Orphan At The Edge Of The World 7 Oew 6

Playing with the ring on his finger, a habit he subconsciously picked up from Droya, Orison resumed his explanation. "Father and I had some conversation on our way back from the orphanage. Most of what I say is filling in the blanks but I'll keep it to the parts I'm most sure of... On a whim but more likely out of pity, Father eased the boy's suffering through unsavory means. I don't feel comfortable with saying more on that matter but it probably stuck with him. Father cared for Venito and his consideration for a Northlander wife was based more on giving the boy advantages in society. He was in a bad way when he couldn't find my brother but I don't think he considered much about the woman, at least not to me.

"The whole incident left a sour impression of his homeland. I'm fairly certain that, had he succeeded in his last endeavor, he planned on taking his retirement in the Empire and letting Venito hold his Northland t.i.tles posthumously... He probably meant all the best when he married you and adopted me but I think that we were a desperate attempt to leave behind a legacy before he went to finish things."

Seeing Droya working herself up for a speech Orison would absolutely despise listening to, he cut her off. "I don't say that to discount the man's honest feelings. I say it to ill.u.s.trate that in his desire to have something meaningful to fight for, he was not as clearheaded and thoughtful as he could- No, should have been. I have every intention of being dutiful to his memory as his son and your feelings are your own. No more need be said."

Droya's eyes were tight as she said, "Alright but you will give me a chance to have my say on what I believe his thoughts and feelings were, yes?"

Orison nodded and continued, "Yes. If it's important to you, I will. For now, let's get to the meat and potatoes of this letter... Despite how his name sounds, Venito is a Northlander, he's older and he's been relinquished to Lyra, Father's band marshal. That means all of Whiteriver is on his side unquestioningly. Since you are not a Northlander or the mother by blood of a Northlander's child, I'm the only one who will be able to speak for us, both before the feudal lord of Whiteriver and the High King's Court, if it becomes necessary. That's, oddly enough, a good thing bec- BECAUSE...

"Sorry, and thank you... If they thought the opposition that they were facing was more formidable than a ten year old boy with no formal education we might not even get a chance to reach Whiteriver. The honor band that's coming to escort us there would likely have an accident on the way. That's still a possibility we should prepare ourselves for."

Droya blurted out, "We could just not go. We could gather up our valuables and use my father's old merchant connections to flee south."

Orison sighed and said, "Oh how I wish. You could. You can... Mom, you can if you want to."

Looking shocked and hurt, she said, "I couldn't leave you here."

Smiling sadly, Orison explained, "Being the son of a war leader means I have the right to speak in even the highest court in the land, even call for an arbitration from the High King himself once in my lifetime. But because I'm not a Northlander, running away from the summons of a feudal lord would make me a criminal. And since they can, I almost guarantee the charge will be treason. Any hope of getting help from the Empire goes out the window because I'd become a political untouchable. That would leave me unable to live with ease but in only the very worst places for the rest of my likely short life.

"That's why I won't run. That's why I definitely won't run away with you but what I was trying to say is I'd understand if you did. You've been good to me. I don't want to see you get hurt and I'm about to potentially be in a lot of danger."

Droya started to work herself up for another long speech which Orison postponed by saying, "Remember when you told me that I need to know how to ease the tension when the world looks dark? Well, someone's tapping our strings. Let's go fis.h.i.+ng on the lake in the morning since Rithus went through all the trouble to renovate that boat. I'm just asking you to hold and organize whatever you want to say for one night, okay? It'll be my turn to listen."

Later that night, with thoughts spinning through his head and unable to sleep, Orison was attempting to distract himself with cipher work. A habit which had devolved to theory craft for it's own sake by that point.

A sudden bout of dizziness attacked him for a brief moment before a soothing sensation ran through him from his ring. Head clearing, he still pretended to be delirious as a shadowy figure finished opening the window and climbing in.

While he frantically thought of the best way to murder or get away from the intruder, the dark figure whispered, "What is your name?"

Guessing at the effect of whatever was used on him, he said trance-like at a conversational volume, "Orison Cantrip. Who are you, sir?" hoping someone might hear him.

The figure chuckled and said, "Speak softer. It would be rude if you woke someone up. You don't want to be rude do you?"

Cursing inwardly, Orison replied, "Sometimes. Especially when someone is rude to me first."

The figure froze for a moment on it's decent into the chair that had never managed to find it's way back out of his room. After a split second of indecision, the man finished sitting down and said, "Surprising how candid you are. Please don't scream. I'm here to see if you know of the silence. If you do, I need to make sure you have kept it and are trustworthy enough to continue keeping it. I hope you are because I hate killing children. It gives me bad dreams."

Before the figure could begin his interrogation, Orison interjected, "Has my brother inherited the mantle of silence?"

A small amount of surprise leaked through the man's voice as he said, "If you know enough to ask, you know enough not to. Why, do YOU want it?"

