The Mansions of Idumea (Book 3 Forest at the Edge series)

It was an unusual hearing early that morning, Perrin told Mahrree, convened jointly by the Army of Idumea and the Administrators, since what Perrin had done over the past week had violated rules and protocols of both organizations.

  “Well, first of all,” he explained as he held her that night in their bed as if he’d never let go again, “I’m officially on probation for trying to attack Gadiman. Had I been successful, I would’ve been tried for treason instead of just censured.”

  Mahrree clung to him too, curled up into his chest but clutching his arms, just to make sure he was really there. “And the punishment for treason?”

  “Execution,” he tried to say easily, but he nearly choked on the word. “Apparently several Administrators and a few officers had met the afternoon before—I suspect Qayin Thorne had called them together—while I was napping in the hospital, to discuss also stripping me of my command.”

  “Oh, Perrin . . .” But Mahrree wondered if that wouldn’t have been so bad after all.

  “It seems our friend Brisack was in attendance, and he argued valiantly that I had been acting out of ‘extreme grief,’ and shouldn’t be held completely liable for my aggressive behavior.”

  “Hmm,” Mahrree began, “so if someone’s angry enough, their behavior is justified?”

  “To be honest, Mahrree, as furious as I was, there was still a part of me that could have just turned it off. It would have been extremely difficult, but not impossible. I chose to lose my temper and make a play for that sword. But, if Brisack thinks I’m beyond controlling my actions, which I know isn’t true, then . . . let him.”

  “I can imagine what Gadiman must’ve looked like at your hearing!”

  “Really? Because I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “Why not?” she repeated.

  “They were kind of fuzzy on that point. It seems Brisack had tried to convince him to come, but when he told Gadiman he wouldn’t try me for attempted murder, Gadiman refused.”

  “Whew!” she breathed.

  “So,” he continued, “as part of my probation, which is indefinite, I’ve been ordered to stay within the confines of Edge and its surrounding farms.”

  “What?” Mahrree nearly squealed.

  He chuckled. It was chuckle filled with gloomy undertones, but he’d found one tiny thing to be happy about, and he latched on to it. “Yep. I nearly broke into a grin when Mal read that ‘punishment.’ Took all my strength to keep a straight face. To think, I finally found a way to stay here. The Creator really works in mysterious ways sometimes.”

  She giggled just as drearily, but with a drop of joy. That drop quickly dried up. “So why have you lost Karna, Neeks, Rigoff, and Poe?”

  “Part of my punishment for my ‘exceptional forwardness and callous regard for regulations’ in forming the caravan and taking the reserves. And for stealing horses,” he added, “and for throwing an Administrators’ messenger through my office wall. Actually, I’d forgotten about that, but a representative showed up to the hearing and informed the Administrators about my fit of temper. The messenger will live. Taking early retirement, though. By the way, it was the same messenger who barged into our house a few weeks ago.”

  Mahrree actually snorted. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t find any of that fitting or funny.”

  “No,” he agreed. “You shouldn’t.” He snorted too. A moment later he added, “Then there’s Poe.”

  She groaned. “Oh, Poe.”

  Perrin sighed. “I had Grandpy Neeks with me to tell him about Grasses. Grandpy’s pretty excited to go south again. He has a lot of connections. His enthusiasm was wearing off a bit on Private Hili. He’s being sent away for assisting me, but I convinced Cush to not let his past go with him. I told him Poe was just following standing orders that I had left with the fort. I’ll personally create his records, and I’m giving Poe a clean start.”

  “I suppose that’s for the best, then,” she sighed sadly. “Just when I was getting excited about the thought of Poe around again. I have such hope for him.”

  “Grandpy will take care of him. He’s already promised me,” Perrin assured her with a kiss.

  “And Karna to Rivers? Did you have a hand in that as well?”

  “Actually, Shem did. When Mal announced I was losing my second in command, Shem spoke up and said he thought the fort at Rivers was in need of a new commander, and wouldn’t Karna be an excellent fit there.”

  Mahrree frowned. “And Mal listened to him? A mere master sergeant?”

  “Interestingly, Mal paid a great deal of attention to Shem. Somehow, he’s impressed the Chairman of the Administrators. Then again, Shem impresses everyone.”

  “Thank the Creator for Shem!” she said. “Perrin, I need to tell you—I really thought, for a few horrible moments, that I might never see . . . you alive again.”

  “I know,” he whispered. “I thought the same thing.”

  “Perrin, should something like this ever . . . if there comes a time that you—” It wasn’t easy asking one’s husband what to do when he dies.

  Fortunately she didn’t have to get those words out. “I’m making provisions,” he cut her off.

  “What does that mean? ‘Provisions’?”

  He kissed her again. “Don’t worry about it. Should anything ever happen to me, I promise you’ll not be left alone. Shem will know what to do. The Administrators already love him, by the way.”

  While she was desperately wanted to know what Perrin was planning, his comment about Shem intrigued her. “They love Shem? How do you know?”

  “Gave him a certificate that looked exactly like yours,” he droned. “Written in black and gold, for outstanding service to the world, blah, blah, blah, for stopping me from killing Gadiman.”

  “Oh, my. What’d he think of that?”

  “He told them thank you, then after we saddled up to go to the garrison for the other orders, he dropped the beautiful parchment into the dung wagon.”

  She chuckled darkly. “I’m sure it blended right in. I should have done that with mine, instead of tossing it in the fireplace. So,” she tried to redirect the conversation, “why will Shem ‘know what to do’ should . . . you never return.”

  He hugged her tighter. “There are many other things to discuss, Mahrree.”

