Knights of the Crown

Chapter 22

Pirvan climbed out of the stream and pulled on his rawhide loinguard.

“I need to splice the lines before I set them out,” he called to Haimya. “So you can bathe as long as you wish.”

“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder. “Do you think we can try making soap, after we finish the fish trap?”

Not waiting for an answer, she removed her clothing, which consisted of a loinguard similar to Pirvan’s and a rawhide strip tied around her torso, and ran down to the stream. Her hair was a chopped and raddled mess, her skin was nearly as dark as Jemar the Fair’s with sun, dirt, and grease, she was more thin-flanked than Pirvan had ever seen her, and he thought she as the most beautiful woman in the world.

As for himself, Pirvan had begun with darker skin and hair, so the near month they’d spent in the wilderness had not changed his looks as much. He had lost weight, though not having much to lose, his arm still ached in wet weather (which meant a good part of the time), and he had never felt better in his life.

He turned away from the stream as Haimya dived in, a graceful pale arc against the green water, ending in a silvery splash. Neither of them was self-conscious about “standing close” as they had to do to survive, but at times a veil would come down over Haimya’s eyes or even her whole face. Pirvan respected those moments and kept his eyes and thoughts in order.

Gerik had left a vacant spot in Haimya. It could well be that it would never be filled. This was because there had been a great and undying love between them, but because Haimya could not forgive herself for killing Gerik through carelessness. Gerik’s death had taken something from her sense of honor, and only time (if that) could put it back.

Pirvan, on the other hand, knew exactly what he wanted out of life. There was a place within him that would never be filled if Haimya did not fill it-whether she came back to do so next year, or fifty years from now, when all that would be left for them was to nurse each other.

The path up from the stream forked. Pirvan realized that he’d taken the right fork only when he saw the sundered mountain, half the cone now gone. He paused to see how the vegetation was recovering from the wave that had roared down the river, to drown most of Synsaga’s men and smash most of the ships to kindling wood.

Much of the ground along the river was still bare and gray. The wave must have scoured a good part of the banks down to bare rock. That kind of power probably also explained why Pirvan and Haimya had neither seen nor heard another human soul since the night the mountain had fallen.

It was the left-hand path Pirvan really wanted, leading up to the hollow tree where they had their fire. Cooking as much as they could eat and smoking the rest had given them more meat and fish in their diet, though nuts, roots, fruits, and even edible grubs also played their part. (Pirvan had not thought that some kind of nut, a sweet root, and smoked grubs could make a fine meal, but Haimya had taught him otherwise.)

He was turning back toward the fork, when a man stepped out onto the path.

Pirvan had a spear (the bow was with Haimya, in case she needed to defend herself or pick off some fresh fish). It whipped up, ready to throw, before he knew more than the man’s being where no man ought to be.

Then the man laughed, and Pirvan recognized him.

“Brother Grimsoar! You’ve learned a good deal about silent movement since we last met. I didn’t hear a single footfall.”

“You’ve forgotten a good deal about listening, Brother Pirvan,” the big man replied. He looked more weathered and even hairier than usual, but well fed and clad in sea barbarian garb and armor. His sword, however, was his old familiar blade.

“Well met, regardless,” Pirvan said. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for that you are here alone?”

“Here, on this path, yes, I am, but the rest of my party is down at the foot of the hill. Once we’d cleaned out the rest of Synsaga’s pirates, the ones who hadn’t died in the flood or fled in the surviving ships, we divided our landing party and began seriously searching-”

“When did you come?”

“Why don’t we go back to camp, you tell your tale from the beginning, and then I will tell mine?”

That made sense, eager as Pirvan was to find out how it had fared with Golden Cup. The sea barbarian garb spoke of further dealings with Jemar the Fair, and Grimsoar would have been downcast if Eskaia or Tarothin were dead, but otherwise Pirvan could only guess.

The two men reached the fork again just as Haimya came up the slope. She was clad in sunlight and drops of water, and Grimsoar actually flushed and turned his head.

He also muttered, “Sorry to have to drag you back to the world,” loud enough for Haimya to hear him. She promptly snatched up a stick and flung it, so that it clanged off his helmet.

“What the-?” he growled.

“It’s not as you think,” Pirvan said. “Now apologize to the lady, or she will hit you with a bigger stick in a more important spot than your head.”

“I crave your forgiveness,” Grimsoar said, not quite keeping a straight face but at least looking elsewhere while Haimya resumed her garb.

“Granted.” She ran her fingers through her hair, which only rearranged the disorder. “If we are leaving here, there is no reason to stint the hospitality. We have food for all your comrades and even you, unless you eat even more than I remember.”

“Thank you, but we’ve been living off the land since we came ashore. I’m beginning to crave some honest salt meat and ship’s biscuit again.”

Pirvan and Haimya exchanged looks that suggested Grimsoar was mad, and went to gather the little that they did not care to leave behind.

Only the ruined mountain where the two dragons had died now rose above the mists of Crater Gulf. Jemar turned away from the shore and studied his squadron.

They were coming out of the gulf in battle formation, under sail to take advantage of the offshore breeze and save the men’s strength for any fighting yet to come. Jemar did not think there was much danger of that. Minotaurs would be giving these waters a wide berth, and so would the three of Synsaga’s ships that survived the wave roaring down the river after the mountain had fallen. Some of the starving survivors rounded up by Jemar’s landing parties spoke of a fourth ship, and doubtless some bold souls were heading for their deaths in small craft.

Both the quest and the fighting were over. What remained was mostly matters better left to clerks, and Jemar could do very little about much of the rest. (Well, he could pray for Pirvan and Haimya, if he could be sure where to direct the prayers!)

One matter was very close to him, and therefore in his hands to settle. He had his command chair brought on deck, and then sent a messenger, saying that he wished to speak to Lady Eskaia, and would wait for her at her convenience.

