Chapter 5

© Copyright 2005 by Elizabeth Delayne



“Luther!” Justen scrambled, even as another arrow sailed just past. He could see the anguish in Luther’s eyes, even as his hands trembled. His palms were damp with moisture, evidence of his fear. He grabbed Luther, pulled at him. Another arrow shot over them.

Luther was screaming at him—shouting orders even in his state. Justen didn’t hear him over his own heart beat. It drummed through his being like the sound of war.

His breath quickened as he collapsed with Luther into the forest and scrambled to peer through the thicket.

“Justen–“ Luther moaned against the pain, and what he was going to say was lost. Justen held up his hands. They still quivered.

Someone had attacked them.

It was no training exercise, no lark. He had stood, a knight—a prince—ready to meet death.

He could accept it, or he could meet it with his training. Wasn’t this what he was brought up for? To take on the guard?

He felt his gloved hands for his ring, the familiar ring his grandmother had commissioned for him, with it's beautiful Ruby center. Luther had it, he remembered, and fought off a moment of panick.

“Justen—“ Luther cried out as Justen pushed himself up, made himself ready. “You are a prince. You must keep yourself safe.”

“You are my friend,” Justen said simply. They would likely die or live together. He crept around the edge of the bush and saw nothing in the forest beyond. It was dark and dense between the trees. A different kind of forest, darker ... more ordinary, then the one in which they waited.

Their supplies lay just feet away from him, one of their horses was down. Luther’s.

They would need the horse to get Luther on to safety. The sword he held at his belt, but the bow and quiver full of arrows was stashed with their food. It had been in his responsibility. And he’d failed.

It was time for him to stand up to the challenge.

He had one chance.

He eyed the quiver, and the bag it was in. A simple, but desperate plan.

That could end with his death.

He drew in a breath, watched the clearing, then looked to the woods across the way. In the darkness, someone waited. He could almost see them. A shadow on shadow; the vague darkness of human.

“Justen—“ Luther called him back.

Instead, Justen charged. He reached the sack in two steps, held it up as a shield and bolted back into the forest just as he felt the impact against the bag. He stopped when he was within the forest walls; he knelt in safety. He fumbled with the bag, his hands trembled and were unable to grasp the cords.

He started as he saw not one, but two arrows pierced into the bag. He withdrew his own bow, then an arrow. He knelt in the shrubs, and watched across the clearing. He notched his arrow and drew it back slightly. He watched the woods still, his eyes glued to the darkest of the shadows.

He held off ... and said a prayer. It was patience Luther said he needed, and where did patience come from? Wasn’t it his mother who prayed for such things?

He petitioned for the patience, for the mercy.

He breathed and watched, and as the shadow darkened and the shape took hold, he pulled back on the bow and let the arrow fly.

Even as he heard the grunt howl, another arrow sliced through the air at him.

More? There were more?

He muttered a Darbenton curse that would have shamed his mother. How many? How could he take own a whole troupe of archers hidden in this unfamiliar land?

Then he saw him—the giant of a man, clothed in goat skin. His hair was long, ragged, and fell around his shoulders. He held a bow allow fashioned in great elegance, it’s arrow already piercing through the air ... and into the forest beyond.



Dustiny walked slowly, his bones ached with age. He was the king, and yet he knew not what had gone on in his own castle. His advisors had put ... what first? Themselves? The kingdom?

Could he really believe they’d been thinking of Fairingham when they’d invited Gouten within the walls?

He walked into his private rooms and shut the wooden door behind him. Then he buried his face in his hands. He could see her still—his dear Stephanie, with her mother’s face. She’d been so gaunt, as her mother had been in those days closest to death.

He could have lost her.

He walked to his windows and pushed open the wooden doors. He stared out over his kingdom, to the sky, past the Mountains of Lore. If he turned completely to his left, he faced Gouten—once an enemy, and now the courtiers of his daughters. They wanted an alliance. They promised peace.

But for how long?

He turned instead all the way to his right and faced Darbenton—past the mountains and the forest beyond. So long the allies of Fairingham, from where he’d found a childhood friend. It had been so long since he’d sat down at the same table as Charles. Communication had ceased between the two kingdoms. There was so much distance between. What was happening in Darbenton? In the forest and mountains between?

He looked again to the sky and questioned of God. A silent God, as Lady Dennison had proclaimed? Where were the answers, the brightness of truth and right?

It had been so long since he’d sent an entreaty heavenward. He was the king, and the king was established to his place by God—wasn’t that what was taught to him from his first breath as a child?

The words ran through his mind in Latin as he translated them out loud.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

Oh, how he needed help. What kind of mud pit had he fallen upon? Whom should he trust in this time of darkness?