  Sensing he wasn’t about to be forthcoming with anything else, she let it go for now. “I was worried you weren’t going to come back,” she whispered. “That maybe you might even try to stay there and investigate what happened.”

  “I was thinking that, for a time,” he confessed.

  “What changed your mind?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Lots of things,” he eventually said, and tightened his hold on her, “but mostly I knew I needed to be right here.”

  Mahrree sighed contentedly. “You truly have become Edgy over the years. And that’s a compliment, by the way.”

  He chuckled softly. “While I agree I belong in Edge, what I really meant was that I needed to be right here, with you.” His voice turned husky and Mahrree squeezed his arms tighter, a few tears slipping from her eyes.

  “Don’t ever leave me again, please,” she whispered. “I don’t want to know what those provisions are.”

  His hold on her became so firm her ribs ached. “I won’t ever leave you again. I promise. We’ll just stay like this in our bed together for the next forty years.”

  “Sounds perfect. So I suppose we no longer have to worry about you becoming High General, then.”

  He didn’t answer her.

  “Perrin?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Oh . . . you’re not serious . . . what?”

  “I’ve been informed that there’s still the desire for another General Shin in Idumea, but I need to do a great deal to earn the position. How I prepare these new officers—and two more are arriving with the wagon coming with my parents’ things—will determine my future. Cush is sixty-six now. In
four more years, there’ll need to be a new High General named.”

  “No, no, no, no—”

  “Then,” said Perrin with a weighty sigh, “the position will likely be handed to one of two men: either me, or Qayin Thorne, who is now General Thorne and Cush’s new Advisor. Whoever’s not chosen as High General will then most likely be the next Advisor. That should make a few colonels not too happy about things.”

  “And how do you feel about that?” Mahrree asked as if she didn’t know.

  “Let Thorne have it!” Perrin declared. “And let me stay here. Keep me on probation for decades. I can be a barely adequate colonel and stay here until I’m seventy, can’t I? Watch our children marry, have grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren, while I sit here and stare at the mountains. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve grown accustomed to them until I left. I can be a colonel for the next twenty-seven years, right?”

  “Absolutely!” Mahrree said, sounding almost believable.

  “Sure,” Perrin mused, his tone losing confidence. “I’ll train these officers well enough. Get Lemuel promoted so fast he’ll be general before me and can be Advisor to his father—”

  “Of course,” Mahrree said with strained brightness. “And take your daughter and your grandchildren back to Idumea with him.”

  “What?!” Perrin nearly shouted.

  “Why else do you think he’s here?” Mahrree said. “Not just to keep a close eye on you for his father and grandfather. I’m sure part of his duty is also to become Colonel Perrin Shin’s son-in-law.”

  “Oh no,” Perrin groaned. “Of everything I’ve had to consider today, that’s the most revolting.”

  “He’s really that bad?”

  “He’s as bad as mushroom pudding! Ask Shem sometime.” He sighed again. “You just might be right about Thorne, though. What do we tell Jaytsy?”

  “I think Jaytsy already knows what everyone’s expectations are for her. She doesn’t really like him, though. And I had a little talk with her the other day.”

  “What kind of ‘talk’?” he probed.

  “Another update of the talk we had when she was eight. About what to expect from young men and their intentions.”

  “Good,” Perrin exhaled.

  Mahrree made a little noise in her throat.

  “What?” Perrin asked.

  “There should be a follow-up from you, though.”

  “Why?”

  “As a father you may have some additional insight to offer, about young officers, since you used to be one. That kind of thing,” she added heavily.

  She had no idea her husband could groan for so long.

  ---

  In the compound of the fort the next afternoon was a sad party of sorts. Among the loaded wagons and waiting horses was a gathering of soldiers, villagers, friends and families who did their best to smile at those leaving for their new posts. But there was too much sniffling, according to Peto, and no cake.

  There was also something else missing: the commander of the fort.

  Mahrree knew Perrin had said a private goodbye to each man, and now, as she subtly glanced up to the command tower, just behind the reflections of sunlight she could see his form at the edge of the window watching the shaking of hands and giving of hugs. Her chest ached for him. He felt responsible that so many men he counted as friends were being sent away. His punishment meant their punishment, and his fort was never going to be the same again.

  It wasn’t as if Mahrree would ever consider that the label of ‘fragile’ could be applied to her husband, but considering all that he’d been through in just the past week, she couldn’t imagine how any other man wouldn’t have been overwhelmed today. She was fairly confident he’d locked the door to his office to keep any soldiers from accidentally coming in and seeing his tears of regret.

  There was still, however, a messenger-sized hole in the wall, but a few years ago Hycymum had presented Perrin with a long purple banner with the word “Edge” stitched in bright yellow, embellished with far too many swirls and curlicues. This morning Mahrree pulled it out of the storage wardrobe he’d hidden it in, and showed him how it could cover the hole until lumber was available to rebuild his wall. Perrin had smiled sadly at it as he tucked it under his arm. “If she ever asks, tell her it was always hanging in the forward office.”

  Mahrree turned from the tower to see Teeria Rigoff finally pull out of her mother’s embrace. Although Teeria would be back next week to finish packing her house to move to Rivers, Mahrree was sure she never expected to be leaving Edge. Her mother blubbering behind her certainly didn’t.

  “Well, Miss Mahrree,” Teeria wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, “looks like Edge provided me with my own captain. Just like you!”

  “And a fine one at that, too,” Mahrree smiled proudly at Captain Rigoff whose uniform already sported the insignia proclaiming his new rank. He beamed.

