Chapter 11
"While we've had no direct contact with the Anarchists, every returning veteran tells us the same thing - we are losing the War in the Heavens. My friends and I are in agreement: The only way to prevent Caledonia's destruction is to take matters into our own hands. We must overthrow not only the King, but the very order by which our world is organized."
- Quendon Franklin, 37 Novendre, 1787 AC
Aidan chomped hefty bites of pigeon pie with a mash of veggies that were on the cusp of spoiling, his glare a warning to anyone who made as though they were about to sit near him. He had left his family diaries strewn about the floor of his tent in a chaotic heap of hardbinding and paper, and as he gazed at the thirsty tongues of the warming fire he pondered whether he ought to add them as musty fuel for the heather-scented blaze. It's all your fault, Father. How could you do this?
Rodrig came over with a tray and paused, surprised at Aidan's hostile countenance. After a moment he recovered himself, adopted an annoyed expression of his own, and sat down across from the angry young Knight. He took a few bites of the pie, his slow savoring peaceful compared to Aidan's loud munching.
"The Queen wants to talk to you," Rodrig said between bites of pie, grease from the gamey pigeon meat trickling into his unkempt beard.
"So what?" Aidan was spoiling for a fight, looking for any excuse to beat someone - anyone - into a pulp.
"So if you want your head to stay attached to your shoulders, you'll go see her straight away when you're done with your food." Rodrig twisted his lips in disapproval before spooning some veggie mash.
"That's the way of things, is it? Obedience or death?" Aidan threw his tray, which only had a few bites left on its smooth-finished mahogany surface. He crossed his arms and glowered like a bear staring at an animal separating it from its cubs.
"That's the way of the world, Sir Aidan. Thought you knew that by now."
Aidan jumped to his feet, mace in hand, and stood right over Rodrig, staring down at him with a fiery anger that could ignite the damp forest. Rodrig kept eating his meal as though nothing had happened, a subtle disapproving shake of his head the only acknowledgement of his former Sire's menacing presence.
"On your feet, horse master," Aidan hissed, his skin suddenly feeling hot against the clinging cold of afternoon mist. "I mean to teach you some manners."
"I'm not the one who needs teaching, seems to me."
It took every ounce of self-control for Aidan not to brain the irreverent Mardoni bastard on the spot. He just stood there in his doublet, panting as though he'd run a mile, doing his best to suppress the anger he knew was irresistible.
"Obedience or death, isn't that the way of it?" Aidan squeezed the handle of his mace so hard that his fingers went white and his wrist was taught and ready for a good, liberating swing. "Make your choice, you mud-faced scum!"
"I don't know what's gone and crawled up your ass," Rodrig said, his mouth rudely full of veggies and pigeon meat, "but killing me won't pull it out. Any time you feel like sitting down and telling me what's bothering you, go right ahead."
Aidan's body tensed for a moment, but he forced his muscles to relax and sat back in his place. Rodrig put his half-eaten food down and rubbed his hands, holding them to the fire to keep away the damp chill that surrounded them both.
"Did you know?" It was the only question whose answer would satisfy Aidan.
"Probably, but I can't be sure until you tell me what you're talking about. What's wrong?"
"What Father was involved with ... did you know about-" He hesitated, realizing that even if his father had made an incredibly stupid decision that it would only mean more family embarrassment to expose it to someone who didn't know. "Did you know about what Lord Franklin was planning?"
"Your father had many plans," Rodrig answered, earnestly and without a trace of mockery in his voice, "but I can't think of any that would cause you to try and take my head off for being neighbor like."
Aidan sighed, the burden of what he'd learned that morning growing heavier each moment. Rodrig couldn't have known. Why involve the horse master? For what Father and Troy and Katisha had been planning, they would want as few people involved as possible. He quickly made a list of the people who should know: the Sergeant-at-Arms, the Weaponsmaster, the Steward- The Steward! Nadya had to know. He stalked toward her tent, throwing aside his tray of food and splattering pigeon pie all over the ground.
"Young Sir Aidan," Nadya said, pausing only for a short coughing fit, "how good to see you!"
