Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

14. Decisions & Proposals

A brisk wind was blowing on the road, it tangled its fingers in the horses' manes and made their long tail hairs whisk. Hooves thudded on hard dirt, metal rattled against metal, and then the noise simply stopped. The broad-shouldered man riding ahead of the group had raised his hand, and everyone following him halted their horses.

The man squinted his eyes as he looked at the huge castle standing proudly in the distance, by the wide expanse of a glittering river. He studied the sight for a good while, then sighed, and a pleased smile slowly spread on his face.

"There it is... Deleon."

"Indeed, sir." Another rider had boldly spurred his horse forward and now stopped it to stand side by side with the leader's gray stallion, their heads nearly touching each other. He relaxed in the saddle and glanced at the man next to him. "And I swear I've never seen a castle so huge."

"Me neither, Sorel." The leader grinned a little. "Well, let's go and take a closer look at it. My hunch tells me that this trip just might have been worth our while."

"Yes, sir."

The other man turned his horse around, and the other riders perked up immediately. "Attention — double file!"

Within moments the temporarily scattered group had rearranged itself into a tight column of twos, and the lieutenant eyed it with satisfaction. "Ready, sir."

"Right. Let's ride!"

A nudge on the horses' flanks brought them into a trot, and the entire formation advanced over the ridge.

Inside the castle, Karos stopped at a door and gaped over his brother's head. He was looking at a comfortable, roundish tower room with a fireplace and a large bed, sturdy trunk-benches along the walls and a window recess with seats on both sides. It looked very familiar, and for a good reason: it was in the same tower as Bengor's room, only one flight of steps higher, and was virtually identical to that one.

Bengor peered up at his half-brother, an expectant look on his still slightly pale face. "Well, what do you say?"

Karos looked around once more. "About what? It's a room, right?"

"Yes," Bengor huffed impatiently, "of course it's a room! But how do you like it?"

"It looks very nice, of course," Karos said somewhat uncertainly. "Is that surprise of yours somewhere here?"

"Silly!" Bengor laughed. "This is the surprise!"

Karos blinked, then pointed at the pot-bellied lute placed on one of the benches. "This is the minstrel's room, I suppose?"

"Yes — and yours too." Bengor nodded for extra assurance.

"Mine?"

"Yes, yours. You'll be living here from now on!" Bengor's hand swiped in the air. "Me and the girls, we told father that you must come to live here with us, and he agreed to this. You'll be sharing this room with Heliet!"

The blond minstrel emerged from the corridor and bowed to the Ranea, then glanced anxiously at Karos who just stared.

"You see, I've seen Heliet's old room, and I was appalled — it's so tiny!" Bengor went on, oblivious to the way the two young men were eyeing each other and him. "So I told father that Heliet must get a proper room for himself, and then he said that the two of you could have this one."

Schean looked cautiously at the dark young man's inscrutable face. "Yes, I — uh — I said that of course it's all right with me... I hope you don't mind?"

Karos swallowed. The thought of sharing a room, that he was all right with. Sharing rooms was more of a rule than an exception even in a place as big as Deleon, when a large number of people had to be fitted into a limited space. Private rooms were a luxury, and a potentially costly one, for each lived-in room required wood to heat it and servants to look after it. And putting more than one bed into a room was downright wasteful; why bother, when the one bed could be made big enough to accommodate a whole family if need be, and everybody knew that one could also stay warmer in the night with another body under the same covers? Besides, as a boy he'd slept in his mother's bed, with Rhamirr after that. No, none of that was any problem. But...

"No, of course I don't mind sharing," he ground out. Bengor frowned.

"Don't you then want to?" he asked.

"I'm simply not sure it's a good idea after all," Karos said. "The Lord doesn't really want me here, I know that well enough, and —"

"Father will see," Bengor said stubbornly. "He's your father too! And we won't let him go on treating you like you were just any servant. We want you here with us, me and Nella and Bai."

Schean could understand Karos' apprehension, but he also knew his young master well enough to know what that particular set of the boyish mouth meant: the son and heir of Lord Rhodan-Omeasch had made up his mind. There was no sense, or use, going on with this debate right now.

"You ought to go and rest now, Ranea," the minstrel said. "You look a bit tired — you really shouldn't be up and about so much, not yet. I know you're much stronger and that you're feeling better, but you'll get well sooner if you don't push yourself too hard."

"He's right, Bengor," Karos chimed in. "Yes, of course I like the room, and I'll be happy to live here if the Lord has agreed to it... but go and lie down for a while now, will you? Please?"

The boy nodded reluctantly and trotted off, leaving behind two rather baffled young men. Karos sat cautiously down on the bench, then started as his sleeve touched on the strings of the lute next to him and made them vibrate with a low sound.

"Sorry..."

"It's all right," Schean said, picked up the lute and hung it to a peg on the wall. "I... look, I really hope you don't mind. But Bengor and his sisters have been so insistent, pestering the Lord all the time these past few days. They really want you here."