  Lieutenant Colonel Brillen Karna hugged each of the Shins almost bashfully, perhaps worried that the colonel was watching him. With a small but eager smile, he said, “I’ll let you know about the wedding.” But then his smile evaporated. “Wait—Colonel Shin can’t leave Edge. He won’t be able to come down to Rivers—”

  Mahrree smiled as cheerily as she could. “Don’t you worry about that. Remember, Perrin and I had a very small wedding. All who really needs to be there is you and Miss Robbing. We’ll be happy for you wherever you are.”

  Grandpy Neeks startled Mahrree by kissing her briefly on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, ma’am,” he said, nodding at the Jaytsy and Peto. “And keep your fine husband in line for me.”

  “I will. And Grandpy, I’m sorry I never found you a wife,” Mahrree said.

  “Why? I’m not.”

  Saying farewell to Poe was the hardest, though, and Mahrree was grateful Perrin wasn’t there to see her emotion. Her face was wet as she kissed Poe on the cheek and gave him a long hug.

  “You remember to always look at the color of the sky, Qualipoe Hili,” she whispered in his ear. “Don’t ever believe it’s always blue. Check it for yourself. You’ve always been a bright boy, and I’ve been so proud of you these past few weeks. Now promise me you’ll always be a thoughtful man.”

  He couldn’t answer her, but gruffly cleared his throat and nodded before mounting his horse next to Grandpy Neeks, who surprised Mahrree again by wiping away a tear himself.

  But Mahrree wasn’t surprised that Poe’s parents didn’t show up to see him off. She had hoped for his sake they would, but that hope ran out when Lieutenant Colonel Karna whistled to start the group out of the compound. Poe waved half-heartedly one last time to the Shins—the only family he had left—and Mahrree sighed to her children.

  “Poor Poe. I feel like I just said goodbye to my lost son.”

  The crowd of villagers and soldiers waved and cheered as Karna led the group out, but Mahrree turned slightly to catch a view of the command tower.

  Perrin still stood there, to the side of the window, but he wasn’t alone. Shem was next to him, almost out of view, but with a brotherly hand on Perrin’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, dear Creator,” Mahrree murmured under the sound of cheering, “for letting us keep Shem Zenos.”

  ---

  The envelope delivered yesterday by the messenger, which they didn’t remember to open until much later, was from Mrs. Cush, wife of the new High General of Idumea. The message told Mahrree that Mrs. Cush and Versula Thorne had put together a crate of the Shins’ belongings, and it was on its way to Edge.

  Mrs. Cush had also asked for regular updates about their pride and joy Lemuel, and hoped that Jaytsy was doing well. Mahrree was sure there was some conspiring giggling that occurred when those words were written. The wagon with the crate was due that evening.

  So after dinner Mahrree sat on her front porch watching for the promised crate and mulling over what her husband had told her of his time in Idumea. She had the distinct feeling Perrin left out some importan
t details—such as why he sounded so irritated about taking a long nap at the garrison and who else was in the cellar of the hospital. But she wasn’t about to press him on any of that. It’d all come out, eventually.

  She watched Peto on the side of the road, kicking his old ball between his feet. His new one from his grandfather sat on top of his wardrobe in near-pristine condition. Peto looked up, noticed his mother, and shook his head. No wagon in sight yet.

  Jaytsy came around the side of the house with a smirk on her face and sang, “Oh, Mother! Your husband needs you in the back garden.”

  “Why?” Mahrree asked suspiciously.

  “Because I now know how to disable a man.” She batted her eyelashes. Perrin had told Jaytsy at dinner that it was time to teach her a few defensive techniques, and after the washing up he had escorted her to the back garden while Mahrree, chuckling quietly, headed out to the front porch. At least teaching his daughter how to fend off amorous young men gave Perrin something else to concentrate on after the loss of his favorite soldiers.

  A part of Mahrree wanted to laugh as she stood up. “What did you do to your father?”

  “Something Shem taught him. It’s called a throw or something. The idea is to flip someone over your back. First you disable them in a vulnerable area—” She gave a sideways groin-high kick in the air.

  “Jaytsy, you didn’t—not my husband!” Mahrree exclaimed as they jogged around the house to the back garden.

  “No, of course not. I just did the other part: when they double over in pain you flip them. Honestly, I hope I never encounter any men as heavy as Father. I nearly hurt my back. And that’s his problem right now.” She held her hands out in display as they rounded the back of the house.

  Perrin lay sprawled on the rocky ground, flat on his back. “A little help, please?”

  “What did you do to yourself?” Mahrree and Jaytsy each took an arm and slowly raised him to a sitting position.

  “Ow, ow, ow, ow. Just what Shem suggested. Honestly, he’s been holding out on us,” Perrin said, now sitting on his own. “He showed me a few moves, all kinds of hits and kicks. Said his sister was very good at them. As you can see, it was effective.”

  “On men with back problems,” Mahrree chuckled and used all her weight to help pull him to his feet.

  He stretched cautiously and grunted. “That’s better. He said it was a style of defensive fighting women did in the south, when they had Guarder problems years ago, but it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  “Well,” Jaytsy said striking a pose with one arm in the air and a foot slightly raised, “send me any man—I’m ready for him.”

  Peto came running around the house. “It’s here—the wagon, the crate, and the two new soldiers.”

  “Just what you ordered, Jayts,” Mahrree chuckled. “Go get them!”

  When they reached the front of the house, Jaytsy realized only one of them could ever pose a real problem. The two soldiers had already left the wagon and were placing a large crate on the ground. One soldier was older and more gnarled than Neeks, while the other was a young lieutenant. He took one look at Jaytsy and a smile—or what Mahrree worried was more of a leer—spread across his face.

  Until his new colonel loudly cleared his throat. “At attention, Lieutenant!”

