The Warrior Who Walks on Eggshells

When Macsen had told Brochwel there was something they needed to discuss, something that couldn't be shared with other warriors and knights riding home victorious alongside them, Brochwel assumed they would both hurry to get through the welcoming crowd and into the stables so they could have this conversation Macsen thought so vital. But Macsen hadn't hurried home. Afternoon had turned to evening, and Brochwel's choice to kill time by brushing all the horses in the stable had gone sour.

"One more question for you, Brochwel: who would you say is the best fighter in your Order?"

The interviewer was Aeden Clemo. Lean, a bit on the short side, morning-person energy, soot-colored wolf ears and tail. He had become a common sight in Tragaron over the last few years, pestering people about their jobs, recent events, politics, prices of bread, and so on. Brought a sleepy pigeon in a cage with him wherever he went. He was among the first of a new breed: a dedicated foreign correspondent.

Lord Garrett considered Aeden a new variety of spy and only tolerated his existence because the High Council had threatened to make Lord Garrett a commoner if anything happened to the reporter. So, Lord Garrett would probably never see whatever Aeden sent back to Kirrglos. Probably wasn't good enough. Brochwel had survived this long by being wary of probabilities.

"Best fighter? There are too many aspects to being a man-at-arms, in and out of combat, for any one person to be best at all of them. Dragoon Xavier is quite capable on a horse, but off one fights like a tempest. Sir Haruld the Lightfoot is our best horse trainer. Bloody Ioan is rewriting our training manuals for every variety of spear and polearm. We have a great deal of talent in the Order, those are just a few examples."

"And what about you? Everyone from chancellors to cobblers have told me that you, Brochwel, are 'your favorite warrior's favorite warrior.' There must be a reason."

Brochwel's mind raced. The reporter had asked Brochwel a question that forced him to answer humbly just before a question about his own ability. Was that ... a trap to catch him if he boasted? But then shouldn't the questions have come the other way around? An invitation, then? Brochwel could feel himself responding desperately to each question as it came, unable to plan ahead or anticipate. The wolfboy and his quill were running circles around him. Brochwel bristled at the feeling.

"I read a battlefield almost as well as Lord Garrett. Lord Garrett's duty to command keeps him front and center of our ranks. Macsen and I are tasked with rapid response, reinforcing the flanks or rescuing those who become cut off or encircled. I have at some point saved every man in the Order, but that's the eventual result of performing our role well."

At long last, the clop of hooves on cobblestone signaled Macsen's return. He ambled in, still wearing his armor, leading his horse by the reins with an absent smile on his face. Brochwel went to join him, but found the Aeden's stubby quill held out like a boom across a toll road.

"One last question, please. Any plans for when you retire from the Order?"

Brochwel didn't hesitate his answer: "Several of us are going to form an all-male singing troupe. We haven't decided all our members, but Macsen will be the sexy one."

Aeden froze. "Wh-what?"

"Sorry. A little joke."

"You sing?"

"Poorly," Brochwel said, ducking under the reporter's arm.

Brochwel helped Macsen get his horse tucked in to its stall. Aeden waited for a while, perhaps hoping to get something out of Macsen, but gave up as it was truly late. Once the horse was groomed and fed, they went to the armor room and ditched the steel full plate Macsen had been wearing all day. Through all of it, he had a dreamy look in his eye and a soft smile focused on whatever wall he happened to be facing. Only as they were leaving the armory did Macsen finally speak.

"Don't you think 'Valerie' is the most beautiful name in the world, Brochy?"

"Well ... it has a musical quality to it, I suppose."

Now that the subject was announced, words poured out of Macsen like water breaching a dam: "Everything about Valerie is incredible, Brochy. You think we've ridden far, but traveling with caravans she has already been as far south as the sands of Lortuna and clear north to the glowing sea?"

"Sounds like our travels are nothing in comparison."

They walked down a roofed hallway between two tidy, geometric gardens, with water burbling under the floorboards as they were directly over the irrigation culvert that kept the compound green. Almost everyone would be in the dining hall now, but still Brochwel walked next to the wall with Macsen between him and any knights who might pass them.

While Macsen gushed about Valerie's eyes, and hair, and wit, and every other detail, Brochwel tried to decide whether he was glad or not for his friend. He had never seen Macsen so happy. But every hallway, every garden lamppost of the Flaxen Order's compound was crusted with small oval portraits of long-dead knights, some surrounded by banners and weapons, others with their spouse and children gathered round. But the warriors got their name scratched into what little space remained on the walls of the grotto under the dining hall.

"You really must meet Valerie, Brochy. I'm sure you would get along famously." Macsen tread light, as if at any moment he would break into a musical number and dance with the portraits of dour men-at-arms. "In fact, why don't you come with us. Be one of the caravan guards, I'm sure there's—"

"Stop!" Brochwel clamped a hand over Macsen's mouth and pressed him against a stone pillar. Glancing around, Brochwel saw no one else, heard only the sphinx moths zipping between flowers. He relaxed a little and took his hand away.

"Sorry. I'm glad you've met this Valerie. I've never heard you talk about anyone like this before. It's wonderful. But we're at war. We took an oath." Brochwel took a step back and let go of his friend.

"I don't remember anything in the oath forbidding falling in love," Macsen said as he uncrumpled his sleeve.

"Love's allowed. Desertion is not. Please, beg Valerie to stay or convince her caravan to run one of the trade routes that uses Tragaron as its midpoint, like the Old Medicine Trail. That would let you see her more often."

Macsen went to a window looking into one of the gardens and leaned on the sill. "Brochy, do you remember when we were embargoed?"

"Of course, it hasn't been that long since Kirrglos came round and reopened trade."

"Not the time or the politics, I'm talking about the honey. Tragaron honey."

Brochwel nodded and joined him at the window watching the last bee of the day give up and buzz into the sunset after being zoned out of yet another flower by speedy moths. "Bland. Hardly sweet."

"I think our honey is terrible because our gardens are mathematical. Local burdock and Drake's Blood trees uprooted from the side of a distant volcano, here shed their vibrance. Pruned of their last breath of wildness."

"Keep this up and you'll wake up one day a poet."

"Says the man who taught me to read and write."

Brochwel glanced down the hallways again. The distant clink of forks on metal plates rose over the tumble of voices from the dining hall. Dinner still underway, but there couldn't be much time left. They both knew their duty's demands. Bending to it promised stability, and that had been enough till now. Enough for Brochwel, that is. Was there still time to say that Macsen was the brother he never had?

Footsteps began to echo down the halls now. Brochwel said, "Wherever your footsteps carry you, know that you are my friend."

He turned with a smile and left Macsen at the garden window. If he stayed, if he said anything more, it would be overheard. Then Macsen would be watched every moment waking and sleeping for years. Brochwel thought he had said the important part. He could bury the rest without much regret.