What is left when honor is lost?
—Publilius Syrus
By the time dawn broke, Jason was sure of four things: first, that he'd been a coward to run; second, that there was no way he could go back; third, that he was hungry; and fourth, that he was tired.
As dawn broke redly across the cornfields, the weariness beat down on him like the rain had; a dull, metallic morning taste clung to his teeth.
But it just didn't seem to matter. Still, he pulled a piece of jerky from his saddlebags and let the leather-hard meat soften in his mouth before chewing.
"See," he explained to the brown gelding that his father had named Libertarian, for reasons he wouldn't explain, "I'm not just anybody else. I'm supposed to be special." He mumbled around the mouthful of jerky. "Supposed to be special." He was leading his horse, as he had been doing for most of the night; it was one of the lessons from him that had apparently sunk in; he had always said that cruelty to animals was unforgivable.
But what could he do? Jason considered his situation, turning it over once again in his mind. He had a bit of money in his bags, his swords, pistol, and rifle, his horse and saddle, and the clothes on his back.
And that was all.
What would Valeran have done?
Valeran. He let the reins fall from his fingers, fell to his knees in the mud, and wept. What would Valeran have done? Valeran wouldn't have had to do anything; he wouldn't have run like a coward in the first place; he would have stood his ground.
Jason never knew how long he cried, but when he stopped, he was kneeling in the mud on the road, his horse waiting patiently.
He got to his feet and rubbed at his eyes.
There was something Uncle Lou had once said, something about how if you don't know how to solve all of a problem, try solving a piece of it and working from there. He called it "getting a man on base," whatever that meant.
But it made sense. May as well give it a try, he decided. Ahead was Wehnest. If he wasn't going to turn around and go back—
"I can't," he said. "I can't go back."
—well, then he'd have to either stay there, go through the fields, or go forward. He'd walked the horse long enough; he picked up the reins and swung himself to the saddle, nudging the gelding into a slow walk.
He patted at the rifle in its saddle boot. Clearly he'd have to do something about the guns; they identified him as from Home. Home warriors weren't popular everywhere; there were always some who wanted to try to earn guild rewards. While concealing his pistols was easy, he knew he should throw the rifle away, but Jason had studied smithing under Nehera; the barrel alone represented hours upon hours of hard work, and it would be wrong to just toss that away.
Besides, it might be handy to have a gun.
And, besides, he thought, almost choking on the tears welling up, it was a memento of Home.
He didn't deserve it, but he'd keep it anyway.
Down the road, at the bottom of a gentle dip, a circle of low grasses surrounding an ancient oak interrupted the cornfield, its leaves arching over a well. He wasn't sure whether the well had been dug specifically for travelers and their animals or if it had formerly served a habitation, but it had been maintained: the bucket was made of new ash, and the rope was both sturdy and neatly coiled.
He watered his horse first, then set it to grazing.
Jason stripped to the buff and brought up another bucketful, giving his clothes a brief washing, wringing his tunic and leggings as vigorously as he could, spreading his clothes in the sun to dry.
He brought up another bucketful, and dumped it over his head before he could lose his nerve.
It was colder than anything he had ever felt before; by the time he had sluiced the mud from his skin, his teeth were chattering.
He dried himself awkwardly with his sleeping blanket, then spread it out and stretched himself out on its damp surface to dry.
* * *
He sat up with a jerk, for a moment wondering where he was, then remembering.
The sun was high above the fields now, and his clothes and blanket almost dry. He was still hungry.
He quickly dressed and stood over his gear, rubbing his eyes, then knelt to rub his rifle down with an oily cloth from his bags before wrapping it in his blanket and tying the blanket shut. Well, it was hidden in a manner of speaking, but what it looked like was a rifle wrapped in a blanket.
Not good enough, he decided as he untied the package.
Jason took a couple of quills from his fletching kit, tied them to a small stick, and stuck the stick down the barrel of the rifle. Taking his bowie from his belt, he cut a few stalks of corn, stripped off the immature ears and fed them to his horse, then set the stalks down next to his rifle and wrapped the whole bundle in the blanket.
Now, that looked a bit better.
To the casual observer, it could easily seem to be a bow and some arrow stock.
He stood, grinning widely, then caught himself.
Cowards had no right to smile. He would never smile again, he decided as he wrapped his pistols in oilcloth and hid them in his saddlebags.
But, still, Riccetti had been right, as usual: Solving even a little, unimportant problem did make the day seem a little brighter, life seem a little better.
Hitching at his swordbelt, he swung to Libertarian's saddle and gave the horse's reins a firm twitch.
* * *
Wehnest wasn't like Home, or even like the smaller-sized towns in Holtun-Bieme. Home houses were wood-frame dwellings and log cabins, built with pine. Both Holtun and Bieme had long favored stone as a building material, although the ramshackle huts that tended to be built up against permanent structures could be anything, but were usually of half-timber construction, wattle-and-daub buildings: oak-framed shacks with walls made of woven mats of wicker, sealed—to the extent that they were sealed—with mud.
Here, everything except the lord's keep in the distance was wattle-and-daub, with all of wattle-and-daub's questionable benefits.
Half-timber houses were as drafty as the worst of stone construction, their walls were home to vermin of all descriptions, and—as if that weren't bad enough—they were incredibly easy to burn. Which was why he had outlawed any new half-timber construction in Holtun-Bieme.
And which also might have explained the guard station on the road. Far off in the distance, Jason could see the lord's guard station, a stone gatehouse around the outer wall of the houses immediately surrounding the lord's castle.
