Chanson de Guerre - Christopher Fly

An Epic Fantasy Adventure Book Series

Chanson de Guerre by Christopher Fly

Series Excerpt

Emmeline moved about with grim determination, although ghosts of self-doubt still haunted her. She finished packing some bread and cheese into the small bundle her father had started, and then filled a jug with water. As she filled the jug from the bucket, she felt the whining voice of the child welling up inside her again. Emmeline suppressed that voice, albeit with a great deal of difficulty. Why must it be so hard, she thought as she reached for some dried meat, to keep the voice of reason? Since the previous season she had found it increasingly difficult to keep her mind focused on the tasks at hand. This did not disturb her greatly, but it was terribly bothersome to begin a task again and again before finally completing it because her mind had wandered off.

And to where exactly had her mind been wandering? Nowhere. She thought about nothing that could be considered a concrete idea. Nothing at all. She slipped away, musing on thoughts she could not later recollect, coming to herself a little later no wiser than when she had left and sorely behind in some chore. The dreams were equally bothersome. She would awake in the morning, the faint mist of some dream dissipating around her, ethereal and untouchable, the memory of it agonizingly out of reach. The most unsettling were the occasional nights when she awoke suddenly in the dark. The dreams which awoke her at those times were more emphatic and urgent, but nevertheless just as untouchable and unknowable. She awoke, bathed in sweat, a powerful stirring from deep inside her fading rapidly as she broke into consciousness. Her skin prickled in a way that was not altogether unpleasant yet at the same time shamefully uncomfortable. A strange sensation of embarrassment, nay guilt, grew in her as she became aware of her parents’ slow, deep breathing in the bed next to hers. After awakening from these dreams, she felt as she did when, as a little girl, she was caught sneaking sweets out of the pantry, yet these dreams engendered a greater guilt than those simple childish crimes. Although she could never remember them, these wispy mists of dreams still spurred the most arcane feelings in her.

“Emmeline, pray tell me, how long do you plan to be gone?”

“Que?” Emmeline looked down at the mound of dried meat heaped upon her bundle. “By the gods’s ears,” she cursed under her breath and scooped handfuls of the meat back into the larder.

Gilles smiled, but Murielle frowned with worry. The plan was good, but so many things could still go wrong. No good plan is ever truly perfect, her father had always said. If Emmeline made one foolish error....

“Little one,” she called out, “that is enough food, change into your breeches now.” She watched as the girl distractedly laid the paquet on her bed and slowly began to change. “Make haste, child. Hurry, Hurry!”

Murielle turned her gaze to the ornately carved beds sitting side by side at one end of the room, one for Emmeline and another larger one that she and Gilles shared. Most freemen of their status did not have beds, only pallets arranged on the floor at bedtime and stowed away during the waking hours. By the gods’s ears, she thought, many noblemen do not even have beds as fine as these. Gilles was a veritable wizard with wood. Indeed, many who saw his crafts claimed that the god of the wood had certainly endowed him with the mastery of woodworking. So, why was Gilles even a farmer at all? The beds were masterpieces. The altar by the door with its wooden relief sculpture was as fine a piece of art as any she had seen in the Temple of Aufeese. Why would Gilles waste such a gift?

But that was Gilles. He loved tilling the soil, working the land, and reaping the produce of his labor. He never seemed truly alive until after he had labored vigorously under the blistering sun or in the drenching rain. Even when his labor yielded nothing, he seemed more alive than when he was at rest. The woodworking, however, was effortless to him. Murielle had watched him work, intricately carving organic swirls and animal imagery into the pieces of wood he had brought home from the Market, which became the headboards, footboards, and frames of their beds. It seemed of no more effort to him than waving off flies on a lazy summer’s afternoon. It was merely natural to him. He worked the wood simply because he could. He worked the land because he loved it.

At last Emmeline had changed and was ready to embark upon her journey. With a glare from Murielle, the girl sulkily pulled back her long hair and tied it into a bun. Gilles brought her the small water jug. Emmeline slipped it inside the paquet then slung the bundle over her shoulder. Gilles gently took her face in his hands and stared into her eyes, saying nothing.

Murielle tapped her foot impatiently. “Gilles we must hurry.”

“I know, I know,” he replied.

Gilles took his daughter’s hand and led her to the back door which opened to the barnyard. He paused a moment, then Murielle joined him at his side. She shifted nervously from one foot to another. She was not as anxious now to have Emmeline rush off.

Gilles took his daughter’s face in his hands again. “I am sorry you must make this journey alone. You will be safe. Believe that.” He paused a moment closing his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts. “Lord Aufeese has promised me. You will be safe; he will protect you.”

Murielle looked away at that. Emmeline looked doubtfully at her father.

He opened his eyes again and looked down at his daughter. “You must believe that if you believe anything.”

Emmeline caught her father’s hands in her own. “Yes,” she replied into his eyes. If he believed it, then she would try very hard to believe it herself.

