Chapter 1353: On the road(1)

Say what you will about Vilon, but say he was not a man to let sound counsel go completely unheard. There was a hard, flinty truth in the words Rosh had spoken at the gatehouse: this southern land was as deeply accursed as it was dangerous.

He had harbored a faint, desperate hope in that miserable refugee camp that they might find clear, definitive directions toward Scidna. Unfortunately, he had achieved precious little success in that endeavor. Instead, he had been forced to part with an entire silverii just for a single sack of winter oats and a few meager travel rations.

A whole silverii! Too big a sum for such wretched fare. Vilon could not fathom how money was so dreadfully hard to come by, yet whenever it settled into a man’s pouch, it seemed to trickle down and vanish like water held in open palms.

He had hoped that the coin would have at least purchased a few well-needed directions. Yet all he had managed to extract from the ancient, rheumy-eyed local at a tent that was fitted as a tavern was a trembling hand pointed down a rutted path, accompanied by a vague promise that along the way he would stumble across small hamlets where he could ask around for further directions, and others where he could buy more rations.

Vilon had neglected to ask, however, exactly how many leagues stretched between those villages.

By his grim count, they had been traveling for two full days, and yet not a single thatched roof had appeared on the horizon. And they had certainly moved with a purpose. So long as the winter sun offered a scrap of light, they pushed forward, strictly following Rosh’s advice to move as fast as their legs and hooves could carry them along the highway.

When darkness fell, they slept without the comfort of a fire, terrified of drawing the eyes of the starving wolves in the hills. Instead, they simply huddled tight against one another in the hollow of the earth, the biting frost gnawing at their skin. Yet it was the heavy, clinging smell of old woodsmoke and distant death that lingered in their nostrils, far more potent than their fear of the cold.

Owen had been r resilient about the whole ordeal, suffering the damp nights without a single murmur of complaint. Vilon truly did not know what he had done to deserve the boy, a humbling thought that crossed the young knight’s mind far more times than a man ought to admit.

He had received a many great gifts and favors from the five gods, far more than most landless men were ever entitled to in this life.

Especially him.

His hand drifted instinctively upward, grabbing hold of the crude wooden star hanging from the leather thong around his neck. He squeezed it tight, until one of the sharp, hand-carved points bit painfully through the grain of his leather glove.

Do they have a grand mission for me? Vilon wondered, staring blankly down the road. He could find no other logical explanation for why such unearned kindness had been shown to a stray like him. Perhaps it was indeed exactly as that lordly boy had said.

Ride and be a good knight.

There were a lot of knight in the south, but perhaps not many of them were true knight.

Try as he may,he could not think of anything else. He was not in the service of some mighty lord . He had no grand banner to raise, no host of men-at-arms to lead into the fray. He was a nobody. A nobody with a horse, a sword, and a head full of romantic nonsense and a long debt to pay.

"Ser. It’s your turn," Owen called out, his voice instantly snapping Vilon from his reverie.

The crisp winter wind slapped against the squire’s face, causing his dark hair, which was growing long now, falling perhaps an inch past his hairline, to flutter slightly at the ends. The simple horn hilt of his shortsword hung neatly against the hip of his faded wool and leather doublet. Vilon knew well enough that the doublet was merely the first layer a man put on for battle, with a heavy iron hauberk usually falling next.

I ought to buy the lad some proper iron links as soon as I have the silver, Vilon thought, adding it to the mental tally.

Just one more expense to add to the endless list. He already needed to procure the boy a proper mount, a weighted mace, a painted shield, and, of course, a proper tent. Silk, linen, coarse sail-cloth, it did not matter in the slightest, so long as it offered them some small repair from the brutal weather of the road, Vilon would gladly take it.

"Thank you, lad," Vilon muttered, stepping forward and hoisting himself up onto the saddle.

Chestnut let out a sharp, highly displeased snort the moment Vilon’s weight settled onto his back, making absolutely no qualms about letting the world know who his favorite companion truly was. Ignoring the stallion’s attitude, Vilon looked down from the saddle, observing his squire from the side.

The boy was straight-backed as always, a bright, resilient smile hanging on his lips as he looked around the desolate landscape as if the world held nothing but grand wonders. Vilon supposed they balanced one another perfectly; he complimented what Owen lacked in optimism, and vice versa.

"Owen."

The boy turned his head, his boots crunching rhythmically on the frosted grass of the path. "Yes, ser?"

"Is there anything you wish for? Anything at all I can give you right now?"

Owen paused, his steps slowing as he fell into a deep, serious thought. He chewed on his lower lip, thinking long and hard about the question as the wind whistled through the dead brush.

"I cannot think of anything that you have not already promised to give me in time, ser," Owen finally replied, his tone remarkably grounded. "It is not right for people to wanton after too much. The priests of the Bringer of Mercy preach that a man must remain humble in his desires."

"But if you could ask for something of me, right this moment, what would you ask?" Vilon insisted, leaning forward over Chestnut’s neck.

"Nothing, I’d say, ser," Owen said with a soft shrug. "There is nothing you can give me that isn’t already bound to come. Why such sudden kindness?"

