|
Chapter 39. Guilt |
|
 |
s Armand predicted, Pirunel was kind enough bid them goodbye the following morning with promises that they would meet in Kaineng in a fortnight. They packed necessities and handed over the rest of their gear and belongings into Pirunel’s care. The wagons would be taken back to Lion’s Arch now that summer was coming to a close and the passes would soon be too treacherous. Brigit felt a pang of sadness as she watched Armand lock the door of their little caravan. She would miss it, she realized. It was theirs, the first home they had known together. She fancied Armand had the same sentiments as he pocketed the key and squeezed her hand fondly. “How far?” “About a league,” she replied, “It’s a little settlement of dwarves and humans. It’s rustic, but well warded.” She hoped he would not mind the simplicity of her home. Still, if she had to fall in love with a mesmer, she picked the one least likely to balk at the notion of dirt floors and wandering livestock. Brigit smiled to herself at that thought as they started their trek. The landscape was as she remembered, sparse aspen and spruce with wide meadows of alpine flowers and springy grass and lichen. Come fall it would all be frosted with snow, but now it was idyllic and resounded with the piping of birds. Soon she recognized the places where she and her brother, Sean, had played. “What are your parents likely to think of us?” Armand asked after a time. They had gone to bed and fallen asleep almost immediately after a long day of performing and had not discussed her family. “They’re going to wonder why we’re not married or thinking about it.” “Or why I didn’t stay home and marry Bjorn Jarlsen,” she thought, deciding to omit that detail. “I see,” said Armand. She did not have to be a mesmer to sense the discomfort in his voice. They had never discussed marriage. She was content and, she assumed, so was he. Until now, that had been enough. Why did this have to be so awkward? “I am alright with how things are,” she reassured him, swallowing against a tiny pang of dread percolating within her. “You’re worried they’ll pressure me,” he said quietly. “No… well, yes. Kind of.” He released her hand to pluck a wild iris from the boggy tussocks that lined the worn track. She remarked how the delicate blue of its outer petals matched his eyes and her heart melted to think he had picked a flower for her. He tossed it absently into the scrub. “Why did you do that?” “What?” Brigit snorted, trying not to laugh. “What?” he grumbled. “Irises symbolize hope,” she teased. “Guess we’re hopeless, then.” “Army!” “Whaty?” “Aren’t you worried about my folks?” “Not really.” “They’re not going to like you,” she continued, annoyed now that he was taking it so lightly. “Why should they? They don’t know me and I’m the guy who messed up whatever plans they had for you.” Brigit stared at him aghast. “That doesn’t scare you?” Armand shrugged. “After some of the things I’ve seen, it would take a great deal more than a rightfully upset parent to scare me. I expect I’ll be treated with strained kindness while they give you a grilling for running away with a fop. I think that’s what your father called me.” “I don’t think you’re a fop.” “Compared to your father, I am,” Armand chuckled, “His chest hairs have chest hairs.” “Army!” she gasped, then laughed, “Don’t say that around my father. Please.” “I do not start fights as a rule, but I always finish them,” he said darkly. Her gut clenched with dread. Their path became shadowed as they passed between the shoulders of two rocky cliffs. The narrow defile grew moist with snow melt, the oozing rocks eventually draining into a glacier fed creek whose lichen carpeted banks they now followed. On the other side of the chattering water she saw a large bear sunning itself in the meadow. It snuffled at their odor and rose lugubriously to its clawed feet. “Hello, Gretchen,” Brigit called, hoping her mother’s pet would not mistake them for invaders. The old bear grumbled and plopped back down on its haunches as if to say ‘Oh, it’s only you’ and scratched itself. She glanced at Armand but his expression was unreadable. His gaze was turned toward the open gate of the settlement at the end of the muddy track. It had not changed since she had said farewell to her clan and chosen her own path. The cluster of dwarven and human huts were surrounded by a stockade of silvering spruce and aspen trunks bound together with chain and pitch-soaked rope. The gate was an ironbound affair, a gift from Mynir Founderson several decades before she was born. According to her mother, it was enchanted to drive away the evil spirits of the mountains. The walls and gate had yet to be breached by marauding ettins during the hungry season of winter when they lost all caution and pounced upon anything that moved. They passed through the gate into the huddle of stone huts and a larger building that stood at the village’s center. That was where the community gathered to while away the long nights telling stories or dancing. It was also where provender was stored, as well as weapons. The holding was lodged between the folds of two peaks. The now green flanks of the mountains were dotted with the village’s sparse herds of dolyaks and goats. The little creek they had followed flowed just outside the aged wooden walls while within there were chickens and young pigs wandering about, rooting in the muck for scraps. Brigit was aware of people pausing in their work to stare at the two of them as they trod brazenly toward the collection of buildings that housed her family. It was a busy time of year, she knew, for the winters were long in the mountains and survival demanded that every moment of fairer times be used to prepare and restock. Brigit remembered those long boring hours of toil well. Those who were not in the heights gathering wild food would be hunting, cutting peat, or making repairs. The mountain stillness was interrupted by hammering and the slow grumble of sawing. Her mother was standing on the door stoop when they drew into view of the sprawling stone building. It was of dwarven construction, as were most of the homes, but sized to human tastes. As such there was only a ground floor and the thick walls were pierced by