The Stonegate Sword

Chapter 7: Valor Eve

Donald of Goldstone sat by the fireplace in his room and stared at the ashes. He felt as grey and lifeless as they looked and as cold. His thigh still throbbed and his stitches itched and he was in a foul temper altogether. The fever had broken but he was still weak and his skin felt clammy. The room felt cold, but not cold enough to get a blanket to throw over his shoulders.

He threw down the parchment codex that he had been reading and cursed the cramped handwriting of the nameless scribe who had copied it. His eyes ached and he rubbed them with the back of his hands. It was well into dusk and he would have to light his lamp in a short time.

Soon he would be called down for supper -- a bowl of soup and barley bread, probably. Even the Loremaster's company, once so stimulating, had degenerated and Don saw him now more as a petty dictator, whose half-baked conclusions were the natural result of a tireless pursuit of the inconsequential. He wished that he had stayed in the barracks. True, he would be sleeping on a straw tick instead of feathers, and be sharpening spears rather than research. But there, at least, he would be among men with their tales of battle, games of chance, laughter, and maybe a glass of beer on occasion. His wound might even heal faster with a little more exercise.

Of course, the problem was with him, more than the lorehouse. The scribes and other loremen had not changed. He was the one who was different, now. Two days ago, he was having lunch when one of the young scribes had asked about the battle. 

Don had given a quick description of the battle, only briefly mentioning his own part in it.

"Did you say that you killed a man?" asked the young man, Thomas by name. "How could you have done such a thing?" He seemed genuinely shocked.

"I serve as a trooper in a cavalry troop," answered Don. "That is a military unit. We were in a battle. People get killed in battles. Why would you think I would not kill someone?"

"Well . . . of course, I know that you must defend yourself," returned Thomas, with a slight sneer on his thin, clean-shaven face. "But to take another's life. . . . How could you, a loreman, do such a thing? You are really not one of the rabble that Stonegate usually uses to fight in these needless adventures. You are a man of culture. . . ."

Don felt his face getting red. "What do you mean needless adventures?'" he said in a louder voice. He saw faces turn their way, but he wanted to make his point, and so continued to speak. "Are you saying that there is no need to defend ourselves?"

"Calm down," said Thomas in a soothing voice, raising both hands, palms open, in a gesture of peace. "Everyone here has seen though the old men that run things in Stonegate. The army is just a means to keep them in office. They have military experience, and know that as long as there is a danger of an invasion, they can win elections. So there is always a danger of invasions."

"And the raiders we fought, what of them?" returned Don. He glanced down to look at his hand gripping the arm of his chair. His knuckles were white. "Do you think we made them up, too?"

"Of course not, but if you had left them alone, not invaded their territory, they would have left you alone."

Don lost his temper at that point and began calling Thomas an "ignorant fool" when another loreman grabbed him by the elbow and asked him to calm down. Thomas took that opportunity to stand and make a hurried exit. Don shrugged off the hand, looked around at all the startled faces, and then limped out of the dining room with all the dignity he could muster. But it still made him angry when he thought about it. How could they be so foolish?

No one had brought up the subject again. And it was nearing supper time. He stood and walked to look out the window. The expected knock came at the door.