The Still

Chapter 18

By the first light of dawn I was up and about. my limbs ached from the cold hard turf. I bridled Ebon. From the saddlebags I took the clothes Rustin had loaned me, threw them on the wagon with a grandiose gesture that, unfortunately, none were present to see. If Rust was to desert me, let him take all that was his.

I wrapped the crown in a tattered old cloth, packed it in my saddlebag. For good measure, I took also the half-sword. Hester would travel with a party large enough to protect each other; I would have nothing but dagger and sword.

Before anyone in the cottage arose, I swung atop Ebon, galloped off toward town. I would stay out of their sight until Hester’s farm was again abandoned. Then I’d go back to the hut, make my plans.

For once the market square was occupied, but faces turned away as I rode into view. I fingered the silver coin in my purse, the lone remaining pence from the price of Rustin’s sword. Already I was hungry, but I bided my time. The coin would have to last long.

Could the impoverished farmers in the market even make change for my silver pence? If not, would they sell me their goods without, and let me keep the coin ’til it could be exchanged?

I sighed. Life was complicated, when you had to organize it from the start.

Night would be cold, but I had my blankets, and could set a huge fire in the hearth. I had no axe, but there was enough deadwood lying about. It would be nice to send Genard to pick an armful, but he too would be gone, spiteful wretch that he was.

I realized I’d been thinking of the cottage as home. Well, for the moment, it was. Perhaps I could stay here until word came from Stryx, and I knew how went the struggle for Caledon. It would be better had I means to hire servants. Someone to cook, to gather wood, to fetch water.

What I needed was coin. Unless I sold Ebon-quite out of the question-I had no source, save the one I hoarded. I reached to my saddlebag, unwrapped the crown of Caledon, placed it on my head. No law forbade crowning myself, not waiting for the Seven to declare me. But I’d forgo the Still. Yet, would I need it? I sighed. I’d have to fight Uncle Mar as well as Tantroth. And who’d rise to follow me, against their two mighty armies?

No, I had to wait for my chance, and in the meanwhile endure poverty.

Of course, there was coin in Fort. And I knew who had it.

Danar.

I walked my stallion along the familiar trail to the mill, scheming. I decided it would be best to dismount near the road. I tied Ebon to a tree, left the sword on his saddle, sauntered the rest of the way on foot. Were anyone to ask, I was out for a morning ramble. Why I strolled here, instead of at the cottage, was another matter.

The wheel turned with its customary clatter and splash. One of the miller’s men climbed the porch, went inside. Did Danar keep his treasure in the mill, or his cabin? He’d want to sleep near it, for safety. That meant I’d have to break in, put down whatever enemy arose.

A woman’s face passed in front of the window. I ducked behind a tree, my heart pounding. Still, I’d have to draw near; it would be folly to attack the house without some inkling of what I’d face. I put on an innocent look, wandered a few steps closer.

The place was much larger than Hester’s cottage, and sturdily built. Several rooms. From the look of it, I’d-

A mighty blow, in the small of my back. Paralyzed, I pitched headlong, gasping for breath. A leering peasant face. A shovel, raised high to strike again. Instead, the churl lowered the spade, seized me, hauled me to the mill.

“Danar, look what I found!”

The miller came out, wiping his hands. His eyes lit at the sight of me. “He came to us? What convenience, Jom. Bring him in.”

“Let me go! I’m-” A fist knocked the breath out of me. They dragged me inside, held me against an oaken post, tied my hands behind it before I recovered from the blows.

Grinning, Danar whipped out a knife. He flourished the blade under my chin. “Open your mouth!” The point of the blade lurched closer.

I cried out, twisted my wrists against the rope with desperate strength. All to no avail.

“Stick out your tongue!” The knife flicked.

Frantic, I did as he bid. Instantly his fingers snatched my tongue, held it within my mouth. I gagged at the reek of garlic, and the rough fingers half down my throat.

I tried to bite, but he held my mouth too wide. “You come to our village from a far place, and call me thief? I’ll cut it out at the root!” The knife wavered. I squealed.

Jom said uneasily, “Danar, take care.”

“Hear, boy? Any more talk about my stealing coin from that demented old woman and-” The knife sliced at air. I screeched, staring transfixed at the nicked and scarred blade. He laughed with the pleasure of it. “You won’t be telling any more lies, then, or ba, ba, ba, you’ll say. Nothing else!”

His grip tightened, and he pulled my tongue half out. I screamed from the pain of it.

Danar paused, as if reflecting. “No, best if I slit your throat, and make an end to it. Jom will throw what’s left of you into the river.”

Blood from my lacerated wrists made my fingers slippery, but the rope would not give the merest trifle. My tongue frozen in his iron grasp, I begged and pleaded with my eyes.

Jom said, “Please, Danar. He’ll heed, now. Look, he’s soiled himself.”

“A coward as well.” Danar let go my tongue, slapped my face so hard my head whipped to the side, and ground against the post. My cheek went numb. “All right, Jom. Let him go, before the reek of him spoils my wheat.”

A moment later, feet dragging like a rag doll, I felt myself half carried to the porch. A great kick sent me tumbling down the steps to the moist earth below. I lay stunned.

Behind me, the door slammed.

Holding my oozing mouth, I looked up into the wide eyes of a toddler. She picked her nose gravely. Footsteps. The mother hurried across the yard, snatched her child, disappeared into the house.