Instead, the next thing he saw was Eskaia coming toward him. She wore sea barbarian garb, with a light jacket over her shirt. Jemar wondered if she had donned one of the low-cut tunics she had favored for a day or two, until sunburn had taught her otherwise.

He would miss her in a way he had never expected he would miss a woman, and Shilriya would tease him about it even if she accepted the offer he would soon be making. But he had not taken his betrothal rights, so there was no impediment to setting her free from a promise that did her honor but which he could not in good conscience accept.

“I wished to see you, I think, as much as you wished to see me,” she said. As there was only one chair, she sat on the deck, cross-legged and as much at ease in the pose as if she’d been a sailor for years. Jemar had to look away briefly in order to compose himself enough to speak.

“My lady-no, let me call you by that title until I have finished what I wish to say-you made a most generous offer, if I would lead my ships south to rescue your friends. This I have done. They are as safe as they can be, at least in their bodies. Their spirits-that is in the gods’ gift. But I have kept my bargain. What I want to say-what I must say-”

He took a deep breath. “I will not hold you to your part of the bargain. You are free to return to Istar, with no duties to me now or ever again.”

A silence came down upon the sea, in which it seemed that even the creak of timber and the soft whine of the breeze in the rigging were hushed and listening. Eskaia looked up, and Jemar saw that she had tears in her eyes.

“Is this a … command?” The last word was almost a sob.

“No. It is-a gift, one might say-if you wish to accept it.”

She rose, came over to him, and sat down on his lap. Instead of embracing him, she crossed her arms on her breast.

“Well, I do not accept that gift. What I wish is that we complete the bargain. Jemar, do I have to go down on my knees and beg you to marry me?”

It took some while for Jemar to convince her otherwise, with hands and lips, since the words would not come. He was rising from the third kiss when he saw that they had an audience.

“Tarothin! Wizard, what do you here?”

“Ah-I came on deck and-” He took a deep breath. “I thought I might be needed, to keep one of you from throwing the other overboard.”

“If anybody is going to be thrown overboard, Tarothin, it is you,” Eskaia said firmly.

“I forbid that,” Jemar said.

“Who are you to forbid-?” Eskaia began, then laughed. “It seems we are already having our first quarrel.” The men joined the laughter.

“I believe I can now bless this wedding,” Tarothin said. “Eskaia, I will have to regret the loss of a good cleric, as you might have been. But I suppose you will be even more adept as a pirate’s woman-”

“Sea barbarian’s lady,” the couple said, in unison.

“Sea barbarian’s lady,” Tarothin corrected himself, “than you would have been as a cleric. Although whether your father’s blessing will be on this wedding, I am less sure.”

“He will surely bless it if we have a second ceremony in Istar or some other place where he can attend it,” Eskaia said. “And he will bless it several times over when Jemar’s ships protect those of House Encuintras from pirates and minotaur raiders.”

“And when will that start?” Jemar asked, eyebrows rising as he fought to keep more laughter inside.

“As soon as the marriage is consummated,” Eskaia said primly, “and thereafter as long as we both shall live.”

“I had not thought to receive your dowry,” Jemar said. “But neither had I thought to pay bride-price.”

“You did not think about many things,” Eskaia said, “but I understand that is common when a man is hot for a woman.”

Jemar kissed her lightly on the forehead, then stroked both her cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Was it that plain?”

“Even a green maiden like myself could tell, my love,” she said softly.

Then they both laughed, because Tarothin was turning red. The laughter died as they looked beyond him toward the prow, where the slim figure of Haimya stood, the golden cap of her hair ruffled in the wind.

An even slimmer, darker figure was making its way toward her. Jemar and Eskaia looked at each other again, then both stepped to Tarothin, spun him around, and marched him off toward the cabin amidships.

Pirvan slipped up beside Haimya and looked out past the bow wave curling over the ram, to the endless sea horizon beyond. Perhaps the ocean was not so bad, in such a benign mood. But the memory of its other moods would be with him every time he smelled saltwater.

“That did not look like a farewell,” Haimya said, in a distant voice.

Pirvan wondered briefly what she meant, then looked back, as Jemar and Eskaia wrapped themselves around one another.

“It looks even less like one now.”

“So I expected. So I hoped.”

“What will you do now?” Pirvan asked.

Haimya shrugged. “I could doubtless enlist under Jemar. To be a sea barbarian warrior in his service is better than many other fates that might be mine. He might even consider it part of his gift to Eskaia, to find me a dowry and a husband.”

Several questions came to Pirvan’s mind; he kept them all off his lips.

“I fear I cannot accept such a gift,” Haimya said. “I have won most of what I have fairly. It is no great matter to do that again. Are you returning to Istar?”

“Perhaps, but not for long if I do. I have said I might be giving up night work. Also, I may have no choice. I am now known to many in Istar, who cannot afford to tolerate even the most moderate of thieves.”

“I was asking, because Gerik has kin. A sister, at least, wed to a merchant’s heir, and I believe they have children.”

“House Encuintras can do more for them than I,” Pirvan reminded her.

“If they so wish. Eskaia would make sure that they wished it, if she were returning to Istar. But the city may never see her again. Nor was any of House Encuintras there when Gerik died.”

Pirvan understood where this was leading. Haimya was afraid to face Gerik’s kin, when she saw herself with his blood on her hands. It was the first time he had seen her run away from a battle-and, in her position, he would have done the same.

“What I can do shall be done,” he said. He put his hand over hers. “I also fear that the time has come for us to stand apart.”

She lifted a hand and put it over his. When she turned to him, her face was a mask-except for the eyes.

“Tes, for now it is best if you stand far away. But not so far, my friend, that I cannot find you if I wish to see you again.”