“Enough!”
Kaelyn wanted to strangle Mac. They had disembarked in Demika two days ago, where he’d spent most of his money buying a few supplies for their journey and borrowed a donkey and cart from someone she thought might be a relative. All with minimal conversation, particularly with her. Heck, even the donkey had received more words than she had.
“This is going to be a very long trip if we don’t talk. We might as well try to get to know each other.”
Mac flicked the reins, but the donkey didn’t change his plodding gait, his steps dull thuds on the hard-packed, rutted road. Sunlight cut through the leafy canopy above, dancing along the brush and wild flowers covering the forest floor.
“And seeing that I don’t really know me, why don’t we start with you.” Her outburst didn’t make her feel as satisfied as she had hoped, but it was better than sitting there.
“Finished?” asked Mac, curling his lips into a half smile.
“Only if you want to take over.” She willed herself to meet his sardonic grin, waiting for a reply. When none came, she drew breath to continue her monologue.
“You win.” Mac slid a dark glance at her, but she could see the hint of amusement in his eyes. “What would you like to know?”
She bit back a satisfied grin. “How about who you are.”
“Could you be more specific? That could take a while to answer.”
“We have a long journey. I think I have time.” She crossed her arms.
“Touché.”
He clenched the reins in his scarred hands and it looked like he’d clam up again. “Where do I begin,” he said, finally.
“How about: occupation?”
“I’m not really anything any more.”
She’d guessed that already, but surely there was more to him than a vagabond. The scars certainly said so. “Well then, what were you?”
“I was a knight in the Queen’s Guard.” Mac pursed his lips.
Kaelyn remained silent, sensing how tentative the moment was. Birds chattered and the cart creaked, rocking and bouncing. The ship’s tabby, who had followed her off the ship, shifted at her feet, yawned, and fell back to sleep.
“I didn’t start there, of course. When I was young, probably around your age, I left home to join the Northern Legionaries. I remember how excited my father was, and how mad my mother was.” Mac’s eyes focused on the space between past and present, seemingly somewhere between the donkey’s ears.
“Why was that?”
“I was the youngest of eight. My father had more than enough apprentices. He was a baker. I guess my mother was just being a mother. I didn’t know at the time how a battle was. I had jousted at the fairs and soon there was no one who could beat me. But jousts and war are different. It’s not like the bard songs.”
“But your mother knew.”
“She must have. She wept the day I left.”
An old sadness settled in the quiet between them. As obvious and deep as the scars crisscrossing Mac’s flesh. Then he chuckled. “I had one grand adventure, though.”
Kaelyn smiled back, although she couldn’t explain why since the hint of poorly healed emotions still colored his words.
“It was the time of the Great Clan War. When Meriduin was fighting the Northern Clans. I know you don’t remember, but about thirty years ago the nine major clans joined forces to create an army unlike any the kingdom had ever seen before.”
The donkey slowed and Mac clicked his tongue and flicked the reins, urging it on. “I did more than my share of war and ended up with a couple of promotions. One of them into the Queen’s Royal Guard.” The words sounded final, but she wasn’t about to let the conversation end. Besides, there was something prickling at the back of her mind.
“How long ago?”
“Why, you want to figure out how old I am?”
“No, it’s just that there’s something. . . .” The prickling increased, words she couldn’t quite recognize flashing across her consciousness.
“Well, I signed up about thirty years ago, and was eighteen when I was promoted into the Queen’s Guard.”
“Then you must have met Mac Theselon of Quinlay.”
“Well, I–”
“Did you know he’s considered the greatest swordsman to ever live?”
“Yes, I–”
“It was said he emerged a hero out of the Great Clan War. That he single-handedly battled his way into their main camp to kill their evil shaman.” The words poured into her. Tales, songs, trivia, all about Mac Theselon.
“That’s–”
“This is so exciting. I remember. I remember the poems, and the stories, and all the ballads. There are three hundred and eighty-two short ballads and twenty long ones. He slew the Wizard of Lingald, but not before the wizard poisoned King Harcourt the Fourth. It was said he could battle twenty men at once with his bare hands. He was unbeatable.”
“That’s great, but could we not talk about Theselon?”
“Why? Jealous? Of course! He would have taken any glory you might have gotten.”
“I doubt even Theselon could have lived up to half of what the bards said he did.”
“A bard would never make up anything like that. He was a hero. I’m sorry you weren’t, but that’s no reason to be jealous.”
“How do you know I wasn’t? Everyone talks about Mac this and Mac that. No one could fight twenty men at once and live to talk about it. It isn’t possible. Bards lie. They tell stories that people want to hear. Not the truth. Theselon was just a convenient target who fell into some difficult situations and got very, very lucky.”
“I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it. Besides, how would you know what’s true and what isn’t? Did you ever ask Mac Theselon of Quinlay The Hero of the Great Clan War if he did those things? I bet you’ve never even met him.”
“Of course I have. I know what’s true and what isn’t.”
“And how do you know?”
“Because, I am–”
The donkey jerked and collapsed, a dozen arrow shafts protruded from the creature’s neck and chest.
