Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ill Met by Moonlight

“The Leonharts are perhaps the most interesting secondary family of Faengard. Their origins can be traced to before the Rondo of the Three Kings, when the Uldans, Thorens and Lachess’s had yet to gain the gift of Aedrasil’s blood.

“They are known for having high moral codes and a strong sense of chivalry, as well as lion-gold hair and fearsome battle prowess. It is a wonder why they did not end up taking the throne; they certainly had the support and charisma to do so. Perhaps it was their honour that got in their way, and their desire to see their brethren succeed.”

—Turnis Hibernon, Royal Bloodlines of Faengard

“Up, everyone! Get your lazy behinds up and working!”

Bran’s eyes snapped open as the warden walked past the doorway, ringing her bell loudly. The other men were awake already, clothes and belongings flung all over the place as they prepared themselves for their daily duties. The boy who’d been sleeping on the bunk above Bran was running about like a headless chicken, apparently unable to find his undergarments.

It was the first day of his life within the barracks. He shared his quarters with seven other people, divided into four pairs of bunkmates who used the same facilities. They were all young and fresh-faced, some having found their way to the Legion in search of a roof and a hot meal, others hoping to become something more. Bran quickly dressed himself and left the chaos behind, determined to start the day on a positive note.

He passed the muster room and its huge noticeboard with the city guard roster. The footsoldiers argued among themselves, their boots and armour freshly polished, those with management roles donning crisply ironed uniforms. They were above him. Bran didn’t have the right to wear the black and silver, let alone the black and gold. High-ranking officers yelled at him to move out of the way as he bumbled out into the courtyard, the grass still wet with dew.

At once he felt disheartened, but he fought it down.

Remember why you’re here, he told himself, and straightened up.

He went out to the stables, where the horses roused from beneath their blankets. Some of the riders were already there, tending to their mounts. Bran found the storage shed and prepared a bucket of soapy water. He began the first of his duties—cleaning the stables.

He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t even a recruit. He was a servant, what the soldiers liked to call a ‘runner boy,’ someone who tended to all the jobs no one wanted to do in exchange for food, shelter and a meagre wage.

The officer had laughed at him when he’d stormed into the barracks two nights ago, demanding to join the Legion. They’d had a brief conversation, where Bran learned just how hard it actually was to become a recruit. It wasn’t as simple as signing his life away, at least not yet. There were tests to be done, checks to be made, interviews to be had. The man, who Bran later found out was a lieutenant, had been impressed by his resolve and offered him a job as a runner boy. Bran, eager for any role that would put him in proximity of the Legion Songweavers, had accepted.

A day of induction later and now he was here, picking up horse manure with his bare hands.

There were dozens of stables laid out in the Keep, rows and rows of them overlooking the training ground. Once he’d cleaned up his share of them, he scrubbed his hands clean and sat down in the shade outside the Clock Tower with his lunch, hoping to see Evaine. He’d scarcely been but a few minutes into his flatbread when the warden came around with another list of jobs for him to do.

“Good work on the stables,” she said, though her scowl remained. His supervisor Jezelle was a thin, grey woman, the wife of one of the commanders. Her hair was tied back in a simple bun and she wore coveralls emblazoned with the shield and spear. “I need these jobs done by the end of the day. Come find me in my office if you have nothing to do.”

Bran sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded to herself and walked away in search of her next victim.

That was the first lesson Bran learned. Always look busy, even if you have to pretend.

He scanned the list of jobs and found himself sighing when none of them placed him in proximity of the Clock Tower. There were dishes to be washed, boots to be polished, messages to be delivered and papers to be sorted, but no task that might send him to the Songweavers where there was a chance of meeting Evaine. Bran swallowed his disappointment along with the remainder of his lunch and made for the mess hall.

It was only the first day, after all. There was hope yet.

#

Minstrel Kedryn was a tall, square woman who looked to be more suited to scuffling than singing. She stood six feet tall with a shaved head and tattooed forearms, and a voice so loud even the drill sergeants were no match. It was a voice used to good effect, for every time Evaine made a mistake the Minstrel made sure the entire floor knew about it.

“No, no, no,” Kedryn was screaming, flecks of spittle flying from her mouth. “You dunce, that’s not how you do it. It’s like courting a woman. You need to be gentler. More affectionate. Ask the water, and you shall receive. It’s infinitely easier than taking it by force.”

They were inside one of the alchemy labs on the first floor, a beaker of seawater in front of them. Medics and alchemists also frequented the clock tower, making use of all the facilities it provided. There were potion brewers present now, cooking up all sorts of concoctions Evaine could only imagine, and healers speaking in hushed whispers as they rifled through the ingredient drawers.