  “Yes sir!” the young man said, startled by the shout, and stood at attention while the old sergeant major, already in position, sent him a dour glare.

  The older soldier cleared his throat and announced loudly, “Sergeant Major Beneff and Lieutenant Radan, reporting for duty, sir. And I will work on the impertinence of the young men, ho-ho, while I am here, Colonel! Forgive the absence of Lieutenant Kel, sir. He came down with an outbreak of fever and spots, hi-hum. I volunteered to come in his stead, sir.”

  Mahrree blinked at the odd dithering of the sergeant major, and glanced at her husband. His mouth was pressed firmly together to avoid smiling, but his lips quivered.

  “I was disappointed to lose Neeks,” Perrin said, “but Beneff, you’ll take over quite nicely. It’s good to see you again.”

  That’s why Perrin wasn’t startled by the man’s bizarre delivery, Mahrree realized: he already knew him. Of course. He knew everyone, everywhere.

  “We seem to have quite the crop of budding new officers to train,” Perrin continued. “I’m sorry you had to leave Orchards, though. My father said you were very happy there.”

  “Not at all, sir, not at all, hum-hum. I was in Idumea awaiting a new transfer anyway. I’ve always wanted to serve under a Shin,” his voice cracked with emotion. “Your father was a great man, oh-HO. And besides, I’ve always found the north appealing, with diced apples on top.”

  “Glad to hear it, Beneff,” Perrin nodded, ignoring the snickering and questioning look his children exchanged.

  Perrin nodded to the men. “If you two will bring the crate to the house, you may then take the wagon to the fort. Captain Thorne is expecting you and will see you to your quarters.”

  It’s not as if Perrin was really worried that if he bent down to pick up the crate he wouldn’t be able to get back up again, Mahrree concluded, but if he stiffened up that wasn’t exactly the way to make a good first impression on his new soldiers. Besides, he needed to evaluate their strength. Beneff must have been over sixty, but he readily picked up the crate with the strapping Lieutenant Radan like a twenty-year-old.

  Once inside, Beneff glanced around the house as if expecting a thief to be hiding, then nodded to the lieutenant. Both of the men reached into their inner jacket pockets.

  “Was given these by Mrs. Cush herself, he-ho,” he said uneasily, and produced a cloth bag filled with something that clinked.

  Lieutenant Radan did the same thing.

  “Said she’d have our patches and anything else, ho-hem, she could rip off if these didn’t reach you safely,” Beneff added.

  “What is it?” Peto asked, but Mahrree knew by its heaviness as soon as she took the tied cloth from Beneff. Perrin intercepted Radan’s bag before Jaytsy could get close to touching him.

  Mahrree undid the string and sighed. “Mother Shin’s jewelry.”

  Jaytsy snatched the other bag from her father and hurriedly fumbled with the knot. A moment later she gasped and pulled out a thick, gold chain. “I never saw her wear this. It’s amazing!”

  Perrin shook his head. “She never wore her best when traveling. Too worried about thieves.”

  “I promise, sir—the lieutenant and I won’t tell anyone you possess such finery now, ho-no,” Beneff assured him. “Besides, the wheat grows when it’s dark, too.”

  Lieutenant Radan started to nod in agreement, until he considered that last nugget dropped by Beneff. Mahrree fully understood his confusion, and her children looked at each other wondering that wheat had to do with . . . anything.

  But Perrin’s eyes glowed with amusement, and he winked subtly at Mahrree as if to suggest, Just get used to it.

  Lieutenant Radan shrugged off his bemusement. “It’s a relief to be rid of them. Sagged down my jacket. I’ve been feeling jittery the whole ride here. That jewelry’s worth more than twenty wagons of food, I suspect. That’s why Mrs. High General didn’t want anyone to know we had them.”

  Perrin took the chain out of Jaytsy’s hand. “I thank you. Well done. But these won’t be here long,” he said quietly. “We have no use for such things, but others do.” He looked at Mahrree meaningfully.

  She burst into a grin. Selling the gold chains, the colored stones, and the fancy silver work would certainly be enough, once it was coupled with their hidden savings, to pay for the rebuilding of Edge.

  After Beneff announced that hats don’t weave themselves, and the new soldiers headed back to the wagon, Perrin retrieved the iron bar by Mahrree’s side of the bed and began to pry off the top of the large crate that now sat in the middle of the gathering room.

  Mahrree surveyed their house. “We may need to put up another bookshelf. I’m sure I heard t
he thudding of books in there.”

  “Where, Mother?” Jaytsy asked. “There’s hardly any room left!”

  “We’ll make room,” Peto decided. “For everything in there.”

  Mahrree put an arm around him. “Of course we will.”

  Perrin wrenched off the top and they were greeted by gray silk.

  “My dress!” Mahrree pulled out the shimmering gown and looked at it with weepy eyes. A note dropped from it.

  Jaytsy picked it up. “It’s from Mrs. Versula Thorne. She wants you to come back next year wearing it again. It’s your official invitation to next year’s Dinner. We’re all invited,” she grimaced.

  “Hmm,” Mahrree said, not interested in going to a dinner where Relf and Joriana weren’t leading the evening. Not interested in going back to Idumea at all, but glad that she could at least give her mother quite a bit of gray silk to play with. “We’ll have to consider next year’s dinner at another time, right Perrin?”

  But he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the contents underneath the dress.

  Slowly he crouched to be nearer the crate. With one hand he picked up the gleaming sword of General Relf Shin. With his other he picked up a large spray of lilacs, wilted and drying. Without a word he stood again, turned and plodded up the stairs.

  Mahrree had the sensation that something had died, again.

