Quendalon/Session25ZeraInterlude

Zera Thisse watched as the wind coursed along the vast, empty plains and danced among the willowy grasses and the late-blooming beds of wildflowers. He couldn’t help but smile at the dizzying array of colors and shapes. It was the only mirth he’d found in days, perhaps weeks.

It was now a month since the terrible battle with the hobgoblins, and the mountains had been left behind them. That leg of the trip was long and arduous, as men and packhorses alike balked at the precarious paths cut through the unforgiving rock. Tempers flared and fights broke out, verbal and otherwise. Archers squabbled with lancers, common soliders grumbled about their commander’s orders, and even Lord Corvan and Lady Mya would argue about the best course, quietly and when they thought no one could hear. Zera was always good at not being noticed, and he learned a thing or two from those discussions.

He had been wrapped in his blanketroll one night in the mountains, and the camp was subdued and quiet. Snow blustered around them, carried down from the peaks and keeping the soliders huddled under inadequate cloaks and bedrolls. The two Dragon-Blooded officers were off a ways, and didn’t realize the same wind that brought the snow also carried their words to Zera’s ears.

---

“Lord Corvan, I have said nothing about any of this, as of yet. I have done my best to keep morale up, but I’m not the only one at the end of my rope. We are only a scale, my Lord, and bloodied at that!” Ledaal Mya ranted, her bright blue eyes flashing with anger. “ We still have hundreds of miles to cover before we even reach Chiaroscuro, and there’s any number of things that can take us down between here and there. Supposing we survive those, there’s still a city full of hungry ghosts!” She ceased momentarily, seemingly catching her breath to begin again.

“Enough, Lieutanant. That’s quiet enough.” The voice of Lord Ledaal Corvan was enough to make steel seem pliable. “If any of the men hear this, they’ll flee and be back on their way to the Blessed Isle before you could blink.”

Mya had the good graces to show the proper chagrin. She stared past the fires and the sleeping forms of the camp, out towards the other side of the mountains. Snow drifted around her and caught in the strands of blue hair that escaped her helmet. “My Lord. Please. Tell me why. I would follow you anywhere, die where you asked me, but I want to know why this operation isn’t at proper strength. We should be at the head of a full legion right now.”

The silence grew between them, as Corvan turned to stare in the same direction. South and west. Zera huddled under his thin blanket and tried to keep his breathing slow and even. Just when he thought that Corvan would leave the question unanswered, his voice just barely reached his ears.

“Politics.” Ledaal Corvan spat the word like an oath. “I’ve never cared for them, but I am swept along nevertheless because of my station. My uncle, Ledaal Traven, was furious when he heard that I was to be awarded The House of One Hundred Gardens as a gift upon my retirement. I have done much for the family, won many battles, but in this it counts as nothing.”

Mya gasped angrily. “My Lord, we are all being sent to die because your Uncle desires a Manse ? That’s all there is to this? All these men sacrificed, for that!” He nodded in return, sadness glinting in his eyes. “There was nothing I could do to stop it, Lieutenant. He called in a favor that dates back to before you were alive. It made sense to the family – a small party succeeding and drawing less attention that could be used against us. A simple ruse, and I had no defense. Should we actually succeed, as admittedly unlikely as that is, I would not be surprised if we must deal with assassins in the South.”

Zera quietly goggled in surprise, the cold and his empty belly forgotten. Could the mighty Dynasty really be this cruel? He knew that the Great Houses waged a quiet war on each other, but he never knew that such things happened within a single House. Ledaal Corvan was a great man and a legendary solider, and he was being sent to die over some house in the countryside? It made the country-bred boy sick to his stomach, only slightly more so because he knew that if these men and women died, he likely would as well. He shook his head, forgetting his ruse of slumber.

Mya’s eyes narrowed, and she pointed at the archer’s prone form. Lord Corvan’s eyes caught the movement, but he shook his head, even as he lowered his voice. “He won’t flee, that one. If something happens to me, you are to trust him as I have.” Mya grimaced, but nodded. She didn’t seem to have much choice about anything at all these days . . .

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Zera Thisse shook himself out of his reverie, as the sound of horse hooves signalled someone’s approach from behind him. He knew it was one of the two Dynasts, because the only soldier that talked to him was Aleia, and her horse was too small to make that kind of racket. He didn’t move a muscle, not wanting to lose the calm the beauty around him summoned.

He heard the rider rein in the horse just to his left, and there was silence for a few moments. The voice that spoke was not the voice he was expecting. “This reminds me of the Ventus Prefecture. North of the Imperial City. It’s beautiful there . . .my family had a hunting lodge. Before I Exalted, I would play amongst the flowers and pretend that I was the Scarlet Empress.” The voice was wistful, under the harsh solider’s tone.

He glanced to his side, then, and saw Ledaal Mya swing down off her horse to stand next to him. He’d heard she was about thirty years old, but she honestly looked no older than he did. A strange thing to notice, all of a sudden. He kept his silence, a little taken aback by the Dynast’s sudden openness.

“I know you heard what I did that night, up on the mountain. You know this is a suicide mission.” Zera nodded, turning to stare at the waving flowers and grasses again. “That’s true, Lieutnant. I did hear, and I do know that. What, did you expect me to run crying back to Thorns?” Zera wheeled around, anger pulling the corners of his mouth into a sneer. “Courage is not only the domain of the Dragon-Blooded, my Lady.”