She was lying on her pallet, bundled with no fewer than five thick wool blankets, her forehead shiny with a thin layer of sweat and her hair forming an unkempt and stringy frame around her clammy, brown face. She gave a weak smile, and Aidan suddenly felt very foolish, disturbing a sick woman because he wanted answers for crimes long since passed.
"Nadya, how long have you been like this?" he asked, unhooking the hilt loop of his mace and setting the weapon against the front wall of her tent.
"I've been coughing for a few months now, but being chained to the bed is new." She wheezed with every short breath, her lungs rattling as though filled with gravel. "Rodrig's been bringing my meals. It's not contagious, if you're worried."
"I would risk it." Still wanting answers, he swallowed his pity as best he could. "Nadya, what did you know about Father's plans?"
She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. The walls of her tent glowed faintly with misty daylight, and the muffled, rhythmic hum of distant birds and insects gave the makeshift chamber a sense of peaceful ambience.
"I hoped to be dead by the time you knew to ask this question."
Aidan sighed, the molten anger that filled his heart melted into vacuous despair. Her admission gave life to that impossible truth. He'd awakened an ancient evil by discovering his father's activities. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I had my reasons. I didn't want you lookin' your nose down at me, for one. I served my Lord with dignity!"
He held up his hands in concession. "No one's saying otherwise. But why give me the books if you didn't want me to know?"
"You have a right to know. Even for their crimes, they were your family, and you deserve some peace in the matter."
"Is this why they died? Why were they assassinated and not given a trial?"
She looked at him wide eyed, her eyes filling with a primal fear. Something about their deaths haunted her, that much was clear. But why? She spoke quickly, her heaving breaths coming faster. "I don't know. Maybe the King thought the rebellion would spread. I should have kept closer watch on the food supply, I'm so sorry."
"Nadya, it's not your fault."
"I know," she said, wiping her eyes, "but sometimes it's easier to believe it is. Then at least I have someone to blame besides dead folk."
He sat silent at her bedside as if already performing a vigil at her passing. It was all too much - the betrayal, the plotting, the skullduggery, and sneaking about. Father had always wrinkled his nose when he'd heard of other nobles doing such things. Nadya's cheeks streaked with flowing tears, and it wasn't long before she was coughing again. He waited until her fit subsided before asking another question.
"Why would Father risk everything? The crown would not sit long on his head, of that I am sure."
"The goal was not to replace King Ethan."
"What do you mean?"
"It was-" she stopped herself, and Aidan held his breath. "This will explain it."
She reached into a small bag that sat by the head of her bed, then drew out a small, thin book that would fit into a pocket. Its cover was unadorned by title or decoration, and it felt thick and sturdy in Aidan's hand. He opened it, reading the title aloud.
"The Roadmap to Empire." He flipped through the first pages, mostly charts, maps, tables, and diagrams. "What does this mean?"
"It is a secret long kept, my boy." Aidan felt his heart twinge; Nadya hadn't addressed him like that since before he ascended to Knighthood.
Hearing her call him my boy took his mind to a simpler time, before his entire life had been upended by treason and intrigue. "It was your father's copy. He told me about it as he lay dying, just as I am telling you about it now."
"I don't understand-"
"It's your inheritance, Sir Aidan. Your birthright. The one true thing in this world-" She began coughing, and looked on the edge of death itself. Aidan ran from the tent seeking Rodrig and nearly knocked his old horse master over in the process. The scraggle-bearded Mardoni leapt to his feet and rushed into Nadya's tent, leaving Aidan sitting in the dust, still holding The Roadmap to Empire in his hand. He stared at the book, wondering what could have jumped from its pages to infect his family with an urge to betray their realm and King. Two green velvet boots came into view before him, and he looked up to see Charlene standing over him, tilting her head in curiosity.
"Taking a reading break, are we?" She smiled, and it warmed his empty heart just a little. "You know, most people open those things to find more words on the inside."
He smiled despite his foul mood and stood up, placing the small book in his breeches pocket. "My Queen." He bowed like the champion of chivalry he used to be; Charlene giggling at the gesture as usual.