"Lord Rhodan doesn't." Karos was rubbing a palm on his knee in unmistakable distress. "But what can I do? If I now refuse this favor, he'll be more convinced than ever that I'm indeed hatching some sinister plans..."

Schean sighed. Karos was right, there was only one alternative available for him, even if that, too, meant further strife. The minstrel desperately tried to think of something to say to ease the tension.

"How's your shoulder?" he inquired. "Shouldn't you lie down as well? You're not quite fit yourself yet."

Karos glanced at him, then stood up. "Maybe I should," he admitted hesitantly.

"On the bed," Schean suggested. "This is our room now, remember? And maybe I should take a look at your wound. I can treat injuries too, you know."

He decided to take Karos' grunt as an affirmative and scuttled off to get some warm water, then dug up his little supply of medications and sat down on the edge of the bed. His new roommate had taken off his jacket and shirt and was now stretched on the covers, face down, discarded boots in the corner.

The minstrel removed the bandage and his eyes widened in surprise: the wound didn't look too bad at all, especially considering how fresh it still was. But of course the Wizard had put his considerable skills to full use as soon as he'd got 'his boy' safely into the Ghost Tower. Within two days, proper treatment combined with food, drink and rest had revived Karos almost completely — to the immense relief of his mother and the Wizard, not to mention the Lord's three children. Now the angry swelling and redness of infection had subsided, and the wound was closing rapidly.

Schean cleaned it with water, gently dabbed it dry with a cloth, and then sprinkled a generous layer of brownish green powder on it. He looked at his handiwork in satisfaction. The herbs would draw off any extra moisture and keep the wound tidy under the bandage. Then he swallowed.

His gaze had somehow strayed from the cut itself and was now wandering along the planes of skin around it. Karos' skin was naturally rather dark, in keeping with his black hair and eyes, and tanned even darker. And there was no denying that he had a strong, athletic build, with lots of hard muscle on his long arms and shoulders, as well as in the back that narrowed in a smoothly curving line towards the waist, where it disappeared inside his trousers...

Thrice cursed Mioll! Schean could practically hear the older minstrel's playful voice and the teasing words it had purred into his ear, and hastily turned his attention back to the matter at hand: the wound. Which was now nicely cleaned, and only needed a bandage to protect it. He nudged Karos' arm.

"Sit up, please," he said. "I'll bandage it once more."

On second thoughts, that hadn't been such a clever move... Schean felt very small and fragile as he sat beside the other young man, trying to decide how to best tie the bandage around that broad chest. He would have to touch Karos again, that chest with an arrowhead of jet-black hair that narrowed into a stripe running between clearly defined abdominal muscles and seemed to point resolutely down, towards his navel and...

Schean closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on making sure that the bandage wasn't too tightly around Karos' chest. That dark skin was so warm to touch, and he felt an insane urge to let his palm glide along it.

Karos would probably strangle me on the spot.

"There!" Schean stood briskly up and went to put away his precious herbs. "Do you need help in getting the shirt back on?"

"No, I think I'll lie down for a moment..."

Schean took the water and used bandages out, then trotted back to the room, and stopped at the door.

Karos was fast asleep, face relaxed, cheek resting on the back of one big hand. The minstrel tiptoed closer and peered down, then sighed. He'd have to get used to seeing this now, to waking up next to this sight in the mornings.

Schean snatched his lute from the wall and fled into the big hall. He needed to think.

Several hours later he was still there, totally engrossed in a new melody that was flowing from his brain into his fingers and making them dance on the lute strings, when he heard steps from the corridor. Heavy boots running, accompanied by men's agitated voices. The minstrel jumped up, put his lute aside and hurried to follow the sounds.

They led him down the big stairs into the entrance hall and further to the main door, and there he skidded to a halt not to bump into a wall of broad backs. The Lord and his captains were standing there and staring at something. Schean squeezed his sparse frame out between them and craned his neck to see what that 'something' was.

The courtyard was packed with troops. Dozens of well-tended horses were standing there, flank to flank, head to tail, their saddles and bridles gleaming in the sun. They carried an equal number of heavily armed men sitting upright on their mounts, proudly displaying a distinctive red and black pattern on their banners, clothing, even their horses' trappings. There was something very ominous and threatening in the disciplined silence and calmness they radiated, men as well as animals, and Schean frowned. The pattern? He should recognize that pattern...

Then he realized that the troops were merely a backdrop for something else that held everyone's attention. Two riders were approaching the gigantic stairs that led up to the main door, then stopped at their foot. A handsome man wearing an immaculate moustache and goatee raised his heavy-lidded eyes to look at the group of men standing on the uppermost steps.

"Lord Rhodan-Omeasch of Deleon, I presume?"

"I am," Lord Rhodan replied loudly.

