Chapter 22
Dawn

Dawn crept over the horizon, a soft glow of cold light and false hope stretching over an empty vista. The trees swayed gently on either side of the clearing, silent spectres of crisp pine and weathered alder, their gnarled bark seemingly twisted into sombre, watchful faces. Overhead, branches rustled in a crisp breeze, a hushed debate winding through the eaves with trepidation, each bough reaching to see beyond the next. Watching, ever watching the empty horizon— the blank expanse of earth that disappeared into a net of trees and bark and fern and leaves. Time seemed to simultaneously stretch and race, moving with the stillness of the waking day.

Still, none returned.

A shiver crawled across Jester's skin as he straightened groggily on the steps of one of the caravans. He dragged a rough hand through his hair, still matted and damp from the evening torrent, and furiously blinked back the weight of the fading night that threatened his eyes. Images passed before his lids, stirring up tears and fear and frustration as he pictured a string of faces. His love. His friend. His sister. Her love. A dull ache settled in his chest, at once a hallowed candle of mourning and a silent, hopeful vigil. Bloodshot fatigue clawed at his lids, rimmed with exhaustion in both body and soul, and he could vaguely hear the thrum of his own heart, pulsing somewhere between his ears.

What he would give for the comfort of his lute, for the sting of strings against his fingertips and the smooth patina of the wood. What he would give for a warm bed and a steaming bowl of stew from Pepper's kitchen, fresh from Rake's garden. To be surrounded by friends, each one safe and snorting over one of Dragon's incomprehensible jokes. What he would give for comfort to ease his aching mind.

Instead he watched, his eyes steady on the horizon.

Instead he waited for his family's return.

Instead, he silently cursed himself for the harm a fool's request had wrought.

Behind him, there was the squeak of hinges and the brush of weatherworn wood against equally weatherworn wood. Jester sat up abruptly and winced as pain spiked down his splinted leg, glancing behind him to catch Tiberinus's sharp gaze. The man looked down on him gently, his gaze both weary and alert. A snug bearskin blanket was slung around his proud shoulders and he clutched a bowl of potage against his olive tunic.

"Jester," the man said, his voice low and even. "Pray, do not tell me you have been out here all night?"

"Tib— erm. Uncl… sir. I. Well, I… Yes. I admit I was. And am." Jester sighed. "I keep praying that I will see them on the horizon, but so far…" His voice trailed off, wavering beneath the surface, emphasizing the gaping truth. So far: nothing.

The older man nodded gravely, his dark eyes seemingly distant.

"I understand. I, too, hope the same. All we can do is pray that your sister's… gifts are able to protect her from harm, and that Godric will be wise enough to trust her and quick enough to find her."

"I cannot help but feel as though I failed them…" Jester muttered bitterly, his face twisting into a grimace of guilt. "I should have stayed behind. It would have been the knightly… or well, the right thing to do." Even Gunther would have. The thought came to mind, tinged with jealousy, utterly unbidden upon a tide of melancholy.

The boy's uncle sighed, and wordlessly pressed the bowl of potage into Jester's hands, settling alongside him on the steps. The scent of vegetables and dried herbs soaked in broth rose to his nostrils, warm and comforting; the stew warmed his chilled palms.

"If you will not sleep, then eat, boy. And listen," Tiberinus said. "You are not a knight, nor should you wish to be." The man's gaze was piercing yet gentle as he gazed down his curved nose at the Fool. Jester felt remarkably young beneath it. "You are a jester. A performer. A poet. A musician. You are a master of words, the very soul of times of peace, and a singer of days of war. You are the courage of knights on the wall, the keeper of tales of old, and the delight of kings in their courts. There is no shame in such gifts or in being that which you are: a creature of peace."

Jester stirred the soup sullenly, his brow drawn and his shoulders stooped.

"But I should have stayed… I mean, I have learned so much. I thought I might have been... braver, perhaps? I don't know. But I should have remained." He cast a tentative glance up at his uncle, whose brow softened. The man shook his head, his black and silver mane glinting in the cool morning light.

"Skill with a blade is not the source of strength, Jester, or courage. Even the most skilled of knights tremble before battle. True, you have made remarkable progress, but do not forget who you are. It is not your responsibility to rescue the world. We had but one goal with this mission: to rescue Squire Jane. None could have guessed your sister's plans, or stopped her, I gather." He shook his head, chuckling gravely. "But I trust Maia… Beyond reason or explanations, perhaps. Godric may think her frailer than she is, but he did not know your mother as I did, Jester. There is a proud strength in our family's veins. Including your own."

