CHAPTER 5

A Simple Plan

Gialyn's bedroom was cramped, barely large enough for a decent bed, never mind furnishing. Sitting by the window with his arms folded on the sill, he rested his chin on the back of his hands and blew his long, black fringe out of his eyes. It was hard to see through the thick bubble-filled glass, but still, he let his gaze fall on the distant horizon. Slowly, he scanned along the ridge of the Speerlag Cliffs, following their jagged, silver-black edge on up to the slopes of the Bailie Mountain and the distant peaks of Monacdaire. He looked beyond, through the pale shroud of evening, finally fixing his gaze on the Northern Arc and the flickering Lights of Collisdan as they danced in waves across the darkening sky.

Closing his eyes, he imagined himself exploring the vales and mountains of what had become his home over the past two years. A horse was his greatest aspiration... buy a horse and travel the length and breadth of Ealdihain.

Maybe I could find work delivering those scrolls or running supplies to Ealyn and the other villages. I do not want to go back to Bailryn... become a guard. Gods, working the canal dock would be better.

Stifled shouts from the room next door interrupted his thoughts. He raised his head when heard his name spoke loudly—the one clear word amid the muffled barking of his parents' argument. He waited a moment. Were they shouting for him, or was it just his name spoken at the edge of a sentence? The moment passed; his parents continued their... discussion. Gialyn went back to gazing at the mountains and tried not to listen.

The darkness of the mid-spring evening had all but veiled his view. And yet still he gazed at the now-fading peaks as he tried to drive out the voices from his mind. He searched for the solace the mountains had often brought him, the place in his mind where he could shut out his frustration.

It wasn't working.

The mountains wouldn't come to his rescue, not this time. Sighing deeply, he banged his forehead against the backs of his hands.

Shifting his seat, he wrapped his arms around his head forcing his ears shut. His parents quarrelling had become louder and louder, more heated by the minute. He let out another low groan and muttered quietly to himself. "Why am I not part of this? Why aren't they asking me what I want?" Lying down on the bed, he buried his face in the pillow, wondering if a simple no would finally put an end to all the shouting, and if it were that easy, why didn't he say it...?

A good question, though he knew in his heart things were never that straightforward. Never more so than when his father was preaching about honour and responsibility.

Daric was a captain—or had been. For twelve years, he had served as Master of the Guard at the royal palace—and Captain of the King's Guard for eight years before that—and still, even though he was a farmer now, Daric believed his opinions were nothing short of the law... more so, when the talk turned to duty. He always held the high ground, or at least he thought so. Even if someone were to draw a map, pointing out all of his mistaken assumption, he would still be convinced of his wisdom on the matter. And yet as argumentative as he was, he rarely took a stand against Mairi—Gialyn's mother—when it came to matters of family. Indeed, most of the time it seemed as if Daric would rather take the dog for a walk in a blizzard than have a fight his beloved. But there he was, shouting in the kitchen, arguing with Mairi. And from what Gialyn could hear, it seemed Daric was winning!

Looks like I'll be going to Bailryn.

Gialyn thumped the pillow over his face and squashed it against his ears. But even then, he could still hear them.

*  *  *

"What of duty?" Mairi asked. She was standing behind the three dining chairs, as though keeping it between her and Daric. "Freezing your bones to the marrow atop the castle parapet or marching the Ward all alone at night; I do not see duty there. I see servitude!"

"He will be in service to the crown!" Daric insisted.

"He will be a slave to the crown! Duty and honour come to a soldier in battle, not guard duty—clearing the streets of drunkards and loafers... or... or... standing in line with your buttons polished."

Gialyn's mother was a beautiful woman, even when angry, which didn't happen very often. Her clear blue-grey eyes gave Daric an unyielding stare from under her furrowed brow. She folded her arms, tapped her foot, and bit at her bottom lip. She was not going to give in on this argument.

Mairi continued; "Or is it your plan to pray to the gods," she yelled, poking a finger hard against the back of the chair, "ask them for the old wounds to reopen, for our enemies to rise again, so Gialyn can taste this... this duty you are so keen on? Is it your hope to see our son to WAR?"

Mairi put her hand to her mouth. Shaking, she took a step backwards. Daric could see tears welling up.

"I'm so sorry," she said. Her voice crackled as if her throat was dry. "I—I didn't mean that... I should not have shouted. That was not called for."

She cleared the pots lying by the stove and pulled the large chairs out of the way in readiness for their supper at the table. "It wouldn't trouble me so, Daric," she said in a calmer voice, "if Bailryn were not so far away. By Ein'laig, you could scarcely go farther without falling into the sea."

Other than the odd word or two, Daric had listened silently to Mairi's comments. There were times he wanted to cut her short, shout back... or maybe throw something. Indeed, he had turned wide-eyed and fidgeted with irritation at some of her remarks. But he let her finish—he let her be angry. How could a good mother not be angry at what he was suggesting for their son?

