The Queen's Gambit: Book One of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 1) (18 page)

Wil paused, choosing his next words. “I feel passionately that the strong must help the weak. And, as much as you might criticize the Imirillian Empire, I think it would surprise you to know the earnest endeavors of some in the noble class on behalf the of the poor. Imirillia’s expanse has blessed many with abundance.”

“Yes,” Aedon replied. “But, it is through taking the rights of other people. Even if something is done with the best intentions, it cannot be done through force.”

“But, you do not share when asked,” Wil retorted.

Eleanor looked towards Wil. “My role as queen is to protect my people, to see them thrive,” she said. “I commit myself first and foremost to this responsibility. If our isolation causes pain, I am sorry for it, but I can’t risk the well-being of my people for another country.”

“Then, you are held captive by fear,” Wil responded.

“It is reason,” she said, “not fear.”

“It is seeing to one’s own stewardship,” Aedon added.

“Well, I will enlighten you on one thing,” Wil said, looking at Aedon then at Eleanor. “Your isolation does not only cause pain—it causes death. People in the North starve. Remember that the next time you feed your pigs such fine slop.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Again!” Wil yelled. The young man lifted his sword, swinging at Wil with all his force. Wil defended the blow as he would flick a grasshopper. “Again!” Wil yelled with each swing. “Again! Again!”

Finally, the young man dropped to the ground, exhausted of his strength. He looked up at Wil with an almost fearful resignation.

“Up on your feet,” Wil said. “Again.”

But the young man bent his head, his hands shaking.

Wil slid his own sword into its sheath. He knew the men of Rye Field fen were all watching, waiting to see how he would respond to this young man, who had failed so miserably in his training. Wil knew he should berate the young man or encourage him on with visions of success. But, instead, he motioned for Crispin to continue without him and crouched down before the youth.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Tarit.”

“What is it that you do, Tarit? Farmer? Thatcher?” Wil guessed.

“Potter, sir.”

“You make pots? Clay vessels and the like?”

Tarit nodded.

“Alright,” Wil said as he stood. “Come, show me your work.”

Tarit looked up, confused. “But, it’s the training day. All men must be present by order of the queen.”

Wil shrugged. “I’m friends with the queen. She’ll not mind.” Wil helped the young man to his feet.

Rye Field was set up differently from the other fens Wil had seen. There were separate buildings for tradesmen to work in, directly surrounding the fen hall, so all commerce remained in the center of the fen. Then the houses sat in a loose circle, and the fields behind them, spreading out like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Tarit led Wil to a humble, but sturdy building that was full of well-proportioned pieces of pottery.

Wil whistled. “Are all of these yours or are some of them your father’s?”

“All mine,” Tarit said, setting his shoulders back, like a man discussing his trade. “I’ve no father; mother and sisters is all.”

“Is all?” Wil replied. “That must be quite the responsibility. How old are you? Fourteen?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

Wil shook his head and looked about the small workroom. It was clean, but humble. The wheel was set in the corner so that Tarit could see anyone coming in or out of the door.

“Will you show me how it’s done?” Wil asked, pointing to the empty wheel.

Tarit seemed incredulous. “You want to see me at the wheel? But, why would such a thing interest you? You’re a soldier.”

“I’m curious,” Wil said. “You’ve spent your morning learning some of my trade, so I would be pleased to learn some of yours.”

Without needing any more encouragement, Tarit went to a stone bench of sorts and lifted off the lid. The aroma of wet earth filled Wil’s nostrils. Tarit removed a large, round ball of clay and slammed it down on a smooth stone nearby. Wil watched as the young man expertly kneaded the clay.

“It’s to get all the air pockets out,” Tarit explained as he worked. Tarit’s arms were strong, and his hands, quick. After working the clay into a soft, moldable, consistency, he threw it onto the potter’s wheel, dipping his fingers into a worn bucket of water—filthy and gritty.

Placing the clay soundly in the center, he proceeded to turn the wheel with one hand, while dipping his other in the water and bringing it back to the spinning mound before him. Once the wheel was going fast enough, Tarit used both hands, guiding the clay into shape. It looked effortless, even easy, an action of absolute grace.

Wil sat in the corner, somewhat envious of the obvious pleasure Tarit took in his work. The boy picked up a wooden stick leaning near the wheel, and, in a few quick movements, he left a beautiful design in the piece. Within moments, he presented Wil with a shallow bowl of perfect proportion.

