Eragos Feareborne (proscribed) wrote in adusta, @ 2010-06-13 15:57:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | eithne savastian, eragos feareborne, vera of beit-orane |
a good man (eithne, vera)
His ears were ringing even still.
Not normally one for indulging in alcohol had its benefits. He was free to avoid the red-faced mockery that pursued such souls inside the walls of the Castel. But perhaps most of all he was free from the possibility of losing control. That ache behind his eyes which would not abate, no matter how he pinched his nose. This sore jaw which was purpling with each passing moment. Insistent hands were pressing into the side of his face. Trying to smear away blood, find the source of the wound. Eragos was seated on an overturned crate, boots pulled high and trousers stuffed into the tops of his boots. Not his uniform. Plain tan trousers, a short coat that ended just above his belt, and a high collar that currently rested against the back of his neck. Should have been blood on it. He touched the fabric with bare hands.
Blood.
"Stop moving," the voice ordered.
Silver linden trees stared back at him. They were swaying in the breeze just before dawn, when the sky shone purple more than red or orange, and the menace of the summer sun was still ahead of them. Once upon a time, he'd enjoyed rising with the dawn to stare over rolling hills of tobacco and into the baleful eye of the dragon. Such times seemed long behind him. How long since he'd been back to the estate? Vargis sent letters with additional funds, and insisted that it ought to have a name, but the only name Eragos wanted was the only name he could never give. So it was simply the 'estate', and if Vargis did not have an attractive name to tell when he bragged of his residence and his position then he would have to learn how to deal with that disappointment.
"Stop moving," the voice insisted, louder.
Details were beginning to come more readily to his mind, to be processed by them. One of his gloves was gone. The other was stuffed into his belt, as it might have been had he found time to converse with someone. But he was not conversing. He'd just fought a battle, hadn't he? Even the thought of standing and drawing his weapon was nauseating. Knees ached. Face ached. Hands were wretched with cramping muscles and pain, as though someone had slammed doors on them more than once. Heavy oak. Eragos' lips cracked when they parted. Stuck together. How could he feel intoxicated, still, when his lips were chapped and his throat was parched? Staring through sweat and blood at the sun provided no answers. Instead he tried to stand up; heavy arms forced him back to his makeshift seat.
A pain, nagging but not excruciating, made itself known. The skin of his forehead. Tugging. They were sewing a wound closed. Someone must have tried to heal him, and found out the truth. They were patient hands. He did not know them. Instead the inside of his skull throbbed, and he stared at the morning sun, and the weight of his sword comforted him. Opened. Opened his eyes wide. Stared out at what he could see. Wondered at it. The sun was there. The sewing was done. Dawn was approaching. White uniforms. They were White Riders. At least ten of them, roaming the circle - speaking in smaller groups and studying one site or another. He could not see, for the face that was sewing his closed. She did have a face, then; she was not full of darkness. Wide eyes peered into his. Her smile was friendlier than any he'd seen in ages.
She, too, was a White Rider to judge by the tunic. Golden hair framed her face, spilled down past her waist. She looked tired despite the warmth.
"You're far too stubborn, Eragos," she told him quietly; that smile widened. "You should know when to sit still and when to rush off."
"What happened?" he managed to ask in a thick voice.
"Someone beat you half to death," Vargis' voice was the one behind him, then; already the old man moved to crouch before Eragos. "I imagine Conlan will want the other half."
Conlan. Agrippa. Captain of the White Riders. To whom appearance was as important, if not more so, than fact and reality. If there was one soul that Eragos had no desire to see before his injuries healed it was Conlan Agrippa. Who had managed to get the drop on him? Eragos felt his reflexes could have done something to even the score, even if liquor addled his mind. Why did they leave his sword. His pouch? Not one thing was stolen. His hand was sliding down his belt, and then around his side, despite the golden-haired objections to this movement. Eragos did not want to think he'd displeased her. He stopped. Vargis cleared his throat. Those old eyes changed.
"What happened?" he asked again.
"Eragos, you aren't-"
"Leave it, girl. And out of the way."
As soon as he heard Vargis' tone of voice Eragos cleared his throat. The old man did not laugh. For once. She gave him one last smile, and patted his wrist, before she pulled away from him. Lovely green eyes. The sort of eyes that no man would mind seeing. Yet when she moved, something terrible happened. Her face was replaced by a stretch of blood-drenched ground. And at the center of it, a body. A White Rider's body. One red handprint on his mask. The sight of it brought Eragos to his feet - but the young lady seized one arm, and Vargis the other.
"He's dead, lad," Vargis was wearing nothing more than a loose shirt, black trousers and boots. "If they stopped at half for you, they showed no consideration for him."
"How?" Eragos asked hoarsely.
"We were hoping," and the young lady was crouching in front of him again, blocking the sight. "That you could tell us. Teacher Urill did not leave the Castel often, these days."
Teacher Urill. Eragos' eyes begged for death, but he managed to keep focused. Teacher Urill. The fellow rode as though he were born on a horse. Had a distaste for weapons because he'd been a pikeman in his younger days, butchering cavalry charges from behind those wooden shields they favored. Taught alchemy to those as were inclined to learn, Eragos thought. Not just alchemy, but disciplines of thought. How to outwit an opponent or a criminal. He'd not found much time to listen to Urill's lessons, but only because the old fellow was a taskmaster and slavishly devoted to his schedule - instead of the other way around. Now it was too late. Who would want a fellow that served purely as an academic instructor dead? And why would they want Eragos dead, as well?
"Eragos," Vargis' knees popped, as he turned to stare over his shoulder. "The fellow was run through. By a sword. I'm not a bootman, and I never have been, but I've caught enough criminals in my life to know what they're thinking."
"You need to tell us what happened," the blonde woman insisted in a softer voice. "Before they arrest you, Eragos."
Burning sun rose over the tops of the trees. Silver linden trees in a circle, performance space in the center of that circle, an honored place of the White Riders. More sun. Seared his eyes. Eragos coughed roughly into the back of his hand; found himself staring at dried blood. So his mouth had been bleeding. What happened? Urill. Sword. Beating. Injured. Sewing. None of it was coming together. None of it was making any sense. He'd been planning to rise early enough to attend a class on swordsmanship; someone had asked him for... someone had wanted him to... it was good experience, and he was hoping to see the Lady Vera there, since she'd only just arrived back in Simanel. It was good experience, and... he wanted to...
"What are you saying?" he asked dumbly.
"They think you did this," Vargis hissed. "They think you killed Urill, Eragos. I'd be surprised if all of Simanel hasn't heard by now."
He had never felt more stupid than he did at that very moment. All he could manage was a shake of his head.