Author's Note: I'm sorry, people, but this is another comically long chapter, so brace yourself, and make certain that you have refreshments by the computer with you.
As far as Owen's Ordeal goes, due to Kel's missing year, it could either take place the Midwinter after Lady Knight or the following year. In my personal canon, I am inclined to make it take place the Midwinter after the Scanran adventure, because otherwise I have to justify writing about another year of Owen being Wyldon's squire. Honestly, I think that Lady Knight essentially completes the respective character arcs of Owen and Wyldon, and, while there are a couple more things that I would like to include in my fic, they fit in nicely during the time leading up to Owen's Ordeal and everything. Well, that's all the stuff I plan on yattering on about.
Reunions and Introductions
"This place really is overflowing with people," remarked Owen two weeks later, staring as he and Lord Wyldon walked toward the practice courts of Egremont Castle, one of the largest Minchi strongholds and the location of the celebrations for Roald and Shinkokami's wedding.
"What did you expect?" Lord Wyldon asked briskly, while the two of them strode down the dirt pathway that separated the fenced training yards. His eyes scanning the courts filled with wrestling, fencing, and jousting knights and squires, searching for an empty one, he went on before Owen could answer, "In case you've forgotten, Tortall is celebrating a royal marriage. That means that just about every noble in the country capable of moving by themselves tried to come here, and a vast majority of them succeeded. While they are here, many of them will attempt to take advantage of the generous mood the monarchs will undoubtedly be in upon the occasion of the wedding of their firstborn son to gain favors from Their Majesties. Everyone will be fighting for the chance to brush elbows with royalty in order to enhance themselves and their families, and in order to make life difficult for their rivals. All of this will make these festivities about as enjoyable as such things normally are."
Remembering how they had only joined the royal progress for a couple of days on their journey north when he had just started out as a squire, Owen assumed without too much disruption of brain tissue that Wyldon actually meant that such things would be as patient-trying as usual. Well, if Wyldon thought the parties were horrible when he was participating in them, he clearly didn't appreciate that they were fifty times worse when you had to deal with Oakbridge, who genuinely seemed to regard it as a tragedy if fruit was brought out with the appetizers rather than the desserts, fussing over everything.
"That is why we will be leaving exactly three days after Roald and Shinkokami are married, which is the minimum number of days a guest can remain at a royal wedding without violating the rules of etiquette," concluded Wyldon. "No matter what some people think, the war with the Scanrans is far from over, and we can't afford to spend time lounging around like cats in the sunlight."
Although he should have been pleased to hear that that he would be away from the throngs of fawning courtiers and Oakbridge's irascibility, he was upset because that reduced the time he had to spend with Margarry, whom he had yet to see because she had only ridden in with her mother and Karina early that morning. Still, he knew better than to mention such a feeling to Lord Wyldon. His knightmaster seemed to tolerate albeit barely his relationship with his youngest daughter as long as it wasn't brought up around him. Anyway, Owen realized that Wyldon would also be sacrificing time with Lady Vivienne, and, therefore, was unlikely to be overly sympathetic to his complaint. Instead, he chose to address Lord Wyldon's first question, since it seemed like safer territory.
"I didn't forget that it was a royal wedding, sir," he answered. "I just didn't expect about as many people as are normally in the Royal Palace to cram themselves into a castle half its size."
Wyldon emitted an impatient tut, and Owen was regretting even mentioning his shock at the amount of knights and squires assembled on the practice courts when he recognized that the aggravated noise wasn't, as he had initially suspected, directed at him. Following his knightmaster's disapproving look, he saw two knights in the practice court ahead of them on their right who had obviously overindulged in spirits at the party that Owen had been forced to serve at last evening.
A laugh swelled in Owen's throat that he had to struggle to stifle as he watched the two inebriated men. Shouting an incoherent threat, one man would lurch forward and swing his weapon frantically at his opponent, whom he would miss, cursing loudly, by about half a foot. Even though it was clear that the blow would not land, the second knight would raise his sword to parry the hit that had already passed, stumble backward, recover somewhat, and falter forward, blasting out nonsensical insults all the way.