  A moment later they all heard the bedroom door shut.

  ---

  Shem heard the knock on his bedroom door.

  Knock-knock.

  Pause.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  It was a distinctive rhythm that said, “I’m here and I’m important and this is how I will announce myself every single time, so you better get used to it, master sergeant.”

  “Come in,” Shem sighed and got up from his bed.

  The door opened and Captain Lemuel Thorne stepped in with a smile that seemed to be made of molded sugar.

  Shem didn’t return it. Perrin had been right: Thorne was mushroom pudding.

  Perrin first said that when they were leaving the Administrative Headquarters. “Captain Thorne?” he had bristled when the two of them were finally alone. “He’s barely twenty-two, never been tested outside of Command School, and they have the nerve to promote him to captain?”

  “That’s really young,” Shem agreed.

  “Younger than I was,” Perrin grumbled. “And everyone thought twenty-five was too young. I’m warning you right now, Shem: he’s mushroom pudding.”

  Shem’s upper lip curled. “Yuck! And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly the right response, Shem. It means he’s the wrong combination of everything, and he’s being placed before us, and we’re supposed to like him.”

  “Ugh,” Shem groaned. “Like beets. Oh no,” he had moaned with new understanding. “With Karna gone, and Thorne as captain—”

  “Yep,” Perrin said dully. “Guess who’ll be second in command at the fort.”

  “They can’t do that!”

  “They just did, Master Sergeant. The new High General and his Advising General just put their best little apple tree in my garden. Wished I had a goat to nibble away at him.”

  “This is bad,” Shem mumbled.

  “Pray for conflict, Shem,” Perrin suggested.

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter what rank Thorne is,” Perrin reminded him, “in a battle situation, you still have far more experience. You outrank him in the field. In fact, now you’ll be second only to me. At least, in situations where it counts.”

  Shem had shaken his head at that. “That’s right. I don’t believe it. Now I’m actually hoping for Guarder attacks just so I can order him around!”

  Perrin patted him on the back. “Idumea has a way of confusing everything, doesn’t it? I really hate this place.”

  All during the long, wearying ride back to Edge, Captain Thorne had done his best to initiate, monopolize, and control every conversation. It wasn’t hard; Perrin and Shem weren’t about to answer him with anything more than a one or two-word response.

  Poor Lieutenant Offra, however, had been quite confused about the forwardness of the captain, but began to realize just how overbearing the mushroom pudding was.

  He talked about rules. Books. Rules in books. His grandfather General Cush. His father the new general. Rules his grandfather and father—the generals—put into books.

  By the time they passed Pools, Thorne was talking only to himself. That’s when Perrin decided they would frequently stop for fresh horses, and race all the way back to Edge.

  That’s also when Thorne started to talk about the exceptional horses his paternal grandfather raised, how Edge likely had nothing to compare to those studs, and that his Grandfather Thorne would be sending him a most excellent specimen in another season.

  Shem had never seen Perrin roll his eyes so much. He must have grown dizzy.

  And now, the mushroom pudding stood in his doorway, with a squidgy smile on his face. “Did I wake you, Sergeant?”

  “Just preparing for my evening shift, Captain. What can I do for you?”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Thorne shut the door behind him. “Master Sergeant, you’re a very difficult man to find alone.”

  “You’ve been here only two days, Captain. I frequently work the night shift, and you work during the days, therefore . . .” He held up his hands.

  “Of course, Zenos,” he simpered. “I was wondering if I could have a few words with you, just the two of us.”

  “Make it quick, Captain,” Shem said, “I have new recruits to take out. Regular training resumes this evening.”

  “Yes, that’s right!” he said brightly. “Read your record: highest recruiting and retention rates of any fort in the world. You’re to be commended.”

  “But that’s not why you’re here.” Shem folded his arms.

  “No, no.” Thorne scratched his angular chin and took a step closer.

  He seemed to be sizing Shem up. While Thorne was taller than the average man, he didn’t reach the height—or the bulk—of Shem, which Shem noted with some satisfaction.

  “It’s just that I understand that you have a special relationship, shall we say, with the Colonel and his family.”

  Shem shrugged. “So?”

  Thorne took another step closer. “Master Sergeant Zenos, I’m here to help.”

  Shem’s throat went dry and his shoulders tensed. He’d heard those words before, a few times, and by lesser men. It had been simple to lure them out into the forest where they ‘deserted.’ But the son of General Thorne? It’s not as if he could vanish without any question.

  “And here I thought it was just because you found the north appealing,” Shem tested.

  Thorne squinted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Shem’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Maybe wasn’t one of them. Yet. “Nothing.”

  Thorne reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed parchment. “This is for you,” and he held it out.

  Shem kept his arms folded as he eyed the parchment. “Who’s it from?”

  Thorne shrugged slightly. “My father handed it to me, but it’s not written in his hand. I don’t know.” He looked at the script Master Sergeant Zenos longingly.

  Shem still didn’t take it. “What’s it about?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Thorne impatiently shook the message at him. “All I know is, I’m supposed to give it to you in private and that—”

  Whatever he was about to say next was apparently painful. Shem studied his eyes and enjoyed every moment.

  “—and that I’m supposed to be learning things from you,” the captain admitted. “I’m not ready for . . . everything yet. Not even sure what any of that means,” he mumbled in frustration. “But apparently you do.”

  Shem stared at the captain, completely perplexed.

  The younger Thorne wasn’t one of them yet, not a Guarder like his
father, but soldiers younger than him had been in the past. Shem was adept in reading men’s faces and eyes, and it was obvious that Lemuel Thorne was deliberately being left out. Maybe this was some kind of new procedure, some kind of test.