Evaine sucked in her breath and started to sing again, an almost baritone hum escaping her lips. She directed it towards the beaker of water, enveloping it with her voice, asking for its compliance. It bubbled as if something invisible were stirring it. Small crystals began to form, twirling around the clear liquid, coalescing into clumps that sank to the bottom. Evaine released her breath, her heart racing.

Kedryn grabbed the beaker and held it up to her face.

“Good,” she said, and even her happy tone was loud. She tipped the contents into the sink until only the crystals remained. “Now go practice on that barrel of seawater over there while I go for lunch.”

Evaine resisted the urge to groan. Last time she’d complained, Kedryn had yelled her ear off.

As the big woman left, Evaine slumped onto her stool and ran her hand through her hair. She’d spent the entire day drawing salt from water. If she smelled brine again, she would vomit.

“It’s easier and far more energy efficient to filter salt directly from water,” Kedryn had said. “Boiling it wastes Spirit, Spirit that could be used for other things. Besides, it teaches you control.”

She understood the principles and why she was being made to do it, but it still frustrated her. When the Minstrel had informed her that she’d be helping to fight the relicts, she’d imagined learning to send whips of water at her enemies, summoning great geysers from the earth, dancing and spinning with blades of ice. Not extracting salt from seawater.

With all that being said, there was still a level of excitement to it all. She was inside Uldan Keep, learning magic from the Legion Songweavers. To think that only a few weeks ago she’d been stitching dresses and herding sheep in the Sleeping Twins.

I wonder how Mother and Father are doing, she thought. She missed them, but not in a million years would she trade away her current position. She just wished she weren’t so… alone. Mother, Father, Ein, Bran, even Alend—she just longed for company.

Evaine poured another beaker from the keg and sang, pulling crystals of salt to the bottom. She repeated it three times with three beakerfuls, tipping out the purified water, pouring the sludge-like salt into a separate flask. On a whim, she dipped her little finger into the white mess and tasted it.

It was salt all right. Evaine scrunched her face and looked around for a waterskin. Someone handed her one and she drank a mouthful, washing the foul taste from her mouth.

“Thanks,” she said, handing it back.

The man who’d given it to her was tall and lanky, with neatly combed blond hair and loose-hanging robes of black and silver. The two stripes on his shoulder indicated his rank—Adept, two ranks above her own. In other words, a nobody.

“You shouldn’t go around putting things in your mouth without knowing what they are,” he smirked. He reminded her of Bran, though unlike Bran he held himself with a confidence bordering on arrogance. His chin was held just a bit too high, his gaze a bit too haughty. She immediately decided she didn’t like him.

“I know perfectly well what this is,” she said. “It’s salt. We eat it every day.”

“But do you know for sure?” he asked, pouring another beaker of saltwater. “Salt isn’t the only mineral present in seawater. There are others as well, some which are toxic to the human body.”

He sang a note, lifting the entirety of the water from the beaker. With a harsh grunt, the man ripped a few flakes of white from the mixture and then tossed the remaining liquid into the sink with a splash. The particles came to a rest on his extended palm.

“Eat a tablespoon of this and you’ll die,” he said, holding up one of the fine crystals. “It’s a popular ingredient to use in a poison.”

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“Thanks for the heads up,” Evaine rolled her eyes. “It must be hard being able to divide seawater into the sum of its parts. I wish I was that good.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. The Minstrels say it’s only a matter of time before I get promoted,” the man boasted, completely overlooking the derision in her tone. “Time-altering Wyrds are rare enough, and I’m one of the youngest. If you’d like, I can teach you a thing or two.”

Evaine ignored him and made for another bench. The man followed her.

Al’Ashar’s eyes and ears, he’s like a pest, she thought.

“I’m Gerrard,” he was saying, “like Gerard Carandar, the famous Captain of the Weatherwing, but with an extra ‘r’. My brother is one of the generals of the Legion.” He continued to ramble, standing far too close for her liking. She looked around, but none of the other people had noticed—or if they had, they were keeping their heads down.

Evaine poured a beaker of seawater and concentrated, trying to drown out his voice. It didn’t work. As her frustration mounted, her Soulsong grew sharper and harsher, like a serrated knife. Gerrard was talking about his achievements now, pointing out flaws in her technique that he could ‘teach’ her how to correct.

Evaine felt her temple throb a moment before the beaker shattered and water sprayed across them both. Glass tinkered across the floor.

That shut him up, at least.

“Sorry,” she said, without a hint of apology at all. The majority of the water had exploded onto Gerrard’s robes.

“That’s alright,” he said, some of his vigour lost. “Everyone makes mistakes—”

“Novice Evaine.”

