Yay chapter 3!!

This one's actually a pretty decent length yay! I finally got some research done so also yay!!

This is another flashback chapter, in case you didn't pick that up.

Hope you enjoy! READ AND REVIEW PLEASE!!

the Maz

Chapter 3: The Journey Back

Although really it wasn't, the journey back to Erkynland seemed much shorter than the journey to Hernystir.

The weather was warmer, but only slightly, and hardly pleasant. It scarcely stopped raining for more than an hour, and the rain was cold.

Efiathe was beginning to regret her decision against a carriage. Her hair was soaked and seemed to serve only to channel rainwater from her head to her face. She had tried putting it up, but that only allowed cold drops to run down her back, and that was even more unpleasant, so she resigned herself to looking like an idiot blinking water out of her eyes.

The only good that came out of the journey, as far as Efiathe was concerned, was her growing friendship with Camaris. After their awkward confrontation on the day they had departed, she had been afraid he would refuse to speak with her again. She wasn't entirely sure why that was such an awful prospect to her, but she supposed it was because she was so lonely.

Luckily, Camaris seemed as eager as she did to forget the events of their departure. He had actually approached her. Granted, Efiathe rationalized, I was weeping. She had woken that morning from a dream of being home, disoriented, and once she had remembered where she was, a wave of homesickness had overcome her. As they were riding in the rain she had wept, praising Brynioch for the rain which hid her tears.

Not well enough, however. Camaris had noticed and ridden up beside her.

"Homesick, my lady?" he had asked, and she had burst out in sobs.

Camaris had remained beside her for the rest of the ride that day, consoling her with tales of his own home in Nabban and the way he himself had once wept to leave it. When at last they stopped at an inn, Efiathe felt much comforted and, for whatever reason, quite pleased with herself. Camaris had come to her for conversation, not the other way around. She was proud to be felt worthy of the attention of such a legendary figure and humbled by his own humility. Her dreams that night were not of Hernysadharc, but of Camaris.

With unexpected boldness, Efiathe leveled her horse with Camaris' and began a conversation.

"Sir Camaris," she said, "tell me about your sword." When he shot her a questioning glance, she added, "I've heard many stories about it, but I want to know from you." She realized as she spoke how childish she sounded, and blushed. Damn her blushing! Such a babyish habit.

"Well," Camaris began, "its name is Thorn, and it was forged from a fallen star in the days of the Imperators."

"So old?" asked Efiathe, curiosity mastering her will.

"Yes, it is quite old," Camaris said, his eyes glittering with a repressed smile.

"Is it- is it magic?"

"In its way. It has a mind of its own."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Here," Camaris said, drawing Thorn and proffering it. "See for yourself."

Efiathe took the hilt and all but fell of her horse. "It's so heavy!" she gasped. "You must be incredibly strong to carry it."

Camaris laughed and took the sword, hefting it easily. "Try again," he said, holding it out to her again, "but this time with me."

Nervously Efiathe took the hilt again, her small hand behind Camaris' much larger one. The sword was light as air in her hand, and she knew that was not possible.

"How..?" she asked, amazed.

Camaris sheathed his sword. "It didn't want you to wield it, and so it was heavy for you. But when it wants to be wielded it is very easy to use."

He nodded to her and rode forward to check with the advance guard, leaving Efiathe to marvel at his sword, and at the way her fingertips still tingled from where they had brushed his hand.

They arrived at the Hayholt the second week of Avrel. They were heralded by trumpets, though the trumpeters did not seem happy to be out in the rain. As hundreds of people gathered to gawk, Efiathe became uncomfortably aware of her disheveled, wet hair and her travel-stained gown. How must I look to them, she thought, their future queen arriving soaked, dirty, and without a carriage?

Camaris rode at her side, a fact of which Efiathe was uncomfortably aware. Seemingly aware of her discomfiture, he leaned over and said softly, "Don't worry. Once they see you in full regalia they'll forget their first impression. And they'll like you for not seeming aloof."

Comforted more by his presence than by his words, Efiathe sat a bit straighter on her horse, smiling. She was able to ride confidently through the streets of Erchester and into the Hayholt. It was only when she stood before the king that her confidence crumbled.

He surveyed her carefully, as if she were a horse he was as yet unsure he wanted to purchase. She stood very still, her eyes fixed on a tapestry on the opposite wall. As he circled here, she was acutely aware of her every flaw- her slightly crooked nose that she had broken in a fight with Lluth when she was nine; the mole near her collarbone; the nails she had bitten to the quick from nervousness the night before. She wished desperately that she had been able to clean up before meeting her betrothed, but still she remained unmoving until Prester John was done.

"She very beautiful, isn't she," the king asked Camaris, who had insisted on coming.

"Quite," Camaris replied noncommittally.

"Of course," the king continued, ignoring Camaris' bland comment and speaking this time directly to Efiathe, "you'll have to be baptized before we wed. I can't, as a god-fearing man, wed a heathen!"

Baptized? Efiathe thought, outraged. Heathen?

John wasn't paying much attention to her, but Camaris noticed the slight set of her jaw, the clench of her fist, as she contained her rage.

"A formality only, my lady," he said quickly. "You'd have to be baptized, and possibly attend a few religious ceremonies as queen. But you can still worship your gods in private." He looked at his king for verification. John nodded.

"She'll have to take a good Aedonite name, too, of course," John added. "And that can't be a formality."

Efiathe could not contain her anger any longer. "Take a new name?" she burst out. "What's wrong with my name? Is it not enough that I come and marry you?" Her cheeks were flushed, but with anger, not embarrassment.

"If I were any less than king," John said between clenched teeth, his own anger barely under control, "I would allow you to keep your name and your gods. But I am king, and my people hold me to certain standards. Therefore, you will be baptized and you will take a new name."

Angered into silence, Efiathe did not reply. Camaris had, at some point, stepped involuntarily between the king and his betrothed as though to protect her from his wrath- or was it the other way around? Either way, a small, not-angry part of Efiathe was touched.

"Ebekah," John said suddenly.

"What?" asked Efiathe, startled into speech.

"You name shall be Ebekah. You are dismissed."

It was only as a chambermaid led Efiathe to her rooms that she let the angry tears come to her eyes, and only when she was alone in her room did she let them fall.