“You could stay.”
The words hung in the air between them. Aleksandr said nothing, he simply continued donning his clothes. He felt his jaw clench involuntarily.
“I’m sorry,” Alaina said after a moment. “That was unfair. I was—no. I’m just sorry. No excuses.”
“It is alright,” said Aleksandr. He turned to meet her eyes, and saw regret and pain on her face. “I understand completely.”
She nodded. “I’m going to miss you,” she said quietly. “That’s what I should have said.”
“I will miss you a great deal as well.” Aleksandr felt tension rise in his throat, and he swallowed.
Alaina crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him. He held her close, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against his.
Enjoy this while you can, he told himself. He tried to clear his mind of doubts, and of any thoughts at all.
She finally let go. He returned to his morning preparations, and she did the same. They dressed in silence. She helped him don the last pieces of his armor, as she had done on the day of the holmgang. He didn’t need the help, but he welcomed it anyway.
“I don’t know very much about Svards,” Alaina said softly as she buckled Kholodny to his side. “But by all accounts, they live for war. If they have come to Caedia in great numbers…”
She trailed off. Aleksandr took her hands in his.
“It will be a bloody war,” he said. “I would like to promise that I will return to you, when it has ended.”
“I’d like that too,” Alaina said. “But you won’t.”
“No.” Aleksandr met her eyes. I do not know if I will still be alive when the war has ended, nor what state the others will be in, nor where else I might be needed, nor how much time will have passed. So much is uncertain.
She nodded. She knew what had gone unsaid. “I hope you do, though,” she said. She spoke in a small voice, barely above a whisper.
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “I hope this as well.”
He kissed her. She kissed him back. For now, that was enough.
The owner of the barge was an old Ruskan with black hair and a gray beard. His name was Kyril, and he seemed to know Giancarlo quite well. Aleksandr was taken aback when they clarified that they’d met less than a week before.
Yorrin offered a private assessment: “He may not know Giancarlo, but he knows Giancarlo’s coin.” Aleksandr could not deny this.
They spent most of the morning down at the docks. Giancarlo had several wagons laden with goods that had to be secured onto Kyril’s barge, to say nothing of Steelshod’s mounts. Normally, Aleksandr would have seen to the wellbeing of their horses personally. But Dylan waved him off.
“You’ve got farewells to make,” he said. “I’ll see to this.”
Aleksandr appreciated the gesture. And so he spent those last few hours standing on the docks with Alaina.
They said little. There was little left to say. Aleksandr’s feelings for Alaina were strong, far stronger than he could have ever anticipated. She felt the same way. There was no need for sudden melodramatic requests. They cared for one another, but that did not mean they would abandon their duties.
Alaina had a duty to Yerevan, to Bayard Bogdanov, and to her parish. She had promised to see a new church built, at the least. That would take until winter, and likely much longer than that.
Aleksandr had a duty to this new company he found himself at the head of. For good or ill they saw him as their leader. He could not leave them. Certainly not until he had seen Steelshod more established and able to operate without him.
So they would do their duty. Someday—soon, he hoped—Aleksandr would try to find his way back here. If their feelings persisted, perhaps they would do something more about them.
They had spoken of such things in bits and pieces, and Aleksandr knew that Alaina understood the situation as well as he did. For now they could take solace in the closeness of an embrace, in a few whispered words and a kiss.
Yorrin, too, was saying his goodbyes. Olivenco had come to the dock to see them off, him and a half-dozen young men that looked to be possible recruits he’d found for Taraam. Last night, Aleksandr had asked the old bravo-turned-captain if he wished to join them on their trip to Caedia.
“You are late,” Olivenco said. “Yorrin already asked, and neither was he the first.”
“Even so,” said Aleksandr. “I wish to be certain.”
“Si, si,” Olivenco said with a shrug. “My answer is the same. I am mercenary no longer. Soy lisiado. No use to you.”
Aleksandr remembered the Spatalian word: Crippled.
“I thought you were finished with self-pity,” Aleksandr said. Cold, perhaps, but Olivenco seemed the kind of man to respect the blunt truth.
“Si,” he said. “Not pity. Is a simple fact. I am no mercenary, no bravo. But my mind is as keen and my tongue as persuasive ever. I can speak to aimless muchachos seeking purpose in Yerevan, and send them on to Taraam. Perhaps, when that bores me, I can return to Taraam. Enseñan—to teach—si?”