small windows. “Brigit!” her mother cried, spreading her arms and indicating there had better be an embrace forthcoming. She obliged her mother while Armand stood a polite distance away. “I expect the two of you would like to change out of those heavy clothes and freshen up a bit before supper,” Neave chattered, uncharacteristically garrulous as she extended a hand toward Armand and urged him inside, “I’m so happy you could make it. I hope you can stay a while.” “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Gaenor,” Armand responded. Neave led them to their rooms and the two of them were predictably separated. She was to sleep in her old bedroom in the northern end of the rambling house while Armand had Sean’s dusty old room at the opposite end. It was going to be a long week. After they had stashed their things away, the three of them met up in the parlor and were about to sit down when the door burst open. “Ah, there you are!” boomed her father’s voice. Brigit nearly jumped out of her skin but rose without thinking to curl into her father’s burly bear hug. Armand regarded Anluan with a placid expression, no doubt having detected his approach before he had flung open the door. “Greetings, Mr. Gaenor.” “I need to finish splitting firewood before sundown. Perhaps ye could join me, Arthur.” Brigit frowned, knowing her father was deliberately testing Armand by getting his name wrong and asking for help. “Father, his name is Armand.” “I would be happy to help,” Armand replied calmly and the two of them bustled away. Brigit bit her lip, a thrill of fear shivering through her body at the thought of the two of them alone. Still, there was not much she could do and Armand had known better than to resist. “Well!” Neave said with a tense smile, “The boys will sort things out, I’m sure. Let’s retire to the kitchen then, and chat.” The familiar warmth and toothsome odors of the kitchen calmed Brigit a little. She relaxed as cousin Olga’s stout figure appeared with a plate of yak sausage and goat cheese. “Hello, darling. Sit down and have a bite to eat before supper,” the woman quipped as if they had only been parted for a few days. She had aged little and looked as hale as ever with her long brown hair braided down her back and her flowing apron and frock dusted with flour. Nothing had changed except Brigit and she felt awkward as she found her way back to her familiar seat at the old oak table and thanked Olga again for a large mug of steaming yak butter tea and a plate of buckwheat cakes. “I’m glad you finally came home,” Neave said evenly, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness from her voice. “It is good to see you again,” Brigit replied, grasping for the one truthful thing she could say. She was not glad to be home, but she did love her family. “I thought you had left us to help those rangers secure a path through the Shiverpeaks for the refugees. When did you decide the circus was a better use of the gift that Balthazar himself bestowed upon you?” A tense silence gripped the room. Olga had wisely vanished and the two of them were alone at the table. Brigit had known this was coming. Her parents were fond of reminding her that not everyone was Chosen, and therefore she was obligated to use her gift to ward and protect the less powerful and fortunate. Seeing her in the circus had been doubly damning. “I needed a rest,” Brigit said lamely, staring at the contents of her plate and no longer feeling hungry. “Good,” Neave replied tersely, “I’m glad this insanity is only temporary because evil, as far as I can tell, does not rest.” Brigit’s cheeks grew warm and she fought against tears, determined not to cave in to familial guilt. It tightened around her heart like a noose, tying her to a place she had long wanted to escape. She could not tell her mother how much she hated it there, how limiting and confining it was always to struggle every minute of every day to survive. She wanted the wide world and adventure. Balthazar did not command his servants to dwell only in miserable hell holes far from civilization. Evil dwelt everywhere and she was content to fight it wherever she found it. “I’ll warrant your man is pretty,” Neave continued with righteous indignation when Brigit did not respond, “but while you’ve been gallivanting with the circus, the world slips deeper into darkness. And if you think I’m harsh, then realize it is only out of concern for what Grenth will do to you when you meet him in the hereafter having squandered your gift.” “Mother, please, it’s not like that.” “We need you here,” Neave snapped angrily, “Something is happening in the north and the Deldrimor are terrified. Last winter we fought Jotun for the first time in centuries. Charr continue to pour in from the north, as well.” “Jotun?” Brigit asked, only vaguely recalling stories from her childhood, “Is that another clan of ettins?” “If only that were so,” Neave said darkly, “No, these are much worse. The dwarves speak of them in their tales. They are terrible giants that wander the mountains of the far north. If it were not for the Norn and the dwarves, they might have devastated this region ages ago. It took nearly a month to repair the wall after their attempted raid and thankfully none of them made it as far as Yak’s Bend.” Brigit felt a pang of dread for her family but said nothing, feeling trapped. For all that she longed to wander, the thought of her loved ones cornered here and threatened was unbearable. “My sister, Pegeen, has sent word that she will return, but we could certainly use more warriors,” Neave continued pointedly, “We need you to come home. It may be that the fate of Ascalon depends upon it.” And that was the final bolt on her shackled heart. She could not in good conscience abandon them again, no matter how much she hated it there. The mountain clans had long defended the passages through the mountains. Now that Ascalon was utterly dependent on the largess of distant lands, everything hinged upon those supply lines staying open. Brigit blinked away her tears. Her mother had certainly not lost her touch in ladling out the guilt. Poor Armand. Gods, she hoped he understood why they could no longer be together. Perhaps he would be happier without her in the end. |