Under the window was the chapel where Father Lewis resided, and perhaps, waited for the king. At one time, they had been fast friends, but his advice had always been to be silent ... or to be silent, and wait.

To wait? For what? Gouten was clamoring at their walls now ... for peace or for siege ...

Wait, Father Lewis entreated.

The king turned from the window. What else could he do? His youngest was only now taking a breath of healing. The weddings would have to be postponed in any case, to wait for her health to return. He would wait this time, he decided.

He walked over to his bed, to the trunk that rested at the foot board. He knelt as he opened it, as reverently as his subjects had to their king. He opened the lid and lifted out the top object, a cloak that the color of roses that belonged to his darling Catherine. He’d lost her so young, though she’d birthed him three wondrous gifts.

It had been hard to wait for much since he lost her. He’d waited at her side for months, waiting for her to return to health. Instead, she’d slipped through his fingers to the heavens. He’d waited for death, and something died inside him.

He sank onto the floor, once a proud king now reduced to seeing a world full of wrongs stretched out before him. He leaned back against the trunk, and held the cloak to his face, wished to breathe in her scent that had so long passed.

Was he once again only waiting for death?

This time, for his beloved kingdom.



The ache in his shoulder was the first thing Luther noted as he came awake. He blinked against the dim light and saw Justen fumbling with a small pouch. He watched in amusement at the prince pulled out a pinching of crushed herbs.

“What do you know of healing?”

Justen looked up in surprise and grinned—not the full bright dashing grin normal to him, but one of intense relief. “You would be surprised what I know. To learn, to follow directions—that I can do.”

“Oh really?”

“It’s not the time to mock. A injured man should not attack his healer,” he said as he pressed the herbs against the wound. Luther leaned up and against the pain and tried to have a look. The wound was partially wrapped already. Justen held the herbs down with one hand, and then continued the bandaging with the other.

“Besides, the big silent man seems to know.”

“The big silent man?” Luther watched as Justen leaned to the side. Behind him the big man—as Justen had called him—leaned against a tree and stared out over the land.

Keeping watch.

“Who is he?” Luther whispered.

“There is no need to whisper. Arkello cannot understand a hide of what we say,” Justen jerked against the wrapping and managed to tie it off. “He came to our aid, saved our lives.”

“How do you know he wasn’t the one shooting at us?”

“Because he saved us. Fought side by my side valiantly.”

“But who is he?”

“I don’t know. I can only gather that he his our guide. It took a bit to understand,” Justen sat back on his heels and surveyed his work. “A lot of pointing and a bit of shouting, I think.”

“Then he is from Fairingham,” Luther started to sigh with relief.

“No—that I understood. He comes from the north.”

“To the north is Gouten.”

“No—he understood Gouten. Said he comes from somewhere, I think, in between.”

“There is nothing in between,” Luther muttered vehemently.

Justen stared at Luther in frustration. “How do you know for sure? We don’t even know what’s going on in Fairingham! Besides, you were the one who said we would know the guide, that we could trust him. Here is our guide.”

“That was before we were attacked.”

Justen ignored him. “I did figure out his name. It was a lot of point and shaking of hands. His name is Arkello.”

“And how do you know for sure?”

“I point to myself and said, I am Justen—peasant from Darbenton. He pointed to himself and said Arkello. I pointed to him and said Arkello, he pointed—”

Luther held up a hand. “I think I got it. And Justen, a peasant does not label himself a peasant to anything but royalty.”

“More lessons.”

“Apparently you need them.”

“Look,” Justen gestured to the wrapping. “I only did what he was doing before you woke. I think he sensed you coming to, and figured you would ... react better with a familiar face. He didn’t just save us, he was trying to save you. How else would I know how to do something like that?”



The morning was quiet ... the castle silent, without the rush of merchants and life that had pulsed since the announcement of the weddings. Stephanie stood at her window, with the stained glass windows open, the light of the sun pouring through the colored glass. She was back in her own rooms.

She heard the familiar footsteps in the hall and heard them stop, just outside her doorway. She turned from the window and saw her father. He’d come to see her a half dozen times in the last day, his eyes haggard, seemingly aged.

“Father.”

“You should not be out of bed.”

“I needed to see the sun.”

He walked over to the window where she stood and looked out over his kingdom. Was it natural, she wondered, to still feel betrayal? They’d had such a close bond before ... why would she just want to step away from him.

She turned her eyes to the mountains. “You used to tell me that my mother loved the mountains.”

“That she did,” he placed a hand on her cheek and she turned to find his gaze on her so wistful. “You look so much like your mother, especially in this light, with the sun coming through the stained glass.”

