Eragos Feareborne (proscribed) wrote in adusta, @ 2008-10-08 15:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | eragos feareborne, knights, vera of beit-orane |
cold steel (vera)
Endless snow, as far as the eye could see, as though it had consumed the entire world and still did not plan on stopping. Eragos had lived in the north for most of his life. Weather like this was spring, back home, and he welcomed it. Warmer by far than the dead of winter. At the head of the column in that flowing cloak of purple and gold rode the lone king's man. Barada. He'd demonstrated a tendency for laying hands upon women and spitting. Knight. If he were a knight, a true knight, Eragos would have challenged him to a duel. There was no reason to think Barada would have accepted such a proposal. And even if he did, it was pointless to think about. Fighting a duel was not the reason he was here. It had developed that travel in winter, when the roads were either iced or fouled with mud, became necessary for the king of Astora. Since many of his liege men had retired to their estates for the winter it had become necessary to hire a force of armed guards for the journey. That he was one of those guards, Eragos could not deny. Yet he doubted the rest of them even knew what the word 'honor' meant - let alone how to live with it. Brigands and thieves, and mercenaries if not. The latter being little better than the former in his mind.
Two countries. Malondir and Astora. After generations of war they'd come to an arrangement. Let daughter of one king marry son of the other. Together they would rule both kingdoms, and their lineage would continue ruling forever. It was the sort of plan he'd read in the books by Alson, books that Alson claimed were based on his own life. That thought seemed ridiculous. A temple sinking into the earth, becoming part of the shadow realm? A man made of other men? Steel that moved as a man did, with fire that spewed forth from its eyes? Those stories were not the sort of thing that Eragos could place any faith in. This seemed equally unlikely - that one marriage could undo warfare stretching back to his great-grandfather's time. That it would last forever seemed equally hopeful, but no less ridiculous if the first measure was achieved. So king and princess of Astora were their wards, on the long journey to Malondir. If Eragos could have found something more suited to his talents, he would have. As it stood not a single creature was stirring against the great white bleakness spread out before them. Eragos doubted they'd see anything at all between here and the Dragon Gate. If they did, it would be something to the right of a miracle.
In Malondir the men had been inspected like cattle. One pair of watchful eyes in particular, hidden behind a mask, had been present for all the questioning. Or so he'd heard. They told tales of the White Riders in hushed tones if they spoke of them at all. Some band of knights or another, but there were few orders in the south that would admit women. She had the air of a lady about her, a regal presence that never left her - with or without the mask. A noble, then, or descended from nobility. She was the only one aside from Eragos himself who dressed in something other than the king's colors. For his part Eragos was not a king's man. He'd been hired to give his life for the king, and he would if it came to that, but he had given no oath save that one and wouldn't wear the colors of a man who had. So he stayed in his simple brown leather and loose white shirt beneath the bearskin cloak he'd acquired with the advance. As for her, she was dressed in the purest white. He wondered what the sigil on her chest was supposed to mean. She'd been asked that, of course, by fellows who looked at her chest for entirely different reasons. Men such as Barada. They all wore the colors, but only Barada had given the oath.
They were, for the most part, filth unworthy of the cloaks they wore.
"And you?" a voice asked at his side. "Are you of Malondir, as well, goodman?"
Goodman. He remembered a time when he'd been possessed of a title. What seemed like a lifetime ago, no matter how short his own life had been.
The Lady Cithia wore no country's colors. Her cloak, like his, was animal skin and not fabric of the traditional kind. Eragos could understand - she was arranged to marry the prince of another land. When such a marriage was arranged, it did not suit that arrangement to appear dressed in the colors of your home. Not for a woman, in any case. No doubt the prince would find himself in the rich brocade of his home. An arranged marriage. She must have courage to go through with such a thing. And yet there was a petulance about her, something childish that he could not make himself respect.
"No, Lady Cithia. My home is in the north. The end of the Central Mountains, where the winter is hardest."
"Then the cold must not bother you."
"In my home, this was the mark of spring, Lady Cithia."
"Oh! How dreadful!" and her mouth set in that thin line, which he could feel even while staring ahead as he was tasked. "You must have hated it a great deal, to come so far from it."
"It is as you say, Lady Cithia."
"You know, you're the only one who gives me a title, other than Vera."
"Vera, Lady Cithia?"
"The White Rider."
He'd never thought to ask her name. And she'd never given it while peppering him with questions. Of course, she'd never asked for his name, either. And would not have it now unless Barada had asked for it. Names were only important for those of title, of position. He'd surrendered both to his home before leaving it forever. She couldn't imagine loving weather such as this, or a place where such weather was considered mild, but to him it was life. Ever since first leaving his home, in the company of his mother, he'd dreamed of coming back through the pass that had marked his boyhood adventuring and his training as a young man. It was the gateway to his world, to his home. And the pass was finest in spring. Hardy mountain flowers bloomed despite the weather. She couldn't imagine it, this petulant princess, but he yearned for it. To him the weather was gorgeous. No doubt it would give way to a southland summer before long. The heat was oppressive. And the clothing of the common man more disgusting than he could have imagined.
"Of course. The White Rider, Lady Cithia. She comes from the Free Cities?"
"From Eistocene. Her father is a High Lord."
"She must be honored to ride with you, Lady Cithia, as I am."
"You're too proper, goodman," and here a coquettish smile replaced the thin line. "In truth, I'm... intimidated by her."
Intimidation. He hadn't been intimidated since the day that his father had wielded naked steel against him for the first time. Ever since that day, with the hard training in the spring snows, he hadn't known intimidation. Strange, to think that dragons had never inspired fear or intimidation in him.
"She's a very strong woman, go... you do have a name, don't you, sir?"
"My name is Eragos Feareborne, my lady."
"You aren't like the other mercenaries, Sir Feareborne."
"I have no titles, Lady Cithia. Master Feareborne, only. And I am not a mercenary."
"I didn't think so. You remind me of my father's knights. You have the same look about you."
"What look is that, Lady Cithia?"
"The look of a man who knows his own worth."
"A man should always be aware of who and what he is, my lady."
"I couldn't agree more," and now she laughed, as though he'd said something amusing.
Up ahead, it seemed he was the first to notice it. A group of riders coming down the hill as their own party went up. Ten men total, in this escort, not including the drivers of the four wagons. There were four ahead of them, each dressed in cloaks of gray. The Lady Cithia was too busy smiling at him to notice them. And for the rest, they either did not notice or did not find the thing to be worthy of alarm. Barada commanded the point, a group of four men. Eragos' hand went to his flambard on instinct. In the next second, he was glad it did. Barada signalled the stop and the wagon drivers obeyed. Only, when the king's man turned, there was an ugliness to his expression.
Unexpected, but it made sense.
Barada was turning traitor.
"I'm afraid," he called with a sneer. "That there's been a change of plans. My lady."