CHAPTER 23
Certainty

"But can we be certain?" A hubbub of voices rose around the rough-hewn table, tattered and anxious as a storm on the horizon. "Is it possible to be certain that the creature is one of our own—"

"What could be more certain? The cob bears our brand," someone snapped. Amice. The woman's eyes burned quietly, a flash of coals on an open flame, as she countered Linota's timid question. Maurus' wife squirmed beneath her gaze, some torn expression etched over her features, but shrugged nonetheless.

"Aye, but perhaps he just sent the creature homeward?" Linota replied. Her voice grew meek. "There is no need to panic as of yet. Godric is a clever man, Amice. Surely he must have a—"

"A what? A plan? A plan to get both hi'self and his missus killed, if that's the plan. They haven't a whomping chance on foot. Not between brigands and bogs and wild beasts." Frustration crackled in Amice's voice, all fire and fury. Her eyes, the colour of leaves at sunset, wordlessly challenged her kin. "I know it, sure as daybreak."

Tension hung on the air. Jester could feel it –palpably racing across his skin, tight in his lungs, sour on his tongue. Around the table, his family's expressions were ragged and severe. Sleeplessness dug trenches around the eyes of most, and poultices dressed cuts and bruises. In the aftermath of their attack on the brigand camp, he was reminded that while his family boasted skill in combat, they were no warrior army. They bled red as much as he did. Yet, he mused, each bears as much honour as the knights of King Caradoc's keep.

King Caradoc's keep.

Home.

The thought of it struck some deep chord, raw and aching, and for a moment, Jester could almost imagine that the crackle of these arguing voices came instead from around Pepper's table. That Rake planted in a garden nearby. That Smithy beat iron in the forge. Even that Dragon belched contentedly on some tower perch overhead. For a moment, the tension of the present disappeared somewhere beyond Jester's hearing. For a moment, he could remember the taste of peace.

Peace.

Peace.

The word cut through his reverie as the priest rose to his feet.

"Peace, ladies." Père Matthieu shook his silver head gently. His brow was creased. "We speak in circles without divining the simple matters. Linota is fair to ask: is this creature one and the same as Godric's steed? Brindle and Baylor were foaled of the same dam, and both are amiss since Maia's… excursion to the brigands' camp. Even Lucius can scarce tell their colouring apart, and for all the poor beasts know, they bear the same name."

"It is an irrelevant question, good father. The simple matter is: the beast bears our brand on it rump and came from the direction of the camp. It is not as though we have a hundred steeds roaming the highlands. What more do you need?" Amice's hand curls into a fist on the rough-hewn table. "All terror and burrs… I tell you, Godric would never abandon the poor creature like that. Something must have befallen them, and we're wasting time with this prattle. We need to be sending out search parties."

Amice's face twisted into a grimace, and Lucius rested a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder.

"She is right, Tiberinus," the dark-haired man said. His voice was low. "We're wasting time. I need but three of us to set a perimeter. They may be injured or in need of help."

All eyes fixed on the patriarch, seated at their head. Grey brows drawn, his face was grim. Ragged. He suddenly looked as old as the world, and as he sighed, Jester could sense the weight of his mood. "We have not a moment to lose." Tiberinus's voice was gravel and earth, firm as a stone, as he regarded the family like some regal chieftain. "But remember, brothers, sisters… our numbers are small, and we do not know the movements of Cliff's men. We must proceed with caution, Amice. Caution above fury or fear. Bravery without wisdom is naught. Lucius," he turned to the archer. "Take three of the bays. Bring Wymund and Linota with you. Scout between the old elm to the south and the cleft in the northern road. But be careful. I… I cannot bear to lose more of my family this evening." His eyes flickered gently to Eleonora. Ippolito's wife had kept quiet all day following the news of her husband's loss, her tiny Caterina squirming in her arms. Her eyes were rimmed red. Octavia sat next to her, taking her hand with motherly tenderness. Watching, Jester suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment and grief, and looked away hurriedly, willing away the tears that threatened. He fixed his eyes on Lucius, who nodded curtly, all stoutness.
"Of course, Tiberinus." He motioned to Wymund and Maurus's wife, and the trio swept from their seats. Jester watched them move towards the door with a pang.

"Let me come?" The words escaped the fool's lips before he had a moment to check them, and he felt a creep of colour spotting his face. "Erm… please, may I join?"

Wymund raised a brow, his eyes both warm and stern.

"Lad. You've done enough. You need to rest," he rumbled. "Rest, and keep watch for when we bring your bonny sister and her man home."

Author's Note:
Hello, friends! It's been a touch longer than intended after a crazy season. Usual apologies (it's a fatal flaw, I know). But I'm here to say that I have two things I did not before: a way more developed plan and a touch more time!

Many thanks to dragonfire95, amyponderland, and all of the kind and fabulous reviewers. I thought of you today, read your responses, and literally sat down for the past few hours to turn ideas into words because of them. Slow slogging is the usual pace, but I promise this story will conclude properly.

Anyways, I'm back to my mad-early/late-writing-habit, so I'll post and say good morning and goodnight!

-XOX, Mintermist