"Then what would you have him do, my love?" Daric asked. "If it is thought for his safety that holds your fears, then there can scarcely be a more dangerous place than the Rundair Mines. Nor more tedious, to say nothing of how miserable an existence it would be him. You know Gialyn better than anyone; you know what a lifetime of hard labour would do to him. And yet, that is what the future holds if he stays here."

Daric thought his rebuttal to be fair indeed. However, knowing Mairi—as well he did all too well—there was little doubt in his mind that she would not let it lay.

"He could work with you, labour around the farm!"

Daric dipped his head and put his hands flat on the bench. "Mairi, my love, if only we could. The farming life is a way off yet. You know that. It will be at least another year before we can afford to plant the orchards, and then another three before we make any real money from it." He stood up straight and tried to summon his best captain's voice. "Were it not for my guard's pension we would scarcely be eating, to say nothing of the debt on the farm! We would be forced from this house, probably back to Bailryn and your—your mother's. By Ein'laig, pray that never happens, for I would be the one to jump into the sea!"

Mairi's eyebrows rose as though she had been waiting for him to bring up their woeful lack of income. "If money is so tight, how is it you can take three months off work to deliver him to Bailryn?

She stood in an all too familiar pose, arms folded below her breasts, tapping her finger on her elbow while gazing at him with a triumphant expression... as if the argument was all but over.

"I have already told you. The Tanner girl is coming. Her father is paying me handsomely to see her safely to the capital."

"Pft." Mairi turned away from the table. Shaking her head, she clicked her tongue. "Damn, I forgot about that," she whispered, then quickly turned to see if Daric had heard.

He had.

An awkward silence settled heavily over the kitchen. For a long moment, Daric simply stared back at his beloved. He knew they were both convinced in the wisdom of their arguments. But Daric was convinced he was right. Surely she could see his point; he hated arguing with her, hated to see her upset. But this was their son's future they were arguing about, not a simple domestic matter, like how many chickens should they buy, or would they need another cart to take their produce to Ealyn. He had to do right by him....

"If your argument is no more than a wish to see Gialyn tied at your apron for the rest of his days, then, my love, I have no answer to satisfy such a need... none to change your mind, at any rate. You are his mother. I understand you cannot find this easy; you would not be the mother you are if you did. But Gialyn is eighteen and a man. He cannot stay your child for much longer. He must grow up."

Mairi's lip quivered. She stared aimlessly at the floor. Daric knew he must be upsetting her. Any other day, the pitiful look on her face would have been enough to stop him. But not today...

"If you have a good argument, save that of a mother's coddling, then I would hear it spoken now."

Daric waited for a response. Mairi didn't as much as move her lips.

He continued, "He must see the country. Whether he chooses the guards or ends up in the mine is not important. He must grow up. He is drifting into oblivion, wasting his life. He will come to Bailryn with me. He will seize this opportunity. What he decides to do with it is up to him... I swear it, Mairi... it is up to him! I will not force his hand. But nor will I have him sitting here as though his future had already been carved in stone." Daric stood up straight and folded his arms. "That is my word on—"

*  *  *

Gialyn slammed his bedroom door behind him as he stomped through the kitchen, eyes front, ignoring his parents. He swung the outer door wide, letting it bang against the kitchen wall, and left the house. The door was still shaking when his father shouted after him.

"Where are you going? Gialyn!"

Gialyn ignored his father's cry; left Daric standing on the threshold. He skipped the fence, pulled his coat around his shoulders—even though it wasn't cold—and made off at a brisk pace towards the town square.

He strode determinedly along the track towards Albergeddy, only pausing briefly at the edge of the farmyard to glance over his shoulder. His father had already gone back into the house, likely as not to continue the argument with his mother. Gialyn had no doubt Daric would use his sudden exit as yet another reason to prove himself right, prove that his son was "an irresponsible child." But he didn't care, not right then. He was already numb from all the thinking he had done. One more thread in his father's ridiculous plan wouldn't matter too much. He knew the man had already made up his mind five minutes after talking to Theo Tanner at the Spring Feast—and that's if it took five minutes. And once Daric Re'adh, the Master of the Guard, made up his mind....

From the hilltop, Gialyn could see the entire town.

Town? Only settlers would call fifty homes a town.

The lamps of the town square shone bright in the near darkness. Lights flickered in the windows of many of the homes too. None more so than the Tanners' house—it was the biggest, after all. Gialyn wondered if Elspeth was home. He knew which room was hers but couldn't tell if her lamp was lit... not from this distance. But that didn't stop him squinting for a better look.

"She's probably polishing her trophy," Gialyn whispered to himself as he kicked a stone down the track. "I bet her father has thrown a party."