He seemed so sad, she shivered. “You’re cold. The tower was rough on you.”

It had been so dark, and she supposed cold, but it was the feeling of emptiness, of loneliness, that surrounded. Her father had been displeased with her.

She turned her cheek into his hand and felt relief roll through again.

He held up the loosely woven red cloth. It was so soft she could curl her fingers into it. She unfolded the material to discover it to be a cloak, and lifted her eyes to her father’s.

“This was your mother’s.”

Stephanie looked back at the wrap. She’d never seen it before.

He took it from her, moved behind her to wrap it around her shoulders. She tugged it into place.

“There now,” he said. “You’ll be warm to stand here before the window.”



Luther road atop the horse, with Justen leading him along the narrow trails, this time heading down another mountain side—whereas they’d traveled both up and down and plenty of in betweens over the last few days. Whatever Arkello had given Luther, it had saved him from the fever. His shoulder was healing, though it still ached, and he tired quickly.

Leaving Justen to fend for both of them much of the time. It was an odd sort of feeling to be the one in front ... to be the one responsible.

For another life.

The days were long and rough, with Arkello leading them silently through the Mountains of Lore. The winding, narrow road they took must have been out of the way, or so Justen assumed from Arkello’s gesturing. If there was a main road, it wasn’t safe for men from Darbenton.

Something was a miss in Fairingham.

Holding onto the reins, Justen walked at Luther’s side. They had taken to talking—in soft tones, their ears pricked for disturbance.

It was different to not be at odds, to not be constantly quibbling and fighting.

It was different, Justen thought, to be trusted.

Or if not fully trusted, then depended on.

“We must be getting closer to the village,” Luther pointed to the well-traveled trails they had come upon. “Tracks look fresh. Your friend doesn’t seem to be bothered by that.”

Luther had taken to referring to Arkello as Justen’s friend—mostly because the towering man addressed what there was of the conversation to Justen. Luther pointed out that he probably thought Justen the peasant and Luther the prince, if he even knew the relationship—as it had been Justen who handled the rescue. As there was no way to explain because of the language barrier, the perception stayed.

But for once, he was treated as an equal. Arkello, though unable to speak the same language, looked him in the eye.

“I think he said last night that we were close—each night he’s held up a few bits of biscuit. Two nights ago, he held up two and last night one ... like he was counting down. So he must have meant we were to arrive today.”

“For I just might kill you in the morning.”

“What?”

Luther shrugged. “A phrase from Bard Bellow’s stash of stories. The gentle giant comes down to his captives and brings a feast, ‘eat up,’ he would say, ‘for I just might kill you in the morning.’ Of course he was fattening them up to make a better meal.”

Just then, there was a break in the woods ahead.

“Look—“ Justen exclaime.

There was a castle, surrounded by a wall formed from large chunks of white-grey stone. The oversized and ornately detailed gates were open, and people were coming and going ... traders, peasants, country folk, a knight of Fairingham. Still another with long ragged hair, who dressed in the goat skin as Arkello did—the thick skin a tell-tell sign that he must have only just come down from the mountains.

It was getting hot, now that they were out of the mountains, and out of the cover of the trees.

“Doesn’t look threatening.”

“No,” Luther agreed, though when Justen looked, his hand rested on his covered sword. The kingdom might not be under seige, but something still had to be amiss.

They shrugged out of their heavy cloaks, even as Arkello stopped and turned toward them, then lifted his hand in salute. Then he was gone. He’d received is payment days ago, at what must have been the halfway point.

“Wait—“

Justen tried to call him back, but he kept going until he disappeared into the trees. He felt a sudden sense of lose.

“He’s done his job,” Luther sad quietly.

And that’s all it had been, Justen admitted, but something had happened on the long journey. Something had changed him.

They walked through the city walls as peasants, without the fanfare that had greeted Justen his entire life. People passed them by. They were unseen, unimportant. Their steed was an ugly sort, his speed and agility hidden under a mass of ragged fur.

And then Justen looked at the castle, built in the lightest of grey stones, just as the wall had been. He followed the excellent workmanship up until he spied a lady at a window, her hair as golden as the sun. She was framed in the color of stained glass windows and the red of a wrap—the only spot of color on the beautiful gray wall.

Their eyes met, and for a moment he was trapped, forgetting that as peasant he had no right to look upon a beautiful lady of the castle. Princess or queen, she was far above him. He was the one who should submit; he was the one who should drop his gaze.

Even so far away, he watched her hand tremble on the edge of the open window. She was pale and thin, but so very breathtaking. He was enchanted.

“There’s our men,” Luther said, and Justen looked to where Luther pointed.

When he looked back, she was gone.


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