At this sight, which could have put court jesters with their faux sword battles to shame, the chuckle that had been building up in Owen's throat reached his mouth and pushed against his lips, imploring for exit.
"Disgraceful." Wyldon, who was utterly stone-faced, scowled at the knights who were engaged in an unintentional parody of fencing. "First year pages do better the first time they pick up a sword."
This comment made Owen's lips twitch, and the laugh he had been fighting to hold in came roaring out.
"I'm glad you find their antics so amusing, Jesslaw," snapped Lord Wyldon, focusing his glower on his squire now, and effectively quelling Owen's laughter immediately. "Come along. We're wasting time. I daresay you won't learn any technique from watching them."
Thinking that the only thing he had learned from watching the two drunken men duel was to never engage in a swordfight while intoxicated, Owen hurried to catch up with Wyldon, who was walking briskly down the path that ran through the practice yards. Finally, just when Owen was becoming convinced that they would be unable to discover a vacant training yard, they came across one, and he followed Wyldon onto it.
Five minutes later, after they had both completed their stretching, they unsheathed their swords. Then, their weapons raised, they circled each other slowly, as if in a dance, their eyes alert for any misstep that would give them the slightest advantage.
Normally, Owen would get impatient with waiting for his knightmaster to make the first move, and would do so himself, even though he knew that it would parried easily and would not come as a surprise. This time, however, he bullied his body into waiting for Wyldon to go on the offensive first, his eyes locked on the man, almost as if he were challenging Wyldon to make the first move.
In the end, after an excruciating wait, Wyldon did. He whipped his sword down in a powerful strike—once, twice, three times. Owen was there to block each blow, the graceful arcs he made with his blade confident and accurate, and his gaze never leaving the older man's face, as he willed his knightmaster to see just how much his swordsmanship had improved since he had left for Scanra.
The two of them dodged and weaved across the yard. With every hit, as often was the case when they sparred, Wyldon pushed Owen further back, but this time was different. On this occasion, Owen wanted to retreat, because he had a surprise planned.
When his back was almost pressed against the wooden fence, Owen swung suddenly, ducked, and turned, so that he now had the upperhand in the battle. Spotting the slight astonishment that flickered across his knightmaster's features when he executed this maneuver, Owen grinned
Rushing to take care of the man's shock since he understood that it would have the life expectancy of an ice crystal in midsummer, Owen picked up the pace of the confrontation a notch. Now it was he who was striking repeatedly, and Wyldon who was on the defensive.
At best, this lasted for a moment, before the fight leveled out, and both of them spent equal time advancing and retreating across the practice court. For what felt like hours, they continued on like this long after their breaths seemed to have left them permanently and all their sweat had poured out of them onto their backs in a futile attempt to chill them.
Finally, when the blazing summer sun had reached its greatest height and was beating mercilessly down on them, Lord Wyldon called for a halt. It took a second for Owen to remember what that order meant. Then, when his senses had returned to him somewhat, he shoved his sword back into his hilt.
Without speaking, the two of them leaned against the nearest fence and swallowed water from their canteens. As he gulped his water, Owen waited for Wyldon to begin his critique of his squire's performance. It hadn't taken him long as a squire to figure out that Wyldon seldom offered instruction in the middle of a practice duel or joust. Instead, he seemed to prefer to have Owen learn all he could through experience, and to explain what he didn't later. In the beginning, Owen hadn't been comfortable with this method, since he could never know until it was too late whether he was doing well or awfully. Now, though, he was used to it, and probably would have found it distracting if Wyldon had provided regular commentary.
"A very good fight overall," Lord Wyldon announced at last, and pride flooded Owen. He knew he had done well—he might not have won the fight, but he had kept Wyldon at bay, and that meant that he could hold at bay if not defeat most knights—but it was satisfying to hear Wyldon acknowledge that. While Owen considered himself a fairly self-confident individual, he couldn't deny that Lord Wyldon's opinion mattered a great deal to him. "You still would do well to make your high blocks higher, but other than that your swordsmanship has improved vastly since we last had a chance to spar like this. That reverse of yours was particularly remarkable."
"Something tells me that it won't be so useful against you again, though, sir," Owen pointed out. "It's not really so surprising a second time."