  But for who?

  And the thought of learning from a master sergeant? Well, Shem wasn’t sure which of them was more irritated about that.

  Shem finally took the message from Thorne’s hand and shoved it into his jacket. The captain was clearly disappointed it wasn’t about to be opened and read in front of him.

  “I thank you, Captain,” Shem said formally, “but I’m sure there’s nothing I can teach you, nor is there any way you can provide assistance with the colonel.”

  Thorne took yet another step closer. One more, and he’d be on Shem’s toes. “Oh, but there is. There are a great many—”

  “I’m late for duty, Captain Thorne,” Shem snapped to attention. “I’m sure you don’t mean to hold me up from doing my duty, correct sir?”

  Thorne blinked in surprise and stepped back. “Why, of course not. We’ll talk later—”

  But Shem was already out the door, clenching his fist as he marched out of the private quarters, through the barracks for the rest of the soldiers, and into the growing twilight with the parchment nearly burning a hole in his jacket.

  He knew what he needed to do, and hoped he could pull it off, even if it wasn’t dark yet. Some things just couldn’t wait. He was still early to lead out his new recruits for a training ride—not that he’d admit that to Thorne—and he had a few minutes.

  He retrieved his saddled horse from the stables and rode out to the forest. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he directed his horse to a small break in the trees, then prodded his mount to hurdle the low cattle fence. He dismounted, tied up the horse behind some large boulders and out of sight, then slipped up through the trees in a fast jog.

  “Whoa! What in the world are you doing here? And now?”

  Shem nodded at the two men in green and brown mottled clothing he startled near a fresh spring. “Been given something that I was, honestly, afraid to open on my own.” He chuckled nervously as he pulled out the parchment.

  The two men came over to see. “Who’s it from?” one of them asked.

  Shem shook his head. “Delivered by Captain Thorne, handed to him by General Thorne, but originally?” He shrugged and broke open the white waxy seal. With a deep breath, he unfolded the parchment and read out loud, his two companions on either side.

  “‘Master Sergeant Shem Zenos: For years we wondered about you, our Quiet Man—’”

  Shem groaned.

  He’d nearly forgotten about that title he gave himself long ago. In the beginning, the Guarders were putting someone in to get close to Perrin. Shem took that position, and then he let the Guarders know, through a dropped message, that he’d always remain the Quiet Man and not interact with them, but would keep Perrin Shin in the game. A few times over the next few years they’d sent in others to “help” Shem, but Shem always helped them out instead: out to the forest to never be heard from again.

  He thought they’d forgotten about him. Obviously not.

  One of the men in green and brown clothing patted him comfortingly on the back as Shem continued to read.

  “‘Now that we finally know who our Quiet Man is, we wish to thank and congratulate you for your years of devoted service. We also now expect great things of you. Placed into your care, and for your training, is a young man of great promise, such as yourself—’”

  Shem frowned. “They can’t be talking about Lemuel Thorne!”

  “I think they may be,” the other man in green and brown said. “Onion cake?”

  “Mushroom pudding,” Shem clarified.

  “Just as bad.”

  Shem continued reading. “‘—great promise . . . who we expect you to instruct and bring up as—’” Shem stopped reading, his mouth too dry to continue.

  One of his companions completed the sentence. “‘. . . bring up as your replacement in Edge.’ Oh, Shem. I’m so sorry—”

  “Not going to happen,” Shem whispered firmly. “They have no idea what’s really going on, nor will they. Ever.”

  “Keep reading, Shem,” the other companion said gently.

  Shem swallowed and finished the message. “‘Once the captain is fully trained, under your guidance, he will be ready to become one of us. And you will be sent to do even greater work—’”

  He could barely say the next words out loud.

  “‘—with Shin in Idumea’.”

  One of the men let out a low whistle. “You’ve impressed someone, Shem Zenos! No signature.”

  “Of course not!” said the other man. “What’d you expect? ‘All our love, Mr. Evil, Head of the Guarders’?”

  Shem stared at the message.

  “What are you going to do?” one of the men asked.

  “Nothing,” Shem whispered.

  “Nothing? Shem, do you realize what this is? Who it’s from?”

  “No, not really,” he admitted. He handed it to one of the men. “You knew some of the handwritings—does this look familiar?”

  The man sighed sadly. “Been waiting for years to be useful in that manner but . . . the hand is tight and forced, as if purposely trying to disguise the writing. Sorry, Shem. It’s not familiar to me at all.”

  “It’s all right, Dormin. Was a long shot, anyway. Still pass it around, see if we get lucky. I’m sure it’s not General Thorne’s writing, but since it traveled through him, it’s reaffirmation of what we know about him.”

  “True,” Dormin, the last son of King Oren nodded. “We’ll do our best. But Shem, you can’t ignore this.”

  “I’m not,” he assured the men. “But I’ve been thinking: Thorne doesn’t know what’s in this message. He was only told he was to learn from me. But no one has specified what he’s supposed to learn, have they?”

  Dormin and his companion looked at each other with knowing smiles.

  “And they already trust me, so if Thorne fails to make any progress—whatever kind they’re looking for—the blame will be on him, not me. They’ll assume he’s failing in his duty, not the Quiet Man.”

  The men’s smiles grew broader.

  Shem began to grin as well. “The only thing left to do is to send our own message back. Something vague so as to not be dishonest, but something they’ll interpret as what they want to hear.”

  “How about, ‘Message received, Quite Man understands’?” Dormin’s companion suggested.

  Shem grinned. “Perfect! Can I leave the delivery of that to the two of you?”

