Chapter 15

Gleaming shafts of sunshine fell upon Pieta's hair as the rising sun glowed above her. Nestled once again in the horse-drawn cart, she looked up at Virgil, who sat beside her. The sun glowed on his pale hair, giving it a luminous quality. Though he lacked eyes to see the beauty of the sun, his expression betrayed all the warmth of its rays. For three days now, the company had been riding toward Thalgiers. After their reunion on the night of the battle, Virgil had narrated his story to the entirety of Laertes' company.

"I do not wonder you thought me to be dead," he had told Pieta. "Many a day I spent wondering what became of you. I remember your shriek when I fell, and I recall the arrow that pierced me. It hit perilously close to the heart, but in the end only punctured my left lung. I was shocked and fell as though in death, but, given treatment, awoke a few hours later. I found myself here in Stonehold, in the bondage of Damon Hahn. I had been taken from the plunder as his prize. I was given the best of care until my wound was healed and I had control over my breath once more, and then Damon came into my presence."

"I asked what had become of my native dwelling, and the inhabitants therein. He laughed. He informed me that I had been brought here to pleasure him with my voice, and to sing if I wished to remain here in comfort."

"At this command my blood curdled. I would not entertain the man who had slaughtered so many of my townspeople, including, as I thought, you, Pieta. And so I defied him."

"You say you know what a monster he was. He was a monster when defied. The last I saw of him was his face, eyes livid with rage, his thick neck tensed with fury. He had his men gouge my eyes out, and put me unto his dungeon. There I stayed day and night, and whether it was day or night in there I knew not, for I could not see. It was a melancholy time."

Now that the initial shock of his ghostly return had subsided somewhat, he was engrossed in relating all the details of his story to Pieta, who listened with eager ears.

Even as her pulse quickened at Virgil's story, the irony of their intermingled stories hit her sharply. For a week both of them had dwelt in the same citadel, neither of them knowing the other lived.

Reaching out, she put her hand on his sleeve. "Virgil," she said tentatively, "do you remember my song?"

"Of course, my Pieta…I often saw your dancing figure in my mind's eye as I hummed that song to myself as I lay in my dungeon."

A warm burst of inexpressible emotion filled Pieta.

"Sing me the song, Virgil," she supplicated, and in her tone Virgil heard not only the eager child he had loved in the past, but also the sweet sober woman he loved now.

Throughout the meadows the cart rattled on, and as the company neared the city its inhabitants could hear a golden voice rising in the air, singing a melody sweet and stirring.

"Far must I follow, till the vale pales from sight

And all is o'ercome by the dark of the night

When all of the birds have subdued their song

And the stars are shaded until they are gone

Then will I rest at the end of the path

Far off from anger and far off from wrath."

Laertes had eyes for no one; his palace was now in sight, and his eyes fixed on the gate. As the great doors opened, Laertes sprung to his feet and made his way straight to the courtyard canopy. There beneath its shaded bounty stood the old, grave Senator Lenzel, and Adam, arms crossed as he watched the company appear. Below him, on a wicker chair, sat Mierposa, rosy and beckoning, an infant child in her arms.

At the sight of the child, Laertes froze in shock. At length, he very reverently came forward, and lifted the child up. His hands spanned the child's width easily as he held it before his eyes, looking at it in serene wonderment. He seemed unable to speak. Mierposa smiled, and rose.

"Lescaut I named him, after your father, according to your wishes," she told him, coming close by his side. "He was born yesterday."

"The child was born at three o'clock, precisely; the very hour Damon was dealt his fatal blow," Adam informed him, coming forward in his usual stately manner. Laertes met eyes with him for a moment as both their souls dwelt on this strange mystery.

Then Laertes laughed, and for the first time since the battle, Pieta saw happiness in his eyes. He put his palm over Mierposa's cheek, and kissed her.

Adam walked silently past the masses of people who stood at Thelin's threshold, and made his way towards the palace armory. As he walked, thoughts spun in his mind. So much had happened. The voictory at Stonehold was but a minor step in the military ccomplishments still to be completed. However, it was a huge political gain that would change the attitudes of Thelin's senators to a better opinion of the Thalgierian military. The public's faith in Laertes competenace was also now kindled. A good thing, but not the thing that laid heavily on Adam's mind at the time. He was thinking of something else, someone else entirely.

When the company had come to stand upon the thereshold odf the palace, and Laertes had taken Mierposa in his arms and kissed her, Pieta had laughed. That laugh had hit Adam with a strange impact; he had never heard her laugh before. And, like many times before, it had treansported him back to a time long ago , a time he had desired to bury forever in the back of his memory.

