Chapter 14
Bastion circled the keep like a hungry scavenger, unable to find what would fill him.
His heart’s desire had been granted. No one could deny the legitimacy of his knighthood now, but he felt hollow. The title, meaningless. As if he’d been forced to walk barefoot across the shattered glass of his broken dreams.
Something was missing, but he didn’t know what.
He tucked it away to examine later, when there wasn’t an impending threat.
To distract himself, he followed a piece of advice King Torvald had given him once, and spent the afternoon getting to know Moonwatch’s soldiers.
He started with the men in the northern watchtower, asking how long they’d served Lord Kyrith, where they were from, what weapons they preferred, and what they thought about Moonwatch’s defenses.
Most of them were seasoned warriors, long in the employ of Lord Kyrith and confident in Moonwatch’s defenses.
Their ease seemed to contradict the screech and whir of blades being sharpened by the blacksmith in the courtyard below.
Only a few held fear in their eyes, like a harp string destined to break the next time it was plucked.
One by one, Bastion got his answers, welcoming them into the arms of camaraderie.
Most called the Illadian Coast their home, but some had come from Tynamara.
A few had even trained with Hanniel in the Royal Guard.
There was a squad of exceptionally skilled archers in residence, but most of the other men preferred a sword or spear.
There was one man from Rhee who wielded a monstrous axe.
And those were just the men Lord Kyrith didn’t take with him.
Up the steps of the southern watchtower, Bastion heard similar stories. They assured him that Moonwatch's defenses would not fail. What weighed on them was the waiting.
Bastion felt it, too.
It was always worse than the fighting, worse than the death and chaos, because he knew some of these men wouldn’t survive. He might not survive.
Bastion returned to his restless prowling, the sun now the hazy, burnished gold of late afternoon. Despite the defenses he’d observed, his heart was burdened by the weapon they still knew nothing about.
Something caught his ear–a guard singing softly. The wind swept the words past Bastion as if it didn’t want him to hear.
Look now to the star- kissed horizon
Think of your loved ones and sleep
Take only the love that was given you
The road was long, but this last step is short
Bastion recognized it and wondered if the man knew he sang a Varo lullaby.
The few shadow spinners he’d come across spoke of Death as a benevolent companion on the road of life who would greet them like a friend at the end.
Bastion shook his head and hurried on, hoping he would not meet Death anytime soon.
As he continued his circuit, the expansive emptiness of the sea gave him no peace. The afternoon wore on while the winter sun beat down. A creeping sense of dread walked its way up his spine every time he turned his back to the ocean.
When the sun dipped towards the horizon, Hywell came to find him.
“Sir Bastion,” the captain said. Bastion managed not to flinch even though the title made him feel like an imposter. “I’ve come to relieve you.
For a moment, he and Bastion stood side by side, looking out over the bay. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries filling the silence. Sometimes he missed the simplicity of guard duty. Being Endre’s bodyguard had its advantages, but solitude wasn’t one of them.
Finally, Bastion spoke. “How are the townsfolk?”
“As well as can be expected,” Hywell answered. “They’re armed, but inexperienced. I’m not worried, though.”
“Oh?”
Hywell gave him a sidelong look. “You’ve seen our defenses. We could hold Moonwatch with twenty men wielding kitchen spoons.”
The boast gave him pause. Bastion wondered if Hywell was citing history. When he returned to Tynamara, perhaps he would visit the university library and see what records they had.
“How long have you served Lord Kyrith?” Bastion asked.
“Fifteen years,” Hywell said. He gave Bastion a boyish smile. “I taught Lady Nesrin swordplay while Lord Kyrith wasn’t looking.”
“Ah, so you’re to blame,” Bastion chuckled. Laugh lines appeared around Hywell’s eyes.
“I suppose so. I’m lucky my lord didn’t give me the boot for indulging her.”
Bastion shook his head. “She’s as stubborn as her father. I doubt he had a choice.”
Laughter erupted between them, and something shook loose in Bastion. When had he last laughed?
His stomach growled, and Hywell raised an eyebrow. He jerked his head towards the keep.
“Lady Nesrin requested you see to your Thatian before joining her for dinner. The stable is in uproar.”
“Ah,” Bastion said. He gave the captain a tight smile. “My apologies. I’ll see what I can do.” He gave the sea a last, uneasy look and headed off.
As he reached the ground, he needed no guidance in finding the stable.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
People working in the courtyard recoiled with each strike. From the way they shifted, hands jumping to their weapons, Bastion expected to find a fire-breather lurking in the stables. Scowls and whispers followed him like mosquitoes as he strode across the yard and entered alone.