At this, Murielle stepped in. “Gilles, if she must go, she really must go now. The day passes quickly.”

“Oui...yes, it does,” he started as if awakening from a trance. He took Emmeline’s hand again and led her into the barnyard. “You must hurry now. Do as I have told you. Travel due East, avoid the main road, and keep out of sight.”

Gilles looked up toward the sun rapidly rising higher in the sky. He motioned to Murielle to take his other hand. He bowed his head and offered up a prayer.

“O great Lord Aufeese, O great Golden Child of Mava, hear my prayer. I beg you to come in your magnificence to protect my daughter.” Then turning his face to the burning sun, he said, “Oh, Great One, true owner of the sun, hear your humble servant’s plea; may we be chosen among the worthy who receive your beneficence.”

Gilles gathered his daughter into his arms one final time, then reluctantly let her go. Emmeline turned to her mother and embraced her. Murielle whispered into her ear then tearfully chided her to hurry on her way. Emmeline waved a last farewell, promised to see them soon, then she dashed around the corner of the barn and disappeared from their sight.

As she came around the side of the barn, a loud noise made her stop. It was Jacques, their mule, braying at her from the stable door. She went over to him and scratched his ears. “Oh Jacques, you know I am leaving and thought I would not say goodbye!”

Emmeline set down her paquet and went through a side door. She reemerged a moment later, and offered a handful of oats to the mule, which he devoured greedily. She wiped her hands on her breeches and returned to scratching his ears. Stroking his nose gently, she looked into his eyes and spoke to him in a calm voice.

“Jacques, there are very grievous things coming to pass today,” she said seriously. “None of your stubbornness today! I am placing you in charge of the barnyard; ensure that everyone behaves well.”

The mule returned Emmeline’s serious look, nodding his head in agreement to these terms, and he returned to the cool shade of the stable. Emmeline glanced around the barnyard. All the animals had retreated into shaded areas to find relief from the already growing heat of the morning. All but one. A bright red rooster arrogantly strutted around the dusty barnyard.

“Cocque,” Emmeline cried, “you are too full of yourself! No one cares about you in this heat!”

The rooster clucked and strutted about the dusty barnyard stopping occasionally to preen his glossy feathers. But not even the fine-looking Cocque could tempt the hens out of their cool retreat in the barn. And so, he strutted, unaffected by their indifference to him.

“Cocque, I think you strut about so because you do not know how to do anything else!”

Emmeline watched the handsome bird make another circuit of the yard, then dropped her paquet and gave chase. The rooster clucked frantically as it dashed about, just out of her reach. Emmeline stopped in the drifting dust stirred up from the chase, hands on her knees, panting. She mopped the slick sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and looked at Cocque. A little duller from the dust they had stirred up, he strutted about panting. His red tongue bobbed back and forth from his open beak. Soon he stopped and preened the feathers which had been so unjustly ruffed by the unwarranted pursuit.

“You,” Emmeline panted, “are such... a vain... bird!”

Cocque clucked in agreement.

Emmeline caught her breath. The dust had settled down in the barnyard again. She looked up at the ascending sun, remembering her important journey, and realized that she was wasting precious time. She looked about, panicked, suddenly afraid that her mother and father had seen her chasing the rooster instead of proceeding on her journey.

“I have been foolish,” she said, shaking her head.

Cocque clucked in agreement.

“I do not need your help, you silly rooster!”

Emmeline walked over and picked up the paquet where she had dropped it in the dust. Brushing it off with quick strokes, she looked again at the sun.

“I must take this journey seriously,” she mused aloud. “It is very important that I follow my father’s plan.”

Setting her resolve, she threw the paquet over her shoulder and strolled over to the edge of the corn field.

“If it is East I must go, then to the East I will go.”

There was no wind, which had allowed the dust to completely settle in the barnyard, serene and empty save for Cocque who had resumed his strutting, still vainly hoping to draw out the hens. The ground on the far end of the yard shimmered in the already oppressive heat. Emmeline took one last look at the barnyard, turned, and disappeared into the corn.

#

When Murielle moved toward the back door to begin the next phase of the plan, Gilles grabbed her by the arm, a bewildered look upon his face.

“Where do you go, Murielle?”

Murielle looked at her husband narrowly. “To the barn. To saddle the horse, so I may ride to Darloque and save our daughter.”

Gilles heaved a deep sigh. “The vision was very specific,” he muttered.

Murielle heaved her own sigh. “We agreed. I should go to Darloque because a woman’s tears will move the Old King more than a man’s pleas.”

“The vision was very specific,” he said again. “I am to ride to Darloque.”

“But I can do it better, Gilles.” Murielle turned to go, and Gilles grabbed her arm again.

“The vision was very specific,” he said once again and began to walk toward the door. He was almost to the door when Murielle seized him by the arm.

“Why must you be so stubborn,” she said, the impatience apparent in her voice.

