“This girl you mentioned, Caitlin. Did you love her?”
“Oh, for a while, I thought perhaps I did,” Aedan replied. “But it was really nothing more than an infatuation. Besides, she had eyes only for Vaesil. I was never one popular with the ladies. I lacked Vaesil’s quick wit and good looks, and I would grow tongue-tied in the presence of a girl I found attractive. Aside from that, I was Lord Tieran’s son, and that set me apart. It was one thing, I suppose, for a girl to entertain the notion of a liaison with a noble, perhaps on the off chance that it might lead to marriage or at least a bastard that the noble might feel duty-bound to support, but the son of the emperor’s high chamberlain occupied too lofty a status. I always sensed they were uncomfortable in my presence, watchful of their remarks—except for Vaesil, of course, who was always recklessness personified.”
“Why did you come here then?” Sylvanna asked.
“For some relief from duties and responsibilities that I found oppressive at the time,” he replied. “Michael used to try my patience in those days. You recall what he was like eight years ago, when you first came here. He has matured a great deal since that time. As have we all, no doubt. But back then, I felt the need for some companionship of people my own age, people who were not associated with the court. I suppose it made me feel somewhat daring to come here and spend my time in company with philosophers, bards, artists, laborers, criminals. For a time, it made me feel as if I were one of them.” He shook his head. “Strange. I killed three men tonight and feel no remorse for it. They preyed upon the innocent and would have killed me if they could. And yet, I feel pity for Vaesil, for he preys only on himself. What a peculiar creature I’ve become.”
Sylvanna reached out and touched his hand, reassuringly. “I have always found humans peculiar,” she said, “but you less so than most.” Her touch lingered.
Aedan smiled. “I will accept that as a compliment.”
“It was intended as one.”
Aedan waved to the serving girl and ordered a bottle of wine. “I’m in a mood to get good and drunk tonight,” he said. “When we finish this, just bring another.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Sylvanna said. “What happened on this last campaign was not your fault.”
“I wonder,” he replied. “I have always thought that traveling through the Shadow World was far too great a risk. I know Michael better than any other man. He listens to me. Perhaps if I’d tried harder, I could have talked him out of it.”
“I doubt it,” said Sylvanna. “Once Michael makes his mind up, nothing dissuades him from his course.”
“I wonder if he’s getting drunk tonight,” said Aedan.
Sylvanna squeezed his hand across the table.
“Does an immortal fear death?” he asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “Just because we have a longer life span does not mean we have less fear of death. We can be killed like anybody else, you know. Everyone fears death.”
Aedan shook his head. “No, not everyone. I do not think Michael does. I have never known him to be afraid of anything. He seems to have no capacity for fear. That is why he has always been so reckless. And that is a large part of the reason he inspires his troops. In that respect, there is something lacking in him that most normal people have. I have always marveled at it and wished I could have his courage. But this time, something’s changed.”
“In what way?” she asked, still holding his hand. There was an expression of infinite sadness on his face, and it touched her deeply.
“I realized something this time that I never realized before,” he said, pausing to drain his goblet and refill it. He held out the bottle to her interrogatively, and she nodded for him to refill hers as well. “Courage is not fearlessness,” he continued, as he poured. “Fearlessness is just a lack of fear. Courage is overcoming fear. Without fear, there can be no courage. It struck me back there in the Spiderfell, when those horrid creatures tried to trap us with their webs.” He shuddered at the memory that was still so fresh. “It made my skin crawl. I have always hated spiders. That first time in the Shadow World, when you flicked that albino spider off me and told me how they get into your hair and lay their eggs … I had nightmares about that for weeks. I would wake up in a cold sweat, and it was as if I could literally feel them crawling on my head. I’d have to go over to the washbasin and scrub myself till I thought all my hair was going to fall out. And that was only from that one spider. This time, there thousands of them, hundreds of thousands, so many that the tree trunks were writhing with them and the webs they spun were covered with the damn things.”
His breathing quickened, and he tossed his wine back in one gulp, then refilled his goblet once again. “I never felt more afraid in my whole life. I felt consumed by stark, unreasoning terror. The only thing that kept me from spurring my horse and bolting in panic was the certain knowledge of what would happen to me if I did. And even then, I was on the verge of doing so. Until I turned around and looked at the foot soldiers marching behind us. I saw their faces and knew they all felt exactly as I did. I could see their fear. I could smell it. And yet they kept their ranks, kept marching….”
“There was nothing else for them to do,” Sylvanna said. “I felt afraid, as well, but giving in to fear would have resulted only in our destruction.”
“I understand that,” Aedan said, “but that is not the point.” He emptied his goblet once again and promptly refilled it. “The point is this: the army has campaigned for eight long years. Oh, it was not eight years of straight campaigning. There were the breaks between campaigns, and in the winter and the early spring, but each time the call for troops went out they came. No matter how bad the last campaign was, no matter how many losses we incurred, no matter the hardships we suffered in the field, still they gathered up their arms and came. This last campaign was the worst disaster we had ever faced. We never even got to see Lord Arwyn’s army, but we fought ogres, battled the undead, were terrorized by a legion of spiders, and set upon by gnolls and goblins…. Those valiant soldiers went through more than any man should endure, and yet I have no doubt that when the call goes out again, still they will come. That is courage.”
She nodded, watching him. He was getting drunk. He tossed back his wine and poured once more. This time, she joined him, but he was having at least three goblets for every one she drank. He was starting to slur his words.
“If Michael has any real courage, he will not take them back into the Shadow World again. The Cold Rider was a warning. We survived this time … well, at least some of us did … but I doubt we shall be so lucky next time. If there is a next time. That is where my courage must come in, you see. I must prevent him. I must find it in myself to stand up to him, something I have never done. Vaesil called him a bloody butcher. You wondered how I could allow him to speak that way. Because he was right, that’s why. Michael is a bloody butcher. He sees only the goal he strives for and does not consider the costs … the terrible, terrible costs. Let Arwyn have his damned Western Marches! What does it matter? So there shall be two empires instead of one. So what? Nothing is worth this. Nothing.”
He put his head in his hands and slumped over the table.
Sylvanna flagged down the serving girl. “Have you rooms upstairs?” she asked.
The girl glanced at Aedan and nodded. “I believe we still have a few available for the night.”
“We shall take one,” said Sylvanna. “My friend is in no condition to go anywhere tonight.”
She paid for the room, then helped Aedan upstairs, supporting him with his arm around her shoulder.
“Where are we going?” he slurred.
“To get you to bed,” Sylvanna said.
“I’m perf’ly able t’go home,” he mumbled.
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You couldn’t walk twenty yards without passing out.”
“Mmmph. Maybe not.”
“Come on, pick your feet up.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and she helped him down the corridor until they reached their room. She kicked the door open and helped him in, then put him down on the dilapidated straw bed. The furnishings were sparse. Merely a chair, a washstand with a battered metal washbasin and pitcher, some blankets, a few candles, and a chamberpot. Sylvanna lit the candles, then started to undress him.
She pulled off his boots, then unfastened his breeches and pulled them down. He lay back, breathing heavily, but still awake.
Tome on, sit up,” she said, pulling on his arms so she could take his tunic off. “Hold your arms up,” she said. As he did, she pulled off his tunic and tossed it aside. His arms came down around her.
“I love you,” he said.
She looked at him. “I know.”
She eased him back down onto the bed, then stripped off her own clothes and got in beside him. He snuggled up against her. She pulled the blankets over them and put her arms around him. He kissed her ear and whispered, “I want you.”
She kissed his lips. “Then have me,” she said softly.
And when they were done, he held on to her tightly and cried himself to sleep.