“There is much to learn from you,” Aleksandr agreed. “Yorrin is quick to remind me. You could do this with us as well, Olivenco. Join as a teacher, not a fighter.”
Olivenco waved his hand dismissively. “Yorrin will be fine,” he said. “He is still messy, but he has the strength and speed and keen mind to become a true duelist if he keeps at it.”
Aleksandr smiled. “You have made up your mind, I think” he said. “So I will speak no more of it.”
The memory amused Aleksandr, especially seeing Olivenco now saying goodbye to Yorrin. They were out of earshot, but it was obvious what Olivenco was doing. He kept gesturing, shuffling his feet, moving his hand as if in battle.
Giving some final tips on swordplay, hours before our departure, Aleksandr thought. He acts uncaring, but he is truly dedicated.
Aleksandr was going to miss Olivenco, but not nearly so much as Yorrin would. Yorrin did not seem to make close friends often. He could slide into the persona of a lowborn rake easily enough, and now he often tried to put on the affectations of cultured Middish nobility to match with Aleksandr’s upbringing. But it seemed to Aleksandr that both of these faces were equally false.
Yorrin was a tightly wound man, deeply private and repressed. Aleksandr had no doubt that he’d once been an excellent criminal, even as he now clearly intended to prove that he could be an excellent mercenary. But Aleksander suspected neither was his true face. He wasn’t sure Yorrin himself knew what his true face was any longer.
He considers you a friend, Aleksandr told himself. That much he did not doubt. And Olivenco too, more than any of our other companions. Perhaps there is something in him that sees mentorship and friendship alike.
Whatever the reason, he knew that Yorrin would be sad to see the last of the mercurial Spatalian. Aleksandr could only hope their paths might cross again.
He felt the warmth of Alaina’s body close beside him, and he returned to her embrace. He tried to ignore the embarrassment he felt at displaying affection in public, and with a woman that was not his wife. She kissed him, looked at his face, then chuckled.
“What?” he asked.
“Your beard mostly hides that blush,” Alaina said. “But not entirely.”
Aleksandr felt a smile come to his lips. Alaina seemed to enjoy challenging his Ruskan sensibilities these past few days, and perhaps for good reason. He was not home in Pripia, in the traditionalist land of his father’s fathers. Yerevan was a trading city, and one heavily influenced by Middish sensibilities. Few folk here seemed to notice Aleksandr and Alaina, or care.
Our affection is probably seen as tame, in truth, Aleksandr thought. He’d seen more vulgar displays at least a dozen times between Yerevani common folk, and even by some of Bogdanov’s druzhniks and their women.
He kissed her back. For a few short moments, it was easy to forget the reason they were here on the docks today.
“Sir Kerensky.”
The voice brought him back to reality. Giancarlo’s refined Cassaline accent pronounced Aleksandr’s family name with an unusual style, but it was beautiful in its own way. At least his tongue rolled across the R in an almost Ruskan manner. Most Middish either spoke the letter in an ugly clipped manner, or slurred across it altogether.
“Master Rossi,” Aleksandr replied, glancing up. He looked past Giancarlo and saw that there were neither horses nor wagons still on the docks. A few of his people were still there, talking to acquaintances they’d made in Yerevan. But it was obvious that the time had come.
“We must go,” he said.
“Si.” Giancarlo sounded apologetic. “The barge, it is loaded. Master Kyril, he says they will be ready to cast off in a few minutes.”
“Da. Understood. Board, then. I will be along soon.”
Giancarlo smiled. He turned to Alaina. “Priestess,” he said.
“Giancarlo,” Alaina said with a nod.
The merchant had avoided her for the most part, ever since he learned that his factors had been responsible for her poisoning. Still, he extended a hand. When Alaina took it, rather than shaking her hand he brought it to his lips.
He said something in Cassaline, and Alaina seemed amused.
“Thank you, Giancarlo,” she said. “I hope to see you again someday as well.”
He grinned at her, winked, then turned and headed down the dock.
Alaina took Aleksandr’s hand in hers, and they walked a few steps as well. Soon they reached Yorrin and Olivenco.
“Time to go,” Yorrin said.
“Da.”