“I don’t have the kiln ready just yet,” he said, “because I’ve been at training all morning. But, if you would like, I could place a bowl just like this in the kiln for you tonight, and it would be ready before morning.”

Touched, Wil nodded. “That would be an honor, Tarit. Thank you.” Wil’s eyes wandered around the shop, noticing how precise and uniform Tarit’s many completed bowls were. Drying next to other finished pieces on a large shelf, the vessels were all natural shades—browns, creams, and reds—both dark and light.

“In my land,” Wil began, “our potters use something called a glaze. It’s a liquid paint of sorts that they put on a piece of pottery before it goes into the kiln. It comes out in beautiful colors, smooth, with a shiny surface.”

Tarit’s looked impressed. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said. “But I’ve never seen anyone actually use such things. Do you know how to make them?”

“Not myself,” Wil said as he shook his head. “But, I may be able to find out, and someday, I’ll share the secret with you. You’ll be the most successful potter in all the fens.”

Tarit grinned at the thought.

“You know,” Wil looked the young man square in the eye. “I am sure that what you just showed me is more difficult than it seems. Am I right? Your friends have all tried it and failed.”

Tarit nodded.

“Well, I’ve been fighting for a long time.” Wil fought the sadness of his own smile. “For all intents and purposes, it’s my trade. I think, for a first attempt, you did well today. I hope you won’t have to become very good at fighting and that soon you will be back to your potter’s wheel, learning how to use the glazes I will send down to you. But don’t give up on trying to learn the sword just yet,” Wil added. “You are stronger than you think. I saw that as you worked your clay. Just imagine that you are the wheel when you fight. Use your sword to create the shapes that you need to block the enemy’s parry and to strike back. Also, spend some time with Aedon on archery,” he added. “It might prove to fit you better than man-to-man combat.”

Nodding, Tarit stood up and rinsed his hands in the dirty water, wiping them on his breeches. “I’ll try again, if you promise to send me those glazes,” Tarit stipulated.

“You have my word of honor,” Wil said solemnly as they left the potter’s shed, walking back to the training.

***

“I’ve never been so sore in my life,” Wil said later to Crispin as the young captain joined him in the shade of the blacksmith’s hut. Crispin nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with his fingers. They were in the middle of their last day at Rye Field fen.

“We’ve been going long enough to feel it,” Crispin said. “But, not long enough to be tough against it.”

“On days like these I ask myself why I ever left home, where servants drew me a daily bath, warm, with oils and soaps.” Wil sighed. “Curse the freezing rivers of Aemogen.”

“I can’t draw you a warm bath,” Crispin said, “but, I could do you one better.” A slow grin spread over Crispin’s face. “There is a collection of warm mineral pools in the hills above Rye Field. A few of us are going up there tonight after the bonfire,” he explained. “I saw Doughlas ride in an hour ago. He’ll join us for certain, so it should be good company.”

After the bonfire, Crispin called Wil to join him and a small party of soldiers, most of whom Wil had shared conversation with throughout the course of the battle run. Wil greeted Doughlas, inquiring after Ainsley, and found he had a letter from Edythe, a pleasant diversion as he waited for Crispin and the others. Aedon had also decided to join them.

They set out on a path through the woods that traveled into the hills. Wil conversed easily with the men about the day’s training as Crispin threw in several humorous observations. Even Aedon added to the conversation, responding to something Wil had said amicably. It was not long before they came to an outcropping of rock with several pools. A sequence of small waterfalls found their way down the mountain on the right, but, to the left, steam could be seen, rising out of mineral encrusted basins in the rocks.

“We are not exactly sure how they exist, but it’s a jolly good bath,” Crispin told Wil as the men stripped themselves of their clothing. “The locals come often, putting different plant oils in the water, or some such nonsense. A friend from the fen gave me this for my soreness.” Crispin held up a small glass bottle. “If you can credit the idea.”

After all the soldiers had settled themselves in the warm water, their conversation turned to home.

“I swear, Meg won’t wait out the summer,” Doughlas sighed. “The butcher’s son on New Ainsley road comes around every time I’m off on a ride, and wooing her back is a sure fight. She’ll be wed before I get home.”

“With your dashing looks?” someone called out, and Doughlas grinned. He was handsome and lithe, with a grin as mischievous as a cat’s.

“You’re too young to marry,” Crispin added. “And, how in the world are you supposed to decide which one you want to settle down with?”

