Honor Found (The Spare Heir) (13 page)

“Try to remember you have it, and use it if you need me.”

Without warning, she took Jorem in her arms and embraced him.

“You are as my brother’s son in spirit, if not in flesh, and as such, my own.  Keep safe.”  She released him and took a step back.  “I must get young Jennifer to those who can help her.  With your bond all you need do is think of her and you’ll know where she is and how she fairs.”

Without another word, Zensa bent down, and placed a hand on Jen’s arm.  The air shimmered and the skin on the back of Jorem’s neck prickled.  A loud pop and they were gone.  Jorem stood alone.  He closed the chest that had held the power stone and pushed it back under his cot.  Even though they were gone, he could still feel the newly awakened connection with Jen.  A connection he somehow knew would always be there.

Chapter XIX

It took a while after Zensa’s departure for the men in the tent to come out of hiding.  The Captain and a few of the older guardsmen were approaching the sick tent with drawn swords.  Most of the other men were either hiding or wandering about the camp with stunned expressions on their faces.  Men who’d had injuries were whole and well.  A surge of life had been infused into the area leaving it nearly unrecognizable from just a short time ago.

The trees all about them were fully leafed out.  Tall lush grass covered the ground.  Colorful spring flowers adorned the shrubs and bushes.  The entire area smelled fresh and clean.  It was like a small paradise in the middle of a remote, rocky wasteland.  The power needed to do all this was beyond his understanding.  It would have been no surprise to anyone had fairies and other magical creatures of lore come wandering through.

As Jorem stepped through the ash where the side of the tent had once been Captain Jonas came up to him.  Jorem flexed his arm once again, marveling at the smooth, unblemished skin where a torn and bleeding mess had been just a short while ago.  A chill breeze made goose bumps rise on his skin.  The land may have been transformed to a paradise, but the weather was still quite cool, especially if you were missing your shirt.

“Do you want to explain what happened here, scout?” Captain Jonas demanded.

The captain looked about with apprehension.  Something had happened totally out of his control and understanding, and he was not happy about it.  Jorem could just imagine what the captain had been told of Zensa’s abrupt appearance all flames and fury.

“Well, sir,” Jorem replied with a calmness he’d never felt before, “it appears the healer’s trainee was a good bit stronger than anyone thought.  She passed out, or something of the like, when she did all of this.”  Jorem waved at all of the fresh greenery.  “Somehow a Dragon Mage knew something had happened.  The mage appeared, gathered up the healer and left.”

“A Dragon Mage?” Captain Jonas asked in disbelief.

“Yes, sir,” Jorem replied innocently.  “I’m pretty sure it was a Dragon Mage.  I don’t know of anyone else as could’ve done that,” tilting his head at the tent.

“Mages,” he spat.  “Half the problems we’ve got are because of them and their messing about with things best left alone.”

Jorem smiled.  “It was nice the King had a wizard who could send the healers to us though.”

“Would’ve been even better if that prig of a healer had stayed here a while longer, wouldn’t you say?” the Captain snarled.

“Life unravels the way it will,” Jorem said quietly.  “How we deal with it makes it what it is.”

“What?” the captain asked.

“Just something I read in a book somewhere,” Jorem replied.  “Um, Captain?  The healer gave me a message.  Seems my father needs to speak with me.  Could I possibly borrow a horse?  A fast horse?  I need to get back to Broughbor as soon as I can.”

Jorem held his breath while the Captain considered his request.  If he didn’t get to Broughbor before the King’s rider got there, things could get rather messy.  Losing a prince tended to upset a lot of people.  A number of people at the castle likely wouldn’t mind it being him missing.  Still, the king would probably feel obligated to make an issue out of it and someone would be sent to look for him.

“Some kind of family trouble, I take it?” Captain Jonas asked.

“If it’s not now, it will be soon,” Jorem replied.

“We’ve been ordered to remain here for a while.  It seems the king wants a small group of guardsmen for a special mission.  We’re to wait for a royal to lead us on some errand of the king’s.  While we wait for the royal you should have time to get there and back.  I’ve yet to see a one of the royals take less than a sevenday to get anywhere.  You are coming back, aren’t you?” the captain asked.

“If I’m able, yes sir.”

“We nearly lost you Rim.  I’m having a hard time believing you’re alive, let alone standing.  By all rights you should be dead.  If you’d like to be assigned to the keep for a while it could be arranged.”

Jorem shook his head.  “An old man once told me if we always take the easy path, we’ll only see what’s already been seen, only be what we’ve always been
.”

“If anyone else asked for leave I’d say they were running away, but I’ve never seen you run.  You’re a good man and I trust you.  Fact is, when you get back I want you to be one of my lieutenants.  The men respect you and most would follow wherever you lead.”