“I was just giving Yorrin some lessons to practice,” Olivenco said to Aleksandr. “When you finish with these Svards, I expect you to return to Taraam so that I may judge if he has practiced sufficiently.”
Aleksandr smiled. “I would like to see Taraam again,” he said.
“Will you be leaving Yerevan today?” Alaina asked Olivenco. “Should we say our goodbyes as well?”
He shook his head. “Another week at least. I met a few promising caballeros last night, I think, but I must test them.”
“Good,” Alaina said. “We should take dinner together before you go, Olivenco.”
Olivenco grinned. “It would be my pleasure, priestess,” he said.
Aleksandr did not miss the hungry look in the Spatalian’s eye, and he felt a pang of uncomfortable jealousy. Then he heard Alaina laugh, and the feeling melted away.
You have no special claim to her, Aleksandr reminded himself. Not when you do not know if you will even see her again. But either way, I do not think Olivenco is quite her type.
“It’s been good, Alaina,” Yorrin said. “Best of luck bringing god to the heathens and whatnot. See you on our next way through.”
Yorrin held out a hand, and this time when Alaina took it she was given a firm shake.
They were saying their final farewell when Aleksandr noticed another figure making his way down the docks. He walked slowly, and he was flanked by Robin of all people.
“Look who I found!” Robin said.
“Borthul!” Alaina said, surprised.
The old wizard had largely disappeared after the work on Kholodny. Prudence had quietly confirmed that he’d been spending his days and nights at the curio shop of his friend Stasik, the place Yorrin had seen him shortly after they arrived in Yerevan. Their contract had ended when they brought Borthul here, and the last of their business had been finished with the death of the cult and the binding of the demon within Aleksandr’s sword.
In truth, he had not really expected to see the old man again.
“Alright, Rotten, I’ll bite: Why did you drag him out here?” Yorrin asked.
“He asked me to!” said Robin. “Old fellow was making his way to the dock, said he—”
“I can speak for myself young man,” Borthul interjected. His voice sounded as quavering and frail as ever. “Aleksandr, you’re leaving?”
“I am,” Aleksandr said. “We are headed for Caeda, to fight against—”
“Yes yes yes,” Borthul waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. “Very important I’m sure. The blade, Aleksandr. It has been some time, let me see the blade.”
Aleksandr frowned. “Why?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I haven’t felt any…” Alaina interjected, then hesitated. “Any presence, I suppose. Not since that night in the smithy.”
Borthul wrinkled his nose. “Yes, I’m sure you haven’t. Nevertheless, I insist. Soon enough I will be onto my next destination, and I don’t know if we shall ever cross paths again. Let me see the blade, if you please.”
Aleksandr hesitantly drew Kholodny. He held it with one hand on the grip and one on the blade, offering it out to Borthul.
The wizard carefully ran on finger down the runic inscriptions. He let his hand linger on the sword, and he closed his eyes.
The quiet that followed stretched uncomfortably long. Aleksandr saw everyone—aside from the small cluster around them—cross the dock and board the ship. Borthul seemed deeply focused, totally unaware of how long he had stood in awkward silence.
Olivenco cleared his throat. “Old man, are you alright?”
Borthul’s eyes snapped open. “Hmph,” he grumbled. “Still bound, yes,” he said. “Although…”
Aleksandr let the word hang, expecting Borthul would say more. Finally, he sighed. “Da? Although what?”
“Its presence is quite potent,” he said. “I had hoped it would have quieted some by now. Be careful, young man. If the binding fails and the demon’s spirit escapes… well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Aleksandr gritted his teeth. “I see,” he said. “Thank you for the warning.”
This is not a fear I needed to be reminded of just now.
“It’ll be alright,” Yorrin said. “We’ve got Torath’s blessing on it as well as your dark magic. I’m sure his coils will keep us safe.”
From the look on Alaina’s face, Aleksandr did not think she shared Yorrin’s steadfast certainty. But in the end, there was little any of them could do but hope for the best. He sighed, and sheathed the blade.
Olivenco suddenly clapped him on the back. “Do not fret, my friend,” he said. “This demon’s soul in your blade, it makes for quite the tale, si? Every legend needs stories such as these. Kerensky’s black blade, it is a fearsome thing. Your foes should fear its terrible swift bite.”
Aleksandr did not feel in any way reassured. He forced himself to unclench his jaw. “Do not call it that,” he said. “But I take your point.”
