Brian Kittrell - The Immortals of Myrdwyer

“And Valyrie, Sire?” Laedron asked.

“It isn’t customary to grant titles to foreigners, but… young lady, do you swear an oath of fealty to me and Sorbia this day?”

She bowed her head. “I swear it. I have no intentions of returning to my former home, Your Grace.”

The king furrowed his brow.

Victor nearly spit out his wine. “ Grace? Refer to him as ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Your Majesty,’ for he is the King of Sorbia.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, for the way I addressed you. I meant no disrespect.” Blushing, Valyrie hid her face with a bow, and Laedron could only imagine how embarrassed she felt. He reached out, took her hand, and squeezed it.

“That’s how the Heraldans address the Grand Vicar, isn’t it?” the king asked.

“Yes, Sire,” Laedron said. “’Tis the highest address in the theocracy.”

“No harm done, and she shall be granted the same as you, Sorcerer,” King Xavier said, waving his hand. “Kelrick, add that to the decree.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Kelrick left through the hall by which he’d entered.

“I starve.” King Xavier stood, and so did everyone else. “Would you care to join me?”

Meklan nodded.

Victor smiled and said, “Certainly, Your Highness.”

“Might we be excused, Sire?” Laedron glanced at his friends. “If it’s all the same, we would prefer to return to our homes in Reven’s Landing. It’s been nearly a month since we’ve seen our families.”

“Who am I to hold you up?” the king asked. “Go, be with your families-Reven’s Landing, you say?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“How did you plan to get there?”

“By coach, I suppose.”

“Go to the docks on the north end of the city. There, you shall likely find a vessel to take you there.”

A boat, of course. That would cut our trip into a third. “Thank you for everything.” Laedron and his companions bowed deeply, and the king departed.

Before he left, Victor paused long enough to say, “I shall send word for you when we begin, Laedron, and I hope that it’ll be no more than a week.”

“So, that is that,” Marac said, then put on a thick, pompous accent. “Would you care to set sail now, Sir Laedron Telpist?”

Brice waved his hands and spoke in a similar, comical tone. “But, Sir Marac Reven, we could visit the city. Perhaps Dame Valyrie Pembry would like to see the town.”

Laedron laughed. “No, Sirs Brice and Marac, I think that we’ll return to Reven’s Landing posthaste, to be reunited with our loved ones.”

“We shall accompany you, Sir Laedron and Dame Valyrie.” Brice proceeded through the halls, his hands grasping his lapels, his swagger exaggerated and arrogant, and his nose stuck high in the air.

Not wanting to draw any ire upon himself, Laedron kept his distance from Brice as he followed, but stern glares from the stewards and guards near the main exit seemed to make Brice act normal again. Outside the palace, they turned left, and at the end of the boulevard, Laedron asked around to find a small ship headed north.

He convinced a captain at the end of the row who hadn’t actually planned on stopping in Reven’s Landing to do so, a favor for which he handed over a gold sovereign. We’ll probably be home in a matter of hours.

The crew tossed out ropes to secure the ship to the little pier at Reven’s Landing, and Brice stepped off. He waited for Laedron, Valyrie, and Marac to join him, then walked with them along the dirt path and up the hill. Reaching the crossroads at the edge of the village, Brice turned and said, “Well, it would seem that this is where we part ways.”

He stood looking at Laedron and Marac. He’d relied on them for guidance for almost a month, and leaving them with no plan to meet up a little later was a little frightening. “Will I see you again?”

Marac folded his arms. “We live in the same town, you know?”

“Right, yes.” He cleared his throat, swallowed, and glanced at the ground. “It won’t be the same, though, will it? We’re going back to our regular lives, back to the way it was before.”

“Can anything ever be the same? I don’t think so. Especially not between us.” Marac reached out toward Brice. “How could it be?”

Brice eyed his hand as if he were suspicious of Marac’s intent.

“You won’t take it?”

“I… you’ll toss me to the ground or something, won’t you?”

Marac shook his head, and Brice walked over and took his hand.

“Now, was that so hard?”

Brice raised an eyebrow. “I can never tell with you. One minute, you hate me. The next, we’re friends.”

“We’ve been through a lot, and sometimes it’s easier to blame someone else than accept the situation for what it is.” Marac sighed. “I know I’ve caused you pain, and for that, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Brice turned to Laedron. “I know you’ll be on to bigger and better things, but can we see each other again someday?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Laedron swatted him on the shoulder. “Look, we’ll meet up tomorrow, at Calvert’s side street counter, for drinks and conversation.”

“What time?”

“Just after noon. Should be pleasant with autumn approaching.” Laedron smiled. “And if you can’t see yourself at the loom, you’ll always have a place reserved on my adventures.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Lae.” He hoped he wouldn’t be standing at the counter, waiting for his friends who wouldn’t show. “See you tomorrow?”

“You can wager on it.”

Brice walked away, glancing over his shoulder until he couldn’t see them anymore. For the first time in a long while, he felt alone. He almost wished that a journey still lay before them, that some monster or madman waited for Laedron’s knights to come forward and deal justice. He’d probably be afraid, but his friends would be there to encourage him. We’d fight it together, whatever the threat. Together, we could do anything. He wanted to cry, but he kept control of himself, unwilling to disgrace the king or his title should anyone be watching. Knights don’t shed tears, especially not when others might be near.

His family’s house came into view, and he picked up speed. He saw the sheep in the field behind the house, and he remembered his father’s favorite speech. ‘Brice, my boy, we’re fortunate enough in our trade to make our wool from our own sheep. A tailor with an unending supply of thread will never be hungry.’ He chuckled, realizing that he had a pound or more of pure platinum in his pack. A month of adventuring, and I have more wealth than I could ever spend. It took my father the better part of twenty years to get to where he is, and I could buy a hundred-the man, land, sheep, house, and all-just like him.

He jogged up to the door and burst through it.

His mother turned, and her jaw dropped along with a bowl. Sliced fruit scattered across the floor. “My boy has come back to me?” Ignoring the mess, she ran to him and, being that he was small and light for his age, nearly lifted him off the floor in a tight embrace. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“I told you I’d come back, Ma. You never had a reason to worry.”

“No reason to worry?” She hugged him so tight he wondered if she would soon cut off his breathing. “How could a mother not worry when her son goes off to war?”

“It wasn’t that bad, but you were right.”

“How so?” she asked, stepping back. Ah, to breathe again.

“Sending me to the knights and keeping me from the front lines.”