Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

3. Lady & Friend

"Heliet..."

"Mm-hmm?"

The minstrel barely looked up; one of the lute strings had been broken and he was busy re-stringing it. The boy lay on his stomach on the window bench, wrapped in a thick blanket, propped on his elbows, feet in the air. Schean didn't want to see how close to the expensive glass pane those swinging feet came, so he didn't look. He'd already pointed out the danger to the Ranea who had just glanced over his shoulder and said 'Oh'. Schean considered that he'd done enough babying, and just avoided watching. Besides, the window was pretty thick and sturdy. Breaking it would take a good solid kick, preferably with heavy boots; toes wrapped in soft cloth slippers would hardly do the trick anyway.

"Heliet, can I trust you absolutely?"

This time Schean did look up, eyes going wide.

"Of course you can, Ranea," he said with slight reproach. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A very serious question, Heliet," the boy replied. "Because this is very, very important. You must never ever tell anybody what I'm going to tell you now, and that's why I want you to give me your most solemn promise that you'll not breathe a word."

Schean smiled. "I swear by my lute that I'll never betray your trust in this, or anything else, Ranea. And you know that my lute is the most precious thing that I own."

"I know," Bengor nodded. "All right, I'll tell you my secret. I want to have somebody I can talk about it."

He huddled a little closer to the minstrel and Schean instinctively bowed forward as well.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

"I have a brother. An elder brother," the boy said in a low voice and nodded at Schean's surprised expression. "Of course he's only my half brother, but anyway. I call him Noriet."

Blacky, Schean translated in his head and grinned a little. The boy was all for colors, it seemed. Sandy for Schean himself, Blacky for his — brother?

"Is he then very black?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, he looks like father." Bengor was whispering now. "He comes here at some nights, when nobody sees, and we talk. He's really nice to me, and I like him a lot."

Schean fell silent. He desperately wanted to play along, to nod and grin and laugh, for surely such a brother was just a figment of the boy's imagination. The Ranea was lonely, the few books of the castle and the minstrel his only companions, and he had a very active mind. Schean himself had had imaginary friends while he'd been much younger, even though he'd never lacked more tangible company either. So why couldn't the boy have an imagined brother who looked very much like the father he adored? And a bastard, well, naturally. The Ranea was very much aware of the -nea in his name, meaning that he was the eldest son, the heir. Schean wasn't at all surprised to realize that even in his longing for a strong big brother, the boy made the brother a bastard, so that he wouldn't need to relinquish his rights.

And yet, no matter how much he tried to convince himself of this all, he couldn't help the fear that was crawling up inside him, cold and biting like the north wind. What if it wasn't just imagination, after all? What if there was indeed a brother — or, more precisely, someone who'd gained the boy's trust by claiming to be his brother? What if this someone really did sneak into the room at nights? Could that be why the Ranea was always so unwell?

Schean swallowed thickly. Elder brother... bastard brother... He hadn't lived in the lands of the Revnashi for many years, but he knew well enough how greedy for power and possessions they could be. And how many a bitter feud between close relatives had ended with bloodshed; there were numerous stories testifying to that. Oh, the Revnashi were passionate people in everything they did, and when they really got serious about something, the results could be ugly.

Schean's blood ran cold at the mere thought. Why was it that his peace-loving people had to be so fascinated by these big, dark brutes that they willfully kept taking the long trek north, across uninhabited lands, only to wander about as minstrels in this land of abundance and violence?

A more immediate question was, however, if the mysterious dark 'brother' was real or not, and if yes, what was he up to? Schean winced internally. He had promised to keep the Ranea's secret. But what if keeping it meant that he'd be leaving the boy in danger? On the other hand, what good would he be against somebody sneaky enough to devise such a plot to gain... what?

Schean bit his lip in consternation. He loved the bright, perceptive boy dearly, but in effect he had just promised to get no help, for that would've meant betraying the boy's trust. Besides, he still wasn't at all sure whether this was real or just imagined.

The minstrel snorted in frustration. His hands were shaking, enough to make re-stringing the lute very difficult, and he decided to give up. Suddenly he realized that the boy had been watching him all the while, eyes dark and quizzical.