I tried to stand, couldn’t manage it. Nonetheless, I had to remove myself, lest they come out and find me. I crawled along the path, mewling and whimpering, until a tree barred my way. Using it as a crutch, I staggered to my feet.

My wrists stung like fire, as did my cheek. I stumbled down the trail, eyes too full to see, blundered at last into Ebon. It took me several tries to mount, but finally, exhausted, feet dangling, I lay over his neck and urged him homeward. The familiar scent of his flesh gave me the only comfort I might have, and I clung to him weeping as if to a nurse.

After a time Ebon stopped. Dazedly, I looked about, realized we were at the cottage. I slid off his back. “Please, Rustin, be here.” But the supplies were gone, and the wagon. Lord of Nature, let him change his mind, hurry back to me. I lurched into the cottage, fell on my straw.

No one was in the room, save myself. My tongue was horribly sore; each movement of my mouth brought a new throb of pain. Distracted, miserable, I rolled over onto my back, flung my arm over my eyes.

After a time I became aware of a dreadful smell. I rolled onto my side. My breeches stuck to my skin. “No. Please, no!” I staggered outside, clawed in my saddlebag, hoping I’d misremembered.

I hadn’t. There was no change of clothes.

With a cry of despair I ran across the meadow to the brook, tearing off my shirt. On the bank, I hopped out of my boots, peeled off my fouled breeches, held them by two fingers, too ashamed to look. I plunged them into the stream, almost lost them to the force of the current. Gritting my teeth, I got a better grip, lay on my stomach, dunked them over and again. Then my jerkin, likewise soiled.

I lay the soaking clothes on the grass, sat back, recoiled from the sensation. My loincloth was the worst of the lot; in a frenzy I tore it off. Naked, I leaned over the bank, held the loincloth in the bubbling water, scrubbed out the mess I’d made.

I spread out the clothing. For a moment I cupped my hands under my arms, to restore feeling. Then, with nothing but water and my fingers, I did my best to wipe myself clean. When at last I was done, I washed my hand over and over.

All my clothes lay sopping in the autumn sun. Spent and freezing, I sank naked to the ground, cuddled myself for comfort.

Nothing had prepared me for such humiliation, such shame. My sword was with Ebon, at the cottage, else, I’d have used it on myself. Perhaps after a time I’d rouse myself and get it; for the moment, it seemed too much trouble.

A few inches from my nose, a puddle of water had collected in a crevice. I had a raging thirst, but my tongue ached so badly I doubted I could swallow. Still, my hand crept forth. For a moment, it hovered over the still water.

A bird called to its young. The limbs of the tree that shaded me rustled in the breeze. A beautiful day, a fine day, a lovely day to be alive. Unless you were Rodrigo of Caledon, bungler, fool, coward. Knave.

My hand lay steady over the puddle. Mother’s visage floated. I meant you to be King, Roddy.

Ah, Mother. I know the hopes we sifted, as you lay dying. It’s too late for that. Besides …”

I pressed my palm close to the water.

Yes, Roddy?

I confess: I’m still virgin, and make love to my hand, which no doubt pleases you. But, Mother, I’m not sure I’ve held to the True. Well, as to Elryc, I haven’t, really. So, let’s say there’ll be no Power in my life. It doesn’t matter. Ask you why? Because I’m not fit to be King; I’m unfit even to live.

My hand trembled, touched the water. As it rippled, my reverie shattered. I lay for a long while. Then, with an effort, I sat.

“No.” I spoke aloud, to the breeze. “It isn’t so.” I stood, cupped my groin for shyness, looked about, let go myself. “It’s their fault, not mine.” Consider: Rust swore himself to me, led me into this mindless venture, then ran away. Elryc plots against me. It was he who convinced them to flee to Cumber.

“You hid while we fought for our lives!”

I whirled, but the stableboy’s voice echoed only in my mind. “Shut thy mouth, lout!”

Coward of Caledon!

I covered my ears, but the voice was no longer Genard’s; it was my own.

I cried, “I’m brave, and steady, and true!”

I fell to my knees, atop my soaking breeks. The wet on my bare knees smashed the remnants of my illusion. Am I not coward? What, then?

I put my forearm to my mouth, bit down in rage, let loose only when the toothmarks were deep in my skin.

Yes, I’d hid under the table, at the first sign of fight. And I’d been petrified when the miller seemed about to slash my tongue. When he made as if to slit my throat I’d been transported beyond terror.

Was it not understandable that I wanted life more than honor? Could I not live with that knowledge, and esteem the man I was?

No.

Not when I, Rodrigo Prince of Caledon, crouched naked and ashamed by a stream, wiping shit from my breeches.

Life itself wasn’t worth that.

“I won’t be coward.” It didn’t satisfy; I spoke again to the foaming stream. “I’ll be coward no more. I swear, by all that is holy, by every Rite ever devised by man, that I will have no fear of death-well, if I have fear, it won’t matter. Do you hear, river? I shall not run from fear again. If it costs my life, let it be so.” My cheeks were wet.

The river babbled on, uncaring.

I picked up my soggy clothes, and my boots. “From this day forth, I am no coward.” Clutching my garments, still naked as the day I was born, I picked my way across the stones to the cottage.