Protector of the Flight (42 page)

“No,
thanks,” Marrec said. “I was lucky Calli chose me.”

“Very
true, and a good thing you bonded with her,” Gentry said, gesturing Luc to
deal.

A
note in his voice sent Marrec on alert. “Ayes?”

Luc
finished laying out the cards. “Heard you planned on taking four-day rotation,
lucky bastard to be able to do that, I’m on two.” He fanned his cards. “We all
are, to make more zhiv. But you’re leaving your lady at camp.” He shook his
head, at the cards or Marrec’s foolishness.

“Some
of my zhiv will have to go to a better tent,” Gentry grumbled, his gaze flashed
up to Marrec. “So I can entertain. Camp’s good that way, keeping the women
on-site. They get bored, too.”

Looking
up from his cards, Zhardon met Marrec’s eyes with a warning in his. “Saw that
Raoul guy, that local Chevalier who didn’t never come to the Castle and fly with
us, move in on your lady, better watch out for that.”

Marrec
stood, put a few coins on the table. “I’ll leave you to your game.”

“Ayes,
strut right out of here the way you came, my lord noble rich landowner. Don’t
think we’ll be seeing much of you again,” Luc said. He didn’t even look up from
his hand.

H
e didn’t sleep
well. The bed was lumpy and had a funny scent, though no fleas or lice or
bedbugs. The sign outside the inn creaked in rising wind. Sometime in the early
morning a light rain came—with frinks. The sound of the metallic worms
skittering against the roof made Marrec’s hair rise. He’d gotten accustomed to
living in areas where no frinks sent by the Dark fell with the rain. If any
Exotique had visited Troque, none of them had been near this section.

His
mind nagged at what the Chevaliers had implied about Calli and other men and
jealousy gnawed. But nothing had changed. Calli and he were bonded. She
wouldn’t, couldn’t betray him with another man. Could she?

But
she wouldn’t be disloyal. No. One of the qualities that rose from every
Exotique like perfume from their skin was their absolute loyalty.

That
was the knot between Calli and himself, her loyalty to Lladrana, his loyalty to
their child and their home.

Finally
he dozed near dawn and didn’t wake until bright sunlight bore in through the
window. He swore. He’d wanted to be gone by now. No doubt Jaquar had left at
dawn as they’d agreed.

After
a tasteless but filling meal, he paid his shot and walked toward the stables,
looking around the courtyard one last time. He wouldn’t stay here again. Or at
the inn where he’d met Zhardon, Luc and Gentry. He could afford better.

He
grunted and stretched.
Good morning, Dark Lance.

The
volaran shifted in his stall.
Good morning, Marrec. We are late. I should have
awakened you earlier.

Probably.

But
you needed the sleep. Been an eventful week.
His tone dropped to a lower
note. The volaran, of course, disapproved of Marrec’s decision.

Your
feed was good?
He’d paid for the best the inn could offer. Dark Lance deserved better.

The
volaran snorted.
Adequate. I am the only volaran here. All the rest are
horses. You must find better lodgings next time.

Marrec
gritted his teeth.
Understood. We’ll leave as soon as possible.

Perhaps.

I
didn’t think you wanted to stay here any longer.
Outside the
stables, warm, volaran-scented air wafted to him, comfortingly usual, so he
allowed himself to consider that last ego-pricking remark of Luc’s. Had he been
filled with hubris at becoming a landowner, strutting around as accused? He
winced.

“P-p-please,
L-l-lord G-g-g-gard-d-p-p-p-pont,” a whispery, young voice said.

Marrec
was so stunned by the title applied to
him,
and not sarcastically, that
he stopped before entering the stables. A small, thin boy of about eight
dressed in worn clothes too big for him watched tensely from the dimness
inside. He’d placed himself so that there were several avenues of escape. Marrec
stopped the impatient words he was ready to snap because his brooding had been
disturbed.

“Yes?”

The
boy swallowed, licked his lips, said something so fast and brokenly that Marrec
didn’t understand. “Can you repeat that?”