"No, it's not," agreed Wyldon dryly. "However, I suspect that many of your opponents will be astonished by it. In a real fight, you only need to surprise your foe once in order to get under their guard. In a real fight, Owen, you rarely have to worry about a rematch, which is fortunate, because most of your attention should be focused on not getting killed."
"Yes, my lord." Owen nodded, somewhat taken aback that Wyldon would defend him from any of his own criticisms about his fencing. He supposed it was another result of his Scanran adventure, because, after he had returned from helping Kel destroy Blayce and Stenmun, he had noticed that Wyldon had grown softer with him. For whatever reason, while the lectures and commands continued undiminished, the amount of praise had increased noticeably. It still occurred rarely because Wyldon could never be regarded as an indulgent teacher, but now Owen was far more confident of Wyldon's affection than he had been before he committed treason. All in all, it was very ironic, but Owen liked the change too much to protest.
"You may not have beaten me today as you wanted to do, but the day that you do so may not be that far off, Owen." Wyldon's lips twisted into a wry smile.
The words should have filled Owen with pleasure. Yet, they didn't. They discomfited him. Without thinking about it, he had leaped over a line that he could never step back on the other side of. He had crossed a bridge that he hadn't even noticed existed until he had already left it behind him. He had taken another step toward becoming a knight when he had reached a draw in a swordfight with Wyldon. Once the notion would have elated him, and there was still a part of him that cheered at the prospect of being closer to fulfilling the dream that he had nourished since childhood. However, another fraction of him felt like weeping. The element in him that feared being alone wanted to remain Wyldon's squire forever.
That's ridiculous, the logical component snapped at the overly sentimental part. You can't be a squire forever. The whole point of being a squire at all is so that you learn what you need to know to be a knight, and the realm would fall apart if all would-be-knights decided they'd rather stay squires forever.
The overly sentimental part of him was only slightly mollified by this reasoning, so the rational element added, Besides, you're not ready to have your Ordeal yet. You can worry more about this at Midwinter. No need to get yourself stressed out too soon. Some things are best left to the last minute.
Still, for some reason, in that instant, it occurred to him with overwhelming strength and clarity that without Wyldon he would barely know how to hold a sword, nonetheless fight properly with one. Equally abruptly, he realized that he owed Wyldon a great debt of gratitude for that. In fact, when it came down to it, every page that Wyldon had trained was similarly indebted to the man, but all the other pages had gone on to a different knightmaster, lessening how much they owed. Imagining that Wyldon probably was never thanked by the legions of pages he had trained because he was so severe with them that they couldn't help but feel much more attached to their knightmasters, made Owen determined to convey at least some of his appreciation. After all, Wyldon might not have instructed future knights for thanks, but that didn't mean he didn't deserve to receive any.
"You've taught me a lot, yet I know you still have much to teach me, sir," Owen answered, wishing that he didn't sound so awkward. "I'm grateful for everything you've taught me."
"I do still have much to teach you, Squire." Somehow managing to acknowledge Owen's gratitude and confirm his words in one gesture, Wyldon nodded crisply. "Come. Let's go to the stables now. There's someone I'd like you to meet."
Obediently, Owen walked with Wyldon to the castle stables, puzzling the whole way over who exactly Wyldon wanted him to meet. When they reached the stables, he followed Wyldon over to Heart's stall.
"You want me to meet Heart, sir?" Owen frowned, because he regarded himself as pretty well acquainted with that particular creature. After all, he had cleaned, fed, and saddled Heart along with Happy for awhile now.
"Not unless you've recently been striken with amnesia. If you haven't, I'd like you to meet the stallion next to Heart." As he established as much, Wyldon jerked his head at the stall beside Heart, which contained a steed as dark as midnight with a pure white stripe running down his head.
"He's gorgeous, my lord," gasped Owen, staring at the new horse, who would have been within an inch of Happy's height and who was almost as thickly muscled.
"His name is Blaze," Lord Wyldon informed him, as Owen extended his palm for the horse to sniff. "Margarry named him that for the white stripe on his head. Sometimes I think that the gods granted her foresight when she named him, since he has become one of the swiftest horses that I've ever raised."