“And, chances are,” Aedon said without a smile, “when you do find her, she’ll have walked out with Crispin a time or two before she chooses you.”

The men laughed, and Wil settled his sore body farther into the warmth of the mineral water, stretching his arms out along the edges of the pool. He enjoyed this company: their conversations, jokes, and personalities. Even Aedon was not as stiff to Wil these days. Although, Wil did notice Aedon studying the mark on Wil’s chest with curiosity. When he knew that the councillor had looked away, Wil checked to ensure that the black fabric about his left forearm was still secure.

“And what about you, Wil?” Sean said. “Tell us about the girls you left back home. Any that you regret?”

“There are some women at home,” Wil said, “who kept my mind occupied for a day here and there, but I’ve yet to meet one that’s made me feel regret.” Wil shrugged. “When I do,” he added, “I’ll send you a letter.”

“Just don’t send it by fen rider,” Doughlas quipped. “I’ll be busy, courting Meg or fighting the butcher’s son.”

Wil grinned.

“So you don’t plan on settling down anytime soon?” Crispin asked.

“Not in the future I see before me,” Wil said.

“Then why, under the blue, blue sky,” Crispin began, “does everybody give
me
a hard time for doing the same?” Crispin rounded on his friends. “All of you do. Even Eleanor prophesies me dying alone for the lack of choosing a wife.”

Duncan, a soldier that Wil did not know as well, spoke up for the first time. “Tell the queen you will wed as soon as she does,” he suggested. “And I’ll bet she won’t whisper a word for ten winters.”

“Ah, get off it,” Crispin said with a laugh. “Eleanor will marry soon enough.”

“Are you privy to information we’re not?” Doughlas asked in a rascal’s tone. Wil watched as all the soldiers actually seemed very interested in hearing what Crispin would have to say.

“I know nothing,” Crispin said, putting a cherubic look on his face. “Well, aside from a name and a date.” The soldiers all laughed, and he waited for the laughter to die down before pointing to Aedon. “There is the man that may know something,” Crispin said. “He is the queen’s foremost councillor.”

“The oldest and wisest amongst us all, for he is almost to the ripe old age of thirty,” Duncan teased. “Oh, Aedon, what news from the council chamber. Will our queen wed anytime soon?”

“Why would I know?” Aedon responded to the curious soldiers. “And, Sean is much older than I am.”

Sean made some sort of show, and they all laughed.

“The real question is not when but who,” Crispin said, elbowing Aedon, and then Doughlas said something smart.

Aedon smiled and flicked water at Crispin’s face with his fingers. “You’re elbowing the wrong man.”

“Why?” Wil finally spoke up, drawing back the attention of the group. “You wouldn’t want to marry the queen?”

“It’s not if he would want her,” Crispin answered for Aedon. “It’s if she would want him.”

“A man like Aedon, in his prime, not wanted by the queen?” Doughlas said, sounding tragic before breaking out a smile. “Well, we all knew she’d never have him. His dinner conversation is so dull.”

Wil let out an amused breath.

“Come on, Aedon, out with it,” Duncan persisted, as Aedon’s expression turned long suffering. “We all want to know if you are sweet on the queen. It’s not as if you’re the ugliest man at Ainsley Rise.”

Before they could get the now smiling Aedon to answer, a few more soldiers came up the path from the woods. Two of them were Crispin’s men, and the third, to Wil’s surprise, was Hastian, the Queen’s Own. A general greeting went up from the group, and it was not long before the newcomers had shed their clothing and settled into the pools.

“Here is the man you should ask,” Wil persisted, curious to see what he could find out. “Hastian, who holds the queen’s heart? Does our friend Aedon have any chance?” The men went silent, and Hastian’s eyes flicked to Wil’s, filled with a defiance that Wil had never seen in the mild-mannered soldier.

“He can’t answer you,” Duncan said quickly. “He’s the Queen’s Own.”

“Meaning?” Wil shrugged.

“Meaning that Hastian will never speak of the queen before anyone,” Aedon responded diplomatically, but firmly. “He does not reveal her activities, her comments, or her interactions. He can’t even tell you her favorite color if he knows it.”

“Hastian’s job,” Crispin added, “is to ensure that, although the queen almost always has an armed guard at her side, she is given the respect of complete privacy. He can never repeat anything he sees or hears while serving the queen. He can’t even discuss her as we are now,” Crispin explained. “Technically, he is to never speak her name.”