Evaine snapped her neck around and came face to face with Kedryn’s chest. Kedryn glanced at Gerrard and bowed. “Please accept my apologies, Adept Gerrard. I’ll have her clean up this mess at once.”

For a man who was lower ranked than her, Kedryn treated Gerrard with an unusual amount of respect. Was Gerrard’s brother really that important?

“That won’t be necessary,” Gerrard smiled. He sang, and the shards of glass lifted themselves off the ground and onto the table, reassembling in the shape of a cracked beaker. With another quick note, the cracks disappeared and the piece of glassware was whole again.

“Incredible,” Kedryn said. “I’d heard the rumours, but to see a Reversal in action amazes me every time. You truly are something else, Gerrard.”

“Please,” Gerrard said. “You give me too much credit.” He glanced at his timepiece. “I have to go now. They’re expecting me in the war room.”

Evaine waited until he was gone, the door shut behind him, before opening her mouth.

“War room? What business does he have there?”

“Do you not know who that man is?” Kedryn asked, mopping the table with a spare cloth.

“Well, you have to remember I’m a shepherdess from off the edge of the map. Songweavers were legends to me until a short while ago.”

Kedryn grunted. “That was Gerrard Leonhart, younger brother of Kingsblade Gilfred, the Golden Beast. A genius among geniuses. He isn’t just a prodigal Songweaver, he’s also a tactician and an engineer. They say he read through his entire family library and committed it to memory before he could walk. The High King and his generals have been seeking his advice as of late, with the rising threat of the relicts and all.”

“He’s too cocky,” Evaine decided. “I prefer men who are humbler in their demeanor.”

Kedryn laughed. “Evaine, you’d be lucky if Gerrard so much as batted an eyelid at you. Now, come with me. You’re going to filter a hundred gallons of seawater before the day’s end. That’ll teach you not to break any more flasks.”

#

Evaine left the mess hall in a foul mood. She’d ended the day with a sack of salt, a crushing headache and a burning hatred for seawater. Her ears were ringing with Kedryn’s voice and her robes carried the sickening stench of brine.

So it was that when she saw Bran walking back from the stables with a tired expression, she let out a shout of glee and barrelled into him, driving the breath from his ribs.

“Huh?” he asked, a glazed look on his face. It took a moment for him to realize what had happened. “Evaine! I can’t believe it, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“You smell like… horse shit,” she laughed. “To put it lightly. What the blazes are you doing here? I thought you’d left the city.”

Bran looked around. She noticed deep lines of fatigue on his face under the moonlight.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he said. “The warden is probably in her chambers by now, but better to be safe than sorry. I don’t think I could deal with another chore to complete.”

Evaine didn’t understand, but her headache was gone, and she was no longer alone. She followed Bran behind the stables to a low bench that faced the courtyard.

“I can’t believe it,” he said again. “I can’t believe I’ve found you. I took on this job in the hopes of seeing you again, but I didn’t expect it would happen so soon.”

“Oh, Bran,” she shook her head. “If you’d just asked, I’m sure they would have let you visit. Me joining the Legion isn’t the end of the world, you know.”

Bran muttered something under his breath.

“Anyway, I hate to see you looking so tired and filthy. You should find another place to work—like an apprentice butcher in the city, perhaps. I’m sure the pay would be much better.”

“I’d rather not, Evaine. Ein’s gone; I don’t want to lose you as well. Being alone frightens me more than anything else. In this enormous city, you’re my only tie to the world I know.”

Evaine sighed. “I guess you’re right. I feel the same way; it’s nice to have someone familiar to talk to.”

Bran seemed to brighten at that.

He’s like a pup, she thought, remembering Einar, her family’s wolfhound. It’s comforting to talk to him. Unlike a certain golden-haired Songweaver who thought too highly of himself.

“Tell me about your day,” Bran said, and she happily obliged.

It was a lovely night to sit in front of the courtyard. The rose bushes and hedges were neatly cropped, streams of water weaving through the cobble paths to the sewage drains and the moat. They could see the castle from here, its candlelit windows and curtained balconies, the nobles smoking their expensive pipes up above, tendrils of ivy creeping their way along the stone walls. Evaine continued to ramble, not even thinking about what she was saying, simply wishing for the moment to draw on forever. She complained about Kedryn and Gerrard, she spat foul atrocities towards seawater, she whined about how many stairs she had to climb to reach her room and how many other women she had to share the latrines with. Bran listened to it all without speaking, staring quietly into the distance with the occasional nod or word of sympathy.

By the time she’d finished, it felt like a great weight had been lifted from her chest. They sat in comfortable silence and her thoughts turned to Ein, who was probably far, far away by now, shouldering the name of a family that wasn’t his, a title he didn’t want, and a fate he would resist until the very end.