For a second, Wyldon watched Blaze lick Owen's hand before he said, "Of course, if you wish to rename him as you did Happy, you may do so."
"Rename him?" stuttered Owen, his hand freezing in the middle of petting Blaze's head. "You're giving him to me?"
"Well, I didn't ask my wife to bring him up here so that he could attend parties with me," Wyldon responded briskly, and, then more gently, "Yes, Owen, I'm giving Blaze to you."
"You can't, sir." Owen shook his head frantically. After he had gotten Happy killed, he couldn't accept another horse from Lord Wyldon. That would be an unfair abuse of his knightmaster's generosity and trust. Besides, a nasty voice in his brain hissed that if he had been the death of Happy, he might be the death of Blaze, too, and he couldn't bear that idea.
"I most certainly can." Wyldon's lips thinned in a sure sign that he did not appreciate being contradicted. "He's my horse, so I can give him to anyone I desire, and I wish to give him to you."
About to counter that he wasn't obliged to accept Wyldon's gift, Owen stopped the words before they could spill out of his mouth, since he was well aware that they made him sound like a spoiled brat who couldn't comprehend the enormity of the present his knightmaster was offering. That wasn't the case. Indeed, it was the opposite. Owen appreciated it too much to accept it.
"My lord, you don't have to give me Blaze," he stated, instead, relieved that for once he had found words that were at least halfway tactful. "Marigold will work fine for me until I can make arrangements to buy a new horse."
His family could afford to provide him with his own horse. After all, the Jesslaws were hardly impoverished like the Eldorones, or forced to be thrifty like the Mindelans. Sure, the Jesslaws weren't the richest of the nobles, but they definitely didn't have to worry about the amount of money they possessed. Their wealth was more due to the fertile land of their fief than to Owen's father, who didn't care about much that went on in his land as long as his wine was well-stocked, yes, but that didn't make the money any less valid.
"You're wrong. I think that you'll find that I have to give Blaze to you," Wyldon corrected him tersely. "I'm perfectly aware that you won't have the chance to make arrangements to procure a new horse for yourself until after your Ordeal, and I'm not about to let you ride into battle on an inadequate horse like Marigold. If I did that, I would practically be as remiss in my duties as if I sent you into war with a rusty sword."
Despite Wyldon's argument, Owen knew that Wyldon didn't have to furnish him with a new horse. After all, even though Marigold paled next to Happy and Blaze, she wasn't such a dreadful mount that she was incapable of being ridden into battle. No, Wyldon had chosen to give him a new horse and was pretending that he had been obligated to, because the man's kindnesses tended to take a convoluted, backward form, and sometimes even concealed themselves as cruelties. It was all part of Wyldon's manner of keeping others at a distance and hiding the fact that, while he was watching, he was feeling as deeply as anyone else.
"I can't take Blaze, sir," Owen insisted, sticking out his chin.
"You can, and, more importantly, you will." Before Owen, whose mouth was opening, could respond, Wyldon held up a hand to silence him. "Be quiet, and let me finish. This scene is rapidly transforming into a comedy, and, since I don't have time to waste playacting with you, Squire, I will end this nonsense immediately. Now, I realize that you want Blaze, and I know that you're aware that I wish you to have him. However, due to your guilt about Happy, you're determined to turn what could be a simple matter into a complicated one. As a result, I have no choice but to make it an easy issue again."
"It's already an easy issue, my lord," pointed out Owen. "It's as simple as the fact that I won't accept Blaze from you."
"Wrong again," snapped Wyldon, and Owen couldn't help but flinching at his knightmaster's coldest, most unrelenting tone. His dark eyes digging into Owen's gray ones, Wyldon continued, speaking slowly as if to ensure that the younger man heard and registered every syllable, "I'm not suggesting that you take Blaze, nor am I requesting that you take Blaze. No, I'm ordering you to take Blaze, and how you feel about that is not a factor. I'm commanding you to take Blaze, and you, as my squire, must obey."
