Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (25 page)

Morgin tied SarahGirl’s reins to the
branches of a nearby bush, then joined JohnEngine at the campfire.
They both sat in the dirt.

“How is France?” Morgin asked.

JohnEngine shrugged and wrinkled his nose.
“He’s all right. He’s a tough bird. Bruised a little. Nothing
more.”

“I’m sorry,” Morgin said.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You
were merely the dupe in one of grandmother’s conniving
schemes.”

“I know,” Morgin said.

“Grandmother and the Tulalane baited you.
Hwatok used his magic to bring out your anger during your lessons,
and again so that it would fester and explode while you fought
France. He and grandmother planned it all to test your magic.”

“I know,” Morgin said again.

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

Morgin shrugged. “Once I calmed down, once I
got out of the valley and away from their influence, I could feel
the difference immediately. And it wasn’t hard to guess what they’d
done, though it’s good to have it confirmed. I know what she did. I
just don’t know why she did it.”

“Because she’s an evil old woman.”

Morgin grinned. “None of us have ever
doubted that, have we?”

JohnEngine laughed, shook his head in
disgust. “She’ll never learn, will she? You know even Marjinell was
on your side for once. And mother was positively livid when she
found out. I’ve never heard anyone speak that way to grandmother
before. It was quite an ear full.”

“I’m sorry if I hurt mother,” Morgin
said.

JohnEngine nodded. “That you did.”

JohnEngine hesitated, and Morgin sensed that
JohnEngine had something difficult to say, and that he could in no
way lighten his brother’s unease in the saying of it.

“Mother sends you her love,” JohnEngine
said. “And father too. Mother also had me bring your sword, and
your sheath, and your cloak, and two sets of clothing, and your
horse, and your saddle, and your saddlebags packed with twelve days
of trail rations, and a hunting bow, and a belt knife, and a game
knife, and a lot of other stuff, and a purse of gold coins.”

A lump formed in the pit of Morgin’s
stomach. “Grandmother exiled me?”

“Oh no!” JohnEngine said suddenly. “Not
that. She doesn’t even know I’m here. She keeps demanding that we
send out search parties to hunt you down and bring you back. But
mother and father said you’re a grown man and can take care of
yourself, that you’ll come back if and when you choose. And mother
sends you a message. She says . . .” JohnEngine had
difficulty speaking. “She says that you have every right to hate
the witches of Elhiyne. That we have treated you poorly. That you
would be fully justified if you chose to ride away and never see us
again. She has given you what she can so that, at the very least,
you may leave us with more than you came. And I am to tell you that
it is your choice, that no one binds you to Elhiyne against your
will, and that if you choose to go, you go with her love always,
and father’s love . . . and my love too.”

JohnEngine’s eyes burrowed into the embers
of the fire and refused to meet Morgin’s. Morgin was glad of that.
“How can I hate the witches of Elhiyne,” he asked, “when I am one
myself.”

JohnEngine’s eyes came up to meet his.
Morgin said, “I can deny that no more than I can deny the power
that has always been a part of me. I know that now.”

JohnEngine’s eyes gladdened. “Then you’ll
come back?”

“Certainly I’ll come back. I am bound to
Elhiyne by those I love far more than I could ever be by those I
hate.”

JohnEngine’s eyes returned to the fire. “I’m
glad. Will you come back with me now? Mother asked me not to dally;
she’s anxious to know your decision.”

“Then go and tell her I’ll return, but not
immediately. I need more time alone. I have a lot of thinking to
do.”

“When will you come back then?”

