Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

11. Returns & Surprises

Three days later the young minstrel of Deleon walked out through the formidable gate of Moydherr Castle. For a moment he stopped and looked at the well-trodden road that opened in front of him with a mixture of regret, joy, and sheer cold fear, then took a deep breath and began to retrace his steps towards Deleon, several days away.

Schean was genuinely sorry to leave behind the exhilarating company of the irrepressibly good-humored Mioll, to whom he had waved goodbye just moments earlier. He would so much have wished to ask his fellow minstrel to come with him, but they had agreed that that would've looked simply too suspicious — and neither of them particularly wanted to attract Lord Theren's attention any more than was absolutely necessary. Mioll had really taken Schean under his wing: they had talked and talked, played together, exchanged tunes and songs, not to mention the nighttime hours they had spent enjoying far more intimate pleasures... Schean sighed a little wistfully, thinking about the 'parting present' that Mioll had given to him that same morning. When would he next get the chance to be pleasured like that?

Better not think about that, Schean told himself and squinted at the sun that was steadily climbing higher in the sky. He felt its warm rays on his head and grinned to himself. Here he was, outside and on the road for a few days, when the spring was coming at last and transforming the landscape with breathtaking speed! Schean loved this time of the year, when the even the most stubborn patches of snow had disappeared and the first shy sprinkling of green was covering the black and brown earth like a gossamer-thin veil. He loved it particularly much because he knew that it was such a short blink between winter and summer, for up here spring was a violent affair that took the whole world by storm, practically overnight. By evening the landscape would look so different again, and he would get to see it! He didn't have to just watch it all happening down below, see it through small windows made of thick glass that distorted and stretched flattened and liquefied everything seen through them into a fantastic dream landscape. No, he was here, in the middle of it all!

Not only that, but he was going home. There was no denying it: Schean had grown to think of the gloomy, ruggedly beautiful Deleon as his home. Besides, he missed the Ranea, the boring days spent entertaining the ailing boy, the days spent just watching the spring overcome the winter and turning into summer, then waning into autumn and winter once more. He missed the boy, and for the first time in a long time he had some real hope of perhaps getting to show the growing leaves and flowers to the boy, not just telling about them or bringing quickly fading examples into the room.

Not even the thought of Lord Rhodan's anger at hearing the news could much dampen the minstrel's happiness. He had Lord Theren's letter safely tucked into his small backpack, and as much as Lord Rhodan might rage, it wouldn't really be directed at the minstrel. Schean was sure of that; he knew the Lord well enough. And at least he could tell the Lord some news of his daughters.

He had met the young ladies, twice in fact, and had managed to talk to them at some length. Of course it had happened under the watchful eyes of Lord Theren, which was too bad, but then Schean hadn't expected anything else and had been prepared to pick his words with care. The girls had been duly shocked to hear of their mother's death, but both minstrels had later agreed that they hadn't been too badly affected by the news. Naturally it would take a while to fully sink in, too, and yet Schean was sure that they wouldn't grieve very much — by all accounts Lady Berissa had been a very distant parent.

Schean had felt even more sorry for them when they had immediately asked when they could go home, and all he could do was to lie through clenched teeth and state that the journey would have to be put off for the time being because of unsafe conditions. How he would have wanted to take the girls with him and take them home! So what if there were no ladies of noble birth in Deleon to see to their education? The situation in Moydherr wasn't really much better, for Lady Bialka could hardly be considered good company.

Unlike her formidable sister, Lady Bialka of Moydherr was a rather simple woman whose entire attention and energies were mostly focused on looking after her three surviving children. To her credit it had to be said that she was a very good, caring, attentive mother who wasn't seen around the castle much — probably a major reason why Lord Theren kept her constantly pregnant, had Mioll scathingly remarked. And another major reason was, of course, that so far Lady Bialka had given birth to altogether five children, all of whom were girls. There was no son to inherit Moydherr, and everybody in the castle was sure that the next arrival, due in a couple of months, would be a daughter as well, although no one understandably said it aloud.

Thus, even though Lady Bialka was happily and without much obvious discomfort fulfilling her role as Lord Theren's brood-mare, Moydherr offered very little by way of company to young noblewomen-in-making. The eldest surviving young Lady of Moydherr was still only six, and while she was already big enough to play with the nine-year-old Lady Bailenn of Deleon, her older sister Benella didn't have much to do apart from looking after her sister and cousins.

Schean frowned as he thought of the pretty, lively girls. He was frankly afraid for them. What would happen to them when — not if — Moydherr and Deleon came to pit their forces with each other? There was no guarantee about what Lord Theren might come to think of. The younger girl was still only a child, but Lady Benella was another matter. She was tall for her fourteen years, taking after both her parents, and promised to be an attractive young woman in a few years' time. Schean refused to imagine any further. Surely Lord Theren would understand that the girls would be much more valuable to him unharmed, and that an outraged man thinking only of revenge could prove a far more dangerous adversary than a wounded bear? Lord Rhodan wouldn't take any abuse of his daughters very lightly, that much Schean could guess.