Again, Owen was about to protest. Then, his mouth slammed shut as he realized what he was doing was stupid. The truth was that he did want Blaze, and he had ever since he had laid eyes on the creature. When half his heart longed to own Blaze, there was no way that he could win an argument against Wyldon.
Besides, he told himself, if he was obeying his knightmaster's orders to take this particular horse, then he didn't have to feel guilty about doing so, or at least not too guilty. As this thought crossed his mind, he recognized that Wyldon's command, however irritably it had been issued, was probably meant as another veiled act of charity. Wyldon probably knew that Owen couldn't choose to take the stallion, but he could if an order made it his duty.
"I'll take Blaze then, sir," Owen conceded around the mountain that suddenly had sprouted up in his throat without warning. Looking deeply into Wyldon's eyes so that the man could see that he appreciated his gift more than words could ever hope to explain, he said simply, "Thank you."
"Rest assured that Blaze will prefer a life of action to a life in my stables," Wyldon told him, clasping Owen's shoulder for a few seconds and then releasing it again. "I know that now he's yours, you'll treat him well."
"I will," promised Owen, nodding his head eagerly. If, Mithros and all the other deities forbid, he managed to get Blaze killed, it would be an accident. Tortall would switch places with the Copper Isles before he mistreated a horse of his on purpose.
"Good," Wyldon replied. "Now, since it seems unjust that everyone else here is having a holiday of sorts, you have the rest of the afternoon off. Feel free to take the time to become better acquainted with Blaze or to see if you can find any of your friends in this circus. Just make sure that you are ready to serve at the party at seven tonight."
"I will be, sir." There was something else that Owen could easily promise, although with far less enthusiasm. After all, Oakbridge had reminded the squires on at least nine occasions of the time that they had to arrive to serve at the party, and Owen had every intention of being punctual, as he didn't want Oakbridge blowing a major artery all over him.
Satisfied, Wyldon turned and made his way out of the stables, leaving Owen alone with Blaze. Continuing to stroke his new horse, Owen thought that the animal wasn't as handsome or as spirited as Happy. That was a pity, yet, for Blaze's sake and for his own, Owen couldn't afford to hold that against the stallion. After all, no creature would ever be the same as Happy, and that was why Owen missed him so much. However, while Happy could never truly be replaced, that was no reason to refuse to form a new bond with a horse as magnificent as Blaze.
"We'll get along fine, you'll see," Owen murmured to his new mount. "Don't worry. Everything will work out, and I won't get you killed like I did Happy."
Happy would have snorted and rammed his head lightly against Owen's forehead; Blaze whinnied softly and nuzzled against Owen.
"That's Blaze, in case you don't know," announced a clear voice from behind him, and Owen didn't have to turn to discover who the speaker was. He would recognize that matter-of-fact tone even if he had to go years without hearing it. It had been integrated into the very core of his being, and sometimes his brain even addressed him in it when he was engaged in an argument with himself. "I named him myself. Of course, given your tendency to rename horses, he might not be Blaze for much longer."
"I know that he's called Blaze, and that you're the one who named him that. You're father told me," answered Owen, feeling like his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, as he was abruptly and acutely aware that he had declared his love for her. If he had realized at the time that doing so would render all future exchanges with her indescribably stilted, he wouldn't have done so. As Margarry came over to stand beside him, he tentatively reached his hand out over what had to be the mile's distance that separated them and wrapped the fingers Blaze hadn't lapped around hers. When he did so, something powerful and hot burned through his veins, and he found that the words were stumbling out of his lips in a worse jumble than ever. "Actually, I'm not planning on renaming Blaze. Keeping the name you gave him will keep me connected to you."
"That might receive first prize as the strangest compliment I have ever been honored with." Margarry giggled, but it sounded so much more forced and less free-spirited than usual that Owen was painfully aware that she felt as uneasy with the situation as he did. This was confirmed when she tugged him around so that they were face-to-face, and neither could avoid the other's gaze.
"Let's strangle some of the awkwardness that is choking our conversation," she suggested in a voice that was mostly calm except for a minor tremor near the conclusion of the sentence. "The truth is that we're both scared that we might have made a mistake when we declared our love for each other in our letters. We're nervous about meeting each other in case we don't please one another as much as we thought we did, even though we were anxious to be reunited for weeks."