It was true. To listen to Theo after the prize-giving ceremony, anyone would think he had won the archery tourney. Elspeth, for all her arrogance, had looked embarrassed by his constant prattle and praise.

And what do I get for winning? Gialyn thought. Not so much as a cake. Just dragged off to Bailryn to follow in father's footsteps.

When would the man realise that Gialyn was not his father. He had no desire to fight, no urge to gain honour for himself. And as for responsibility... it was overrated, as far as he was concerned. Better to live a simple life.

All was quiet when he reached the outskirts of the town. The day's activities had sent most to their beds. Even the dogs from the Lesgar inn that roamed around the square were nowhere to be seen.

However, there was some noise....

He glanced down the alley separating the homes from the Canal dock. Ealian and his friends were leaning against the low wall of Mayon Bower's cottage. Gialyn quickly averted his eyes; he didn't want to deal with that crowd—not now, not tonight. He pulled his collar up around his chin, trying to hide his face. Ealian and his cronies were laughing and joking. Gialyn held his breath and trod quietly until he was well past the alley. They didn't notice him, thankfully.

The town square was quiet but brightly lit. Every window of the Lesgar Inn shone with the flickering glow of oil lamps. It appeared that not everyone had gone to their beds. Is drinking ale all day not enough? Gialyn shook his head and made his way to the well. He pulled himself up onto the circular wall and sat watching the folk go by, listening to snips of their conversations. It always irritated him how people could be happy when he was upset. Of course, he knew that made no sense. And yet, it did annoy him.

As if his ill mood needed further aid, Ealian and his friends waltzed into the square. Clearly, they'd been drinking—either that or one of Ealian's legs had suddenly grown a foot longer than the other.

"Here he is... the hill climber." Ealian slurred. "That prize should have been mine, Re'adh."

Gialyn sighed heavily.

"What... what was that for?" Ealian said. "Y-you think you deserved to win, do you? You cheated!" Ealian staggered as he attempted to point at him.

Gialyn stood and began to walk towards the canal where his father worked when he wasn't working in their fields. "Best way to avoid an argument is to not be there." That was one of Daric's sayings. For once, Gialyn agreed.

"Where are you going? Re'adh!"

Surprisingly, Ealian's friends didn't help spur him on; likely even they had realised how dolefully the fool was behaving. However, it didn't stop the emissary's son. He threw his quarter-full bottle of ale at Gialyn, missing him by barely a hand—a lucky throw in his present condition.

"That is enough!" Elspeth's shout came from inside Gobin the blacksmith's shop—she was often in there, sharpening knives or arrow tips.

Ealian turned—or rather swayed—in her direction. "This has nothing to do with you, sister," he said, pointing at where he must have thought she was standing... his aim was off by a good span.

"Go home, Ealian. You're making a complete fool of yourself. Astin, take him home."

Astin Barrair raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, you heard me, Astin." Elspeth pointed directly at him. "Take him home before I tell your mother you've been at the ale."

Startled, Astin nodded furiously. He wheeled Ealian around—ignoring the fool's complaints—and, together with the other three, marched the drunken clown in the direction of home.

Elspeth stood with her hands on her hips and jaw clenched, watching as the five disappeared around the corner. She was shaking her head and tutting. The sight of her reminded Gialyn of his mother when he had forgotten to feed the chickens... or clean the barn... or fill the water barrels... or one of a hundred other things his parents made him do.

"You shouldn't let them treat you like that, Re'adh," she said, taking a pace towards the well.

Gialyn walked back to the well as sat on the wall. For once, he wasn't nervous, despite being so close to her. The events of the evening had overshadowed his usual butterfly-stomach.

"Only a fool fights a fool's battle," he said in a clear, firm tone.

Elspeth looked taken aback by his comment. She didn't speak to Gialyn very often, and when she did, she probably expected to hear little more than an incoherent, nervous prattle. The surprise reached her eyes, and she laughed. "Where did that come from?"

"It is one of my father's. He has dozens of them."

He laughed a little, too; although his grin never reached farther than his mouth. He dipped his head and slowly bit at his lip. A strange sense of calm had come over him since leaving his home. Almost a dazed calm, as if he were walking in a dream. He fished through his pockets, looking for a sweetroll he thought he had—nothing. Sighing, he turned to the large wooded bucket hanging from a rope on the well winch. Pulling the bucket to him, he picked up the ladle and took a sip before emptying some of the water into his hand. Slowly, he washed the water over his face. It was hot.

Why did I bring this coat?

Elspeth looked puzzled. Doubtless, she was accustomed to having folk's full attention. However, Gialyn, of all people, had turned his back on her. She shuffled over and sat on the wall next to where he was standing.

After a few moments, she spoke; "Are you looking forward to seeing Bailryn again?" The smile on her face said she certainly was.