The young minstrel trudged on, lost in thought. All the observations he'd made during his stay kept whirling around inside his head. The castle, its Lord and Lady, all the troops gathered there, the daughters of Deleon, everything combined with the things Mioll had told him to make sure that Schean didn't need to be bored on his way. He had plenty enough to mull over.

Besides, there was the one thing that kept coming back to him over and over again, something he had seen while crossing the courtyard to exit through the main gate. The place had been full of people, particularly soldiers; young ones probably recruited not long ago, a bit clumsy and wide-eyed, mingling with numerous veterans with weather-lined faces and eyes that mirrored all the cynicism and coldness of professional fighters. Schean had felt very small and very vulnerable as he'd pushed his way through the throng, doing his best to look nonchalant and unaffected by anything. But he'd been hard put to keep up the indifferent mask when something in the middle of it all had caught his eye and almost made him trip on his own feet: a jet-black shock of curls rising easily above most heads around.

Karos-Daleot. Schean had only seen the figure for a couple of breathless blinks, but he was absolutely sure that he hadn't been mistaken. He tried in vain to persuade himself that he'd just imagined it — that Mioll's silly teasing was to blame. The problem was just that his stubborn brain refused to be convinced. He knew it had been Karos all right.

Which naturally made Schean wonder what was actually going on. Why on earth should Karos be in Moydherr? Surely he'd know better than to push his way straight into the wasp's nest! When had he come? What was he doing there, among the troops busily preparing for an attack against Deleon? It didn't make any sense at all!

And yet, no matter how many times Schean turned the matter over inside his head, he couldn't come up with an answer that would have satisfied him. It was especially hard to think of a reason that didn't have anything to do with his being in Moydherr... and that was, simply put, ridiculous. Of course those two things were wholly unconnected.

Thus the minstrel walked on, mile after mile. At nights he curled up to sleep in solitary hay sheds, or asked for lodgings in houses along his way. He stayed quiet about the purpose of his journey, but couldn't help dropping cautious hints at some trouble ahead. The people weren't pleased to hear such things, but heeded his words nevertheless; disturbance during the spring works on the fields might spell bad for the harvest, and even worse for the next winter.

Preoccupied as Schean was, he never once forgot to keep his legs moving, and surprised himself thoroughly by completing the journey well over a day sooner than he'd expected. Once on top of the low ridge of hills that lined the riverside plateau, he stopped for a moment to steady his breath and to enjoy the magnificent sight of Deleon Castle rising like a mountain above the village huddled next to it. Schean felt a lump in his throat. Yes, Deleon was his home. Made of dark gray stone, it loomed in the distance, seeming to dare anyone to even try and enter it without permission.

Schean nearly ran down the hill, resolutely telling his legs to slow down and to keep an even pace. There was still quite some way to go, and it didn't do to run himself breathless and then collapse for the night within seeing distance from his destination! Besides, over the final miles he might just as well make up his mind as to how he'd break the news to Lord Rhodan, and in what order.

In the end he didn't have much say to that. Towards the evening, when Schean at last reached the gate, the guards at the entrance took one look at him and told him to go straight to the Lord: he was being expected. Lord Rhodan in turn took one look at the dusty, travel-weary young man, scowled darkly and asked Schean to tell exactly what had happened. The minstrel handed over the letter, waited meekly while the big man read it through — with an ever deepening scowl — and then hurried to supply his own account of the things he'd observed in Moydherr.

Lord Rhodan listened to him closely, interrupting only a few times to press for more details, and finally nodded.

"You did well to meet my daughters," he said. "Very well indeed. And I am relieved to hear that they were in good health, and so far well taken care of."

"They were, my Lord," Schean assured. "But they would very much have liked to come home."

The Lord's mouth tightened and he huffed irritably. "They will, one way or the other. I will get them back... and yet our dear brother-in-law makes it very clear that sending an armed escort is out of the question, because it would just 'draw unwanted attention' to them... oh yes indeed!"

He banged a big fist on his knee, then seemed to remember something. "Ah... one more thing, minstrel, before I let you go and enjoy some well-earned rest. You don't by any chance happen to have any idea where the Wizard's Ashgan is at the moment?"

Schean stiffened. "A-Ashgan?"

"Yes. Karos-Daleot."

The minstrel swallowed thickly. "I... I thought I caught a glimpse of someone who looked like him, my Lord, when I was leaving Moydherr. Among the soldiers there."

"You what?"

Schean shrank but didn't back away. "I wasn't sure, my Lord, but it did look like him all right. Is he then missing?"

"Disappeared the very next day after you'd gone," Lord Rhodan growled. "That sneaking thing... what the hell is he doing there, the traitor-in-making?"

Schean, totally baffled, decided not to indulge in any speculations and instead shut his mouth about the theories that had been popping up in his own head. He beat a quick but smooth retreat and then almost ran to the bathhouse, hoping that hot water would refresh both his body and mind.

