A/N: Okay. I'm gonna revamp this a bit. I haven't touched it in two years (sad, I know) so I'm going to read over it again, edit it (blahblahblah) and continue it. Yes, you can all thank SweetLee for convincing me to ressurect it. D
So I took out the first chapter (what was before) entirely since a) I've lost it, b) I have no idea what was in it, and c) I think the story is better without it, and it wasn't important anyway.
I also changed the title to make more sense with the story, overall. D
Disclaimer: So, yes. I do not claim ownership of Bevier—whom seems to be coming the main character in this story, but there's nothing wrong with that—or Ulath, or Kalten, or Sparhawk, or Talen, or Danae… and anyone else who happens to pop up in here. With the exception of anyone who isn't in the books. Unless mentioned otherwise, the people whom you crazy fellow Eddings fanatics don't recognise are mine. Yah.
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Chapter One
Ulath and Bevier tugged a half-conscious, muttering, and rather unhappy Kalten back to the Pandion Chapterhouse. He mumbled something that was slurred and incomprehensible, and tried to open his bloodshot eyes, but to no avail; they just didn't seem to want to stay open.
"Rrghnuh," Kalten said after a while.
"It's your fault for drinking seventeen tankards of ale last night," Ulath told him. His head was only marginally pounding, though he wasn't in the best of moods, either. "Were you celebrating something last night that you neglected to tell us?"
"Ungh," the Pandion replied, his head rolling back so that his face was up at the sky.
"Well, then, you shouldn't have drunk that much. Maybe if you would have taken up the offer of that nice barmaid instead—" Bevier cut Ulath off, flushing a bright red.
"Look, there's the Pandion Chapterhouse," the young Arcian said hastily, hefting the half of Kalten he had hold of more quickly to the Chapterhouse.
Ulath cast Bevier a half-amused glance as he looked at the slowly nearing Chapterhouse. The Genidian grunted, shifting the big Pandion's weight.
"He's got to stuff himself with food every time he goes anywhere, doesn't he?" Ulath grumbled.
The two Pandions standing guard at the gate caught sight of the advancing Church Knights. One stepped forward to go through the ritual, but with a glance from Ulath, he half-smiled and backed off.
"Sir Kalten drank too much, didn't he?" the knight who had stepped forward asked, his horse pawing at the ground a bit.
"I think that might be an understatement," Bevier replied, shifting Kalten's weight as well. "At least he didn't wear his armour," he added, mostly to himself.
"We would have left him in the inn," Ulath responded flatly. Bevier gave him a slightly startled glance.
"But surely we would eventually had—"
"We would have left him in the inn." The tone of the massive Thalesian's voice was sour, and halted any more of Bevier's objections. The two mounted Pandion knights laughed.
"Do you know where Sir Kalten's room is, Sir Ulath?" the other knight inquired.
Ulath rumbled in a response that the knights took for an affirmative, and they stepped out of his way. Ulath and Bevier dragged Kalten back to his room and deposited him unceremoniously on his bed. The big Pandion groaned and rubbed his face.
"Mmmrhnnuh," he stated.
"I wouldn't advise speech just yet, Kalten," Ulath said. "You drank quite a bit, and coherency was never one of your strong points."
"Rrrg," Kalten grumbled, his bloodshot eyes squeezed shut.
"That's right," The Genidian said convivially, patting Kalten's arm. The look he shot Bevier, however, was far from companionable. "Just sleep it off. We'll come by later to see if you're up to forming words." He turned to Bevier. "There's not much else we can do for him—other then let him wallow in his headache." Apparently, Ulath's mood hadn't brightened any, and he felt that since Kalten was the one who had taken him out drinking, the Pandion should be blamed as well. "I hope his headache is worse than mine," was all he said as he left the room—probably to find a nice cool basin of water to dunk his head in—leaving Bevier with the Pandion alone.
The young Cyrinic sighed a bit as he watched Kalten rearrange himself and make garbled noises on his rumpled bed. Half of him felt that he needed to pray for Kalten's soul, but the other told him that he should leave the big man to his hangover.
"It's his fault, anyway," the Arcian murmured. "Ulath's right. I can't do anything more for him."
Shaking his head a bit, Bevier turned and left the room, almost colliding into a hooded figure outside. Assuming it was a Pandion knight, he was about to apologise, when he noticed glossy black hair hanging from under the hood.
