Across the ocean Book 1: On the run

Chapter Twenty-Three : Betrayal

Mayen could not sleep. Though the moon was up high in the sky, marking between midnight and the second hour of a morning still drown in darkness, a dark cloud enveloped the adolescent's mind. Part of him wished he could just rest at least an hour; it had been an exhausting day, dealing with a bunch of girls teasing him with the huntress' game, then with a prophet, then this and that. He was bored, truly bored. Nothing caught his interest. Waiting. Waiting for the ruffians to come. Waiting.

He looked at the mountain kite, perched unto the back of a chair. So far there was not even a single dropping. It surprised him. She returned the stare, cocking her head. Every now and then, Mayen came close to believe she was more than smart. This connection between him and the bird was not very clear. According to both Commendar Spencer's vision and Jemeryon's prophecy, this bird would be the protector of Mayen and of his future twins; that said, who would have thought such an already amazing bird would be the equal of the sentient races?

-"Seems like I have my own adventure, my own story." Mayen glanced at the open window, talking softly to the bird. "Always has been my dream, you know? Back when I was a kid, some knights saved me."

He wondered why he was talking to the bird, then decided to reject the possible interpretation that he needed someone to confide into. Proud heroes were stalwarts, brave. In truth, Mayen would have said brave and courageous, for back then he knew not the difference between the two. Weakness, hesitation, doubts, fears... Knights did not have those according to him. Bravery fitted the definition, but courage demanded one to challenge his or her fears by acknowledging and controlling them. As a result of having a misconception of what characterized a hero, his definition of cowardice was like an arrow missing its target and thumping into a tree instead: off the mark. Mayen facepalmed himself.

-"Sheeesh... I have a dagger; I have the blood of emperors. I will not die." He chuckled without his heart in it. "Come what may, I will be ready."

She listened to the Human boy, unsure which wind was more important than the other. Denial was not something she was familiar with. One wind was an anxiety ready to burst into panic, like a prey animal jumping at some noises in a bush nearby. The other wind was puffed up self-assurance. Then came a third wind, one much stronger by the pressure she sensed from it. Resentment. It is said that bitterness is a wine so potent it makes every other drink appear to be diluted. Those drinking it are constantly looking back at their source of resentment, like the drunkard begging for keriths in the streets only to purchase that which impoverished him.

***

Soren was in a tavern, unable to find a reason to go home. Why would he? Despite the letter which he had left on his night table back home, there would be disagreements. He dreaded to return. In part, there was the unescapable dispute which would await him, one to dwarf all the others he had ever lived in his years with Eliadoriss. Sadly, it was but a small part of it, the other and much bigger one being this stigma he would from now on live with. Sleeping in a room alone away from the tragedy, away from the crime, he had come here to run away. He could not face his wife. Looking at the empty cup of herbal tea, he saw himself being able to fill it with tears before going to his bed. The tavern owner had asked no questions, so sure of himself to know why a man would sleep without his wife. There were only two reasons, others being too uncommon to consider: either the man wanted to have an adventure with another woman, or he wanted alone. The later was true. Soren's chubby face was deprived of any jolliness.

-"Pardon me," came a voice from the door, "there is a visitor wishing to speak with you."

There was an advantage to being half bald: you could quickly rearrange your hair. Biding his time thanks to the most classical answer "just a moment", he took himself to a mirror and combed his moustache more than the hair on his head. His eyes were still showing traces of having shed tears, but he figured squinting them to fake drowsiness would naturally cover that. His room was not big, just small enough to even feel like a hiding place for him. Now, though, a hiding place no longer... He hurried to clothed himself in a more prude manner than simply being shirtless.