Inside, it appeared that they’d crammed the entire town’s livestock into the empty stalls.
Goats and sheep bleated, pigs grunted, and dozens of chickens clucked nervously as they ran to keep out from underfoot.
A handful of horses shifted nervously, the whites of their eyes showing as Bastion passed.
An orange cat glared from atop a stack of hay bales, its tail swishing in blatant agitation.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The force of the Thatian’s kicks bounced the stall door against the latch with wood-splintering force. A padlock secured the door. Bastion approached slowly, calling in a gentle singsong.
“Finn… Fiiiiiinn.”
The gelding swiveled around and stuck his head out, ears pricked and eyes bright. Bits of hay clung to his forelock.
“Why are you causing a ruckus?” Bastion asked. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the apple he’d stashed earlier.
Finn dipped his head eagerly, letting out a warm huff against Bastion’s hand, and crunched the apple. Around them, the other animals quieted.
“So, you are both warrior and wild mage,” someone said.
Bastion spun, hand already on the sword at his hip, but it was only Lawrence.
He relaxed, taking in the man's manner of dress. A thick fur draped over his shoulders and hung to his waist, adding to his mass. Beneath it, he wore plain clothing with well-worn boots. The length of the fur partially concealed two short swords at his belt.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Bastion replied.
He pressed the last bit of apple to Finn’s soft lips, wiped his hand on his pants, and peered into the stall.
Dried sweat darkened the Thatian’s back where the saddle had been, a clear indicator that he hadn’t been taken care of last night.
The stall hadn’t been mucked out either, and his bucket was nearly empty. Bastion frowned.
“Do you know who put the padlock on? ” Bastion asked. “His water is low.”
“Cedric!” Lawrence called over his shoulder. When nothing happened, Lawrence called again, louder. “Cedric, come here!”
A moment later, a frazzled hostler jogged through the door.
“Yes, milord?”
“Key, please,” Lawrence said.
Cedric’s demeanor wilted. He took a step back.
“Milord… that’s a Thatian. They’re dangerous.”
A splinter of contempt entered his voice, and he flashed Bastion a look, as though condemning him for his choice of mount.
“I’m aware,” Lawrence said gently. “And if he colics, Kinra will surely visit her wrath upon whoever let his water dry up.”
Cedric froze, his limbs rigid as tree branches. Then he fumbled with the keys on his belt.
“I’ll deal with him if you bring me a fresh bucket,” Bastion said.
He held out his hand. The keys jangled as Cedric passed them over and fled. Bastion grabbed a brush and returned to the stall door. It took a moment to find the right key, but when he did, he let the padlock drop to the dirt floor before he tossed the ring to Lawrence.
Finn wickered as Bastion stepped inside, snuffling at his pockets for more treats. Amused, Bastion withdrew a smashed biscuit, took a bite, and offered the rest to the gelding.
As Bastion got to work on Finn, Lawrence rested his arms along the top of the stall door. The Thatian regarded him with an unsettling amount of intelligence.
By the time Cedric returned with a bucket of clean water, Bastion had dealt with the worst of Finn’s grooming needs. Lawrence swung the door open, and Cedric handed the bucket through.
Bastion took it but grabbed the hostler’s bicep before he could run again.
“This horse is the only reason we arrived in time to warn Lady Nesrin,” Bastion said, his voice even. “I expect him to be better taken care of.”
Cedric had the decency to look ashamed. Damp hair clung to his forehead. His eyes darted between Bastion and Finn before landing on Lawrence, who gave a minuscule shrug. “You heard the man.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Cedric stuttered.
Bastion released him. “Thank you.”
Cedric swallowed, nodded, and retreated.
Once Bastion had traded out the empty bucket for the full one, he bent to get at the gelding’s chest, currying between his front legs and along where the girth would be cinched.
“Your lady has been very generous with her gifts,” Lawrence said.
Bastion stilled. He stood and faced Lawrence, a nervous flutter battering his gut like a steel butterfly.
“She’s not my lady.”
The other man raised an eyebrow.
“The way she defended you last night suggests otherwise,” Lawrence drolled. “Yvri women don’t stand up for men of no consequence.”
Bastion turned his back. “We barely know each other.”
“So? Time is an illusion that less decisive men lean on to justify not taking action. When souls recognize each other, time doesn’t matter.”
Bastion laid down long, firm strokes across Finn’s back.