"Need your help," she said, and he followed her to an open-air tent that was set up with long tables covered in various pieces of Kannitick Plate. "I'd like to get this sorted before winter comes in earnest."
"You are sorting these by?"
"By piece, mostly. But broken ones go in the meltdown pile over there. I figure Kluny can make us some new swords and quarrels."
For several minutes they worked together in silence, Aidan's mind an inferno of questions. Father had been one of the strongest evangelists for young Knights to enlist for the War in the Heavens. Why would he do that if he were planning a rebellion on Caledonia? That question answered itself almost as soon as it materialized. To get rid of enemies. But then, why would he allow his oldest son to go and fight the Anarchist Horde? Were you afraid I would side against you, Father?
His hands fumbled a helmet as the painful question seared his mind, and it clattered to the ground and rolled to Charlene's feet. She picked it up and smiled at him, her teeth whiter than the coming snow against her dark-brown skin. In what he assumed was an attempt to solicit a return smile, she put the helmet on and saluted, clapping her heels together as though a Soldier waiting for orders. He laughed and took the helmet off of her head, drew her close. They practically embraced, her green eyes gazing into his and her lips beckoning his for a kiss. Instead he stood frozen, and the moment passed and was followed by an uncomfortable silence as they continued sorting as though it hadn't happened.
"I wonder if you even know what you're doing sometimes," she said, inspecting the eyelet of a helm and, finding a small hole, tossing it into the scrap pile.
"It's not that I don't like you-"
"Great gods around the grove, man, I am not talking about your undying love for me!"
He blushed, his thoughts turning from the burden of his family's dark secret to more immediate concerns. He did feel something for this Bandit Queen, this Charlene MacGuire. She spoke and acted like a man, and yet it wasn't the sort of bravado and overcompensation that so frequently plagued war-trained girls like Ygretta Deumar. It was simply who she was. She lived as though unafraid of consequences, and he found that kind of bravery very attractive in a woman.
"What then, My Lady?" He was attempting to use chivalry and cause her to blush back, but it didn't work. It never did.
"Your little Knight-killing class is making quite a mess of the established order, you know. Setting some of the men on edge."
"I have not heard any complaints."
"Of course no one's complained to you," she said, laughing a little as though he were little more than a country bumpkin come to visit the Capital for the first time. He would have burned at the insult, but the sound of her laugh had a way of charming him away from anger. "They've been complaining to me because your men are ordering them around. If the two of us don't work together, it will come to bloodshed."
"They would slaughter each other over this?"
"More likely one of us wakes up with an open throat." She put a gauntlet and matching pauldron into the good pile, and Aidan shook his head at how casually she had just described her own assassination. He must have worn his thoughts on his face, because she looked at him and said, "Don't worry, Sir Aidan. We're weeks away from something like that. But it will happen if we don't put our heads together."
"Then by all means," he answered, putting what he intended as a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "let's put our heads together."
"Thought you'd never ask," she replied, then with a demon's speed grabbed his doublet's collar and brought him in close, kissing him deeply and without reservation. He kissed her back, holding her close as he did. He nearly wept with joy at the moment - he felt better than when he emerged from his secret childhood tree-cluster after the nanite magic had sewn his bones and muscles back together. He felt alive - really and truly alive - for the first time since he'd returned to Caledonia.
"Sir Aidan! Lady Charlene!" Connel's voice came from behind them, and the redheaded knight straightened as though standing at attention when he realized he'd interrupted their intimate moment, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"You act as though you've never seen two people kissing," Charlene teased Connel, who just nodded his head and smiled.
"Begging your pardon, but the heretic's awake and not thrashing around like an animal for once. I thought you'd want to know."
"I would like to speak to him," Aidan answered. Charlene came along, and why not? He was already puzzling over how to pacify the offended Lieutenants, and one thing that occurred to him was that unity between himself and their queen would go a long way. He made a note to tell Charlene about this later.
Sure enough, the heretic was awake and sitting on his knees, eyes closed and hands clasped in front of him. Meditation is the home of the wise man and the vacation of the fool. He wondered how quickly he would see which he was dealing with in this half-starved skeleton of a man who sat before him in deep thought.