“I-I-I
h-heard you and the Ex-exot-exotique w-w-were l-l-l-looking f-for ch-children
t-t-to ad-d-d-dopt. T-t-take m-m-me!” He shut his mouth, looking deeply
disappointed at himself. Pitiful. His body trembled. He clenched his fists and
stood straight as if to deny the shivers of fright or excitement.

Marrec
stared. This had probably cost the boy all his courage, guts Marrec could only
admire. There was something about the aspect of the boy…“Come out in the light
so I can see you.”

“I-I-I
m-m-must d-d-d-d—”

“Spit
it out, lad!”

“D-d-duties!”

Marrec
nodded, stepped inside and glanced around the stable. It was painstakingly
clean. The horses looked well cared for. “I’ll help you with whatever needs to
be done.”

The
boy’s mouth fell open and he stared.

Marrec
raised a hand to draw the boy out into the sunlit courtyard and the child
flinched. A low burn began in Marrec’s belly. The situation of this boy, alone
when everyone else was eating, no doubt living in an empty stall when there was
one available, echoed Marrec’s own memories. But Marrec thought that he,
himself, might have had it better than this youngster.

With
his hand open and flat, Marrec walked out to the courtyard, gestured to the boy
for him to come. Phrasing questions to keep the boy’s responses short to avoid
his terrible stutter would be a challenge. Marrec inclined his head, touched
fingers to his heart. “I promise to help you. There’s a bench right here, in
the warm sunlight. Come on out.” Marrec sat and waited.

The
youngster’s face set in lines of resigned despair. He sidled to the edge of the
threshold, standing in the sunlight, but still looked as if he might bolt.
Across the yard and into the inn or into the town. Back into the stables to a
hidey-hole Marrec was sure the boy had, or scrambling up a ladder to the loft.

Again
Marrec stared. The lad’s skin was paler than a true Lladranan. His face was
shaped more like northeastern Lladranans, more like the folk that Marrec grew
up with than the people here in central Lladrana. Something else was different.
He had dark hair, but not quite the black of a Lladranan. More like a dark
brown. His eyes were a lighter brown, too.

“What
are you?” Marrec said, and grimaced at the rudeness.

The
boy swallowed, as if he’d heard such a question all too often in his brief
life. He curved in on himself, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders as
if he expected a blow—or more than one, a beating.

“I-I-I’m
a b-b-bastard. M-m-mother was f-f-from S-s-sill Est-t-tate, c-c-came h-here
t-t-to w-work, s-s-said s-s-sire f-f-from B-b-biod-d-dono.”

Biodono
was one of the City States to the east of Lladrana. It was easy to understand
what had happened. A merchant guest visiting the inn lay with a woman, got her
pregnant, then returned to his home, unknowing or uncaring that he’d left a
child.

Lladranans
weren’t often kind to children of mixed blood. Not even Exotique
children—unless the blood was noble and several generations had passed to make
the family acceptable.

“Where
are your parents?”

“M-m-mother’s
d-d-dead. F-f-f—”

“Wait.”
Marrec raised a hand to halt him. “Why don’t you nod or shake your head.”

Looking
sad, again as if this was an all too common request, the child nodded.

Best
get the brutal questions done first. “Did you ever know your father?”

The
boy shook his head.

“Do
you know his name, station or direction?”

A
hunch of the shoulder and a shake of the head.

“Your
mother never told you anything?”

His
mouth twisted. “S-s-she l-left a p-p-paper.”

Marrec
sighed. “What kind of paper…wait, an official paper?”

A
head shake. “F-f-father’s n-name and c-city.”

“What’s
your name?”

“J-j-jet-t-t-y-yer
D-d-d-e-s-s-sill-p-p.”

“Jetyer
Desillp.”

Jetyer
nodded.

Desillp
must have been the name his mother had used, coming from the Sill Estate where
she’d been a peasant. At least Marrec had the name of his town. His lost town.
“And you’d rather be Jetyer Gardpont?” Marrec asked softly.

