“True enough,” Luthien admitted, trying to keep his tone in line with the honor that he expected would fall his way, though his heart was not in the assignment. Luthien had his fill of governments and duties, and wanted nothing more than a free run down a long road.
“Thus I grant you the title of duke of Bedwydrin,” Brind’Amour announced. “And command of all the three islands, Bedwydrin, Marvis, and Caryth.”
“Marvis and Caryth already have their eorls,” Luthien tried to protest.
“Who will answer to you, and you to me,” Brind’Amour replied casually.
Luthien felt trapped. How could he refuse the command of his king, especially when the command was one that almost anyone would have taken as the highest of compliments? He looked to Oliver, then his gaze drifted past the halfling, to Katerin, who was out on the floor, dancing gaily. There, in the partner of the red-haired woman of Hale, Luthien found his answer.
“This I cannot accept,” he said bluntly, and his words were followed by a gasp from both Kayryn and Byllewyn.
Oliver poked him hard. “He does not mean to say what he tries to say,” the halfling stammered and started to pull Luthien aside.
Luthien offered a smile to his diminutive friend; he knew that Oliver wanted nothing more than the comfortable existence that Brind’Amour’s offer to Luthien would provide for them all.
“I am truly honored,” Luthien said to the king. “But I cannot accept the title. Our ways are beyond the edicts of a king, are rooted in traditions that extend to times even before your brotherhood was formed.”
Brind’Amour, more intrigued than insulted, cocked his head and scratched at his white beard.
“I am not the rightful heir to Bedwydrin’s seat,” Luthien explained, “for I am not the eldest son of Gahris Bedwyr.”
That turned all eyes to the dance floor, to Katerin and to her partner, Ethan Bedwyr. Brind’Amour called the couple over, and called to Asmund as well.
Ethan’s initial response to the offer was predictable and volatile. “I am Huegoth,” came the expected claim.
Katerin laughed at him, and his cinnamon-colored eyes, that obvious trademark to his rightful heritage, flashed as he snapped his gaze about to regard her.
“You are Bedwyr,” the woman said, not backing down an inch. “Son of Gahris, brother of Luthien, whatever your words might claim.”
Ethan trembled on the verge of an explosion.
“You left Bedwydrin only because you could not tolerate what your home had become,” Katerin went on.
“Now you can make of your home your own vision,” added Brind’Amour. “Will you desert your people in this time of great change?”
“My people?” Ethan scoffed, looking to Asmund.
A large part of Oliver deBurrows, that comfort-loving halfling constitution, wanted Ethan to reject the offer so that Luthien had to take the seat, that Oliver could go beside him and live a life of true luxury. But even that temptation was not enough to tear the loyal halfling from the desires of his dearest friend. “Even Asmund would agree that such a friend as Ethan Bedwyr sitting in power among the three islands would be a good thing,” Oliver put in, seeing his chance. “Mayhaps you have seen your destiny, Ethan, son of Gahris. You who have befriended the Huegoths might seal in truce and in heart an alliance and friendship that will outlive you and all your little Ethan-type children.”
Ethan started to respond, but Asmund clapped him hard on the back and roared with laughter. “Like a son you’ve been to me,” slurred the Huegoth king, who had obviously had a bit too much to drink. “But if you think you have a chance of claiming my throne . . . !” Again came the roaring laughter.
“Take it, boy!” Asmund said when he caught his breath. “Go where you belong, just don’t you forget where you’ve been!”
Ethan sighed deeply, looked from Katerin to Asmund, to Luthien, and finally to Brind’Amour, offering a somewhat resigned, somewhat hopeful nod of acceptance.
It might have been simply the perception, the hope that embraced the kingdoms of Avonsea, but the ensuing winter did not seem so harsh. Even on those surprisingly infrequent occasions when snow did fall, it was light and fluffy, settling like a gentle blanket. And winter’s grip was not long in the holding; the last snow fell before the second month of the year was ended, and by the middle of the third month, the fields were green once more and the breeze was warm.
So it was on the bright morning that Luthien, Katerin, and Oliver set out from Carlisle. Brind’Amour and the Eriadoran army had long ago returned to Caer MacDonald, Ethan Bedwyr to Bedwydrin, Ashannon McLenny and his fleet to Baranduine, and Bellick dan Burso to DunDarrow, all ready to take on the responsibilities of their new positions. But for Luthien and his two companions, those responsibilities had ended with the fall of Greensparrow and the official coronation of Queen Deanna Wellworth of Avon. Thus the trio had lingered in Carlisle, enjoying the splendors of Avon’s largest city. They had spent the winter healing the scars of war, letting the grief of friends lost settle into comfortable memories of friends past.
But even Carlisle, so huge, so full of excitement, could not defeat the wanderlust that held the heart of all three, of Luthien Bedwyr most of all, and so, when the snows receded and the wind blew warm, Luthien, upon Riverdancer, had led the way to the north.
They rode easily for several days, keeping to themselves mostly, though they would have been welcomed in any village, in any farmhouse. Their companions were the animals, awakening after winter’s slumber, and the stars, glittering bright each night above the quiet and dark fields.
The trio had no real destination in mind, but they were moving inevitably to the north, toward the Iron Cross, and Caer MacDonald beyond that. The mountains were well in sight, Speythenfergus Lake left far behind, before they formally spoke of their destination.
“I do not think Caer MacDonald will be so different from Carlisle,” Luthien remarked one morning soon after they had broken camp. Again the day was unseasonably warm and hospitable, the sun beaming overhead, the breeze soft and from the south.
“Ah yes, but Brind’Amour, my so-dear friend, rules in Caer MacDonald,” Oliver said cheerily, kicking Threadbare to move ahead of Katerin’s chestnut and come up alongside Riverdancer.