“Si, good,” Olivenco said with a shrug. He was obviously unconcerned with Aleksandr’s discomfort.
Borthul sighed indignantly, and muttered a half-hearted farewell before he turned to wander off.
“He is leaving, too? Do we know where?” Aleksandr asked.
Alaina shook her head. “I know he intended to come here for his own purposes, but that’s all.”
“Him and that other warlock have been thick as thieves,” Yorrin offered. “Stasik.”
Not our concern, I suppose. We were paid to keep him safe on the road to Yerevan, and nothing else. Aleksandr forced himself to shift his focus back to the more significant goodbye. Olivenco shook his and Yorrin’s hands one last time, and then he was gone. A moment later Yorrin was dragging Robin down the dock to the barge, and Aleksandr and Alaina were the last two.
“They are waiting for me,” Aleksandr said softly.
Alaina smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I know,” she said. “You should go.”
“Da.”
“Be safe, Aleksandr.”
“As much as is possible, da. You as well.”
She nodded.
Aleksandr swallowed a dozen other possible responses.
They clasped hands one last time. Her lips found his one last time.
She watched him go. The barge pulled away from the dock slowly, and when Yerevan receded into the distance he still saw the shape of her standing there, watching as he drifted out of her life.
Just for now, he reminded himself. For a summer campaign, and then we will see each other again.
He had a feeling that the promise of seeing her again would be a comfort, some night in the future. But just then, it felt little more than a useless gesture.
An empty feeling began to gnaw at him as the barge carried them down the lazy currents of the Zeleznaya Krovnaya. After an hour or so, Kyril’s pole-men pushed them into one of the fiercer currents and they began to pick up speed. Aleksandr’s men busied themselves about the wide deck of the barge, talking and passing the time and finding ways to be of some use.
Aleksandr saw Dylan and Levin trying to keep the horses calm. They were kept on deck, in a simple sort of pen with a crude canopy cover. It looked flimsy enough to be potentially disastrous if the horses were badly spooked, but mostly they just appeared restless. Aleksandr knew he should get up and lend a hand.
Yorrin joined them, as did Cam, and the four men seemed to be doing a fine job of soothing the beasts. Aleksandr did not rise from where he sat.
You should have lent a hand anyway, he thought to himself. If only to give you something to do. Something to occupy your mind for a while.
Instead, he stared into the water of the river and tried not to think. An entirely impossible task, it seemed. I’m thinking right now about how I ought to stop thinking.
He was still grappling with this self-contradicting endeavor many hours later, as the sun began to fall. That was when the call came up.
“Trouble spotted,” said one of Kyril’s lookouts. “Smoke ahead, too much of it.”
“River raiders,” spat another riverman.
“Svards,” Aleksandr said. Of course they’ve come up the river, if Hakon made it all the way to Yerevan.
Kyril nodded, scratching his beard. “Burning a fishing village, most likely. Could be that they’re too busy with that to trouble us.”
“Let us hope so,” Giancarlo said, frowning.
“No.”
All eyes turned to Aleksandr. Kyril looked confused, but Giancarlo did not. He obviously knew Aleksandr well enough to have some idea of what was about to happen. His face looked sour, like he tasted something unpleasant.
“Bring us closer, please,” Aleksandr said.
“Closer to what?” Kyril said.
“The trouble.” Yorrin’s voice emerged from behind them, as he stepped into the discussion.
Kyril wrinkled his nose. “We are a trading vessel,” he said. “I thought you were hired to defend, not attack.”
“We were hired to protect Giancarlo’s wares,” Aleksandr said. “We will do so. But if Svards are burning a village of innocents, we will not coast by and do nothing.”
Kyril glanced at Giancarlo for confirmation. The merchant’s grimace deepened, and he looked at Aleksandr. “Must we?” he asked.
“Doesn’t he work for you?” Kyril muttered. Giancarlo ignored the old shipmaster.
Aleksandr simply gave a nod.
Giancarlo sighed. “Si, very well. You heard the man, Signor Kyril. Bring him closer. He wishes to hit them with his sword.” Giancarlo rolled his eyes. As he walked away, he muttered under his breath. “It will not matter how many men you kill, it will not help you to forget the woman.”
Aleksandr did not respond.
He’s likely right, he thought. But I might as well try.