Jorem shook his head dismissively.  The captain’s words made him feel uncomfortable.  He was certain the captain was exaggerating to an extreme.  He got along fairly well with most of the men, but as for them following him, he didn’t think so. Most were older and far more experienced than he.  There was still so much he didn’t know.  So much he had yet to learn.

“I’ll get my things and be on my way as soon as I can,” Jorem said.  “The sooner I start the sooner I’ll be back.”

“Terence,” the captain said, turning to the man next to him.  “Saddle my roan and bring him to my tent.  Rim, I have a packet of reports I need delivered to the Duke.  And Rim, I’ll be wanting my horse back.”

It didn’t take long to pack.  The power stone was gone, a forgotten pile of dust.  His armor was a useless jumble of torn and bloody leather.  He didn’t even have a shirt to wear.  Hopefully he could get a spare shirt from the supply wagon.  All he had of his own were his sword and his bedroll.  On the bright side, the horse wouldn’t be weighed down with equipment.  He would be able to make good time, weather permitting.

Chapter XX

The ride back to Broughbor was a frenzied, adrenaline-filled blur.  The trail was easy enough to follow.  Between all the men and wagons trudging this route, the path was clear as day.  Even with a trail so easy to follow Jorem was unwilling to travel too late into night.  When the clouds thinned there still wasn’t enough light from the moon and stars to see rocks and holes.  Injuring the captain’s horse because of unnecessary haste would gain him nothing.  It would, in fact, just slow him even more.  Sometimes the old adages had truth in them.  In order to go fast you have to slow down.

During the day they would race at the horse’s best possible speed.  The roan had an odd canter that covered a lot of ground without rattling Jorem’s teeth out of his head.  When he noticed the horse tiring they would slow to a walk.  Occasionally they would stop near streams for short rests and a bite to eat.  The grass in the area wasn’t up enough for the roan to forage so Jorem carried a bag of mixed oats and grain.  The horse showed no hesitation in letting his rider know when he was hungry.

  By the time he reached the Broken Arms Inn, both he and the roan were sweaty, filthy and weary to the bone.  Other than a few marks at night and the occasional stop to rest his mount, he had ridden for three days straight.  He was sore in places he didn’t want to think about.  As he got off the horse he nearly fell to the ground, his legs were so weak and sore.  Walking was painful and sitting was worse.  An old guardsman had once warned him of what happened to those who rode without conditioning themselves to the saddle.  Now he understood the warning all too clearly.

The roan was a fine animal.  The horse had given Jorem everything it had without complaint.  He left the roan in a warm stall at the inn with a bucket of warm mash.  It slurped the mash up with relish and lipped the bottom of the trough to get every last morsel.  Jorem was fairly certain the horse was asleep before he made it out of the barn.  The stable hand was nowhere to be seen, but Jorem had no worries about the care of the captain’s horse.  Shelby cared far more for the animals he tended than anything else.  One look at the roan and the man would be lavishing it with care.

It was late afternoon when he walked through the Inn’s front door.  The commons room was quiet.  It was too early for the evening crowd to arrive, and too late for the afternoon crowd to still be there.  Daisy was sitting at the front counter.  She looked up when he entered, but he was so covered in dirt, grime and sweat that she didn’t recognize him.

Jorem strolled over to the counter.  “This packet needs to be delivered to Duke Rodney,” he said, plopping the pouch on the counter.  “If anyone should come asking, Prince Jorem will be asleep in his room.”

“Jorem!” she squeaked.

Daisy lunged across the counter and wrapped her arms around his neck, heedless of the grime he was covered with.  After a tight squeeze, she released him.  She looked down at the dirt now smudged on her blouse and arms and shook her head.

“Must you always come in here after rolling in the dirt?” she said with a smile on her face.  “To the bath with you, then you can sleep.”

“I’d bow, but I think I’d fall over if I did,” Jorem teased back, then headed for the bathing room.

A soft cozy robe awaited him after he’d dried off.  A bowl of hot stew, some bread and a mug of hot apple cider had been left on the table next to his bed.  The thoughtfulness of their care for him touched him deeply.  These people had come to mean a great deal to him.  They treated him like family, real family.  To them he was not just another heir, a spare at that.  With a smile on his face he wolfed down the food, curled up on his bed and was fast asleep in moments.

A light tapping at his door roused Jorem from his slumber.  Groggily, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.  The room was quite dark so he reached for the candle kept by his bed.  His hand bumped the candle, knocking it over.  Listening in the dark he heard the candle drop off the table and roll across the floor.  He just shook his head.  Some things never change.  Without a doubt the candle was now well out of reach.

Someone tapped at the door again.

“Yeah, what is it?” Jorem asked through a yawn.

The door opened, allowing bright light to stream into the room.  Jorem squinted and raised a hand to block the light that fell on his face.  He felt rested but still tired.  With no idea of the time, or the day for that matter, he sat up and stretched.  Daisy’s head poked through the slightly open door.   She took a cautious half step into his room.  Casting a glance behind her, she stopped and curtsied lowly.

