To make matters worse, Toranth had been equally bullied by the other recruits. Graylin—a head taller and instilled by his parents in the Brau?lands with a strong sense of justice—shielded the prince, not to curry favor, but because it was right and fair. He also worked with Toranth to hone the young man’s skills, to learn to defeat others older or larger than him. In the process, the two added a new caveat to the school’s coda: The toughest steel of all comes when two metals are folded into one.
Their friendship grew to be unbreakable.
Even years later when Toranth assumed the throne, and life drew them in different directions, their love for one another continued, until finally Graylin bent a knee to the king and took over his personal guard, swearing undying fealty and loyalty.
So, years later, when Graylin brokered interest in learning the silent language of the pleasure serfs, the king invited him into his personal palacio. The king was not possessive of his serfs. He shared them freely, all except for one.
Marayn.
Graylin knew why when he first gazed upon her. She was a beauty unlike any of the others, a goddess carved of marble. Her hair was dark gold, as if spun by the Father Above. She was shapely of form and generous of bosom, but more than anything, she was quiet and calm, warm and inviting. Her eyes were so deep a blue that one could get lost in them forever.
Toranth trusted Graylin with Marayn due to their long friendship, reinforced by sworn oaths. Also, Graylin had recently been betrothed to a young woman from his family’s town, a match that did not warm his heart but was well suited to all back home.
Over many moons, he met with Marayn and learned her unspoken language. It involved much touching: how to fold one’s fingers, where to shift a hand, when to move from one gesture to another. The training involved plenty of laughter between the two, then quieter conversations spanning words and gestures. He slowly learned the inner lives of the serfs, what the women never shared, what they held close to their breasts, their fears, their despairs, their boredoms, and their hopes.
It broke his heart and challenged his sense of justice. More so, he read far more in Marayn’s face than she ever expressed with her hands. He sought to help her and the others by leaning on his friendship with the king, but his efforts proved futile and fruitless, which only frustrated him more. He felt as if he were rolling a boulder up a hill that only grew steeper.
Still, Marayn had never held him at fault for his failings. Instead, one night she had drawn him to a silver cage where she kept a tiny lyrebird. It had chirped and sung sweetly, hopping across its perches, though she kept the door forever open.
She had signed to him. [We all live in cages of some making.] She smiled sadly. [Knowing this, we must sing when we can.]
Over time, something finally cracked inside him.
Without ever kissing her, he had fallen in love with her.
Eventually, neither of them could deny the truth silently held between them.
As he poled away now, he remembered their first night together. Fear had made him gentle, knowing how much she had been hurt in the past. He entered her slowly, allowing her to pull him deeper. Soon their passion grew to a fiery heat that could not be resisted or denied. She shook under him for the longest time afterward. Only once she let him go did he see how her pleasured trembling had become quiet sobbing.
She had explained her tears, how they were stirred forth by joy and sorrow. In all her life, she had never been taken with such love and tenderness before. Afterward, they enjoyed many nights together, locked in each other’s arms, discovering more about each other than words could express—until eventually her belly swelled with a child. He did not know if the babe was his or the king’s. But when Toranth ordered its expulsion, like so much shite from a chamber pot, Graylin knew what he had to do.
He had to break his oath.
He stared now at Marayn, standing forlorn at the swamp’s edge, and he knew the truth in his heart.
I ruined us all.
* * *
GRAYLIN TREMBLED AS he held the curled scroll in his hand. He gazed down at it. What did it contain? Was it hope for redemption or a cruelty that I will never survive?
As much as it unmanned him, he had to know.
He broke the wax seal and unrolled the missive. The first words, written in a handsome script, tore open a wound long scarred close.
To Graylin sy Moor …
The honorific—sy—signified his status as a knight. Over a decade ago, it had been stripped and forbidden to him. Even among his many false names, he had never dared to use it. Those two letters were full of pain, both of body and heart. He wanted to toss the scroll into the hearth, but his fingers clenched.
I’ve come this far.
He read the rest of the message. It was brief, yet the implication so large he could not hold it all in his broken body. It was too poor a vessel.
Marayn’s child lives, or so we have come to suspect.
Tears blurred his vision as he consumed the rest.
Get to Havensfayre between The Twins. Wait at the Golden Bough. I will do my best to get her there or send word elsewise. Fetch her to the Rime, hide her there.
It was not signed, but Graylin believed Symon concerning the missive’s author. If Marayn’s child had miraculously survived the swamps, it was possible that the babe had ended up at the Cloistery.
He lowered the scroll. “Could it be true?” he asked both himself and Symon.
The former alchymist—perhaps a member of the Razen Rose—grabbed the scroll and tossed it into the hearth’s fire. “As I said before,” Symon intoned, “a secret sold does not require a buyer’s belief. It’s a value unto itself.”
Graylin stared into the flames as the missive curled to fiery ash.
“In the end,” Symon continued, “all that truly matters is how you respond.”
Graylin struggled, balanced on a sharp edge. He knew of Havensfayre, a town located between The Twins, a pair of lakes at the heart of Cloudreach. But he also knew what it meant to try to reach there.
“I broke an oath and swore a new one,” he said, his voice hoarse with misery. “To never set foot in Hálendii again on penalty of my life.”
Symon leaned over and lifted something hidden on the far side of the chair. It took both his arms to rest its wrapped length across his knees. “That is not all you swore. You also bled an oath never to touch steel again, to never carry a knight’s weapon.”
The alchymist folded back the cloth and revealed a scabbarded sword. He unsheathed its silvery length, shiny and bright. Inscribed upon it were twining vines heavy with grapes. The decoration celebrated Graylin’s county in the Brau?lands, a roll of hills cooled by the shadow of Landfall’s cliffs where his family’s vast vineyards spread.
“Heartsthorn.” Graylin took a step back, recognizing the blade. “I thought it had been melted to ruin.”
Like my life.
“Only lost for a time,” Symon corrected. “The Rose believes some artifacts are worth preserving, of being treasured away.”
Symon returned the sword to its scabbard.
“My oaths…” Graylin whispered. “How many can I break and still be the same man?”
“As I see it, you forsook that first oath in the hope of saving Marayn’s child. Thus, it holds precedence over those that came later. If you return, you are merely continuing that same violation, one you set aside for a time and for which you have already been punished.” He shrugged. “The most honorable act from here is for you to see that first bit of treachery through to its proper end.”