“Tell her I’ll take no more than the twelve
days allowed by the trail rations, and probably a lot less.”

~~~

JohnEngine shielded his eyes against the late
afternoon sun as his horse took its first steps into the valley of
his home. He had an odd sensation of something amiss, a tension
that hung in the air like a thick fog. His nose brought him a
disquieting odor, and only slowly did he identify it as the smell
of fear.

The fields in the distance were empty. There
were no field hands taking advantage of the last rays of sun. The
wheat sat motionless in the calm of sunset. The entire valley lay
blanketed by an unnatural quiet that set his heart to pounding.

He spurred his horse on, his mind racing
through a hundred catastrophes that could have befallen those he
loved. Fear drove him to push the animal to its limit, to set all
patience aside and charge across the valley to Elhiyne.

The village near the castle proved all but
deserted, a soundless cluster of small buildings and huts that sped
past his vision as he raced through it. Only when past it and well
into the small woodland that separated the village and the castle,
only then did he hear the first real sounds of life: the ring of
steel hammers, men shouting hurried orders, horses neighing and
spluttering.

The castle loomed before him, a dark shadow
against the now sunless horizon. He charged through its open gates,
found in the yard a confusing mass of armed men and horses. Some of
the men were already mounted, some just mounting up. They ignored
him.

Someone shouted an order. Someone else
shouted another. And then, like bees abandoning a dying hive, they
spilled out through the open gates and rode off into the night. In
seconds they were no more than a muffled rumble of charging horses
far in the distance.

JohnEngine hit the ground at a run, gave no
thought to tethering his horse. In the settling darkness he
stumbled up the steps of the main building, sprinting blindly
toward the light cast by the open doors there. Somewhere within he
knew he would find sanity, reason, calm. But instead he ran
head-long into DaNoel, and they both tumbled to the floor in a
crash of arms and legs.

JohnEngine picked himself up quickly.
“What’s happening, brother?”

DaNoel, weighted down by sword and mail,
rose slowly. “Where in netherhell have you been?”

“I’ve been out of the valley running errands
for mother. What’s wrong here?”

DaNoel looked at him suspiciously. “Errands,
eh? How is the coward?”

“He’s no coward, Da. He’s your brother.”

“He’s no brother of mine. He’s a fatherless
peasant, a whoreson.”

JohnEngine’s anger rose uncontrollably. He
threw his forearm up, caught DaNoel beneath the chin and pressed
him hard against the cold stone wall. He spoke angrily, slowly.
“Tell me what is happening here.”

DaNoel gripped JohnEngine’s forearm,
struggled silently against it. They were evenly matched, and could
have struggled so all night, but both realized the futility of such
a battle, so they came slowly to an unspoken compromise. They
separated. DaNoel straightened his tunic carefully.

JohnEngine fought to contain his anger.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Why do we have armsmen in the
courtyard instead of hands in the fields?”

“We have war,” DaNoel said as if he found
some pleasure in that fact. “Illalla has assembled an army, and
crossed the Worshipers far to the north at Methula. A messenger
came this morning from Penda. Illalla has already taken Tosk, and
burned Drapolis without quarter. He is marching now on Penda, and
they ask our aid, for we will be next. Malka is assembling our
armsmen and expects to have six hundred when we ride out tomorrow.
I assume you’ll ride with us.”

“Of course.”

“Then come with me now. I am to report to
Malka.”

JohnEngine shook his head. “I have to see
mother first. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

“What of the whoreson?”

“Morgin cannot be reached. He’ll have to
learn of this when he returns.”

Morgin’s saddle shifted dangerously as
SarahGirl cantered beneath him. He would have fallen had they been
riding hard, but instead he tugged lightly on the reins and brought
her to a stop. “Let’s see what’s wrong here, girl,” he said,
dismounting and patting her flank. He flipped the stirrup up over
her saddle, found a loose cinch and tightened it, then flipped the
stirrup back down. He walked forward and scratched her between the
ears, and in reply she licked his ear, then gave him a big sloppy
kiss on the cheek.

“You’re a strange one,” he said, wiping a
sleeve across his face. He reached into his pocket and brought out
a small square of hard, sweet journeycake that he’d been saving for
her. She gobbled at it greedily and it was gone in an instant.

He raised a hand to shade his eyes from the
bright, midday sun. He should have no difficulty making it home
before dark, though he was tempted to take his time just to put off
the imminent confrontation with Olivia. He scratched SarahGirl
between the ears. “I’m not looking forward to that meeting.”

SarahGirl nuzzled his ear, begging for more