"My esteemed Lord!" The dark rider bowed in his saddle. "I am Count Daynar-Arrgan, and I have arrived with my troops with the thought of offering our services to a mighty man of whom we've heard so much."

Schean wasn't the only one who gasped at the words delivered by that deep, smooth voice. Even though the illustrious Count Daynar and his men had acquired their fame in the constant skirmishes between the Eastern castles, plentiful stories had certainly reached every inhabited corner of the country, including Deleon. These were no ordinary mercenaries. For one thing, nobody simply joined their ranks just like that. Every newcomer was put to test and then accepted or rejected according to his skills. Discipline among them was tough, training hard and daily, and anyone who didn't agree with the set rules was quickly kicked out. That didn't happen often, though, because entry was so difficult and the rewards handsome. Count Daynar's troops were the most lethal weapon any Lord could dream of having at his disposal. They were ruthlessly efficient, superbly skilled, and the most astonishing thing of all: they were absolutely under their commander's control.

And of course such a lethal weapon didn't come without a price. Count Daynar, who indeed looked every inch as handsome — and fond of dressing handsomely — as the stories said, was a man who knew very well the value of his troops. He was said to be a man who enjoyed when the rich and the mighty crawled at his feet and begged for the honor of being called their employers. Schean glanced at Lord Rhodan and was sure that precisely the question of price was currently uppermost on the mind of Deleon's master. The cost of even the current troops was heavy. Deleon needed the men, for the threat from Moydherr was getting more real every day, but could they possibly afford these elite warriors?

"Count Daynar," the Lord replied, "your name and fame are by no means unknown to me, and I am delighted and impressed to see you here. I will gladly hear your terms, and invite you to settle here for the night so that we may negotiate the matter over food and drink."

"My Lord, your hospitality is great." Count Daynar bowed again. "But I cannot burden you with all my men, especially as we have come here in such numbers without prior agreement or even sending word of our arrival. With your permission, my Lord, my troops will camp on the field outside your castle until we have settled matters between ourselves. I will gladly accept your invitation, though, so that we may have the chance to get to know each other."

He turned his horse enough to address a red-bearded man who had so far been waiting with the rest of the men behind him. "Kariell, you'll stay in the place I pointed out to you. Sorel stays with me."

"Yes, sir," the man said, spurred his horse and his voice boomed over the courtyard. "Attention! Double file!"

Schean sighed in wonder as the troops flowed once more out of the gates in perfect order, then glanced again at the Count. He and the other man, obviously his lieutenant, had dismounted and now handed the reins of their horses to two grooms who hurried to take care of their horses. Even though they had undoubtedly ridden quite a distance that day, the minstrel was intrigued to notice their tidy clothes and proud carriage as they ascended the stairs and went to greet Lord Rhodan in person. Schean had seen countless mercenaries before; usually they were a dirty, ragged, rough lot with whom he wanted as little to do as possible, but these men were something different.

As Count Daynar pressed a hand on his chest and bowed, Schean looked in fascination at his blond lieutenant. He was a few years younger than his commander and not nearly as tall, but nevertheless slimly muscular. His most notable feature was his hair: very bright, pure golden blond, loosely curled all around. Even his eyebrows were pale, though not as fair as his hair, and his eyes were a penetrating light blue. His face was tanned golden bronze and only accentuated his fairness. Schean had never seen anyone quite like him, and tried to remember where such golden people came from. He'd heard of something like that... ah yes, Beltrionas, the enormous woodlands southwest from Lake Galar, far far away. The Belter, as they called themselves, they were supposed to be fantastically handsome, blond and curly-haired just like that man. Schean hoped he'd get a chance to ask the man — Sorel, so the count had called him — about his homeland.

When Lord Rhodan turned and gestured his new guests to follow him in, the minstrel caught a glimpse of what was hidden underneath the blond Sorel's short cloak. Not only a sword but a belt with several oddly-shaped sheaths... knives? So many of them?

Schean bit his lip for a moment, then hurried towards the stairs leading to his... no, their room. Perhaps he'd forget about trying to talk to the fair lieutenant, and instead just hang close to them during dinner. That way he could well hear something useful to satisfy his curiosity, and it would also be far less risky than perhaps angering the man somehow. More stories about Count Daynar were popping up from his memory, and Schean could now remember one of the famous special features in them. He had heard of the 'bodyguard' who never ever left the count's side even in the heat of the battle, and was said to be equally deadly from a distance as he was at close range.

Of course the fair and fascinating Sorel, no doubt the very bodyguard Schean had heard of, wasn't too likely to misconstrue a young minstrel's intentions when he and his master were having a friendly dinner at a prospective employer's castle. Nevertheless, Schean believed in caution; he wasn't going to take any extra risks.

He reached the door of his room and froze, hand on the handle. Who indeed needed any extra risks? When he'd now be living with the same young man who, on their first meeting, had bowled him onto a bed and held a knife to his throat...

Schean shook his head and knocked on the door before pushing it open.