Vilon let out a slow, heavy breath. "I came to realize that I offered you a grand, noble service in my stead. I promised that one day you would be a proper knight, traveling the roads near and afar, delivering what little justice we can with our own two hands. I told you we would fight the small injustices that pass right under the lords’ grand eyes. But so far... all I have actually given you are freezing nights without a fire, nasty, salted rabbit meat, and empty promises of later gifts."

"Yeah..." Owen fumbled with his hands, trying to find the words to match the sudden gravity of the conversation. "I mean... yeah, the dirt isn’t pleasant, ser. But no! It was nice getting to ride Chestnut yesterday, and I truly like tending to the arms. Ma’ said my arms were made to work!

This is just the hard start of things." He looked up, his green eyes bright. "You don’t plant a seed in the morning and expect to reap the golden grain by evening, ser.

Ma’ always said patience is the great father of all virtues!

You have to wait for it to grow in the dark. Right now... right now we are going to a grand tournament! I have never seen a tournament in all my life, ser! What are they truly like?"

Vilon swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. And I have never ridden in one either, the knight thought silently.

But he could not let the boy see his own doubt. He adjusted his reins, a distant, idyllic light coming into his eyes as he began to paint the picture for his squire.

"They are magnificent, Owen," Vilon said. "Imagine a great valley, greener than any field you’ve ever seen, surrounded by towering wooden stands draped in brilliant silks of crimson, gold, and royal blue. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet honeyed wine, and trampled clover. There are hundreds of banners snapping in the wind, each bearing the ancient crest of a different lord.Sometimes lords from different principalities would come to joust too..."

The knight smiled, his own spirits lifting as the vision took hold. "And the noise, lad! The roar of the crowd is like thunder. Thousands of people cheering for you from the stands, with high lords and beautiful ladies in attendance, all leaning over the rails just to catch a glimpse of the shifting steel. The heralds blow their long silver trumpets, the sound piercing the sky, and then... then you ride out onto the lane, your shield brightly painted, your lance held high, ready to carve your name as the one who won that tourney"

Owen listened with his mouth slightly open, a look of pure, unadulterated wonder on his face. "And will they cheer for us, ser?"

"If we ride hard enough and true enough," Vilon promised, looking down the empty road with a newfound fire in his chest. "They won’t have a choice.All must sings for the victors after all!"

"Will you win the tourney, ser?" Owen asked, his eyes wide with the reflection of the painted fields and silver trumpets Vilon had just conjured.

"I’ll certainly try, lad," Vilon said, a rare, soft smirk breaking through his usual solemnity.Though in the next one he would fight on foot rather than partecipate on the joust.

"And when will I be able to ride in one too?"

"As soon as we get you a proper horse and a proper suit of armor," Vilon replied, looking down from the saddle with an encouraging nod. "You’ll make dust of your opponents, I already know it. You’re already getting better and faster with that shortsword than I ever was at your age. Soon enough, there won’t be a damn thing left for me to teach you."

Owen flushed a pleased, stuttering red. "You are too kind, ser."

"A man must be kind when he can, Owen. For a man who receives kindness is bound to return it to another, and so the cycle continues through the world."

The squire walked in silence for a few paces, his heavy boots rhythmically crunching the frosted road, before he looked up curiously. "Have you ever received kindness then, ser? Before I came along?"

Vilon nodded slowly. "Two times. This armor you see," he said, tapping a gauntleted hand against the iron links of the hauberk he had scrubbed the rust off of a thousand times, and then to the simple half-helm resting on his brow. "It was gifted to me by the Lord of Epietoli."

"The Mad Bull?" Owen asked, his voice squeaking slightly at the mention of the notoriously volatile lord.

Vilon’s eyebrows furrowed, and he gave a mock-stern click of his tongue. "The Valorous Bull, lad. He is a generous and honorable man, I can personally attest to that. Though... he was not quite as generous as the one who gave me my second gift."

"What other gift?"

"It was given to me by a boy," Vilon said, his eyes drifting out over Chestnut’s pricked ears. "Back when Chestnut..." He caught himself, realized what he was about to reveal, and quickly shifted his footing. "...back when Chestnut was very sick. This boy kindly brought a proper horse-doctor to the stables and paid for the medicine out of his own pouch. And the brute recovered so miraculously well that some of his dark coat actually turned pure white."

"Really?" Owen gaped, looking up at the massive stallion with newfound scientific awe. "Horses turn white when they get well?I thought they could change colour at the seasons!"

"Some do. Not all, mind you, but some do," Vilon said, lying through his teeth with the practiced serenity of a seasoned tavern-haggler. "Chestnut was simply one of them, clearly."

"And who was this boy, ser?"

"Oh, the young son of a powerful lord, no doubt. Kind, generous... he will make a fine ruler one day, I’m certain of it. I fear he only gave me his given name, though."

"And what was that, ser?"

"Basil," Vilon said softly, the name tasting strange on his tongue after so long.

Owen froze mid-stride, his boots sliding slightly across the grass. He blinked up at the knight, his face twisting into a look of profound, utterly startled confusion.

"Basil?" the boy repeated, his voice dropping into a bewildered whisper. "Like... like the Prince?Like the King’s son, ser?Was it the king’s son?Was it him, really?"