"Welcome back," Aidan said, and the heretic opened his eyes and blinked as though still a little bleary, "I am Sir Aidan of House Franklin, heir to Barrowdown."
"I thank you, Sir Aidan, for rescuing me." He bowed by placing his hands in front of him and leaning down upon them until his forehead touched the ground.
"Spare me the bowing; your rescue is not in stone yet." The man sat up, looking surprised and worried. The morning of the raid, Aidan had read something in Troy's journal that he was hoping he'd get to use. Truth can be extracted from anyone by making them feel unsafe, then convincing them that you alone are the source of their salvation. But only if they are honest with you. He had been referring to an incident where some servant was stealing from the scullery, and he'd found who it was by separating them and questioning them one at a time. It worked; the thief confessed.
"I, I beg your pardon, Sir Aidan, I did not mean to presume-"
"Let's start with your name, heretic."
"My name is Robert, and my family name is Windhill. We're not Nobles or anything, sire, quite the opposite. My father is a tanner, and my-"
"I don't require a family history." Aidan felt a twinge of compassion in his belly, but suppressed it. This man may be dangerous or useful. I must find out which. "Tell me why you were cast out. Do it in three sentences."
"I was ... well, I thought I knew a way to build something better than they did. I told them about my idea, and they threatened me; they can't say they didn't warn me, but I went ahead in secret. They found out and clapped me in irons, and it was at least a week of no food before I ... lost touch with myself."
"Gods," Connel said, his face filled with sympathy for the pathetic creature who knelt before them. "A bloody week?"
Robert Windhill opened his mouth as if intending to answer, then glanced a
t Aidan and nodded, clearly remembering his three-sentence limit. Aidan tilted his head as he surveyed his subject, looking for the telltale signs of deception. The man fidgeted, but it could have been simple anxiety. Everyone knew how strict the Wizards' Guild was when it came to following orders. He'd never heard of someone disobeying twice.
"What did Doxil want with you?"
The heretic blinked and looked from face to face for some clue to the right answer. Aidan was about to warn him to be honest when he answered the question.
"In truth, my Lord, I have no idea."
Damn. More intrigues. Aidan had always hated intrigues, and this had only intensified upon learning of his family's own rebellious entanglement. He weighed his options, staring at the heretic's face for some clue. Despite his scraggly, disheveled appearance, there was something about the man Aidan felt inclined to trust. He was no friend of the Guild, which could bring its own set of complications, and so all that remained was deciding whether his heresy could benefit the Redtails enough to outweigh the risk of bringing the Order of the Talon down on their heads.
"Everyone here," Aidan said, pacing and reflecting on his time with the group, "contributes something to justify their meals and protection. What can you offer us?"
Robert Windhill thought for a moment, looking around as though searching the camp for inspiration. His eyes narrowed on something behind Aidan, but Aidan didn't look away.
"I can repair the armor you took in the raid." There was a sudden pride in his speech. It was not arrogant, but something very similar.
"We have a smith, try again."
"A smith?" The heretic scoffed, nearly bursting into laughter. "Someone to melt down perfectly serviceable material, you mean. I don't mean pulling dents and repurposing helms. I mean actually fixing the armor so that it can be used again."
"When you say used, you mean-"
"Fully restored positronic relays, bio-enhancements, targeting systems ... whatever it needs, really."
"You can do that?" Aidan was beyond incredulous. The knowledge of how to fix his armor was widespread among the Allied Feudal Worlds, but on Caledonia it was strictly controlled. Still, he found his suspicion persistent and nagging. "If you're trying to buy time for an escape, we'll hunt you down and hand you over to the Talons, pig wrapped!"
"No tricks, My Lord. Just skill." He held up his hands, which Aidan could clearly see were peppered with tiny calluses. The hands of a craftsman. "Think of me as a new resource you've just acquired. For the price of a few meals a day and perhaps some new clothes, you can transform your merry band into a mighty army."