When he had cradled the frightened Pieta in his arms…when he had bent over her unconscious, stinted form at Stonehold, the old memories of a loved one long gone came back into his mind. A child of four, with tumbling locks of brunette-streaked hair, dimpled elbows, and a thin, wistful smile…the smile of his own beautiful wife who had mothered the child lovingly for the short period that was allotted her. It was such a blissful, short union, lasting only five short months before the darklands called her away by means of a fever that had rampaged the countryside. He remembered the day vividly. Pale and cold she had lain there upon the once warm marital bed. Tears had welled up in his gleaming eyes and he had knelt down next to the child who stood wonderingly at his side. She had clung to him for safety, and he had tearfully promised her that, those she had no mother, she would always have a father. She had looked up at him with those beautiful eyes, both sweet and plaintive, inquiring and trusting.

Like Pieta's.

When he had seen Pieta for the first time, he had been scornful, haughty. During her lessons he retained that sternness, while, stealthily but surely, a fatherly fondness crept upon him towards her, urging him, when the wolves appeared, to protect the very one he had so sternly chastised to strength. After he let her go, he could not look upon her curious countenance for fear of betraying the immense wave of emotions that had flowed over him when she clung to him. Her warm hands and desperate grasp reminded him so of those little child-hands that had sought their father so long ago. He thought he had shut out that memory for good.

Shortly after the death of his wife, his daughter had also been taken ill by the fever. Adam, heartbroken, forthwith put up a mental barrier against emotions, against love so powerful as that of a husband or father. He would not let himself be vulnerable to such immense pain – no, he would die before he would experience that again. The gods were cruel, he had learned, and gave humankind emotions that only served to wound them.

Thus at twenty-four, he went into the king's guard, working hard to attain promotions until he ended up a general and the king's top advisor at forty-six. And it took him all those years of strict army life and ruthless commanding to find that glimmer of love that still remained in his calloused heart. He could not save his wife – he could not even save his daughter, so small and frail as she was – but he was able to save Pieta yet, and he would see that her life was fulfilling.

As he and Laertes entered the armory to lay down their weapons, he took advantage of the brief moment to have a confidential discussion.

"I wanted to inquire, Laertes," he began, "as to your plans for Pieta."

Laertes looked up, a bit surprised.

"Evondre and I spoke about that," he said. "She has a strong attachment to Pieta and wishes to keep her as her maid. However, it is obvious that she plans to marry that minstrel, in which case he would need some sort of shelter here. I have no court minstrel as you know – Thelin has not had one since my father's reign. I think it is time we had one."

"If I made you an offer, Laertes," Adam said slowly, "would you consider freeing both her and the young man?"

Laertes' brows rose up in surprise.

"I did not know you were so concerned with the girl's fate."

"Anyone who has gone through what she has deserves a reward," Adam's words came out awkwardly.

"Strange words to hear from your mouth, Adam. Since when did the king of pins and needles care about rewards?"

"I don't wish to exchange banters, my very young friend. Listen to me: in the entirety of her captivity with Damon, she did not betray our identity or mission, even as they were on the point of torturing her before we invaded Stonehold. That is more than we expected." Adam's words were surprisingly earnest and quick. Laertes' tongue, no longer saucy, stumbled as he tried to find the words to answer him.

"Yes, yes – she will be duly rewarded, of course, but she has a stronghold against freedom. In fact, Evondre would have freed her long ago, but Erden had told us she resisted his attempts to free her, and she seemed so dependant we never gave it a second thought."

"She will accept freedom now. Let her go."

"Evondre will be unhappy at the prospect of loosing her."

"Evondre will be glad to see her given what she requites." This response quieted Laertes for a moment as Adam continued, "Your sister is unselfish; she will deny Pieta nothing. The girl is ready. Have you not looked upon her since she arrived?"
In truth, Laertes had been so absorbed in his wife and child that he had barely glanced upon the blissfull Pieta, ever at the side of the tall, pale blind man. She must, he thought, deserve what Adam said, for Adam rarely showed such deference, and was invariably level-minded in his beliefs. The young king took off his cape, and looked back at Adam. Here was a man of good sense, integrity, and compassion.

"Alright then," he said at last. "You are my advisor, are you not?"

Adam's face showed immense relief; in fact, his expression was nearly identical to when Pieta had recovered from her faint at Stonehold. For a moment he did not speak; then he quickly regained his usual demeanor.

"You are a good king, Laertes," he said appreciatively. Laertes smiled.

"You are better than that, my freind," he responded. "You are a good man."