"That's a pretty good summary," Owen agreed through a dry throat, as his eyes drank in the full sight of Margarry for the first time since he had figured out that he was in love with her. Mithros, she was even prettier than his best daydreams of her. Yes, her face was still too thin and angular for court standards of beauty, but when she grinned or laughed it softened enough that Owen couldn't imagine anyone calling it less than lovely. Sure, her eyes were a relatively common shade of brown reminiscent of decaying autumn leaves, but it wasn't the hue that was important—it was intelligence and wry humor sparkling in them that were the real windows into her soul, which he cherished as much as his own.
"Well, you've seen me now and heard me speak," Margarry finished, wiping away an invisible speck of dirt from her periwinkle gown and twisting off a petal of a lilac she had woven through the braided crown she had fixed her hair in. Realizing that she had probably gone to considerable trouble to make herself attractive to him, he gulped and wished that he wasn't wearing sweaty clothes from a practice bout. "Tell me. Was it true love or just an illusion that you felt?"
Looking at her, Owen knew with a certainty that gutted him as effectively as any dagger that it hadn't been merely an illusion that he had felt. No, he honestly loved her. There was no other explanation for the fire that raged in his bloodstream whenever he so much as thought about her. There was no other reason for the shock that always coursed through him whenever he so much as brushed fingertips with her. There was no other explanation for his desire to spill out his whole soul to her and his simultaneous struggles to construct coherent sentences. There was no other reason why he was convinced that he could fly whenever she was beside him, even though his feet seemed to be built from lead. There was no other explanation for the fact that he both wanted to get as close to her as possible and flee from her as quickly as possible whenever he caught sight of her.
Yes, there was no denying that he loved her. She was his ultimate temptation and his better half. She was his greatest strength and his biggest weakness. She was his salvation and his damnation. Most likely, there were a thousand words that he could have used to explain this to her, but none of them sprang to his mind. Besides, words were never as good as deeds. As far as he was concerned, right now, there was only one way to reassure her that he genuinely loved her and would forever.
Before any part of him could stop himself, he closed the distance between them and kissed her. When their lips met, Owen was flooded with a peculiar sense of arriving at a home buried deep inside himself. He knew in the best, most magical, way that Margarry was not only as vital to his survival as the air he breathed but that she was a part of him, had been before he had even been introduced to her, and would continue to be with him forever. Judging by the fact that she made no attempt to pull away from him and didn't stiffen when he kissed her, Margarry experienced a similar sensation.
Owen had no idea how long the kiss lasted, because he was curiously located outside of time when his lips were locked with Margarry's, and he didn't care how long it was. It could have the duration of a second or an eternity, and it would make no difference to him. He was in love, and where love was, time had no sway.
After however long it was, when they were both out of breath, they separated at the same time.
"It's no illusion for me." He grinned at her, still breathless and flushed. "What about you?"
"It must be real," she informed him, beaming. "After all, a nobleman's kiss is supposed to break every spell an evil sorcerer could place on a damsel."
"How did you know I was here, anyway?" he asked.
"I could claim that I am so connected with you that I knew that you couldn't be anywhere but here," observed Margarry, her eyes gleaming. "However, that's not true. What really happened is that Father decided to drop by Mother's room while I was visiting with her, and he explained that he had just come from the stables where he had given Blaze to 'that incorrigible young man.' Of course, that required some extrapolation on my part, but it appears that I reached the proper conclusion. Interestingly enough, you have been promoted from impossible to incorrigible since you first came to Cavall."
"That's probably more of a demotion than a promotion." Owen shrugged. Wishing he felt remorseful and knowing fully well that he never would feel the guilt he probably ought to have, he admitted, "I am incorrigible. After all, as soon as he leaves the stables, I set to work seducing his daughter."
"I take issue to that." Margarry elbowed him in the ribs. "I think it is clear, Owen, that I have put far more effort into seducing you than you have into seducing me, and I resent you taking credit for my hard work."
"Be sure to take full credit for your hard work if your father ever hears about this scene," Owen advised her. "You might just save my neck if you do that."
