Flight From Blithmore (36 page)

Forty-Two
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The Mistake

After leaving camp
and
his friends behind, Ruther rode south as long as he could last. All he thought
about was the vote that had just taken place. Even now, he couldn’t believe
Brandol had actually voted with Henry. Ruther had ruthlessly tormented him, all
in good fun, of course, but Brandol had never taken it well. In the end,
Brandol had proved to be the bigger man, and pulled Ruther’s fat out of the
fire. Such a turn of events made Ruther’s stomach ill. Quincy had been right.
Ruther had become his uncle.

When
he and Ghost could travel no further, they stopped to rest outside of Reddings.
Ruther tied Ghost to the only tree around, pulled out the thickest blanket he
had in his pack, and tried to sleep.

Every
dream was a reminder of what had taken place at camp, magnified by his vivid
imagination. It was not James holding a sword threatening to remove Ruther’s
fingers, it was a giant tree monster in a guardsman’s uniform. The enormous
beast clutched Ruther in his twisted branches and opened a gaping mouth with
jagged yellow teeth of iron-like bark. Then the monster began chewing Ruther’s
fingers off one at a time.

Ruther
gasped when he woke, looked around, then fell asleep. Something sailed through
the air at his head. This time it wasn’t Isabelle’s pan. Maggie threw a dead raven
with a beak made of James’ daggers, and it flew into the side of his head
causing him unbearable pain.

When
he opened his eyes, he was still in pain. The bruised side of his head rested
on a small, pointed rock. He threw the rock aside and slept.

Henry
embraced him, but whispered terrible oaths of vengeance upon Ruther in a
hoarse, devilish voice. Henry promised to hunt Ruther and his posterity to the
ends of the earth and make them pay in flesh what Ruther had taken from him in
gold. Ruther begged him to stop, but Henry swore the oath over and over again
in a terrible chant.

Ruther
awoke for the last time, screaming.

“Am I
going mad?” he asked himself. It was the middle of the same day, and sleep had
forsaken him. He saw no point in staying by the tree. He packed his blanket
away and moved on. He considered going back to Quincy’s house. The jeweler
would let him stay for a few days, but Ruther would have to endure more
lectures. He didn’t think he could stand that. He made up his mind to sleep in
Reddings, then return to Bookerton and stir up employment. If he was half as
popular as Gaffen and Willard had let on, he’d have no problem finding work.

The
direction he now followed brought him to a run-down, one-room shanty about a
mile west of Quincy’s shop. Trees grew around all sides of the hovel, their
branches invading the window holes. It was almost exactly as Ruther remembered
it. He tied his horse to one of the trees and went inside through the only
door.

The
unfettered wind had carried enough dirt and leaves inside to cover the
floorboards. Ruther remembered how excited he had been when his uncle told him
they would live in a home with wooden floors. Against the south wall was the
fireplace where he had cooked on the days his uncle came home with food. On the
days he didn’t, they played a game called
what would it be fun to eat
? A
few feet away from the fireplace was the spot where he had slept every night
for three years. In the corner was where he’d kept his few belongings: a small
wooden sword, two eagle feathers, and a spare set of worn clothes.

“I
need a drink,” he muttered.

Without
another thought, he left the hovel and rode to a small inn. He had never been
inside this inn before, though his uncle had frequented it several years ago.
It was a small place with seating for only a dozen customers. Ruther had been
inside similar places all over Blithmore. There was nothing special about this
one. The owner gave him a troubled look.

“Have
I seen you before, young man?”

“No,
because I’ve never been here before.” Ruther’s tone made it clear he didn’t
want conversation. He pulled a few of the smaller coins from his pocket. “Ale?”

The
owner may not have recognized Ruther, but he recognized his money, and the ale
came without another word. Ruther wasted no time draining the mug. For over a
minute he did nothing but sit and stare into the empty vessel, his brain void
of all thought. He doubted the owner would mind if he napped. It was early
enough in the day that he would have few customers, so Ruther put his arms up
on the table and used them as a pillow.

This
time, there were no nightmares.

When
he awoke, he was back in his uncle’s house laying on the dirt floor with his
head on a pile of soft leaves. He had no idea how he had gotten there. The
fireplace had a blazing fire, and he was warm. That, at least, offered some
relief to his confused state. He looked around for his traveling pack, but
couldn’t find it.

The
crunching of leaves and twigs outside drew his attention to the door. Without
fanfare, his uncle walked into the house. Ruther backed into the wall in shock.
His uncle was tall and portly with red hair. Their features were incredibly
similar, even down to the subtle coloring of their eyes. In fact, now that
Ruther was grown, he would have sworn his uncle was his older twin.

“When
did you get here, Ruther?” his uncle asked, not surprised at all to see him.

“I
don’t know,” Ruther answered. He felt like a boy of nine or ten again, the same
age he had been when his uncle died. “I woke up here, but I think I’m still
dreaming. Watch.”

Ruther
slapped himself in the face but didn’t feel a thing. “No pain.”

“You’re
being silly,” his uncle told him. “What are you doing in our old shack? I
thought you were trying to be a hero with your friend, Henry.”

His
uncle’s friendly tone hadn’t changed a bit. He had never cursed at or hit
Ruther when he came home drunk—he liked to philosophize. He would sit down and
lecture Ruther on the principles of life, mythology, and religion. He loved
talking about how everyone coexisted in a ball of light traveling through the
stars. Some of Ruther’s most memorable lessons had been late at night after his
uncle staggered through the door with “a head full of ale,” as he would say.

“That’s
not me,” Ruther answered. “I’m not a hero.”

His uncle
sat down on a chair across the room, on the other side of the fire. Ruther had
not seen the chair earlier, probably because it had not been there. “You’re
right, kiddo, you’re not a hero. We’re not a family of heroes. Was I ever a
hero for you?”