But Metreyll had long been at peace, and the settlement had overflowed the stone surrounding the castle at the heart of the city; the dirt road was watched by only a ramshackle half-timber building that was more shack than anything else, the shack watched over by two lazy-eyed guards.
Jason waited with simulated patience while the two guards waved a farmer and his ox cart along.
He dismounted at a nod.
"Your business in Wehnest, lad?" the older of the two said. The frown on his lined face was of almost infinite weariness, and both his breastplate and helmet were rusted through in several places: a worn man, wearing worn armor. Not much life left in either.
"Just traveling through. And I'm older than I look," Jason said as gruffly as he could, ruining the effect when his voice cracked.
The other guard snickered. "And where from? As if we didn't know."
"Excuse me?" Jason's hand dropped to his swordhilt. The younger guard was as fast as he was; his sword was halfway from its scabbard when the old soldier raised a hand.
"Ta havath, Artum, ta havath," the old man said wearily, then turned back to Jason. "It happens all the time, boy; nothing unusual—and, usually, the rejected head here rather than back to the elves. The lords of Home didn't need your sword, eh?"
Jason wasn't sure what the other was getting at, but playing along looked right. "If you say so." Back to the elves—that had to mean Therranj. It sounded as though the old soldier had mistaken him for a Therranji human.
The old one nodded. "Thought so. Ten years back, I tried to sign up myself. Looked to be good pay. They didn't want me."
The younger one—Artum—snickered. "You never were much with a sword, Habel."
Habel drew himself up straight, and for just a second, Jason could see a trace of the strength that he must have had in his youth.
"It wasn't my sword that was the problem, boy," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
Sometimes all a warrior has is his dignity and pride; for a moment Habel's ancient pride threatened to flare into a present fire.
But the moment passed, leaving Jason almost choked with rage. Not at Habel, and not at the other soldier—Jason was furious with himself. At least Habel had some pride; perhaps, once upon a time, Habel hadn't run, hadn't proclaimed himself a coward.
"Artum . . ." The old man leaned back against the wall of the guard shack and sighed. "That damned dragon of theirs stared into my soul, and pronounced me unfit."
Ellegon. His son didn't have any close friends, except for two: Valeran and the dragon. And Valeran was dead; Ellegon would look into Jason's heart, see the coward, and recoil in disgust.
Jason had never felt so alone.
"Which village are you from?" the younger guard asked.
"Is that important?"
"I say—"
"Artum." Habel looked at him for a long moment. "No, probably not," he said, becoming suddenly businesslike. With a rough hunk of chalk, he made a mark on the wall of the guard shack. "By nightfall, you are to be out of Metreyll or registered with an armsman—you'll need to either be hired, or show enough coin to persuade him that you're not going to have to steal to eat."
"I'll be gone before dark," Jason said, sounding more sure than he felt. Where do you go when your life is over?
"Very well, but if you're after work, Falikos the rancher is hiring drovers. Pay is shit-poor, but I hear the food is good."
"Thank you; I may look into that."
"No thanks necessary; it's my job. Now be gone."
* * *
The first thing to do was to find a place to stay; while Jason didn't particularly want to show all of his money—how would someone of his age and appearance have come by so much?—surely he could show enough to establish some means of support. The idea of hiring on as a drover didn't have any appeal. Still, he had to do something about getting his horse fed and rested, and himself occupied.
Where do you go to give up?
Karl Cullinane had smiled and asked Mother that, once, when she was frustrated with the inability of an apprentice to handle Other Side numbering. Her answer had been to swear at him and redouble her efforts. There wasn't anyplace to go to give up.
He couldn't stay here long. They'd be after him, lying to him that everything was all right, that it was okay for his son to be a coward—a filthy coward.
The worst of it was that Ellegon might find him. He couldn't face the dragon, or him, not ever again, not until . . .
. . . until what?
That was the problem; he didn't have an answer to that.
A few days. That was all he needed. Just a few days to settle his thoughts and try to figure out what to do next.
* * *
He found accommodations at Vator the hostler's, where he gave his name as Taren, a common name throughout the Eren regions.
The fat, bald man, after giving Jason's gear a thorough eyeing, insisted on rather more than Jason thought was standard for boarding his horse, but after Jason gave him a hand reshoeing a recalcitrant mule, he changed his mind and offered board and sleeping space in the hayloft above the stables in return for a day's work; he also agreed to report Jason as employed.
It seemed a fair deal; Jason nodded and got to work.
* * *
The work was hard, but, even dog-tired as he was, he couldn't sleep that night.
Part of it was the insects that infested the straw; by midnight, he was bitten in half a thousand places. He couldn't use the few healing draughts in his saddlebag; those had to be saved for emergencies.
Which he was likely to run into.
There was, after all, a way out. If he could do something, something so important, so brave, that his cowardice would pale by comparison, that would make up for it, at least somewhat.
Rubbing at yet another bite, he curled himself up in the straw.
A coward didn't have to stay a coward, not forever.
My father proved himself when he killed your father, Ahrmin. You're mine.
He noticed that he was crying again, that he had been silently weeping for so long that his eyes ached.
I'll work it out, somehow, he decided. The point was that the decision had been made: He'd prove himself, somehow.
And this time, he swore to himself, I won't run away.
There were only two questions: how could he . . .
. . . and could he?
Jason didn't know. There wouldn't be many chances; would he freeze? No. No, he wouldn't freeze.
That was the only answer he had: He just wouldn't freeze up again. That was all.
What was left a man who had lost his honor?
There was only one thing: resolve. For the time being, that would have to be enough.
He dropped off to a tentative sleep that was made only of icy nightmare.