Leagues and leagues away, in the courtyard of Moydherr Castle, Karos-Daleot could only dream of a hot bath for himself. The springtime sun was rapidly setting, and the high walls cast deepening shadows on the numerous people still toiling there. The horse Karos was grooming, a shiny battle stallion, was being meek for a change, and only enjoyed the treatment given to it. It was one of Lord Theren's own mounts, a powerful dark bay without a single white marking, and it leaned its brown neck against the rope knot with which a sweating Karos was rubbing it.

His muscles were working but his mind was busy with an entirely different matter: how the hell was he going to get away from Moydherr? Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to follow the minstrel after all; well, getting in had been easy enough, just walk in and ask for work. An able-bodied, strong young man was always in demand, and upon hearing that he had no experience with wielding arms, the people in charge had put him to look after the horses. And that he did with gusto, keeping his eyes and ears open for any gossip and news.

He'd got several earfuls of useful information, but it hadn't come for free. For one thing, he'd got a pretty nasty surprise a few days back when he'd encountered some soldiers who had claimed to recognize him — or rather the half-wit they'd seen some time ago. Karos had got away by telling, shame-faced, a story of his twin brother who had nearly drowned as a child and whose mind had never really grown up after that. He had reason to bless the Wizard's herbs that had healed his face so quickly that a little dirt, nothing uncommon on a groom's face, could easily mask even the small scar that remained from the incident. But still he cursed himself afterwards. A nasty surprise, well yes, but he really should have been prepared for it! That group of mercenaries hadn't come to offer their services to Deleon, so they had to be in Moydherr, so the possibility of meeting them here really should have occurred to him earlier. And yet, somehow it had totally escaped him... him, who prided himself on his shrewdness! Where had it gone? Why had he been so anxious to see what happened to one young minstrel that he had rushed headlong into potentially very big trouble?

But then, of course it really had nothing to do with the minstrel, Karos reasoned. It had been the message that Schean had been bearing. It was extremely important, and he'd wanted to know what would happen — at least he could take the word back to Deleon, if something happened to Schean. Plus he'd find out loads of what was going on in Moydherr. He had accomplished that, too, and now if he'd only manage to get away with his information...

"There he is!"

Karos, like everyone else, looked up from his current chore as he heard the bright voice. It had spoken in a way that immediately let anyone hear that the speaker wasn't just anybody, for no servant girl spoke in quite that way. Karos nearly dropped the rope knot when he saw the speaker: young Lady Bailenn an-Deleon, in a deep green dress lined all around with squirrel, was dragging her equally sumptuously dressed elder sister by the hand across the courtyard — and pointing at Karos.

It was plain impossible that no one would not notice. The young ladies never went out on their own, especially not in the evening, not like this! Karos had caught glimpses of them before, for both girls were avid riders and despite the 'restless' times still went riding every few days, accompanied by their uncle and a few guards. But what the hell were they doing here, out on the courtyard, at this hour?

Karos did the only thing he could: he stood there passively, rope in hand, looking awkward and dumbfounded as any groom would be at such unexpected attention.

"I told you, didn't I? That he looks like Dad?"

Karos bit his tongue hard not to wince. By now every pair of eyes was turned their way, and nobody could fail to hear the clear, triumphant voice of the 9-year-old young Lady.

Her sister looked curiously at Karos and stepped closer, clearly fascinated.

"Yes, you did, Bai... say, young man, are you perhaps from Deleon?"

"Me, Miss?" Karos didn't have to fake the stammer. "Oh no, Miss, sorry, but you must be mistaken... I ain't been even near the place."

"Really? You look so much like our Dad!" the younger girl piped in.

Karos saw in the corner of his eye that something green and yellow sidled closer. The head of the Lord's own troops...

"Uh, no kidding, Miss?" He let out a nervous chuckle. "I dunno anything 'bout that, Miss! Oh, I've seen Deleon all right, once or twice, but that's all..."

The rope knot slipped from his fingers and tumbled down at the girls' feet, and Karos crouched quickly to pick it up. Young Lady Benella automatically bowed to reach for it, too, and for a moment her head was not too many inches from Karos.

"Miss Benella, not another word!" Karos hissed. "We're all in big danger now!"

He heard the gasp, then the girl just straightened herself gracefully and looked at him with wide eyes. Karos, still on his knees, chuckled again and tried ineffectually to wipe the hem of her dress.

"Oh, now I soiled it..." Then he added in a low voice, trying not to move his lips too much: "Careful — your uncle plans war."

He dared not say anything more, couldn't stay there any longer. Lady Benella took a step back as he stood up and then looked at her younger sister sternly.

"Bai, stop being silly! Why on earth should he be from Deleon? Come on now!"

"But --"

"Come on! We've embarrassed the poor man quite enough. And now my dress is dirty, too!"

Karos stared for a moment after them, rubbing his face with the back of a hand, then resumed grooming the horse and muttering something to himself. He could feel the lingering gaze of Lord Theren's captain on the back of his neck, and swore silently that he'd make sure to stay around lots and lots of people that night. His coarse bed above the stables, with those wooden stairs leading straight to the courtyard, suddenly felt far too easily accessible.