16. Blessed

Owen wasn't made for waiting. That past January had been the longest month of his life, as the enemy danced around them and images of death haunted his dreams.

He had been there, the morning that the sun had risen on Joren's corpse; the first rays of dawn had reflected off the iron threshold until it seemed as if the pale form was being engulfed by golden flames. It was a sight he would never forget.

Now it hovered just on the edge of his consciousness, that same burning body, but each night a different face- Neal or Seaver or Merric or Kel, white as death and the robes in which they were clad. Always they were just inside the polished doors, tauntingly close but hopelessly far away, as if the Chamber wasn't quite ready to give up its prize.

They were not Joren. Joren was cold and hard, all cracks and fault lines. Like an old warped pane of glass, he shattered under pressure into a million crystal shards of what could have been. No, they were a different type of hard, the type that was strong enough to survive. He had known that, believed it with all his heart, but still the visions had claimed him.

By the end of the month he was finally at the breaking point, isolated and alone even among the flurry of activity around camp. The vast silent wilderness of the northern woods held nothing but ghostly fears. Then the letter came.

There were a few times, single moments of his life, that were burned so indelibly into his mind that he need only close his eyes to bring back all the emotion. The day the bandits had come, and he had watched his mother die in his arms. When he had stayed to fight with Kel and vowed never to run from a losing battle; or when Margarry had first taught him what it really meant to love so strong you lost yourself in another person. And, most recently, the day that the courier finally arrived and he discovered more about his knightmaster in thirty seconds of silence than he ever had in nearly three years of lessons.

The winter roads were nearly impassable this far north, frozen expanses of churned mud that could ruin a good mount in the blink of an eye. Almost a month had passed before the awaited batch of letters and delayed Midwinter gifts arrived at the newly-fortified Giantkiller.

For the first few moments, Owen was completely absorbed in his task of carefully thawing the ice-covered envelope reluctantly handed him by his knightmaster. The bold, lightly slanting writing which spelled out his name was near enough to stop his heart; he would know that hand anywhere, confident and unique and feminine but not girly, just like her. It was all he could do to keep from tearing into the fragile missive straight away, but he forced himself not to risk obscuring a single word- each stroke of the pen was another thought that wasn't war or death, and the love that was their sum would be just enough to keep him holding on. She was worth the wait.

Then he froze, the halfway-opened letter falling from his chapped hands in surprise; it fluttered down to rest on the ice-crusted grass.

His Lord wasn't afraid of anything. That was one of the constants of life, unchallengeable as the idea that etiquette class was mind-numbingly boring or that the morning always came much too early.

That was why the look on Lord Wyldon's face as he read the contents of his own frozen letter had come as such a shock to his unprepared squire. There was only one word to describe it- relief.

"They all made it." Wyldon's voice was soft, weighed down by the strength of his emotions, as he handed Owen the single sheet that had made such an impact. Owen had been expecting something longer; to call the contents of the page even a paragraph may still have been wishful thinking.

"But it's so short."

"Lord Sir Raoul is not in the habit of using ten words when one will do. An admirable trait, that you would be wise to consider adopting in your own affairs. That is, of course, if you believe the effort of resisting the urge to share every thought or opinion entering your head at a given moment will not itself kill you. I have my doubts."

Owen knew his face was an open book, inviting all the world to read the tumultuous array of thoughts flitting across its frank form. Wyldon knew as well, enough not to tell his squire what he didn't want known instantly and to prevent the boy from playing at cards. It was no surprise to either, then, when Owen's face instantly registered his confusion at hearing his knightmaster praise the notoriously progressive Knight Commander, one of the Lioness's closest confidants.

"We have had our differences in the past, and are unlikely to ever fully see eye-to-eye. But I respect the man as a soldier and a tireless defender of the Crown. I admire the organization and yes, even the innovation that he has brought to the Own. This may surprise you, Squire Owen, but I am not opposed to change, simply because it is change. The world must never stand still. And it may take longer with myself than most, since I hold tradition sacred in a way that is becoming increasingly rare under our present monarchs, but I am not unwilling to be taught."

There was something in the way the fierce brown eyes held his gaze throughout the small speech that let Owen know this was no idle conversation. It was clear that Wyldon was asking for understanding; maybe even forgiveness, though his pride would only allow so much. Could it be that he was apologizing for the choice he made eight years ago, the one that Owen had never been able to overlook?

Wyldon suddenly dropped his gaze, turning crisply on his heel and heading back towards headquarters. Looking back over his shoulder without breaking stride, he raised a hand to indicate the letter, still unread and slightly rumpled now from being tightly grasped in Owen's sweaty palms.

"Read it. Mithros grant that it may it ease your mind and your fears as it has eased mine. If there is one thing that Raoul understands, it's that the anticipation of disaster is always worse than the knowledge."