Ruther
had to think about it. “Yes, sometimes.”

His
uncle laughed. Ruther thought it sounded an awful lot like his own, reminding
him again of how similar they were. “No, I wasn’t, kiddo. I ran up debts in
every city that would let me, and moved you around more times than I could
count. I never even told you I loved you.”

“But
you still cared for me.”

“Not
very well. Best thing I ever did was take you to Richterton and introduce you
to the Vestins. They gave you a good education, didn’t they?”

“Henry’s
mom was a good teacher.”

“Yeah,
too bad they taught you things you were better off not knowing. Who have I
always told you comes first in your life?”

“Me.”

“Right.
You’re the most important person in your life. That means you take care of
yourself first.”

“I
did—I do! You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Listen,
kiddo. You need to remember this. People are going to try to tell you every day
of your life that love conquers all, and all you need is love, and if you put
the happiness of others before yourself you’ll be happier. But here’s the
truth—”

“The
people who do that wind up conquered, needy, and unhappy.”

His
uncle chuckled so hard his belly quivered. “You’re a grown man now, I can see
that. You don’t need me anymore.”

“It’s
still good to see you,” Ruther said, remembering fondly their discussions that
went late into the night.

“Good
to be seen.” Then the older man got up from the chair and walked out the door.
Ruther thought perhaps his uncle might say more, especially since it was a
dream. Perhaps he might tell Ruther that he loved him, but he didn’t. He walked
out the door without closing it and was gone.

Back
at the public house, Ruther was shaken awake by the owner. “Hey, Mister, I
don’t mind if you drink, but if you want to sleep you’re going to need to buy a
bed for the night.”

“Please
stop shouting,” Ruther grumbled, even though he knew the owner had not raised
his voice. Every bone in his body ached. His head swooned heavily on his neck.
He had never been so miserable, and when he smelled himself he almost vomited.
“How much is a room?”

“One
silver crown per night.”

“Is it
clean?” was Ruther’s next question. For some reason that seemed important.

“It
will be for another silver.”

Ruther
let out a long sigh, reached into his pocket and put one of the double crowns
he had received from Henry on the table. The owner picked it up and placed it
in his own pocket returning him change of three gold crowns and two more
silvers. “Follow me, sir.”

Ruther
thought that the moment he got into the bed he would sleep for at least three
days. He was wrong. It was a small, quaint room, clean and quiet . . . but it
had been purchased with Henry’s money.

Henry’s
money.

Over
three months ago, when he and Henry had plotted ways to make certain Isabelle
left The Glimmering Fountain safely, Ruther had known he had a big gamble
facing him. His adventures would make a great story, a very lucrative story—if
things ended well. He saw himself traveling Blithmore, dazzling and delighting
hundreds and thousands of listeners. His adventure would make him rich—again,
if he survived it. He saw himself living the life his uncle wanted to give him,
had his uncle only been able to get ahead.

“Why
had he never been able to get ahead?” a voice similar to Quincy’s asked in his
head. Ruther ignored the voice.

When
they had been chased out of Richterton by the armies of the King, he had known
that the story could only get better from there. Of course, he’d believed at
the time he’d become a wanted man. That reason alone was motivation to leave
with Henry and his little band of followers. Once they’d left Blithmore, Ruther
could tell his tales all over the world, to any audience who spoke his
language. Then something unexpected happened. He found out he was not wanted.
In a laughable turn of events, the King and Emperor wanted Brandol—not Ruther,
the talented friend of Henry—but Brandol, the bumbling, mumbling journeyman.

The
night Ruther had learned this information, he had great difficulty sleeping. He
was free to leave, he realized, free to go and tell his stories. The only
problem was that he had a reason to stay: the story was still a gold mine, and
the longer Ruther risked his life learning the story, the more wealthy he’d
become.

“Yes,
that’s the reason you stayed,” a voice like his uncle’s said in his head. “Not
because Maggie was fun to tease. Not because Henry needed you, nor because you
felt some unfounded loyalty to him. He’s not your brother, he’s your friend,
and friends come and go.”

“You
felt guilty taking that money from Henry, didn’t you?” the voice like Quincy’s
asked.

Yes.
Sometimes awful guilt, but it went away when he remembered he had to look out
for himself. He had to be his number one priority as he’d been taught. Henry
had lots of gold—more than he needed. It wouldn’t hurt to take a little to pay
off some debts as they went south. He told himself he would pay Henry back.
Somehow. If he survived.

Now he
tried to sleep in a bed paid for by Henry, a clean comfortable bed. Under the
same stars, Henry would be sleeping on the cold earth with a blanket or two.
Isabelle would hold him close since there would be no fire, and the warmth
shared between the two of them would have to suffice no matter how hard the
wind blew. And Ruther would be here in his bed, safe and well and warm.

He
rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow. “My uncle was
right.” He whispered the words so no one else could hear the shame in his
voice. He closed his eyes and opened them again. “No, he was absolutely wrong.”

The
bag holding all his possession tipped under its own weight and fell to the
floor near the bed. Ruther rolled onto his back to stare at it. “They don’t
want me back.”

He
considered his own statement for several seconds, then answered himself. “I’ll
never know unless I try. Besides . . . I left my costumes with Henry. Those
were expensive.”

“James
was going to cut off my fingers and toes,” he argued back. “Why go? Why?”

The
question “why?” lingered in his mind until he realized how simple the answer
was: he wanted to. He wanted to go back and not be rejected. He would appeal to
Henry; he would beg him if he had to. If he had to take off every last piece of
clothing and stand naked in the wind on top of the carriage until they either
knew his heart or let him die of cold, then he would do it.