CHAPTER 24
Whispers

The night howled, sleepless and wild. Another dawn, another dusk, another night had passed, and still no one returned. A light rain settled once more over the earth, stretching well into the night, and it pierced the darkness with its desolate patter.

Jester blinked wearily from his perch on the caravan steps, his eyes locked on the tree line. The others had long ago gone off to sleep, but he could not help hoping or praying that if he just waited a little bit longer, his hopes and prayers would be answered. A damp cloak was pulled taut around his shoulders —one of Ippolito's—and a mug of Octavia's herbal brew was clasped in his hands. He took a sip, the herbs bitter yet fresh, ever solemn in his watch. Ever quiet. So different from the fool who had set off from Kippernium. His leg still twinged faintly, and he massaged the knotted muscles with a grimace. Beneath his breeches, he knew that deep, mottled bruises painted his flesh in hues of violet and green. He winced as a lick of pain twinged across his thigh. "Pain is just the feeling of healing," his aunt had quipped earlier as she shifted the muscles and worked over the bones. He hoped she was right. Whatever she had done had seemed to help wonders—but it had hurt to high heavens, too.

He sighed. What a fool he had been to set out on this quest. A true fool. Yet, as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the image of his sister flashed through his memory with an echo of both pride and shame. He had found her. He had failed her. He prayed to find her again. He leaned against the caravan steps, soaking in the solid wood at his back and the sense of family within.

Family.

The fool sighed as a ragged breeze tore through the leaves, and his eyes combed the edge of the clearing. Every shuddering bough and rustling spit of brush and gorse gave room for pause. But nature taunted, cold and cruel and damp and empty…

And so he waited.

The moon rose high overhead, a sliver amidst inky clouds, almost lost to his silent vigil. He eyed it silently, recalling a thousand nights at Kippernium Castle. On nights like this, he'd wave to Jane from his tower as she set off on a rainy patrol, red curls tousled and damp, her small frame wrapped in layers and cloaks, holding fast to Dragon as they ascended into the air. Each time, she grew a little bolder, a little stronger, a little more knightly. Yet, each time Jester felt a furrow of fear and cast up a silent prayer. Even with Dragon, there was no saying what could happen.

A weight settled over Jester's shoulders at the thought of her.

Jane. His Jane. Now she was safe. But was she well? The thought pained him. In the days since their return, Octavia still would not let him see her. He closed his eyes against the ache, remembering the scent of her hair and the strength of her hands. The ache grew, and he wished that they were still in the Muskhorn Inn, safe and warm. Singing and laughing and kissing. He could almost remember the feel of her in his arms, her heart beating against his own, and that fierce spirit in her eyes.

Cruuuunch.

The sound was slow. Deliberate. Muffled, like a whisper of earth and roots. A faint creaking in the world. And yet enough to snap the fool's eyes open. Tense as a bow, he listened. The wind blew. The forest surrounded the clearing, unchanged. Dark. Rustling. Alive. Jester saw nothing, but had the peculiar impression of eyes watching him.

Cruuunch.

There was a shuffle, the sound of dragging, and then silence. The fool strained his ears over the thrum of the rain, holding his breath. And then he heard it again. Cruuu-uuunch. A twig snapped. Damp and muffled by softened earth. An indistinguishable voice muttered something between a moan and a curse.

Unmistakably human.

Hope lit up in Jester's chest, followed by a twinge of some darker emotion, a prickling across his spine. He stood slowly, tentative, one hand on the dagger at his belt. Silence echoed another moment, and he ducked low, creeping along the side of the caravan. Listening. For a moment, the world was filled with only the percussion of the rain. But then he heard a soft whicker and the softer muffled sound of boots on earth.

A figure limped into view, cloaked and dark. Broad shouldered, it stumbled as if in pain, pausing every few steps to draw breath. It inched across the camp, clearly comfortable among the caravans as breathing, making its way towards where the horses were tethered. Slowly, the figure lifted a hand to one of the beasts necks, its other hand reaching awkwardly for the tethered bridle—

Without a second though, as if possessed by some deeper instinct, Jester's knife leapt from his hand, cutting through the air to embed itself in the tether post. A perfect shot. A warning. The horses brayed in alarm, stamping their feet, and the cloaked figure stumbled back, falling into a heap. An ugly curse escaped from its lips, familiar and filling Jester with dread. The figure scrabbled, and Jester leapt forward, roughly pulling back the hood to reveal a face both gashed and covered in grime.

"Maurus?" Jester sighed heavily, the sinking in his gut confirmed.

His cousin scowled, spitting an ugly glob at the boy's feet. His cloak was drenched, covered in dirt and dried blood, and his right arm hung at the wrong angle. Jester felt a flicker of pity for the man. A flicker of softness.