The crowd of spectators and layabouts who had gathered 'round gave a great guffaw at Robert's final comment. Although he had spoken with sincerity, thinking of themselves as an army rather than a group of bandits amused them to roaring laughter. As the roar became a titter, Aidan looked at the men and imagined them all wearing a suit of Kannitick Plate. They would look like an army indeed.
And an army is what I will make them.
He held up a hand, and the outlaws gave him silence. So many were already comfortable taking orders from him that the idea, which had just now taken root in his mind, seemed all but assured. How he didn't see it sooner baffled him, as it had been there all along, waiting for him to conjure it into being by saying it aloud.
"My friends," he began, turning as he spoke so that he would look each of them in the eye at least once as he continued, "I came to you an outcast, and you adopted me as your own. Words cannot correctly describe the debt I owe to you, all of you, for pulling me from the pit of despair and helping me find purpose anew."
A few stared vacantly, but a good number were furrowing their brows in serious contemplation and nodding in agreement. His students were all proudly wearing their wooden hip daggers, and he made a note that he needed to pay the carver to make more, many more; at least one per person. They were a sign of belonging, a membership in something exclusive. He would need them to believe in that "chosen-ness" if they were to succeed in the enterprise his mind had just conceived.
"Although I can never fully repay you, I would like to try."
Someone interrupted by yelling out, "Your coin is good with me!" and about half the band laughed and nudged one another. Aidan let out a chuckle as well, but continued.
"The Lady Charlene and I have been talking," he nodded to Charlene and reached for her hand, which she gave hastily, her face a mix of curiosity and fear, "about the future of the Redtails. What we did today will be sung about for ages to come, but it has brought its own set of consequences.
"The King and every three-acre Knight in all of Greater Klauston will come for us in the spring." Nearly everyone now looked stern, and Aidan was glad for their solemnity. "If we wait in the forest, they will find us, and many of us will die."
"We'll take the lot of them with us!" another voice yelled, not defying Aidan but the King and all of his lickspittle servants. A few clapped their hands, but most just stood with anticipation, as eager to join in whatever Aidan was about to propose.
"We will take whom we can, but they have near-endless legions of Houses, Knights, Men-at-Arms, Guards, and every other manner of Soldier. And the truth is, my presence here doesn't help. They want me dead far more than they care about a sacked caravan."
"We're with you, Sir Aidan! Long may the Redtails fly!" Aidan nodded at the interruption, but held up a hand so that they knew not to cheer just yet.
"And I am with you all, to whatever end Fate has determined for us." He let go of Charlene's hand, and she gave him an encouraging smile. "Many of you know that my family's estate, Barrowdown, was unlawfully stripped from me by the King's Deputy, whose own House stands at rivalry toward mine.
"This coming spring, I mean to answer his insult. I will take Barrowdown back!" As he hoped, his words inspired great cheers and celebration. There was not a pair of closed lips or crossed arms found among them. As the cheer began to subside, he boomed with a fire that had been building in him since he first jumped out of the castle window. "Any person here who stands with me as I retake what is mine in the spring will be rewarded with land or title as befitting their service! Who will join me?"
"I will join!" Charlene shouted, her savage cry echoing off the nearby trees. She dropped to a knee, but held his gaze, winking and giving him a smile. Sure enough, the rest of the Redtails followed suit, to a person. Three-Eyed Laney, Woodsen, Connel, Rodrig ... all of them knelt before him, and he knew his long ascendancy from vagrant to Liege Lord was complete at last. A throat cleared some distance behind him, and he spun quickly, expecting some new treachery to spoil yet another triumphant moment. Instead, he looked into the eyes of two old friends.
"I will join!" Marke Deumar said, dismounting from his horse, whose reins were already in the hands of a sentry, and knelt. He was clad in his full Kannitick Plate except for his head, which was bare before his new foresworn leader.
"And I will join as well!" Ygretta said, dismounting from her own horse likewise held by a sentry and kneeling in her own Kannitick Plate. Aidan smiled, and tears came to his eyes as he allowed himself to be overwhelmed by this moment. Whatever came, whether victory or defeat, restoration or utter destruction, he was determined to burn this moment into his mind for eternity. The day his friends stood by his side and defied the King.
Part II:
Outlaw