In Which the Dust Settles at Court and at Dumcruckle

Lynde Falconer to Thomas Crowder

Dear Tom,

Now that we have got ourselves sorted out and most of the men have gone home, I’ve been able to get a bit more of a grasp on what the whole thing was about in the first place.

It turns out that like everything else that has happened to us, the surprise attack and the attempt on the princess were all the idea of that awful man Bleake. Prince Hugo, of all people, was able to clear up a few mysteries for us – for it seems that Bleake has been running Marshweather entirely since Queen Gretchen’s sudden death fifteen years ago.

Bleake had appeared from obscurity the previous year and ingratiated himself in a mild way as a royal secretary, but when the queen died he was suddenly everywhere. The king was unbalanced by grief – if his son is any indication, he probably didn’t have much mind to lose – so there was nobody ruling Marshweather, and the next thing anyone knew Bleake was calling himself Grand Councilor and telling the king to go back to his rooms with the decanter.

You remember when the borders closed. It caught everyone on the hop, and Father has cousins on the Marshweather side whom we haven’t seen since. That was all Bleake, and so were the border skirmishes, and apparently there isn’t a manor, town or guild in Marshweather that the man hasn’t put his hands into, and taken them out with a few gold pieces stuck to them as likely as not.

Marshweather has made itself easy for us to hate in this whole business, and I don’t altogether excuse King Lucan for all he was as much of a victim as we were. A country is a responsibility, and you wouldn’t see King Davin turning over the reins to some upstart whatever happened to his queen.

But now that it’s all over I can’t seem to keep from feeling sorry for everyone. For King Lucan, certainly, who spent fifteen of his prime years miring himself and his nation in grief. For Prince Hugo, who lost both his parents when he was eight years old and is only now getting his father back. And even Bleake, monster that he is. If you speak only the language of power it must leave you terribly isolated from normal human discourse. And I don’t imagine he has ever loved or trusted anyone, judging from the kinds of things he does.

I said as much to Rafe this morning after the archery, while he was waiting for Tarpley, and he cocked an eye at me.

“You are a very kind person,” he said.

It sounded very soft-headed when he put it like that and I suppose I bristled. “I don’t know what’s so out of the ordinary about that,” I said.

“You needn’t feel slighted,” Rafe said. “I meant it as a detached study of character. You are a very kind person, and of course you are right. I am able to feel the same way when I think of my blessings.” Tarpley emerged from the barracks and Rafe’s face lightened. “Still,” he added, and although he kept his voice light it made his words seem even more ominous, “I wouldn’t mind being alone in a room with Bleake and a few tools.”

Do write and tell me how it goes with you and everyone else at Dumcruckle. I wonder if I could get permission to come for a visit soon – won’t it be lovely to be together again after all that has happened, even for a time? I am beginning to be frightened that my memories are slipping from me – I remember everyone’s face and manner down to the smallest detail, but I have found myself forgetting whether the staircase leading to the watch tower has thirty-four steps or thirty-eight, and whether the cottage on the Angel farm faces west or north! I’m sure you will agree that that is an emergency warranting a journey home.

Your loving,
Lynde

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Thomas Crowder to Lynde Falconer

Dearest Lynde,

Well, after yearning for our simple ordinary life for so many weeks we finally have it back, and a spiritless draught it is to be sure. Our prisoners have gone back to Marshweather (they finally had to send a message, I believe the king had forgotten about them entirely) and we have room to spread out again. Not that it was nearly as bad as it had been during the siege – we were able to billet them round on the farms as well as in the manor, and they were as useful as they could be as we put everything to bed for the winter. And once we had the harvest in they proved worth their weight in gold, since all their songs were new to us and their stories too. It isn’t a simple task to keep occupied during the winter when you don’t see a stranger for three mortal months and have known your neighbors so long you can see their jokes coming from over the hill.

As for myself, I am as well in body as can be expected but my small taste of excitement has rendered me bored and irritable. I have my book and the archiving, not to mention the school, but they are dead as ash after my experience in the cave. I long to crack my bonds and breathe the air of danger again, but my arms are weak and my chest narrow, and I can feel myself sinking back into inertia. The people here have quickly forgotten my contribution to their safety and have gone back to condescending to me. Even your father has begun speaking to me again. It is monstrous.

Ah, well, at least we are free again and safe, and if I’m the only one who remembers that it’s all thanks to me, it’s more than many people get in a lifetime, so I shall count myself lucky, if I can force myself to it. And of course we are all pleased to hear of the successful conclusion of the hostilities, and the new treaties with Marshweather.

I had forgotten about your father’s cousins across the border, and I mentioned it to him in case he wanted my help writing a letter. I thought he would be excited at the chance to hear from his relations, but he grunted mournfully and shook his head.

“Better not, Tom, better not,” he said.

“But it’s been fifteen years. They must be anxious for news of you – and many of them must have been born or married or apprenticed since you heard from them last.”

“Or died, or fallen ill, or come down in the world, or gone mad.” He scowled. “Who knows how many of them I might have on my hands if I tell them I have a comfortable berth.”

All of a sudden I realized he was shy. His back has grown bent since his cousins saw him last, and his eye cloudy, and what’s left of his hair is white. I would have to talk him out of it, but it was tricky, since your father, begging your pardon, is the most contrary old buzzard it has ever been my burden to know. Fortunately, he is so predictable in it that I’ve developed some success in getting him to do what I want by fervently convincing him of the opposite.

“Well, put that way you’re probably right,” I agreed in the oiliest voice I could muster. “Besides, you certainly wouldn’t want them to see you like this.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that, young man?”

I shrugged. “You can’t deny you’re not getting any younger, and you’d probably rather they remember you as you were.” I paused to let that sink in and then added the sting. “I certainly would.”

His nostrils flared and he sat up a little straighter, but he was proof against my onslaught. “Then you’ve got more sense than I thought.”

This needed stronger medicine. “Besides, they might want to exchange visits, and of course that would be too much for you.”

“Too much…” The spider-web of veins stood out scarlet on his cheeks and I surreptitiously verified that his cane was out of reach.

“Why, with your rheumatism and your chest, you might not even survive a journey. I could never face Lynde again if I let you travel at your age. Much better to keep to yourself and…”

But that was as far as I got. “LET me?” He rose to his feet, trembling in every limb. It was rage, not weakness, but I thought it best to drive my point home.

“Sir, please!” I leaped to my feet and gave him an arm. “Hadn’t you better lean on me? You haven’t had a nap today.”

He raked me with a look of heartwarming scorn. “I will sleep when I want to and for as long as I wish, boy, and I will travel where I please to see anyone I choose to. I may be old but I’m still strong enough to lift you over my head and throw you down the stairs, so you can keep your pigeon arms to yourself. Now hop to it and get a pen and some paper – don’t you realize I haven’t seen my own kin in fifteen years?”

So now that your father is physically threatening me, I suppose things are back to normal. I have managed to restore his fighting spirit at least. And if you do manage to get away for a visit, you may find yourself with a new crop of cousins with whom to get reacquainted.

Of course I needn’t tell you how delighted I would be to see you again after so long, even if it were only briefly. Although I half-wonder if we would even recognize each other – your letters make you seem so close, but when I think of seeing your face again I feel quite shy. The passage of time is a strange and wondrous thing, although I’m fairly certain I’m not the first to say so.

Your own,
Tom