The Ein from ten years ago would have embraced it, she thought. I wonder what became of him.

Their tryst was broken by a feminine voice rustling through the bushes, singing a song as light as a cloud.

“Fair moon, how bright you shine upon

Our windy wasted land,

Across the ranks and echelons

To where the beasts doth stand.

O moon, how sad your lambs must be

Under the silver light,

As the shepherds lead them to

A moonless night.”

The song stopped short, jarring Evaine. On the other side of the pavement, having just emerged from behind the rose-thorn hedge was a girl with hair like liquid gold. She wore an exquisite silk nightdress of velvet blue with a glimmering silver sash around her waist and matching sheepskin slippers. As her face came under the moonlight, Evaine couldn’t help but gasp.

She was beautiful.

The girl saw them both and broke into a smile. She waved and skipped across the cobble, shortly before a hushed voice spoke through the bushes.

“Your Highness,” it said. “At the very least, put on a jacket. I’ll be skinned alive if you come down with a cold.”

The owner of the voice came into view, wearing a black cloth-spun tunic with golden stripes. The symbol of a crown and sword were sewn into his epaulettes.

“Gilfred,” Evaine uttered. She recognized the Kingsblade from the Halls of Judgement, though he looked less majestic out of his armour. Recognition flitted through Gilfred’s eyes as well, and he nodded a greeting.

“Evaine, was it?” he asked. “Good to see you’re still sane. Most ‘prodigies’ break down under Grand Songstress Milena’s instruction.”

“The Grand Songstress isn’t actually teaching me,” Evaine replied. “She brushed me off to Minstrel Kedryn.”

Gilfred raised an eyebrow. “I hear she’s worse.”

“Hold on a second. You’ve met before?” The girl frowned. “Gilfred, have you been seeing women behind my back again? Even after taking the Vow?”

“The Vow of the Kingsblade isn’t a marriage contract,” Gilfred said in a resigned voice.

“You’re terrible, Gilfred. You said you’d faithfully serve me until death did us part.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Words to that effect.” She pouted. “I suppose I’ll forgive you this time, since you helped me sneak out of the Keep.”

“Please, it’s not as if you don’t talk to other men. And I don’t in any way endorse your little midnight walks.” Gilfred glanced at Bran. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Bran,” Bran said, before Evaine could reply. “A friend of Evaine’s. I’m a runner boy down at the barracks.”

The Kingsblade nodded. “I’ve heard of you. Marched right into First Lieutenant Walter’s office and demanded to join, didn’t you?”

Bran flushed. “Something like that.”

“You’re a brave man,” said Gilfred. “If only more people had your courage. The public is too afraid to voice their concerns to the King, choosing instead to trust his blind counsel. No one really knows what’s going to happen in the coming weeks, and no one wants to suggest that things could go wrong.” Gilfred grimaced. “Then there are people who have tombstone courage, spouting nonsense that would turn close friends against them.” He shook his head. “Anyway, enough of that. What brings you two here?”

“Stop interrogating them, Gilfred,” the girl jabbed him in the ribs. “They’re just here to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the night.”

“Um… excuse me,” Evaine began. “Who… are you?”

“Celianna,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Pleased to meet you, Evaine!”

“That’s Your Highness to you,” Gilfred snapped. “You’re speaking to the royal Princess herself, Novice.”

“Be quiet, you,” Celianna said, and then to Bran and Evaine both: “Honestly, he speaks like he has a quarterstaff up his rectum sometimes. Celianna is fine if we’re in private.”

Gilfred fumed but said nothing.

“I heard the gist of what happened,” the Princess continued. “I do apologize for what my Father’s done. Hopefully Ein will be back before long—I really did enjoy our conversation, brief as it was.”

“You met Ein?” Bran asked.

“I did! It was down by the Ward Tree, too. We talked about lots of things. About mothers and names, and pain. I only wish I’d known about his father when I spoke to him; I had no idea he’d been sentenced to death.”

“Is he okay now?” asked Evaine. “How is Alend doing?”

“He’s in the dungeons,” said Gilfred, an unreadable expression on his face. “They’re still feeding him the inhibitor drugs, but I doubt they need to. His spirit has been crushed. He just sits in the corner all day, staring into space.”

“That’s horrible!” Celianna exclaimed.

Gilfred shrugged. “His Majesty thinks it to be a fitting punishment. A month of suffering as he wonders about the fate of his son, followed by a public execution. One has to wonder what the man did to deserve such an end,” he added bitterly.

“That won’t happen.” Celianna looked up, and her blue eyes had frosted over. “Ein will be coming back. I know it.”

Gilfred shrugged. “If Aldoran is still standing, that is. The relict army won’t be leaving anytime soon.”