Katerin did not smile as Oliver moved past her; her thoughts, too, were on Caer MacDonald, and the impending boredom promised by such a peaceful existence.
“True enough,” said Luthien.
“So,” Oliver began to reason, “if we creep into the house of a merchant-type and are caught—not that any could ever catch the infamous Oliver deBurrows and his Crimson Shadow henchman!” Oliver quickly added when his companions brought their mounts to an abrupt stop, both regarding him skeptically.
“Crimson Shadow henchman?” Katerin asked.
“We’ll not go to Caer MacDonald as thieves, Oliver,” Luthien said dryly, something the halfling obviously already knew. The halfling shrugged; Katerin and Luthien looked to each other and smiled knowingly, then urged their horses ahead once more.
“Why would we need to?” Oliver asked. “Of course, we shall live in the palace, surrounded by all pleasures, food and pretty ladies! Of course I was only joking; why would I want to steal with so much given to me?”
Luthien’s next question stopped his companions short again.
“Then what shall we do?” the young Bedwyr asked.
“What must we do?” Oliver asked, not understanding.
“Are we two to build a home and raise our children?” Luthien asked Katerin, and the woman’s stunned expression showed that she hadn’t given that possibility any more thought than had Luthien. “Are we all to serve Brind’Amour, then,” Luthien went on, “carrying his endless parchments from room to room?”
Oliver shook his head, still not catching on.
Katerin had it clear, though, and in truth, Luthien had brought up something that the young woman hadn’t really considered. “What are we to do?” she asked, more
to Luthien than to Oliver.
The young Bedwyr regarded her, his face skeptical as he considered that the reality of their apparent future could not match the intensity of their recent past.
“What is there for us in Caer MacDonald?” the woman asked.
“Caer MacDonald is the seat of Eriador, where our friend is king,” Luthien answered, but his statement of the obvious did little to answer the woman’s question.
Katerin nodded her agreement, but motioned for Luthien to continue, to explain exactly what that might mean.
“There is important . . .” the young Bedwyr started. “We will be needed . . . Brind’Amour will need emissaries,” he finally decided, “to go to Gybi, to Eradoch, to Dun Caryth, and Port Charley. He will need riders to take his edicts to Bedwydrin. He will need—”
“So?” Katerin’s simple question caught Oliver off his guard, and defeated Luthien’s mounting duty-bound speech before it could gain any momentum—not that the young Bedwyr was trying to instill any momentum into it!
“The war is over,” Katerin said plainly.
Oliver groaned, finally catching on to the course the two were walking. He started to protest, to remind them of the luxuries awaiting them, the accolades, the pretty ladies, but in truth, Oliver found that he was out of arguments, for in his heart he agreed—though the halfling part of him that preferred comfort above all else screamed a thousand thousand protests at his sensibilities. The war was over, the threat of Greensparrow ended forever. And the threat of the cyclopians had been ended as well, at least for the foreseeable future. The three kingdoms of Avonsea’s largest island were at peace, a solid alliance, and any problems that might now arise would surely seem petty things when measured against the great struggle that had just been waged and won.
That was why Luthien had refused the crown of Eriador when his name had been mentioned as possible king soon after the northern kingdom had gained its independence from Greensparrow’s Avon. Oliver studied his young friend, nodding as it all came clear. That was why Luthien had deferred to Ethan for the high position that Brind’Amour had offered. That was, in truth, why Luthien and Katerin had been so agreeable to the idea that they should linger in Carlisle. They had spent months waging a just war, their veins coursing with adrenaline. They were young and full of excitement and adventure; what did Caer MacDonald really have to offer to them?
“I spent many hours with Duke McLenny . . . King McLenny, on board his flagship as we sailed along Avon’s western and southern coasts,” Katerin said sometime later, the trio moving again, but more slowly now. “He spoke to me at length about Baranduine, wild and untamed.”
Luthien looked at her, a mischievous smile crossing his face.
Oliver groaned.
“Untamed,” Katerin reiterated, “and in need of a few good heroes.”
“I do like the way this woman thinks,” Luthien remarked, promptly turning Riverdancer to the west.
Oliver groaned again. On many levels, he wanted to convince Luthien and Katerin to accept the life of luxury, wanted them to settle down with their baby-types, while he got fat and comfortable in Brind’Amour’s palace. On one level, though, Oliver not only understood, but, despite himself, agreed with the turn in direction. Wild Baranduine, rugged and unlawful, a place where a highwayhalfling might find a bit of sport and a bit of treasure. Suddenly Oliver recalled the carefree days he and Luthien had spent when first they had met, riding the breadth of Eriador at the expense of merchants along the road. Now the halfling envisioned a life on the road once more, with Luthien and that marvelous cape, and with Katerin, as capable a companion as any highwayhalfling could ever want, beside him. His vision grew into a full-blown daydream as they moved along, becoming vivid and thoroughly enjoyable—until the halfling saw an error in the image.
“Ah, my dear Siobhan,” Oliver lamented aloud, for in his fantasy, the group riding about Baranduine’s thick green hillocks was four, and not three. “If only you were here.”
Luthien and Katerin regarded the halfling, sharing his sorrow. How much more complete they, too, would feel if the beautiful half-elf was riding alongside!
“A couple of couples we would then be!” Oliver proclaimed, his tone brightening, his dimples bursting forth as that cheery grin widened on his cherubic face. “We could call ourselves the two-two’s, and let the fat merchant-types beware!”
Luthien and Katerin just laughed helplessly, a mirth tainted by the scars of a war that would never fully heal.
R. A. Salvatore, Dragon King The
(Series: Crimson Shadow # 3)
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