"What?" he blurted in confusion.

"What were you thinking about, Heliet?" Bengor propped his chin on palms. "Do you think I'm telling you stories?"

Schean blushed heavily. He could feel the heat rising up his neck and all the way to his hairline. "I'm not sure," he mumbled.

"Yes you are. You think I'm just making it all up," Bengor stated and shook his head. "But you see, it is true. And that's why I want you to keep quiet about it. Nobody must know."

Why? Schean wanted to know but just nodded. He could always ask about it later. "I'll keep my promise," he ground out. "But... has he been coming here long? Many times?"

"Oh, quite a long time." Bengor shuffled to sit up and wrapped the blanket better around his narrow shoulders. "He cannot come often, though. But every now and then he does, and then we talk a lot."

His mouth set in a determined line. "Schean, can you play for me now that the lute is broken?"

"I can repair it," Schean assured him, taking the hint that the boy wanted to change the topic now. "But I'm afraid it'll take some time. Would you like me to fetch the flute? I can't sing for you then, though."

"Please do!" Bengor looked delighted. "I won't mind even if you can't sing. I want to hear anyway."

Schean got up and exited the room with a slight bow, lute in hand. Maybe he'd take a lamp into his room later, to do it there, or maybe he'd actually go down to the servants' hall some time... the best light could of course be found on the walls at daytime, but cold would be a problem there. Spring was rapidly approaching, but winter still had its claws dug deep into the frosty ground and wasn't going to let go without putting up a fight. Yet, perhaps he could go to work there in the morning? He descended the stairs — and then came to an abrupt halt, managing to stop just in time before he'd have run straight into the Lady of Deleon.

She'd obviously taken her outing on the castle walls, for she was walking from the direction of the doors leading there, and some droplets were still glistening on the heavy veil that covered the back of her head and reached down below her waist. A young maid was obediently trudging behind, careful not to step on the trailing hems of the trailing dress, carrying a fur-lined cloak that seemed far bigger and heavier than the girl clasping it in her arms.

"Minstrel." The Lady nodded just visibly to Schean who hastened to bow deeply to her. "Is something wrong with my son?"

"Oh no, my Lady," Schean hastened to say. "The Ranea is all right. I just broke a string."

"Good."

Schean bowed once more as the Lady walked on, dismissing him with that one brief word, then turned to look after her. She was a tall and stately woman, beautiful too, but he was happy that their paths rarely crossed.

Lady Berissa was from the wealthy, refined eastern castles, and she never let anyone forget that. She wore eastern-style dresses with a close-fitting waist and a broad belt to further show off that she still, after giving birth to several children, had waist to show, and intimidated all and sundry around her. Her husband, who had married her first and foremost because of the hefty dowry she'd come with, she tolerated with the air of someone thrown to the company of revolting but basically harmless animals. But she wasn't in the least interested in showing herself in the usually loud gatherings that the Lord occasionally arranged for his most important allies and captains, let alone more everyday meals. Somewhat peculiarly, she obviously wasn't very interested in music, either, for Schean had not once been invited to help her while away the long hours she mostly spent in her own splendidly adorned chambers.

Her disinterest in the Ranea was nothing new, either. At first Schean had been thoroughly surprised and put off by it, but by now he was thoroughly used to the situation. The Lady definitely wasn't an attentive parent as far as the boy was concerned, nor did she appear to take any deeper interest in her two daughters. Why else would she have taken them to live in the neighboring Moydherr castle, if not to have them out of her hands? At least the minstrel could see no reason for it.

He remembered well how he's first met the Lady of Deleon. After leaving his home village to become a wandering minstrel like so many men of his people, Schean had been traveling with his uncle and eventually landed in the smaller but much more sumptuous castle of Moydherr. There they'd stayed for a while, until the Lord and Lady had got visitors: Lady Bialka's elder sister with her two daughters, then aged twelve and seven. She had come to visit her sister and to dispatch the girls there for an unspecified time, and while there, taken note of the young minstrel. Schean hadn't particularly liked her even to start with, but the girls had quickly won him over. And when Lady Berissa had asked him to come to Deleon as a companion for her ten-year-old son, he had been rather easily persuaded.