"Of course I'll take credit for my feminine wiles," snorted Margarry. "How else would I remind Father that I am the most impossible and incorrigible daughter in the history of civilization?"
Before Owen could reply, she added, scooping up a wicker picnic basket that she must have placed on the floor before she had walked over to him, "Oh, and speaking of Father finding out about this scene, we should probably get out of the stables soon. You see, I suggested that Father and Mother take a nice ride together this afternoon because they so rarely get to be alone with each other, while I went off to see a companion of mine. Things would get a wee bit awkward if they were to discover that the companion I was referring to was you. Come on. As long as we stay away from the horse paths, we should be free of their interference."
Noting inwardly that awkward would be the understatement of the year if Margarry's parents discovered that it was him she had been running off to meet, Owen hurried out of the stables alongside her.
Once they had left the stable a safe distance behind them, they both visibly relaxed, and slowed their pace to a stroll. After a few more minutes of leisurely walking, they had passed many of the crowds of nobles flocking the green grounds. Now that they had ensured that they would have some privacy, they settled themselves under a sycamore tree and devoted themselves to eating the lunch that Margarry had brought.
"Praise the Goddess for kitchenhands," remarked Margarry between bites of melon. "They can have a picnic prepared in a snap of fingers. When we have kitchenhands, I seriously don't understand why they hammered so much about cooking into us at the convent. What a waste of time and effort. Good thing I didn't pay too much attention in those classes, anyway."
"Half the stuff that our teachers pound into our heads is useless and is only meant to keep us from plotting mischief in our free time," Owen said, articulating a theory he had formulated throughout his page years. Then, studying the slice of melon he was consuming, he muttered, "No wonder this tastes so good if you had nothing to do with its preparation."
"You don't cook melons," scowled Margarry. "Besides, even I'm not capable of ruining melons, although many a priestess can attest that I did my honest best to do so."
"You aren't that bad a cook," Owen reassured her to compensate for mocking her in the first place. "The nuts you sent me were quite tasty. Happy was particularly fond of them."
"Thanks." Margarry wrinkled her nose. "That would be about the limit of my culinary prowess, though."
Silence fell between them for a minute, as the two of them started in on the chicken pie that the servants had packed for them. Then, Margarry commented abruptly, "There have been rumors circulating about you and some of your friends recently, you know. I may have only been here since this morning, but already I've heard my fair share."
"Do you listen to rumors about me, then?" Owen raised his eyebrows.
"You'd have to be deaf or dead not to hear these," returned Margarry, unfazed. "Anyway, I might have listened to them, but I won't believe them until you tell me they're true―or not."
"In order for me to do that, you have to shed some light on what these mysterious rumors are," he pointed out, although he had the strong suspicion that they were related to his experiences in Scanra.
"I have the feeling that you know what I'm talking about, but I'll humor you." Margarry's eyes locked on his. "I'm referring to the rumors about you and your friends sneaking into Scanra on an undercover mission, and killing Blayce and Stenmun. Understandably, I'm wondering if the reason you couldn't write to me for awhile was because you were busy in Scanra."
"Well, in this case, the rumors are half true, which makes them more factual than most of the stories circling court," Owen grumbled, stalling. The truth was the idea of explaining what he had done to Margarry terrified him. What if she fled from him in disgust, screaming that she couldn't be involved with a traitor? Yet, how could he engage in a relationship with her and not tell her the truth about Scanra?
"Owen?" Margarry pressed, squeezing his hand and showing him that his answer was taking too long.
"I did travel behind enemy lines with my friends, and we did dispose of Blayce and Stenmun." Owen decided to get the easy part over with, and then burst out with the bad news, as though speed would make it less difficult for both of them to handle, "However, it wasn't an undercover mission; it was treason. Everyone is supposed to think that it was authorized, so my friends and I don't have to die, but it wasn't. I know that I'm supposed to do my part in keeping up the lie, but I can't lie to you, especially not about this."
"It's not treason unless you're tried and convicted of it," Margarry countered fiercely. Obviously, she didn't want to see him as a traitor anymore than he wished to perceive himself as one.