Then he was gone, before the "So mote it be" had even died from his squire's lips. Owen perused the words eagerly, anxious for anything that would help him understand what fears could have merited such a look of relief as had just crossed his Lord's scarred features.

To Lord Wyldon of Cavall, District Commander, Giantkiller Fortress:

All of the squires have passed their Ordeals without incident. Kel was the last to be tested, and will be knighted at sunset. May the gods grant you peace and grace those who protect our borders. We will head northward with the new knights and additional men as soon as the roads are passable.

Gods bless,

Raoul

Owen released a breath he hadn't even known he was holding, feeling the terror that had weighed him down for so long suddenly lifted. They were all safe. Neal had made it, though he was the oldest person to enter the chamber in recent memory. Kel had made it, though she was the Girl. And he had not been the only one troubled by uncertainty- Lord Wyldon, too, had been haunted by visions of Joren's fate, perhaps even more so.

He shouldn't have been surprised. They had returned to Corus each year over Midwinter, and he had woken at dawn to sit with his knightmaster before the iron doors, waiting and praying. Wyldon had sat, pale and motionless, refusing to look away from the Chamber until he was certain that the page he had trained stumbled out, shaken but unharmed.

But that winter, when it had mattered most- to both of them, Owen realized for the first time- they had been far away, left in the dark. They were needed at the border, to assume command when Raoul and Kel headed south, scrambling to complete the fortifications before the snows descended.

No, he should not have been surprised, but he still didn't understand. Wyldon always worried, but this had been deeper than that; it was fear. And he could only think of one reason for the change- Kel. Wyldon had put her on probation, pushed her more than any of the boys. Five minutes ago, Owen would have said that Wyldon hated her, hated her for bringing change to his traditional world, for representing everything he most disliked about the future of the realm. But now Owen knew better.

That was what Wyldon had meant, then, about being willing to be taught. Kel had proved him wrong at every turn, each of her accomplishments another blow to the idea that women couldn't fight. And Wyldon, the Stump, so stiff and formal at times that he seemed barely alive, was not so stiff as to be able to ignore her lessons forever; he hadn't wanted her to be a page, and now he feared she wouldn't get the chance to be a knight. But she had, and there was no telling what the future might hold for the two people Owen admired most of all, as they slowly found the common ground bridging what had once seemed an impassable gulf between them. As proud as he was, Wyldon was even more honorable, honorable and uncompromising enough to admit that he had been wrong, even if he had yet to find the proper words to say it out loud.

Owen reached down to rescue Margarry's letter and set off for a quiet corner of the stables where he would be able to read in peace. As he went, he sent up a prayer to any gods who might have an ear for a young squire on the brink of war- that he might have Kel's fierce compassion and his Lord's stubborn courage to aid him in the trials to come.

Weeks passed in a blur of watches and skirmishes and anticipation, until at last the trumpet call sounded out the arrival of a large group of friends, large enough that it could only be the reinforcements from Corus. Owen looked up from the patrol map he had been examining, the joy which had lit up his eyes at the thought of seeing his friends again fading as suddenly as it had appeared. They were knights now, heading off to fight Scanrans; he was still a squire, running messages and doing the tasks too menial for even the greenest soldier. They were too good for him; maybe they had always been too good for him.

"Go greet them. It doesn't change anything." Wyldon's voice was crisp as always but his eyes didn't have the disinterested detachment that usually accompanied his orders. A transformation had taken place between them since the day the letter had come. Often lessons progressed as they always had, and Owen wondered if the difference he thought he saw was just a figment of his wishful imagination. Then moments like this occurred- surely Lord Wyldon had never been able to read his mind before. He had said as much, yesterday in mess, before he could remember to hold his tongue; Wyldon had simply looked him in the eye for the briefest of moments and said that Owen was finally growing up, before requesting that he please pass the salt and refrain from asking theoretical questions while their food was growing cold.

So now Owen stood in the open courtyard, waiting and wondering. It had been years since they had seen one another, years that had changed them all. Maybe there was too much distance now. He wouldn't even have come, had it not been his duty as a squire, had it not been for his fear of seeing disappointment replace the look of respect he won more and more often from his Lord. Wyldon had shown him that no divide was so wide that it couldn't be healed in time, so he was ready to fight for his friends, to reclaim slowly what most certainly had been lost. It wouldn't be easy, but he knew they were worth it. And he could only hope that they would eventually realize he might just be worth it as well.

But then they were in front of him and Wyldon was right, they were Kel and Neal and Seaver and Merric, and everything was forgotten. It didn't matter that they were huddled inside raw wooden gates that provided little shelter from the gusts of cold air which blew across the empty space, or that the enemy might pick any second to launch an attack. The last few years had been hard on them all, but their friendship had proved stronger than anything the world could throw at them. They were here, together, in this moment, and even as trumpet calls rent the air and sergeants barked out orders, Owen couldn't help but feel that he was blessed.