sword. The knight did not go down however, and by the time I had my weapon out he’d switched his dagger to his left hand, and held his drawn sword in his right.

His attack came on fast, no time for me to give my identity or explain my purpose. Forced on the defense, I blocked his moves, backing away, trying to gain an advantage to organize for attack.

His plain leather breastplate overlaid a fine mesh shirt, and the fasteners at the shoulders were fashioned with the tree and lightening bolt insignia of the king’s select force. While not obvious in heavy chain mail or plate armor, he clearly prepared for combat, but without shield or helm. Either bringing down an untrained and unprotected civilian like Cael did not require full protection or he attempted to conceal his station.

Protected only by gambeson and leather cuirass, I tried to believe I had some advantage. I had survived seven years of mobile combat without the benefit of armor. Only in my last year of indenture had I made sergeant and my life deemed of equal value to chain mail.

We worked around Cael’s prone form and the cluster of knee and waist high boulders shaping the clearing. Off kilter from allowing myself to be ambushed, I still struggled to bring an attack.

“Identify yourself!” I feigned authority to put the stranger off guard.

He said nothing and pressed his offense in a flurry of strikes keeping me on the defensive. His face bore no expression and I had no doubt I fought for my life. He spun to bring his blade down in a powerful strike to my undefended side. I was forced to deflect the killing blow by catching the flat of his blade on my sword arm, and felt the stunning force against my elbow.

Pain lanced through my arm and into my neck and washed through my gut with a sickening twist. Gasping, I stumbled to my knees, but brought my sword up to block a second slash to my neck. Off balance and slow, I could not defend a third strike so forceful that it cut through my protective leather and padded tunic and carved into the skin over my ribs. I tried to push myself up and back, but my right hand collapsed. I fell forward.

“Beraticus!”

I heard the shout from the tree line and used the distraction to propel myself using one elbow then rolled to my side against one of the boulders. I used it for leverage to push myself to my knees.

The knight stopped his assault, but held his sword ready.

Three men crashed into the clearing.

“That’s the Land Baron’s son! Out of Branomir! Sir---.”

“Use my name again and you will bleed in the dirt like that one.” He thrust his chin at Cael, but stooped for a handful of weeds to clean his blade.

I braced my sword as a staff to gain my feet.

The knight backed away, sheathing his sword. He mounted and spurred his horse out of the clearing without a backward glance, and the three followed close on foot. But not before I recognized Arkon, one of the freemen who worked a farm for my father. His eyes slid from mine to avoid recognition. But all I wanted was to see the last of their backs and make my way to Cael.

More blood had run and soaked the front of his shirt. I dropped heavily to my knees and began again to try to remove my cuirass so I could get to some cloth. My right hand did not cooperate and I could not manage the buckles. Waves of pain clouded my sight and my arms trembled with the effort.

Giving it up, I pulled my dagger to cut off my sleeve, tangling my injured arm in the process. Cursing, I cut through the fabric again to release it, dropped my blade and pressed the cloth against Cael’s wound. He stirred once at the pain I inflicted. This time he did not open his eyes.

He had bled a lot. My attempt at aid ludicrous, I felt useless, frantic. I leaned forward and got my good hand behind his head, raising him toward me. His eyes opened a little. He recognized me. I touched my mouth to his cheek, a current of despair rising from my gut, bursting from me in a groan.

I was crying, trying not to, trying to shield him from his own death, from the dark knowledge of being tracked down, exterminated like a rogue dog.

“Not true…”

“Cael, I know. I know your loyalty to Branomir.”

“No, about the magic…” His eyes closed, he collected his energy to finish his thought. “It’s good, Serv.”

“No talking. I need you to hold this. I need to ride for help.” I lay his head back and picked up his hand to put pressure to his injury. As through a fog, I saw the mangled fingers. Bile rose and more tears, a surge of anger almost enough to break my daze. I took in the pulpy skin of his beaten face.

I killed many enemies and maimed many more in the crush of conflict, but I had never tortured. I had doctored wounded from my ranks after battle, even the civilians that often enough became casualties. All of it was my sworn duty to the land, and I performed all of it in honor, the protecting, the killing and the saving.

But I had never tried to save the life of someone I loved, never watched the death of someone defenseless that should have been safe under my protection, safe in the heart of his home.

Cael raised his brutalized hand to touch my cheek, to brush at the tears. “Don’t be afraid. The magic…” He sucked in air, forcing a fresh flow of blood. “…good.”

I strained to hear him. “Cael, save your strength.” I resented his effort to speak, to speak nonsense.

Treasonous nonsense in Domin.

I labored to stand, wavered from pain and blood loss.

“Stay.” Cael’s eyes were closed, all color gone from his face, the skin slack.

I wrapped my good arm across his chest, pressed my forehead to his shoulder, hoping he felt my presence. I felt the weight of his arm across my back. He spoke again. “Listen.”

Moments passed, and I felt tremors pass through him. Cael coughed and I steadied him against the pain.

“Serv…”

“Shhh…”

“My notes.”

I rose up to look at him, our faces inches apart. ““Yes, under the bed. Under the boards.”

A slight nod. “The ring...?”

“I’ve got it, Cael.” I smoothed blonde curls from his forehead. “Under my shirt.”

I worked to suppress sobs, wanted to curse, desperate to hurt something, to fix this.

Cael’s whisper was barely audible. “Keep it safe.”