David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

Nathaniel was alive. No matter how many times she told it to herself, it never lost its impact. Nathaniel was alive, alive, praise the gods, alive!

When she arrived at her room, Cecil respectfully remained outside. Hurrying about, Alyssa opened a closet and ran outfit combinations through her head. Someone else knocked on the door, and she told whoever it was to enter without a thought. In stepped a younger man, a distant cousin of hers named Terrance. His features were soft, his reddish-blond hair carefully trimmed. He walked into her room trying to put on a somber face, but he was clearly giddy with news. When he saw the joy on her face, his own lit up. He must have thought she’d be grieving Arthur’s loss, she realized. Foolish man.

“Forgive me for the intrusion,” Terrance said. “When I heard about Bertram’s…betrayal, I went through his things. I’m learning my father’s trade, you see, and he works with accounts and…”

“Hurry it up,” Alyssa said, yanking off her robes and pulling a loose dress over her head. The man flushed a deep red, and he stammered a bit, but he continued.

“Anyway, rumors have it that you wouldn’t be able to pay the mercenaries, or to help with repairs. Bertram told my father, anyway, and several of the servants.” He saw the look she gave and so he skipped to the point. “Thing is, Bertram was lying. I found his ledger for the mercenaries’ payments, and it only comes to a third of your current wealth. Expensive, to be sure, but not near what he…”

She kissed the man, laughed, and then tied a sash about her waist before flinging open another closet and searching for a thick enough coat for the ride north.

“I need a replacement for Bertram,” she said. “And I have no time to search for one, so you’ll have to do, Terrance.”

His jaw nearly hit the floor.

“Me? But I’m still an apprentice, and my father says I can’t own my own store until I reach my twentieth year. To try and manage all this…?”

“Well, you start today.”

“But why? Where are you going?”

Alyssa laughed again.

“I’m going to get my son.”

*

Matthew Pensfield felt the first twinges of consciousness pulling at him, and he resisted. Dull aches felt like the only welcome awaiting him. His gradual awareness thawed from whatever cold sleep it’d fallen into, and he remembered fighting, protecting the boy, Tristan. Or was it Nathaniel? And how was he alive? He was alive, right?

His eyes fluttered open, and there in front of him sat the boy with two names, his head in his hands as he stared at the floor.

“Tristan?” Matthew asked, his voice coming out like a strained croak. The boy startled, but his surprise didn’t last long. A smile spread across his young face, and it lit up his eyes.

“You’re awake!” he said.

“I reckon so.”

Tristan hugged him, eliciting a cough. It felt like half his body was full of fluid, the other half aches. He tried rolling over in bed, was denied by a terrible spike of pain from his shoulder. He glanced at it and saw an impressive amount of stitchwork in his flesh. A bruise spread from the wound all the way across his chest. Cut, that was right, he’d been cut down through the collarbone by that bastard at the castle gate.

“What happened to him?” he asked.

“Who?”

Matthew grunted. “Never mind. You’re alive, and so am I, so must have worked out fine.”

“Lord Gandrem’s said you should be treated as a hero.”

“That so?”

Tristan bobbed his head up and down. Matthew chuckled.

“If this is how heroes feel, count me out. The plow fits me better than the sword.” He frowned. Tristan kept looking to the door, and his smile never seemed to last long.

“Something the matter, Tristan? Well, guess I should call you by your real name, shouldn’t I? Not much point in hiding who you are now.”

The boy obviously looked embarrassed, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond.

“You can call me Tristan still, if you want, sir.”

“I guess I’ll let the habit linger, least until I can get out of this damn bed. What is the matter? You look like you’re expecting the executioner.”

Something about the way Tristan’s face paled made him wonder what he’d said wrong.

“It’s nothing,” Tristan said. “I just, it’s…nothing. I’m glad you’re awake. Really glad.”

Matthew’s head felt groggy and stuffed with cotton, but he pushed through to see his surroundings better and to make sense of them. He was in a small room with stone walls, a single red carpet, and a large bed with sheets stained with what must have been his blood. Tristan wore fine clothing, far beyond anything Matthew could have afforded at his farm house (before that Haern guy dumped a pile of gold in their hands, anyway). It didn’t look like everyday attire, but then again, he was hardly knowledgeable about the ways of courts and castles.

“They treating you well?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Tristan.

“Something bothering you?”

He looked once more to the door.

“Is it…is it all right if we just talk for a while?”

Matthew smiled. “Sure, son. You care about what?”

When he shook his head, Matthew began discussing his plans for the farm. He prattled on about cattle, where he bought his pigs, and how if he ever should get into the business in the north, to never ever buy from the Utters in the middle of winter unless he wanted to bend over and let them have their way with him. Tristan remained silent, but it seemed as if the tension drained out of him, until at last his eyes sparkled and he laughed at what few lame stories Matthew had to tell.

Every bit of that tension returned, though, when Lord Gandrem stepped into the room.

“Milord,” Matthew said, tilting his head to show his respect. Getting up and bowing was obviously out of the question.

“I’m pleased to see you well,” the lord said, though his voice hardly carried much pleasure. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for protecting young Nathaniel here. Once I found someone who recognized you, I sent a rider to inform your loved ones of your stay in my care.”

“Thank you, milord,” said Matthew. “My wife will much appreciate knowing.”

“Rest, Matthew, and when you’re better, we can discuss giving you appropriate compensation. For now, I must borrow Nathaniel. We have matters to attend.”

“I’ll talk to you tonight,” Matthew told Nathaniel. “Right now, I feel like eating a little, and then sleeping for a while, so don’t worry about me.”

They left, and servants arrived immediately after, carrying bowls of soup and bread and changes of clothing. While they buzzed about, Matthew thought of Nathaniel, and he offered him a prayer for whatever trial seemed to await him.

*

Nathaniel followed after Lord Gandrem, feeling like an obedient dog. The thought was unfair, for he had been treated absurdly well. But already he heard the murmuring of the crowd as they climbed the stairs toward the front wall of the castle. The sunlight was glaring when they emerged, and the crowd of hundreds below cheered at their arrival. Four guards stood at either side of them upon the ramparts. Directly ahead, atop a retractable plank of wood, a long rope tied about his neck, was the man named Oric.

Lord Gandrem waved his greetings to the crowd gathered to watch the execution.

“This man was a coward and a traitor,” he cried out to them. “He dared lie to the lord of the lands, to mock the honor of Felwood! My allies, he struck against. This fiend, this foul murderer, even sought to coat his blade with the blood of children. What fate does he deserve?”

Those gathered below howled for his hanging. Nathaniel heard their cries and shivered. Lord Gandrem turned to him and beckoned him forth. His feet feeling made of lead, he approached. Oric’s face was covered with a black cloth, and his hands were tied behind him, but still he appeared dangerous.