"Princess Danae?" Bevier said, surprised.
She pushed back the brown hood and smiled sweetly. "Hello Bevier. How's Kalten?"
"In pain," he replied. "What are you doing here, Princess?" Softly, he reached behind and closed the door to Kalten's room.
She shrugged her slim shoulders. "Visiting," came her vague answer.
"Your father?" Danae's smile grew. "Or Talen?" Bevier smiled a bit as he saw her face redden slightly. "So I'm guessing your father doesn't know of your whereabouts."
The Princess pulled her hood back up. "No, he doesn't." She looked at him with large, innocent eyes. "You won't tell him, will you?"
Bevier's smile widened. "No, I won't, Princess. Why don't you go find Talen?" She giggled and hurried past him, vanishing from sight quickly thereafter. The Cyrinic held his hands behind his back as he walked through the Pandion Chapterhouse. He, unlike his brother knights, had no hangover whatsoever; he hadn't drunk more than a tankard of Arcian Red.
Idly, he wondered how Vanion and Sephrenia were doing. Vanion had fallen into bad health during the years immediately following the disappearance of Bhelliom—the young Arcian still hadn't sorted that whole lot out, theologically, anyway—but he had seemed better when Aphrael invited them to her house again to mark the coming of spring. Of course, Bevier knew about what sorts of feelings were between the former preceptor and teacher; anyone with eyes knew what was between them. But he didn't really approve of such couplings. He had seen the Zemochs and he wasn't sure if he was comfortable with it. It wasn't the physical appearances that bothered him; it was the religious views. Styrics, helpful and primitively innocent though they were, were still heathens, while Elenes followed the true faith. Well, most of the Elenes, Bevier consented, his thoughts flickering to the Eshandists. Then again, after what he and the others went through in Zemoch… Bevier shook his head. He would have to rethink many of the ideals he had held as truths before that had happened. And to think, he hadn't even been there when Azash, whether he had been a god or a Styric magician, was destroyed. It was blasphemous for one of the Elene faith to even acknowledge the existence of any other gods—or goddesses. And yet, there was Aphrael. True, she could just be a very talented Styric child, but somehow the Cyrinic Champion doubted that. After Sparhawk had told him what happened in Ghwerig's cave, Bevier wasn't as sure about his unwavering convictions in the Church—at least, inwardly he wasn't so sure; he would never allow any of those inner feelings to escape into the open. At first, he hadn't believed what Sparhawk had told him, but after weighing the fact of Sparhawk's religious fervour—rather, a lack thereof—against the Pandion's honesty, the latter won, and Bevier was forced to look at everything again.
The Cyrinic pushed such thoughts away for the moment as he reached the door to the preceptor's office. Knocking lightly, he waited until he heard the inhabitant's voice drift out to invite him in.
"Enter," a slightly weary voice said.
Bevier opened the door and smiled as he looked upon his old friend once more. "Hello, Prince Consort," he said, mostly to tease Sparhawk.
The man in question was currently scribbling something angrily on a piece of paper, and replied irritably, apparently not identifying the voice, "I wish you'd all drop that absurd title."
"Is that any way to talk to a friend?" At that, Sparhawk looked up and a smile spread over his face, the lines of anger dissipating.
"Bevier," he said, his tone much lighter than before. "I didn't recognise your voice." He motioned to the seats in the room. "Please, have a seat. It'll only take me a moment to finish this, and then we can talk."
The young Arcian nodded and sat down in a nearby chair as he watched Sparhawk resume his writing. The dark look that had furrowed his brow before Bevier had entered returned. His friend had aged over the small span of years, the Cyrinic noted. Bevier had never really perceived it before, but perhaps that was because the Arcian never actually had the chance to study his friend for so long. Sparhawk's face had never been truly young since Bevier had known him, but now his face was drawn, and his cheekbones were more prominent than Bevier remembered, almost as if he hadn't been eating enough. He didn't look like he had been deprived of any sleep, however. As it was, he looked weary, if not from lack of sleep then from all the matters of state affairs and the responsibilities being a preceptor entailed. The Cyrinic could tell that his friend didn't want any of these things; all he wanted was to live his life out in peace, with his wife and daughter, without all these things troubling him. Bevier sighed inwardly. But, more often than not, the things that one wants isn't given to one, no matter how hard one strives to achieve them, even if all one wants is peace and quiet.