“Woman...” he began, then fell off. She knew he was beginning to get angry now as he refused to call her by name. He drew a long breath and began again.

“Lord Aufeese has given me a vision in which I journey to the Old King and am able to convince him to stop his son’s lecherous intent with our daughter.” He held his hand up to stop her protest on the viability of the Golden Child. After years of Murielle’s acidic criticism of his god and his faith, this was an automatic gesture. He was no more aware of it than of his own heartbeat. “Although you mock the god of the harvest and his vision, it is unquestionable and unalterable. I am to do this part myself. Lord Aufeese will make the way for me, he always has.”

Murielle fumed. “You stupid, stupid man! If you would only see reason, you would realize that I am the more logical choice to see the Old King.”

“That is exactly the idea,” he retorted, the fury rising in his voice, “I do not see logic! I do not see reason! I live by my faith in my god, and he guides my every decision!”

Murielle balled her fists tightly in anger. “Your god fails you!” she screamed through clenched teeth, “Over and over and over again, your god fails you! All the gods fail you!” Spittle flew from her lips in her sudden, ravenous fury. “When will you see that your god does nothing to help you; none of the gods do! There is absolutely no one to help you!” She threw her head back, screaming in fury, “We are utterly alone in this world and no one will save us ever!”

She brought her fists up to her chest and let out a violent, guttural scream to the rafters, driving the doves into a frenzy. Gilles drew back wide-eyed, shuddering at this unprecedented tirade from his normally peaceful, though willful, wife. His own rage was gone, stifled by the madness raging before him. She dropped her head and broke into choking sobs. He stood helpless a moment, then he took her into his arms. She trembled violently, her fists still held in front of her. Gilles said nothing for he could think of nothing to say. He simply held her and stroked her long hair as she choked out loud sobs. Murielle’s and Emmeline’s hair are so much alike, he thought idly. Gradually, Murielle let herself be held. She dropped her hands to her sides and slowly unclenched her fists. As her weeping slowed, she wrapped her arms around her husband. Gilles continued to hold her, still unsure of what else he should do.

“Sois calme,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Murielle pulled back a little from Gilles, her arms still around him. She looked into his eyes. Hers were wet, red, and sorrowful. He looked down and saw that the front of his tunic was soaked with her tears.

“Je suis désolé,” she whispered, dabbing at the wet part with the tips of her fingers. She continued to brush at his tunic with her hand as if that would dry it, although it had little effect.

Gilles did not know what to say. He could only stand there by the door and gently stroke her hair as she lay her head back down on his chest. Soon Gilles relaxed a little. He could feel Murielle’s heartbeat soft in her chest and could hear her breathing broken only by an occasional sniffle. Before he realized it, he was gently rocking her back and forth in his arms. At that moment he thought he could feel her soul touching his.

“Je suis désolé,” she whispered again. “I am sorry. I do not know...” She trailed off.

Gilles knew what he should do, although it went against everything he believed was right. Lord Aufeese had given him a vision of how to save their daughter. He was sure that a vision from a god must be followed implicitly. But here was his wife, completely distraught over the entire matter with their daughter. Certainly, this was difficult on her. It was difficult enough for him. He had prayed every day since he had first noticed Emmeline’s first steps into womanhood that she would be spared this indignity. As time passed and the stories grew more disturbing, he prayed ever more urgently. He had heard stories in Darloque at the Market, stories beyond merely disturbing, stories which reeked of sickness, horror, and madness. Every day the terror grew inside him, and still he prayed. He prayed to Lord Aufeese to deliver his daughter past this dangerous age and safely into her maturity where the Prince would no longer be a threat to her.

Gilles was certain of one thing. He was as sure of this as he was sure that the sun would rise in the East. This was the bargain. Although Lord Aufeese had never spoken to him about the matter either face to face or in a vision, he knew that the drought had come in exchange for his daughter’s safety. Every day his daughter avoided the eye of Prince Henri was another day without rain. Another day of peace was another day of struggle on the farm. He had wondered why the Golden Child was making him choose. Either way was death. He could not imagine the humiliations the Prince might bring upon his daughter, instead preferring to think of that path simply as death. She might avoid the dishonorable advances of the Prince, but she would starve to death in the process.

And he would die either way as well. No matter how his daughter died, Gilles would die of grief. When the midwife showed Emmeline to him for the first time, Murielle seemed somewhat ashamed that she had not produced for him a male heir. When he saw the pink wrinkled skin of his daughter, her tiny fists balled up against her little head, he forgot all about the legacy of a male heir. Then she opened her eyes, those bright brown eyes, the same eyes as her mother, and he fell in love. That was his little girl there in the midwife’s arms. This one would be his favorite no matter what other children came along after this, male or female. Emmeline did not cry, she just looked around with those brown eyes, seeming to take in the great world she had just entered.

Books In This Series

By The Gods's Ears (Chanson de Guerre Book 1)