"Maybe if you're a magistrate or an advocate." Owen shook his head glumly. "If you're a person like me, you know that when you disappeared behind enemy lines on your covert operation that you were committing what the law would define as treason, and that makes you a traitor no matter what anyone says on the contrary."
"You thought you were doing the right thing, though, when you committed treason, didn't you?" Margarry cocked her head and narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized him.
"Of course I did!" Owen exclaimed, miffed that she would even entertain the notion that he would commit treason out of maliciousness. "I'd never have done it otherwise, and I didn't just think I was doing the right thing—I was doing the right thing."
"When Blayce and Stenmun are corpses, I guess it's hard to argue that you were wrong," Margarry smirked. A second later, the smirk vanished, and she observed softly, "Well, as long as you thought you were doing the right thing, that's all that really matters, I suppose."
"That's all you're going to say?" Owen gawked at her. "You aren't going to even interrogate me about my reasons for committing treason to ensure that they're good ones?"
"Of course I'm not going to interrogate you." Now, it was Margarry's turn to be offended. "I'll leave the interrogations to Father, and, since your explanations worked with him even though his attitude tends to be that explanations are barely less reprehensible than excuses, I reckon that they'd be good enough to satisfy me, especially since love is blind."
Here, Margarry leaned her head against his shoulder, so that her hair tickled his cheek, and the scent of rosewater and lilacs made him feel lightheaded. "Owen, I don't want to be a cause of stress in your life. I love you, and all I want to be is a source of joy and support for you. I don't even care how weak that sounds, because it will make the two of us happy, and that's all that matters really."
"You're displaying a tremendous amount of faith in me, considering that you insist that you are a cynic," chuckled Owen, stroking her smooth cheek.
"Oh, I am a cynic," she responded rapidly, trailing her fingers along his face. The sensation made him feel simultaneously edgy and more comfortable than he had ever been in his life. "That is, I have very low expectations of humanity as a whole so that I won't become too depressed by the foolishness and casual cruelty all too prevalent among people. However, while I have little to no faith in humanity as a group, I have great faith in the individual—or, to be precise, in certain individuals, like you."
"What happens if someone you trust disappoints you?" Owen wanted to know.
"Then I look like an idiot, and become a little more bitter and soulless," laughed Margarry. Then, she stopped when her fingers rubbed across his new scar, and she gasped, "Getting this must have hurt."
"It wasn't too terrible," he said flippantly, even though he was pleased that she had noticed. It would prove to her that he was brave and strong.
"Men." Exasperated, Margarry rolled her eyes. "You're always insisting as blood pours from a fatal wound that you aren't injured at all."
"This one wasn't fatal," he reminded her.
"Indeed, and I imagine there's quite a story behind it."
"I got it in Scanra." For some reason, although he was accustomed to sharing everything that occurred in his life with her, he found that he was reluctant to discuss his experiences in Scanra with her. As far as he was concerned, what happened couldn't be understood by anyone who wasn't present in Scanra with Kel, and so talking about it to someone outside that select group would be like attempting to describe color to a blind man.
"I imagine that the whole time in Scanra made for quite a story," murmured Margarry. "Would you like to talk about it?"
"No." Owen shook his head fervently. It was blasphemy to think of ruining such a bright, sunny day with a tale of darkness and savagery. He could not describe to her the scent of rotting flesh and Stormwings while the air around them was perfumed by her lilacs and rosewater. While the wind rustled the leaves above them, he could not talk about corpses strung up in trees. With her head resting against his shoulder, he could not mention the bloody backs of the refugees. When they were picnicking together, he couldn't bring up the poverty and hunger he had seen in the Scanran village. While their hearts beat out a vibrant testimony to the life thudding through them both, how could he speak of death? With him at his most affectionate, how could he admit to spitting on Blayce and Stenmun when they were killed? "Thank you for the offer, but I don't want to talk about it, Margarry."
"I understand," Margarry whispered in his ear, and thoughts of Scanra were blown out of his mind, "but if you ever want to discuss what happened, I'll listen."
"I know," he replied simply, because he had never doubted that. Then, he decided that they had done enough talking and brought his lips to hers before she could say anything else.