“My Lord, Prince Jorem,” she said, keeping her gaze focused on the floor.  “You’ve visitors as wish to speak with you.”  Her voice was clear and echoed off the walls of the room she spoke so loudly.

“You know I really hate that,” Jorem said quietly.

When she didn’t respond, Jorem realized her performance was not for him but for someone outside his room.  With her acting so formal it had to be either the Duke or someone of rank from the capital.  No one else impressed the women working at the inn to this extent.  Familiarity breeds a casualness of attitude.  Most of them treated Jorem like a younger brother.  They treated Pertheron, the duke’s son, with a little more deference, mostly because of his stern attitude.  So this was likely the messenger from the king, a ranking noble apparently.

“Very well,” he said with a sigh.  “Tell them I’ll be with them shortly.  Oh, and could you hand me that candle on your way out?”

Daisy retrieved the candle from the corner it had escaped to.  She placed the candle back in its holder and lit it.  The soft light illuminated her face. She had been shadowed from the light coming from the hallway before.  She was watching him intently, concern written in her expression.  She had something she needed to tell him but couldn’t take the chance of being overheard.

“How long have I been asleep?” Jorem whispered.

“A day and half again another,” she replied just as quietly.  “There’s a man with some guards.  Says he’s from the King.  He looks mighty important.  Are ye in trouble with the king?  Ifn’s ye needs we could distract them while ye run.”

Jorem couldn’t help but smile.  “And leave a fair maiden to fight my battles?  I’d sooner face the fury of a dragon than put thee at the mercy of such men.”

His act was not lost on her.  They’d played at this game many times.  With a wink of her eye, Daisy turned and left, leaving Jorem to gather his wits and get dressed.  He’d slept for a day and a half.  It was hard to believe.  He vaguely recalled getting up a few times to relieve himself, but nothing more.  For having slept for so long, he still felt groggy.  He knew he’d better have a clear head before he left his room.

After splashing some water on his face and hair from a basin, Jorem started rummaging through his chest.  He spent quite a bit of time searching for something to wear.  He no longer had anything “princely” that came even close to fitting.  What did fit ranged between serviceable and tattered.  Looking at what clothes he had on hand he resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t dress as one of the King’s sons.  Instead he decided to go for a competent and slightly dangerous look, definitely not something anyone from the capital would expect of the Prince Jorem they knew and generally distained.

He donned his ovack skin armor.  It was an unsightly, splotchy, yellow tan when he bought it.  Now it had the addition of grass and dirt stains, not to mention blood, mostly his own, to add to the general ugliness of it.  One thing it did do, though, was fit well.  With the lacing on both sides of shirt and pants it could be as tight or loose as he chose.  After all the abuse it had seen, it was still supple and sturdy.  Putting the myriad of blades into all of the hidden compartments took a while.

The blades actually acted as part of the armor as well as weapons and had save
d his bones from many of Neth’s attacks.  Out of habit he strapped his sword to his back in the manner he’d learned from Neth.  Next he tucked the dagger the Folk had given him into its special sheath behind his neck.  Jorem regarded himself in the small mirror he’d gotten awhile back to hang on the wall of his room.  The stranger looking back at him looked far surer of himself than Jorem felt.

Just for appearances, he decided to wear the ornate sword given to him by his father.  It was smaller and lighter than he remembered it being when it was gifted to him.  Even with the doeskin covering the gem-studded grip, the sword had been a beautiful piece.  Without the covering the gems sparkled and flashed.  The polished blade still gleamed in the candlelight.  Between the gems and the blade, the light reflecting from the candles threw a prism of color about the room.

He strapped the scabbard of the princely blade on his right hip for a left hand draw.  The blade hissed smoothly against the leather as he slid it into place.  He wasn’t as good with his left hand, but he’d learned to use it to good effect.  Not that he’d had a choice. Neth had bound his right hand behind his back whenever she thought he was slacking.  Even with all the blades he was carrying, he still felt less constrained than when in the leather armor he’d worn as a scout.

He knew he had taken more time getting ready than was polite.  Whoever was waiting on him was likely becoming impatient.  Settling himself, Jorem squared his shoulders and headed for the commons room.  As he strode down the hallway, he was the picture of calm on the outside.  On the inside there was more than a little turmoil.  That his father sent a rider was reason for concern.  That the rider had guards of his own was reason for worry.

The healer said his brother Farthon had fallen from his horse.  Could it have been more serious than a twisted leg?  Was he needed to lead one of the four battalions of the King’s army?  Could he lead a battalion?  Would men actually follow him, or would he be a shiny figurehead kept far from battle?  How bad would things have to be for the king to assign “the spare” to lead one of the battalions?  With each step another worrisome thought came to mind.