  “May take a few days to find a contact,” Dormin told him, “because they’re just reentering the forests again, but we can take care of it.”

  “Good,” Shem said.

  “Uh, Shem?” Dormin’s companion started hesitantly, “what about the other problem?”

  Shem exhaled and rubbed his chin. “Working on it. Right now I’m just watching, but I have a feeling he won’t be as troublesome as we fear.”

  “But he could be, Shem. Remember that; there’s a great deal that he knows, and someday he just might slip up.”

  “Message received,” Shem said soberly. “Quiet Man understands. Well then, I suppose it’s time for me to get back and teach my recruits a thing or two about identifying Guarders.”

  ---

  Mahrree was grateful to see Rector Yung coming up the road. She’d been sitting on the front porch with her children, thumbing through a collection of old army books, setting some out to sit overnight to try to remove some of their musty smell before they were donated to the fort.

  But what they were really doing was avoiding the house. Something had died in there.

  It wasn’t just the wilting flowers that gave the effect—flowers that Mahrree intended to throw out into the front garden before bed. But it was the heavy mood that accompanied Perrin when he lifted out High
General Shin’s sword. They all felt it, and they all avoided talking about it. Perrin still hadn’t come back down, and Mahrree hadn’t dared to go upstairs.

  Rector Yung turned at their gate and came up the walk, looking at the dying flowers. “Was lovely at first,” he said softly. “But now . . . maybe not such a good idea.”

  “It’s all right,” Mahrree assured him. “My neighbors across the road were going to let their goat in here in the morning to clear it all out.”

  Yung nodded and stopped on the stairs to evaluate the dozens of books laid out as if on display. “From the Shins?” he asked reverently.

  Mahrree nodded, Jaytsy sniffed, and Peto cleared his throat.

  Mahrree looked deliberately at her children and said, “Would the two of you see what else is in the crate while I chat with the rector?”

  There was nothing left in the crate—they’d unloaded the rest of the books, Relf’s old uniforms, and Joriana’s hats already—but her children knew how to take a hint.

  After they had gone into the house, Mahrree sat on a step and patted next to her for Yung to sit down.

  “How is he?” the rector asked as he joined her.

  “Surprisingly well, considering.”

  “Shem filled me in a bit on their little adventure to Idumea,” Yung confessed, and gave her a significant look.

  “So what did Perrin not share with me?”

  Yung sighed, checked behind him to make sure the door was secure, and said, “Did he mention sedation?”

  A while later Mahrree held her head in her hands, and Rector Yung patted her back in a grandfatherly way.

  “He told me about half of all that,” she whispered to Yung. “And not so many details about what happened in the Conference Room. Or his reaction in the cellar. Or that it was Kuman. Kuman!” Her head snapped up. “He made my dress! Well, now I MUST let my mother slash it to shreds!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Shin. I wrestled with my mind all afternoon if I should tell you all that Shem revealed to me. I certainly don’t want to step in between a husband and a wife, but when men like your husband experience all that he has—”

  Mahrree turned to him. “What do you mean by that?”

  Yung studied the stairs he sat on, thinking for the right words. “You said he seems to be doing surprisingly well. Mrs. Shin, I’ve been a rector for a very long time. I know men. Perrin shed a few tears, felt some comfort, and now that he’s home again he’s going to think it’s all over. He misses his parents, but believes he’s finished mourning. He hasn’t.”

  Mahrree bobbed her head back and forth. “Well, of course not. When I lost my father, I went up and down for many moons, so I can—”

  “You can relate, yes Mrs. Shin,” Yung cut her off gently and put a hand on her shoulder. “But he thinks he’s over it. I just want to warn you, when a man thinks he’s over something, he refuses to deal effectively with it when it rears up again and surprises him.”

  Mahrree’s shoulders sagged. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Men in the army deal with violence and death frequently, and know that on any day they may face it. That creates a heightened state of alertness. Does your husband ever seem tense?”

  Mahrree scoffed. “A better question would be, does he ever seem not to be tense?”

  Yung nodded slowly. “A mind can handle only so much of that, Mrs. Shin, and only for so long. Something like this can . . . push him too far.”

  “Meaning?” She was starting to grow anxious.

  And Yung could tell. With great compassion in his eyes he said, “This might be the berry that breaks the bear.”

  Completely bewildered she asked, “What in the world are you talking about?”

  Yung frowned. “They don’t have that expression here?”

  Mahrree’s blank look answered that question.

  “Guess it’s a Flax and Waves story,” said Yung apologetically. “You see, years ago some teenagers went to the berry fields near the edge of a forest. The wild blackberries were ripe and they went to have a little feast and enjoy the sunshine. Further down they noticed a bear, also enjoying the berries and the sun, but far enough away that the bear didn’t pay them any attention. During the course of the afternoon, the teens and the bear drew closer together, until one of the young men decided to toss a berry at the bear. He hit the animal on his back which didn’t bother him.

  “Well, you know young men: it became a contest, and despite the warnings of the girls they were trying to impress, three boys tossed more and more berries at the bear, a few even hitting him on the snout, which made him snarl briefly, but wasn’t enough to distract him from his gorging.

  “Until one young man hit the bear in the eye. Something in that massive, and—up to that point—harmless, beast snapped. He roared, lunged through the bushes, and attacked the first teenager he could reach: an innocent young woman who’d been trying to get the boys to stop. It was a battle after that, and eventually the teenagers beat off the bear with a variety of sticks and thrown rocks. The girl lived, but it took several moons for her leg to heal from the ravages of the bear, and she always walked with an obvious limp. It was that last berry that broke the bear.”

  Mahrree nodded, understanding too much what Yung was trying to say. “But the world’s been throwing things much harder than berries at him for years.”