Schean had expected to find the place dreary, but in fact he was more at home in Deleon than the outwardly more comfortable Moydherr. For one thing, Lord Theren-Joliarr of Moydherr had always made Schean feel creepy for some reason that he couldn't put his finger on. Even now, only remembering the man, Schean almost shivered. He couldn't for the life in him understand why Lord Theren had decided to marry the mousy, giggly Lady Bialka; she was so silly that either the Lord had to have been particularly hard up, or then her dowry must have been truly spectacular. Otherwise Schean could not see what might have recommended her to Lord Theren, who had spent long periods in the East as a young man and tried to imitate the fabled lands in everything he could. Nor could he understand what the two daughters of Deleon could possibly learn in Moydherr that they couldn't be taught by their mother at home.

Well, possibly the soldiers filling Deleon were the reason, Schean mused as he heard the clatter of boots and raucous laughter echoing from the corridor below. And anyway, whatever it was, the girls had now been away from home for two years, and the Lady seemed to have no intention of bringing them back. She had visited them a few times, but every time she'd returned without them, just her usual retinue of some servants and guards to look after her.

Schean slipped into his room and left the door ajar to get some more light than what seeped in through the little window up in the wall. Where had he put the flute? It wasn't his strongest instrument but of course he could play it, though not with any virtuosity. The lute he placed carefully on his bed to stand in the corner, and continued his hunt. His belongings were nothing much to speak about, but still there was enough stuff to lose one small flute among. Finally his fingers met with the smooth wooden surface and closed around the slender shaft. There it was.

He froze and then sat heavily on the bed. Should he have told the Lady about the Ranea's perhaps imaginary friend? Should he go to see her and tell? Schean leaned his elbows on knees and frowned. Telling the Lord was out of the question. He wouldn't be too happy to hear about such things; he'd probably think that the boy was going crazy, and the messenger bringing such news wouldn't be treated too kindly. On the other hand, if he did have an older bastard son... well, then he just might be glad to be informed about possible machinations against the Ranea.

But if such an unknown bastard really existed, and was moreover wily enough to sneak stealthily into the boy's room at nights to tell him who knew what stories — couldn't he also be ruthless enough to find out who had revealed his existence to the Lord. And who knew what would happen then?

Schean swallowed. No, telling the Lady sounded like a far safer option. But he had promised not to tell anybody...

He sank his fingers into his hair with a groan and dug them deep into his scalp. What should he do? What could he do? The Ranea was his highest priority. He had promised not to tell. He wanted above all to keep the boy safe. He didn't want to disappoint Bengor. He didn't want the boy to come to harm. Yet wherever he looked, somebody was going to suffer, of that Schean felt suddenly, and most uncomfortably, quite certain.

But wait — hadn't the Ranea said that the supposed brother had been visiting him for quite a while already? Yes, that was it. This had been going on for a while now, but Schean was rather sure that 'quite a long time' couldn't possibly mean years. No, the boy wouldn't have remained quiet about it this long. So, Schean reasoned, a more likely guess would be weeks, maybe some months. And as much as he wracked his brain, he couldn't say that Bengor would've been significantly worse recently. Not well either, definitely not, but there hadn't been any clear turns for the worse, no particularly serious bouts of illness. So perhaps he could wait with his knowledge, wait and see, and then act if something dramatic happened?

Yes, Schean decided. That he would do. If this 'Noriet' really existed, and wanted to get rid of the boy, then why hadn't he done it already? It would've been an easy task to cut the boy's throat or stab a knife through his heart at night, and none the wiser. Nobody would hear a possible scuffle taking place in the upper story room of a tower. The thick stone and mortar walls would take care of secrecy. Yet the boy was very much alive still, and obviously thrilled by the visits, imaginary or not.

The minstrel stood up and straightened himself. Yes, Bengor was alive, and right now waiting anxiously for his Heliet to return and keep him company. And here he was, sitting in his room and dawdling, actually contemplating whether or not he should reveal a secret that the boy had trusted him with only moments earlier...

Schean shook his head, stepped back into the corridor and closed the door. What a truly faithful minstrel he was, really.