He took a deep breath, willing the note of kindness from his voice. He had to be strong, like a hero from a ballad.

"So it was not enough to sell us out, cousin, but you had to be a two-time horse thief as well? Where is your honor, man?" His blue eyes grew cool. "You stole my sister's horse and left her, and now you try to steal our horses again?"

"Damned if I care about honor or your sister," Maurus spits. One of his teeth is broken. No doubt by Cliff's men. "She should mind her own stinking beasts. Not that the cob was of any use. The devil threw me and took off."

A grimace curled across Jester's face, his brows tightening. The cob from the woods in the morning… It must have been the beast Maurus had stolen from Maia. Fear tightened in his gut at what that meant for Godric and his sister, but Maurus continued, interrupting the thought. "Besides, I was not the oaf who left her behind. You had a choice, little lad. Good thing you are not a chivalrous knight, or that might be embarassing." He gave Jester a pointed look. The comment struck him in the gut. For a moment, Jester tried to remember the way that knights' lances graze the armor of their enemies. Glancing off. Be calm. Jester took a slow breath.

"Did your mother never tell you that thieves never prosper, Maurus?"

Maurus gave him a sour look.

"Neither do runts like yourself, but we are both standing—just barely, albeit. But seems to me that those who prosper are those who take. They proved me that. So, stand aside boy. I have need of a horse."

"You are not going anywhere, cousin," Jester said. "You will stay right here until Godric and Maia return."

"Return? Ah, so they remain in the enemy's hands. Ho, well is that not a surprise!" Maurus barks a brutish laugh. "If the swineherds have caught them, it will be the last you will see of the damned blighters, little Jester. Those brutes camped too long and their tribute was already overdue. Why else do you think Cliff, Léon and their gits were so bold? They were late in their payments. Gave me a ruddy beating for it, too. Thought it would never end." He scowls. "All your damn fault, showing up. Shoulda left you to die and left the damn girls where they were." He chuckles. "But a fighting catch like Godric would be perfect for the Tribute. The Tyrant has grown particularly greedy for army soldiers these past years, or so I hear."

"Wait. Tribute? Payments? Maurus, what are you talking about?" Something akin to ice settled over Jester's skin. Some deep sense of foreboding.

His cousin eyed him coldly.

"The King's Tribute, bluebell," he sneers. "Surely you have heard of it. No?" He snorts. "Typical for a pampered court-bred fool. Your dear darling sister and her man are likely en route to the Court of King Baltor II, compliments of Cliff the Snatcher, of course. The strong take what they will, and King Baltor is set to take the kingdoms. For that he needs men. Workers. Women. Slaves. Armies. To get those, he needs men like Cliff. And men like Cliff and I… well, we have our arrangements." He spits again. "I do not care much for such things. I merely set the traps for others to gather. A satisfied tyrant makes for safe minions. And King Baltor is, as they say, the great Tyrant."

King Baltor. The name lurched some half-forged memory in Jester's gut, a whispered rumour over tavern fare. King Baltor of…

"Maurus…" Jester's voice was slow.

"The Tyrant is ruthless, of course. The Norrians fear him more than any other tribe or kingdom. No one gets a name like that without a certain level of ruthlessness. He takes what he wants. He has a vision for this kingdom, and all of those around it."

"Do you mean to say that this King Baltor has been taking… slaves? Captives?" Horror hung on the fool's tongue a soured poison.

Maurus shrugged.

"It is none of my concern. All I know is that my arrangements have suited me well and I have no need to worry about such things. I do what I must to keep my family safe," he spits. "I care little for how. If I have to tip off men like Cliff or Léon as to which merry merchant or vagabond will cross their path… well, at least my family is safe. At least I managed to keep them safe for years. The stinking ingrates would care little for my sacrifice if they knew. But it keeps them safe. More than you can say of your lady."

Quick anger simmered beneath the surface, curling across tender wounds, and Jester saw the glee in his cousin's eyes. The brute knew he'd hit a soft spot.

"But yes…Godric will make a fine soldier. And now your sister… well, I am certain that sister of yours will go for a pretty price when they bring her to King Baltor. I figure—" Jester did not bother to hear what he figured. His fists rose, unbidden, in a flash of unexpected fury. He lunged, the blow connecting with the man's nose as if he were a scrapping village boy wrestling in the square. For a moment, he wonder if this was how Gunther felt in the ring, or how Smithy felt in his forge. And then he noticed the pain the blow had cast across his knuckles, and the tears pricking his eyes.

Maurus stumbled back under the hit, his eyes wide. Jester swallowed the lump of fury in his throat.

"Never speak about Jane or my sister that way again, cousin." He grimaced. "Now, you're going to tell me everything you know, and you are going to help me get Maia back."

Author's Note: Hehe. Things are about to get quite real.

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-XOX, Mintermist