A
strong nod now.

“I
see.” A couple of moments passed as he gazed at the boy, his lighter skin, hair
and eyes. A notion bloomed inside Marrec. This is what a child born of himself
and Calli might look like. Maybe. His heart clenched. Here was a youngster who
could be a son.

A
boy with the guts to approach a complete stranger with a huge request. A
request, not a plea. A boy with the determination to get ahead in life. A boy
quick enough to dodge the odd blow, smart enough to have escape routes and
hidey-holes.

And
perhaps Marrec was doing too much looking and not enough anything else. “Can
you take my hand, please, to see how our Songs merge? I promise I won’t hurt
you.”

30

F
ear and hope
warred in Jetyer’s eyes. Marrec vowed that he’d see the boy well set whatever
happened.

Jetyer
threw back his shoulders, stepped out of the stables and into the bright light.
His hair showed an even lighter reddish tint. He had a few little spots of brown
on his nose and cheeks. Squinting, Marrec saw that there were even a few hairs
of silver at each temple. From what he knew of the City States, their Power
wasn’t so openly shown on their head as in Lladrana. The strength of the boy’s
Power wouldn’t be obvious.

Once
again Marrec held out his hand, leaned out on the bench until he was slightly
off balance and no threat to the boy. Jetyer set his grubby fingers in Marrec’s
palm. At his touch, Marrec closed his eyes and listened to the youngster’s
Song.

It was
subtle, as if tightly reined in. Jetyer’s shields—mental and emotional—were
strong enough that Marrec would alert and hurt the child if he pushed past
them. Shields Marrec was all too familiar with himself. Had he been closing
himself off from Calli, trying to ignore the too-intimate Pairbond? Maybe, but
this wasn’t the time to think of that.

He
sank into himself,
stretched
with his own Power to hear the beat and
tune of Jetyer’s Song. The melody lilted, deeper, darker than Marrec expected,
and more complex. The clipping rhythm of horses wound in, the soul-yearning to
experience wingbeats—volarans. Marrec smiled. It was a rare Lladranan child
that didn’t want to fly. But this was more, almost a
need
to fly, and
that Marrec recognized as being much like himself, like Calli, like all the
best Chevaliers.

Marrec
listened and heard a faint lilting twist, the Song of the blood. Foreign blood.
Calli had some counterpoints in her Song. Could Jetyer’s fit with hers? With
theirs?

The
boy started to slide his fingers away. Marrec squeezed with his thumb. “One
moment, please,” he murmured. “Try to relax.”

“W-we’r-re
b-being w-w-w-watched!”

No
doubt they looked strange, but any person with Power would realize what was
going on—Marrec gauging a boy’s Song. Still…
Dark Lance, here!
That
should give busybodies something to think about.

I
heard you!
A high-toned, nonstuttering mental exclamation from Jetyer!

Good.
Try to relax.

But
the child couldn’t. Dark Lance had exited the volaran stall and stable and come
to stand near them. Jetyer’s pulse skittered, his Song pulsed with awe,
excitement, shattered into individual strident notes. Marrec released the
youngster’s fingers, observing Dark Lance lowering his head to a frozen Jetyer
and whuffling his hair. They’d drawn a small crowd in the courtyard, which
would increase when word got round that a volaran was there to be admired.

Dark
Lance stretched out a wing and there were “oohs.” The volaran smirked.

Marrec
sighed. He should have gone somewhere more upscale, more used to Chevalier and
volarans—and nobles. He didn’t have to watch his coins now, and he—and
Jetyer—could have done without all the attention.

But
since Dark Lance was here, checking out the boy, Marrec might as well consider
the volaran’s opinion. He looked into one large, dark eye.
What do you think
of the boy as an addition to our family?
He really wasn’t ready for more
children, didn’t think it wise, but he couldn’t reject Jetyer, especially if
the child’s Song matched well with Calli’s.

Dark
Lance seemed to hear that last bit of Marrec’s thought.
The boy would be
good with Calli. Please her.
You
need to please her more.