  “I know,” Rector Yung said solemnly. “That’s why I’m worried for him, and for you. When a bear goes on a rampage, it doesn’t discriminate its victims. It goes for the closest and most convenient target.”

  Mahrree swallowed. “Which would be me. Or the children.”

  He patted her back again. “Then again, nothing might come of any of this. I may just be overly concerned.”

  “And I appreciate it,” Mahrree told him. “You remind me of Perrin’s great uncle Hogal.”

  Yung looked down. “I feel him there, in that house sometimes. As if he’s checking up on me, watching to make sure I’m continuing his work properly.”

  “You are. You say what I think he’d say. That’s important now, since Perrin doesn’t have his great uncle, and now no longer has his fa—” The word seized in her throat. Just when she thought she was able to deal with it all, she was overwhelmed again.

  Yung squeezed her shoulder and tenderly pulled her close as her tears dampened his shoulder, again.

  ---

  That evening Shem stood listening outside the doors of the training arena, a cringe etching itself on his face.

  “Mennn,” Beneff held out the word for three counts, “welcome to the Army . . . of Idumea, ho-ho,” he droned and paced.

  “I’m so sorry,” Shem whispered, as if any of his ten recruits could hear him. Beneff had insisted on introducing himself to the men immediately, before Shem could take them out on their nighttime orientation ride.

  In a way it would provide an interesting contrast, Shem The Optimist decided. The dullest experience of training, followed by the most terrifying.

  “To-daaay,” Beneff continued, taking most of the evening to say the word, “we will begin . . . by learning . . . to care for . . . your horse, hum-hum.”

  Beneff’s strange delivery was amusing for five minutes; beyond that it was agonizing. Maybe the soldiers were already asleep on their feet. If not, Master Sergeant Zenos would teach them how, out of kindness.

  “For if . . . you take care of your horse . . . he or she—or it, snip-snip, ho-ho, as the unfortunate creature may be—will then care for you.”

  Shem groaned. Beneff would take three hours to review something that took five minutes.

  “First . . . the blanket. May be wool . . . may be cotton . . . may not be silk, may not be linen . . . may not be sheepskin, because we all know that there’s a reason why wheels aren’t square—”

  At least the random bits of Beneff’s dubious wisdom should keep them somewhat alert, trying to puzzle out his meanings.

  “Really, boys,” Shem whispered, “if there w
as anything else I dared have him do—”

  “—may not be leather . . . may not be linen . . . I believe I mentioned that already, good to repeat, ho-hah—”

  “That’s right,” Shem whispered, “ramble about nothing important so you say nothing revealing.”

  Shem leaned against the wall. It was bad enough when he realized that a Thorne would be coming back with them to Edge, but then Beneff showed up. Shem was fairly confident Beneff was just an “old horse” no one in the army wanted, but didn’t have the heart to put out to pasture. Yet one could never be sure when someone who’d been predictable for years would suddenly remember his true nature.

  After all, Shem had gone through the same training himself.

  “At least I’m dealing with only two cats,” he whispered to himself. “One so young and inexperienced it doesn’t even know it’s a cat, and the other so old it can’t remember what it is. Both manageable, for now. But at some point,” he closed his eyes in dread, “they’re going to send in the mountain lions. And then?”

  And then . . .

  “What will Perrin think of me?”

  ---

  Perrin sat on the bed for probably hours—he lost track of time. He stared at the wilting lilacs, now releasing a sickly decaying odor, as he slowly fingered the ornate hilt on the general’s sword.

  It had been made in honor of the High General’s installment and presented to him after he made his oaths of fidelity and loyalty to King Oren. As far as Perrin knew, the gleaming steel blade had never been used in all those years. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be. This was no decorative sword—not like the flimsy thing General Cush kept at his side as a symbol rather than as a weapon, and used to clean his fingernails when he thought no one was looking.

  No, this sword, this masterpiece of metalwork and intricacy—the hilt was an elaborate mass of twisting steel and careful cutwork, called filling-gree by the swordsmith—no, this sword was made to be much more than a symbol or a piece of art.

  It was meant to be used.

  Perrin wasn’t sure why they’d sent it to him: as a promise for his future, out of pity for his loss, or as a taunting reminder why the previous owner no longer needed it. It didn’t matter.

  He fingered the carefully twisted bits of shining steel and breathed in the stench of rotting flowers. He shouldn’t have been feeling this way, he knew. They were fine. He heard them, he felt them—he still felt them, burning constantly and quietly in his chest. They were fine in Paradise, with Hogal and Tabbit and countless others whose existence had graduated to the next life.

  They were fine.

  He had shed his tears, near to dehydration, before they reached Idumea. And then he buried them, and felt them, and they were fine.

  So why did it hurt so much? Again? Still?

  Yes, he’d miss them. Nothing would ever fully take their place in his life, but he was adaptable. Granted, he hated change—everyone does. But change happens, and you accept it, deal with it, rearrange your mind and soul in accordance with it, and you move on.

  But he couldn’t move. He hadn’t moved for hours. He just sat there fingering the filling-gree.

  After a while, he looked up in the darkening bedroom to see his sheathed sword leaning by the bedroom door, in precise position for him to strap it on in less than five seconds when the call came.

  Eventually, he knew something he could do, a way he could move. He stood up, made his feet shuffle to his sword, and pulled it out of the sheath. Carefully he slipped it under the bed, between two of Mahrree’s storage crates.

  Then he took the general’s sword and reverently slipped it into his sheath by the door.

  And then . . .

  . . . everything changed.

  ###

  Sneak peek at Book 3, Falcon in the Barn