journeycake. He scratched her between the ears again, climbed back
into the saddle and spurred her forward into a trot. He was anxious
to be home, to find France and apologize for trying to kill him.
Then he must do the same with Tulellcoe, and after Tulellcoe,
Rhianne. Thinking of her his heart filled with sadness and
shame.

It was time to make peace with Rhianne, to
mend what little remained of their marriage, and perhaps to start
anew. But now she would have just cause to spit in his face and
curse him before all. For during the two years they had been
married, and yet not husband and wife, she had tried to make
amends. She had tried in little ways, subtle ways, to tell him that
she was no longer a stupid young girl. But he’d found an unhappy
pleasure in revenge, and rejected her again and again with
relish.

He’d lived with the single men in the
bachelor’s barracks. At play he became their leader: he drank and
whored and fought more than all of them. His life consisted of one
long blur of work and play, punctuated by the daily practice at
arms. Of course Olivia disapproved of it all. Their disagreements
had almost become a daily ritual, though he’d learned his lesson
that night in the Hall of Wills and never again touched her with
his magic.

Thinking now of the old witch, he chuckled
quietly. He had one secret that not even she knew, a secret that he
might someday reveal to her, just to irritate her. It was a matter
of pride with him that she disapproved so strongly of his rowdy
conduct. And it was a matter of pride that she continue to
disapprove, even though sometimes his drinking and whoring was a
false charade meant only for Olivia’s spies.

At first, in his anger at everyone, and his
shame at the public humiliation they called a wedding, he whored
and drank and fought in earnest. But he’d soon tired of that. The
whores lost their appeal and the ale no longer washed away the bad
memories. And it hurt like netherhell when the innkeeper bashed his
head in the midst of a brawl he’d begun.

He still lived in the bachelor’s barracks,
and he still spent most of his free time in the village inn, but
two out of every three cups of ale were carefully transferred to
the mugs of others, a trick of magic that he found almost trivial.
And he splashed most of that third cup down the front of his own
tunic in a show of drunken sloppiness. He’d finally learned the art
of deceit, and most evenings he’d stagger back to the castle,
perhaps fake the noises of vomiting in the privy, then carefully
pass out on his bunk. But of course when Olivia’s spies were about
he drank in earnest, and took care to pick a fight, often with one
of them. Occasionally he’d managed to start a real brawl.
Preferably, Olivia’s lackeys would get embroiled in the midst of
it. But certainly the news always got back to the old witch, and
hopefully to Rhianne too.

Rhianne! In the two years of their marriage
he could count the number of times he’d encountered her on the six
fingers of one hand. Once, they’d met in passing in one of the
castle halls. Just the two of them. At his malevolent anger she’d
frozen into stillness, and seeing the fear in her eyes he was torn
between sorrow that she should look upon his so, and joy in the
knowledge of his bitter revenge.

“Morgin,” she’d said tentatively, and he
could see that she wanted him to forgive her.

He’d wanted to. He’d wanted so many things,
but a strange evil part of him growled, “Get out of my sight,
bitch.”

They’d never met like that again, not alone.
He rarely saw her, usually only when Olivia forced them both to
attend some ceremony or ritual. They’d sit or stand next to each
other, absolutely silent, saying not a word, husband and wife. The
last time he’d seen her had been on her birthday, with her parents
Edtoall and Matill visiting. The ladies had planned a small party,
and Olivia had ordered Morgin to attend.

He showed up late, and honestly drunk. He
stumbled in, staggered about the room, sat down next to Rhianne and
glared malevolently at everyone there, especially her. He poured
more wine; drank some, splashed some on his tunic, the rest on
those about him. He was obnoxious without trying, but attempted to
be more so anyway, and Rhianne, who’d been happily opening presents
when he arrived, ended up in quiet tears. It took all of the fun
out of it for him.

JohnEngine had angrily told him to leave,
but Morgin was so drunk they’d had to help him from the room. And
as DaNoel and Brandon supported him on either side, he caught a
glimpse of AnnaRail just before he passed through the door. There
were tears in her eyes, but behind the tears he saw something in
her face that he’d never seen before: shame. She’d loved him and
she’d spanked him. She’d held him close when he’d needed her, and
she’d been angry with him when he was bad, but never before had she
been ashamed of him. Never before had she given even the slightest
hint that he was anything less than she could hope for in a son.
That day Morgin knew shame as he had never known shame before.