The blue-eyed Imperial grinned slightly, flipping the reins of her war charger idly. She stared at the young man from Thorns, taking in the travel-stained clothing, the callouses on his hand, the look in his eyes that made him seem older, and realized she was seeing him for the first time as a person, instead of a stereotypical Threshold barbarian. “I never said you were a coward. No one can say that, but I know that Lord Corvan would release you from your oath if you asked him. You have your family to consider.”

Zera’s face colored with embarassment. “I apologize. I misjudged you, and it won’t happen again. As far as my family goes, they know what I do. It’s better for them to know that I died trying to stop someone dangerous, then for them to know that I ran from something I swore I’d do.” He folded his arms and waited for the mockery to commence. It was a cliché sentiment, but he felt it to his bones nevertheless.

She met his gaze, and held it for a long time. “Then in this, we are agreed. We will see this to the end. No matter what.” She extended a mailed hand towards the young archer, her face set and humorless. He reached out with his own, and took her hand in his, nodding. “No matter what.”. Turning from each other, they stared at the fields for a long time, lost in memories and thought.

A week later, the bedraggled and hungry Scale found their way to the villages outside Kirighast, farmers and traveling peddlers alike ceasing their labors to wipe their brows and point at the soldiers bearing the banner of the Realm. The party made their way into the city itself, and rested for several days. The soldiers took their ease in the taverns, swilling ale and recounting the battle with the hobgoblins for anyone who would listen. Aleia attempted to drag Zera off several times during their stay, but he found himself oddly reluctant. She gave over with only slight teasing, and would make her way into the city to have what fun she could. The feeling of foreboding had made its way to the soliders, though they didn’t understand the whole of it.

Zera largely kept to himself, wandering the streets of the city by day and finding smaller, quiet taverns to spend his evenings in. Their third night in Kirghast, the last as it happened to be, was the night he found himself in the common room of The Wild Plains Rose, listening to a dark-skinned woman playing a bittern. He played a bit of the flute himself, and the sound of music was exactly what he wanted to hear.

He was tired of the marching and the camping and the bad food and the orders of Dynasts. The small tavern reminded him of the village inns back home, and he found himself taking his flute from his pack. He was no virtuoso, but it was something he found he missed doing, and when the bittern player took her break for dinner, Zera was surprised to find himself approaching the innkeeper.

“Good evening, Mistress. I know that you have a musician, but I was wondering if I may play my flute for your patrons. I don’t want any money and I’ll pay for my drinks. I just want to play.”

The grey-haired, round-cheeked woman in her apron raised an eyebrow when he declined payment, and she nodded. “As long as you can hit a note or two, I have no trouble with it.” She nodded towards the platform. “Be my guest.”

Zera dragged a stool up to the platform and sat down, dusting off the tin shaft of his flute. He cleared his throat, and raised the flute to his lips, and found his throat suddenly dry as a desert. Ledaal Corvan sat at the front table, having come in when Zera’s attention was elsewhere. He nodded. “Do you take requests?” Zera nodded nervously. “Do you know ‘The Fields of Melevhil’?”. Zera nodded again, and licked his lips. He began to play.

Lord Ledaal Corvan listened raptly to the first strains of music, the lilting sound of tragedy and loss that only songs about battle could attain. He stood, and closed his eyes as he went to stand next to his conscripted archer and scout. The words poured forth in a rich, warm bass.

“The banners waved o’er our heads, and the sun was shining high,

Our lances blazed like torchlight, as we marched on side by side,

The horses pranced and ladies danced, and we went off to die.

Our wives and husbands cheered us, as wives and husbands will,

They swore we’d be victorious, but we knew better still,

The bands all played and children sang, as we marched to Melevhil.

We marched a thousand miles, and we marched a thousand more,

Our bellies all were empty, are bodies worn and sore,

But still we marched to Melevhil, to wage our bloody war.

The drums kept us all in line, and bannermen did shout,

‘Lo! Before you lies the battlefield, now be what you’re about!’

At the sound of horns, our lances drawn, ready for the rout.

The Dragon-Blooded took the field, o’er a hundred strong,

The ‘Striders took the vanguard, to sing their deadly song,

If we but knew how very few would live to see the dawn.

The Seventh Legion took the field, the Empress they’d deny,

And Melevhil and Nathir men drew up by their side,

The clouds began to gather, and rain fell from the sky.

The fighting men were sodden, the field churned into mud,

And silence hung for moments, each thinking of his love,

Then vicious noise of battle joined, and fields ran red with blood.

They came at us with lances, and things of bygone Age,

We met their every single charge, but couldn’t meet their rage,

With guts and wit, they boxed us in, and the field became a cage.

With Nathir-men to flank us, we had nowhere to go,

They swore to never taste defeat, and that day they made it so,

And this, my friends, did spell the end of the Empress’s Own.

We came to fill our better’s greed, and paid the butcher’s bill

Our wives and husbands mourned, as wives and husbands will

I remember still, the thousands killed, on the Field of Melevhil.

The song ended, and the crowd clapped their approval. The innkeeper nodded and bade the barmaids bring the pair fresh drinks. The bittern player had come back, and eyed the pair with a touch of irritation – her playing had certainly not elicited such a response.

As the fresh mugs were set down beside them, Zera met Lord Corvan’s face, grim and full of determination. “We’re marching to our own Melevhil, aren’t we?” Corvan met him stare for stare for a long moment. “Finish your drink and get some sleep, young man. We leave with first light.” Zera drank his ale, and was not surprised that it tasted just like ashes.