He waited patiently as Sparhawk finished his paperwork. Soon, the Pandion completed and he let out a sigh and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment and rubbing his face. When he removed his hands, he smiled, and Bevier saw the age seep out of his friend's skin.
"Now," Sparhawk said, "on to more important things. How've you been?" He folded his hands on the desk before him, his dark eyes intent upon Bevier.
The young Arcian shrugged a bit. "I've been well." He cleverly suppressed a smile. "Your friend Kalten, I'm afraid, is not. And Sir Ulath didn't look too able-bodied last I saw him, either."
"Kalten took him out drinking, didn't he?" Bevier nodded.
"They dragged me along. For such a display of…" He trailed off for a moment, searching for the right word.
"Inanity?" Sparhawk supplied.
"Yes, thank you. For such a display of inanity, it was quite amusing to see Kalten dance on a table." The Cyrinic allowed a grin to slip through.
"He sang, didn't he?"
"You mean you didn't hear him?" Sparhawk laughed, and Bevier added, "Although I'm not inclined to call what he did 'singing'."
"I think he's tone deaf," Sparhawk said thoughtfully. "He's in his room, cradling his head as we speak, isn't he?"
The Arcian nodded. "And I wouldn't be surprised if we'd find Ulath with his head in a bucket of water. He didn't drink as much, though."
"Well, of course not. Ulath has common sense." They both laughed, and an awkward silence fell over the room afterward.
"So, how are Kurik's boys doing?" Bevier asked, seeking for a conversation topic.
"Quite well, actually. Khalad still insists upon being my squire, though." Sparhawk sighed, his face saddened at the memory of Kurik. "Talen is excelling in his studies, physical as well as intellectual. Kurik would have been proud."
Bevier's voice was soft as he spoke. "Sparhawk, I think he always was." The Pandion nodded his agreement, taking a moment and a deep breath to regain his composure. Even after a few years, the wound of Kurik's death was still a sore one.
Thinking quickly to change the subject, the Cyrinic asked, "I do not mean to intrude, but you looked somewhat irritated when I first came in. What was it that you were writing on?"
The big Pandion's face darkened a bit. "The newest petition that Lenda's given me. Apparently, some backwater estate in God-knows-what part of Elenia needs some pointless re-modelling. I put something along the lines of, 'Since you're so keen on doing this, Lenda, why don't you sponsor it? With all of your petition this, and request that, the treasury is a bit short. You seem to be the one with all the money. I've got a few debts myself. Maybe I should send a petition to you to pay them'." He paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression sliding across his face. "You know, I've heard a rumour that's going about lately. Have you heard it?"
"I won't until you tell me. You're being very cryptic, Sparhawk," Bevier replied.
"Sorry. Well, it seems that there's a new order of knights that have been seen somewhere in Pelosia."
"A new order of knights? Are they Church knights?"
Sparhawk smiled and shook his head in answer to Bevier's question, as well as his apparent unworldly-ness. "No, I don't think they are, but I can't really say. All I've heard are rumours. "
That was all that was said about anything new. The two friends spent the better part of the day reminiscing about their adventure with Bhelliom, laughing at the good times, and mourning the bad. It must have been a few hours before sunset when Bevier stood regretfully and sighed.
"I must be off. I want to go back home; my mother hasn't been too well lately, and I think that she doesn't have too much time left."
Sparhawk nodded. "Please, give her my regards, Bevier, and a safe journey to you." He stood as well and strode over to the Cyrinic, clapping the younger man on the back before giving a short embrace. Bevier returned the friendly affection, smiling a bit sadly.
"At least we're parting on happier times, Sparhawk," Bevier said softly. It was apparent his thoughts were on his mother.
The Pandion nodded. "Don't be afraid to stop in once and a while, Bevier. It's rather dreary here, and it likes to rain a lot. Company is more than welcome." His face creased into a smile again.
They clasped hands once more, and then Bevier turned and left the room to prepare for the ride back. Even though it would be dark in a few hours, he wanted to get out on the road; he had told Sparhawk a belated truth. His mother was terminally ill, he knew. She only had a few weeks left, everyone was sure of that, even she. The young Arcian said a hurried farewell to the others and swung up onto his horse, latching his Lochaber in the saddle holster. The two Pandion guards moved out of his way, and he galloped out of the Chapterhouse, white cloak streaming out behind him.