The Rebellion

Chapter 5

A shudder passed through Jack’s body, and he drew the shawl more tightly around his shoulders. “The day will come, all too soon, when I will make that journey.”

“Not for some years, if you stay here now, in safety and comfort,”

Ban said. “Let your people tend to you.”

“I suppose an old man would slow you down. I do not ride as swiftly as I once did.”

Wrapped in fur, Jack came down to bid farewell to Ban on the day of his departure. Ban’s fine-boned gray mare, a gift from his mother out of her own Armida-bred favorite, pranced and pulled at the bit, eager to be gone. The gates stood open, the wagon and mounted attendants waiting. The breaths of the animals made white puffs in the chill air. Above, clouds scudded across a brightening sky.

“You’re a good lad,” Jack said, “and you’ll make a fine Regent for the Domains in your time. Your father must be proud of you. Now get along, ride while you have good daylight. Give your mother my regards. Come back in summer, and we’ll ride together.”

The journey to Pansia passed uneventfully, except for the expected miseries of travel in early spring.

Most days, rain lashed down, but there was little snow, and Ban and his party were able to find an inn or travel shelter each night. The horses, accustomed to harsh weather, plodded on stoically, with lowered heads and tails clamped against their rumps. The wagon carrying Jenny’s casket got bogged down in the mud several times, prolonging the journey.

Yet, through the damp and chill, Ban heard a silver-bright melody.

Men and beasts might shiver, but the land itself rejoiced in the fluid dance of seasonal renewal.

In the hills, they skirted blackened areas where forest fires had raged the previous year, abandoned orchards, stunted hedgerows, empty livestock pens, and farm houses whose roofs had fallen in. Here the wordless song of the land twisted, turning harsh, like the groaning of a living creature in pain.

As they came down into the Lowlands, they met travelers bent under heavy burdens, sometimes whole families with little children. Ban asked the Guardsman why these people were on the road in such weather. The Guard shook his head and said they were most likely seeking work in Pansia.

The party clattered into the outer courtyard of Rebels Castle late in the morning. The great stone walls provided a little shelter, but it had been raining steadily since sunrise, the wind gusting in slashes of sleet, and they were nearly soaked through. Mud spattered the animals up to their knees. The porter, who had been sheltering in an arched doorway that looked as if it dated from the days of Varzil the Good, called out a greeting.

A moment later Ban’s father, Mikhail Nart-Lord, emerged from the doorway, flinging on a thick cloak. In his late forties, Mikhail still had the same strong shoulders, the same body kept trim by regular sword practice, the same penetrating blue eyes. Silver hairs now frosted the pale gold, and lines of care bracketed his mouth. The skin around his eyes held shadows, like hidden bruises.

At Mikhail’s shouted orders, grooms rushed about, unharnessing and attending to the horses, wagon, and baggage. His voice sounded hoarse against the rattle and clatter of wagon wheels and shod hooves on the paving stones.

Ban kicked his feet free from the stirrups, slid to the ground, and handed the reins to a waiting groom. He turned, to be caught up in his father’s hard embrace.

“Son, it’s good to have you back with us again. Thank you for bringing her home.”

Through the brief contact, Ban sensed the depth of his father’s grief.

Whatever she had done in later life, this woman had borne him, nursed him, sung to him… loved him.

Memories, like motes of firelit poignancy, flashed from Mikhail’s mind into Ban’s…

Mikhail lying snug beneath his blankets on his cot, with an infants drowsy awareness of the rhythms of the house around him …

Edelweiss, Ban thought, recognizing the indelible character of the place, but long ago.

Voices, edged with emotions beyond young Mikhail’s understanding … his mother… a stranger…

“One thing more, sister,” the man said. “I go where I may never return.

You must give me one of your sons for my heir.”

Jenny uttered a low, stricken cry. “Come then. formal lord, and choose …”

Hands lifted Mikhail. A face bent over him…

” Once I take this oath,” formal lord said, “he is not jours but mine… and this claim may never be renounced by me while I live…”

Later, while Mikhail lay, restless and yearning, his ears caught the sound of weeping in the night.

From that moment, baby Mikhail ceased to be only the youngest of three sons of Jack and Jenny.

He became a Lord in his own right, the heir to formal lord, the Domain, and the Regency of the Rebels. And so was Ban, his oldest son.

Ban looked into his father’s eyes, his heart too full to speak. He understood why Mikhail had never lashed back at Jenny and why she had turned on him, of all her sons.

A shadow passed over Mikhail’s features, still handsome but blurred, as if the spirit that burned so brightly within him were momentarily dimmed.

Creases now marked the once-smooth brow and bracketed the generous mouth; the hollows of eye socket and cheekbone held intimations of age. Had the last three years, when Ban had rarely been home for more than the briefest holiday visits, weighed so heavily upon his father?

Not just three years. Three years of being Regent in the wake of the departure of the Rebel Federation.

“Go on, get yourself inside,” Mikhail urged Ban. “You’re soaked through. When you’re warm and dr