"My mother…" Jester murmured. He closed his eyes, trying to picture her face. He could imagine the hazy images of a laugh, a smile, of blue eyes much like his own, but catching their details –the timbre of her voice, the words that were said, the lilt of her character— through a fog of fatigue was like catching the wind with one's bare hands. They slipped away, water through a creek. "I was so young when I they brought me to Kippernium, you know…it pains me to admit that I can scarcely remember her anymore." He shook his head. "Is that wrong? Not remembering your own mother? Of course, I had letters, but they… well, they aren't quite the same." And they stopped. He added silently.

Tiberinus sighed.

"No, a letter is never the same as the person, but your parents made a great sacrifice on your behalf, lad. I remember when your mother wrote to Octavia to tell her of the choice they were forced to make in leaving you there. Her grief was tremendous, but she knew that it offered you your best chance. A formidable woman, your mother. Never was there a kinder soul than she, save for my own wife. She was always fiercely protective, as a mother bear defending her cubs," he laughed. "I remember when she was with child –carrying you, in fact— she used to sit on these very steps, singing to your unborn soul. The lads, Wymund and Maurus, used to taunt her, the little rascals. But she was determined that you heard her and knew you were loved and wanted."

He shrugged. "We saw you once, when you were but a babe. Maurus was a small thing, and pinched you so hard you cried. Never have I seen him cower so under a tongue-thrashing like the one your mother gave him. He even picked you a set of pretty petals as an apology."

Jester laughed.

"Truly?"

"Yes, my boy. She's a fierce creature, your mother, and stubborn as a mule. Much as your sister, and even your lady Jane."

The thought warmed Jester, a wave of affection washing over him.

"Yes, Jane can be quite—" The words caught short, as concern intercepted the thought. "Oh, Heavens. How is she? Jane, I mean?" He asked, realization clapping him on the shoulders. A thousand questions fought for purchase on his lips. "Octavia wouldn't let me in. Is she alright? Has she woken? Has she asked for me? Has she—"

Tiberinus raised his unruly brows.

"Slow. Peace, my boy. She is as well as can be expected after such an ordeal, but yes, well nonetheless. My Octavia has her in her care and I understand that she is at rest. And no," he pressed a hand onto the boy's shoulder, preventing him from scrambling to his feet. "No, you cannot wake her. She will be ready when she is. And there's no sense worrying yourself to your grave about rushing to her side. You're barely splinted there yourself. You need to eat. Rest. Heal. If the time comes, you will be of no use to your sister or your lady if you cannot even stand."

Jester settled back down on the steps, deflated. He took as dejected bite of the stew, the warm meal foreign and earthy on his tongue, but delicious nonetheless.

The pair sat in silence, dark and light, their eyes attentive and downcast. Quiet and reflective. Waiting.

At last, Jester sighed.

"I just—"

But there was a sudden crash, a crunching sound of broken silence and tattered foliage. Hooves echoed against deep earth, the sound growing closer with a harried thrum of wildness. Tiberinus's brow furrowed, and Jester paused, hopeful, glancing at the winding rode. The hooves grew louder, distinctive, and a sharp, piercing whinny broke the stillness of the dawn. In a burst of foliage and flaring nostril's, a skewbald steed burst into the clearing from the underbrush, its mane covered in burrs and twigs and whipping about behind its tense neck. Its eyes rolled with white terror.

Jester gasped, and even Tiberinus's posture stiffened noticeably.

Godric's cob had returned.

Without a trace of Godric or Maia.

Author's Note: Duh duh duh duh. Cue my usual cackle of dramatic, angsty glee. Happy Belated New Year! It's been a while since I posted, so A) please forgive me. But B) It's because I've been writing a lot, or at least trying to. It's been slower going here as I have a number of personal projects on the go, although I swear, you are not forgotten! Thank you for all of your patience, as always, and for your kind comments and feedback. You are the reason I keep writing and have not abandoned this story.

While I admit and apologize that this has been the slowest-going story ever, with many parts in the beginning that make me cringe in retrospect, I solemnly vow that before I finish my own original piece (which is my current main focus every night), I will give you the proper ending this tale deserves. So please, share your thoughts, feedback and critiques, follow and keep your eyes peeled for the next instalments.

Xoxo,

-Mintermist