Gialyn knew Elspeth had been to Bailryn before, but just the once, and then only passing through. He had overheard her talking about the tall towers, the white marble, the pristine fountains and polished cobbles of the palace square. The smile on her face lit up her eyes; she sighed like a girl waiting for her first dance at the ball.

For a second, he wondered if he should sit back down next to her. What would she think? Would she assume him too presumptuous, too bold, maybe? He decided he didn't care and sat down anyway.

"Lightfoots, Shrillers, the Black Hand, open sewers, food shortages, rats, and the blight: what is there to look forward to?" Gialyn asked.

Elspeth looked at him askance, open mouthed, as if about to say something. Folding her arms, she appeared to think for a moment, now and then creasing her brow as though puzzling through a problem. "What are Shrillers?" she finally asked.

"Beggars—but none like you have ever seen. They will plant themselves in front of you, bar your way, scream how their children are starving and will die without food. Or they might say their mother is sick, and if you don't give them a silver bit or some coppers... Then, once your back is turned, they run into the nearest tavern and buy ale with the money you gave."

"So why do people give it to them if they know that is all they do with it?"

Elspeth looked straight at Gialyn, straight into his eyes. Her stare cracked through his dazed disposition. He began to remember he was supposed to be nervous around her.

"Most people don't," he said, after clearing his throat. "But enough give in to keep them at it. I suppose they think a few coppers are a small price to pay to be rid of them."

"And what are these... Lightfoots?"

"Local thieves. Groups of them roam around the streets in search of easy victims—single women with a child, too busy protecting them to fight back; rich men too fat to chase them; hawkers and peddlers too busy with customers to notice thieving. They will filch from anybody."

"Gods, where are the guards? Why doesn't someone do something about it?"

Gialyn laughed. "The guards only patrol the palace square; the rest of Bailryn fends for itself. A few inns and taverns hire men to keep order, but often enough, the men they hire are little better. The Black Hand were the worst of them. My father thought Lord Breen—he's the patron of the Black Hand—was actually working with the Lightfoots to force folk into paying for protection."

"I see," Elspeth said, although her expression said she didn't see at all. "Of course, I wasn't expecting it to be all roses." She lifted her chin—there was that arrogance again. "I expected it to be difficult. I mean, after all, it is the palace guards." A self-absorbed grin covered her face.

Gialyn thought she was imagining herself clad in shinning dress uniform, a palace guard captain's insignia on her shoulder. I wonder if she knows what the barracks look like. He laughed at the thought.

"Now what?" Elspeth sat up, staring.

"Nothing. I—I think you're going to be in for a surprise." Gialyn laughed nervously. The calm daze was wearing off.

"I'm sure I will be able to handle anything." Elspeth's chin rose even higher. She crossed her legs and folded her arms tight. Blinking, she turned her gaze away and looked towards the blacksmiths. "I expect I will do very well. Of all the women chosen to guard the court, I'm sure none will be able to shoot like me."

"Doubt you will have much chance," Gialyn mumbled.

"What was that?" Elspeth asked. She sounded annoyed now. "You really should speak up."

Gialyn scoffed indignantly. Damn her if she thought to get the better of him—not tonight of all nights. "Most of the women who guard at the courts are little more than housemaids who know how to fight. You will probably spend most of your time fetching and carrying for one of the ladies of the court. You might be lucky and be assigned to a princess. But then, I don't know if you would call that luck; she will probably have you hemming her dresses."

"Pft... I won't do it!"

"You will do what you are told!"

"I... argh... I don't believe you."

Gialyn felt strangely empowered, using his knowledge of Bailryn to get the better of her.

No. Stop it. Stop teasing, you fool.

He lowered his tone. "All the guards do their share of fetching and carrying, Elspeth. Even my father did, and he was a captain. And if there is a war...." Gialyn blink and pulled in a long breath; he knew all too well what wars were about—nothing good. "If there is a war, you will fight alongside the men... and die alongside them, too." He whispered the last part.

Elspeth bit her lip. Her face flattened at his last comment. She stood, brushed down her breeches, and straightened her blouse. "I should be getting back. It's late."

Gialyn stood, too, and bowed.

Then immediately wished he had not. Why do I keep doing that? They don't bow around here. He coughed to hide his embarrassment.

Elspeth laughed a little. Once again, she mimicked a curtsy. He did another half bow before turning for home.

He looked over his shoulder as he walked. Elspeth was heading back over to Gobin's, probably to gather her belongings. She did not turn back.

Gialyn paused for a moment. It had been, by far, the longest conversation he had had with Elspeth. Did she care about him at all? Did she even give him a second thought? Probably not. At least he had stood up for himself, talked to her properly without stumbling around for something to say. It was an improvement, a step in the right direction. Maybe he could spend more time talking to her on their way to Bailryn. Setting off again, he glanced along the road at the light shining from his kitchen. He wondered if he could sneak around back without anyone noticing; he didn't want any more talk, not tonight.