Orison shook his head and the figure said, "Then that makes things easier."

Interjecting again, Orison quickly said, "I'd rather inherit The Fool's favor owed my father."

Annoyed, the figure replied, "And there it went getting hard again."

Orison took the initiative, hoping his guesses weren't too far off. "Look, you know there's a chance, however slight that may be, of The Fool listening right now. I don't care what your leader's plans are but there is only one obvious choice for me. My brother's only road of safety is tied here in the Northlands. As for me? Forget safety. If anyone has their hooks in him, my only road of survival lies south."

The figure asked, "Do you know what you want to do with that favor?"

Orison had to think hard and fast on that one. Before he let too much time elapse, he said, "If I can manage to reach Whiteriver alive and my brother ends up being someone not set on seeing me burn, so to speak, I'll probably pa.s.s it on to him along with a gift of goodwill I have prepared. If I die, so be it but if someone kills my mother, I don't care about peons. I want the one who gave the order to die."

The shadowy figure said, "I could pa.s.s on this gift to your brother. Perhaps it could help pave the way for you."

Orison laughed weakly. "That sounds too much like a favor but if you'd like to do a personal one for my brother, you could pa.s.s a message."

The figure slowly stood up as he said, "No promises, since it isn't a favor for you but it does no harm to hear you out."

Orison said, "Tell my brother to give me a chance. I won't disappoint him."

The figure made his way to the window before he stopped after the sound of a tightening string reached his ear from the doorway. Standing a bit too far from Orison or the window to easily reach either, he instead said, "How is that a favor to your brother?"

Orison replied blandly, "There's no way to answer that question without sounding like an egoist. Suffice it to say I wholeheartedly believe it to be true... It's alright Morrel. You can let him go. He's a friend." In Orison's mind there was only one person in the house who potentially had the ability to possibly resist being drugged but had the discipline to allow Orison a chance to dig for information.

Morrel only slightly pointed the arrow downward as he finished walking into the room and said, "Friends don't visit from windows much. Maybe lovers but not friends."

By the time Morrel was done talking the figure had vanished into the night. And since he was too wound up to sleep, Orison sat up with Morrel for awhile discussing plans and ways to liquidate a.s.sets within the house and property that likely would not belong to him soon.

***

Morning came far too early for Orison as Droya dragged him out of bed and ushered him through the morning routine. With the urgency she was attacking their boating, Droya had a great deal to say or she was aware of the time crunch they were in and wanted to return to preparations as soon as possible. Knowing Droya as Orison believed he did, he thought that both were likely along with other motivations he probably hadn't even thought of. If it wasn't for fear of contradicting herself, she would have likely canceled it altogether.

Surprisingly, once they were on the lake and the manic energy she was exhibiting dissipated some, she managed to ratchet down enough to benefit from the forceful relaxation. Or so she claimed. Whatever the reason, after she started talking it was like a floodgate had been opened on her heart and mind. Orison speculated that whatever censored and heavily edited version of her thoughts and feelings she had planned on sharing was forgotten along the way. As hard as she tried to be all things for Orison, she was still a woman of less than thirty years that lacked a proper confidant.

Trying hard to disa.s.sociate the hero of this world and his character in the game, Orison still couldn't avoid a crus.h.i.+ng guilt for the hurt this woman endured. That despite the anxiety and responsibilities she was saddled with she still thought so well and highly of the hero, only made Orison feel worse. To dispel these wretched feelings as Droya cried her grief into arms and a chest that weren't quite big enough to properly hold her, he vowed to himself to repay her for every drop of misery she spilled.

Erasing the last bit of hesitation and awkwardness in his heart, he let her in and declared to himself that as long as she wanted to be called Mamma Yaya then that's exactly who she would be. If he should lose her or she walked away one day, then the resulting pain would only be what he owed her. The soul of child and man that moved ever closer to becoming one being were completely in sync on this one thought; After feeling like you've lost everything, loving someone was a terrifying thing but Droya was worth it... Even if she was a bit of a nagging control freak.

After testing around the edges of his secrets, Orison discovered that he could tell Droya about his 'inventory s.p.a.ce' as long as he referred to it as an innate magic. He couldn't feel more glad, however, that he was extremely conservative about what he could easily hold as Droya began optimizing it's usage to carry their valuables. Despite the annoyance and pitiful amount of personal weight use that she grudgingly allowed of his perceived limits, he was touched that she entrusted nearly all of the most valuable things to him, including her mother's best jewelry she inherited. Though they only compared to other possible choices more in sentiment than actual value, the implications hidden within the act of trust made it impossible for Orison not to agree.

Over the next few days, Orison had never been so happy to be overlooked as Morrel and Droya took the liquidation plan in hand and ran with it. Aside from the prospecting team that showed up on the second day after the morning on the lake, which made the remaining days a lot noisier as they began mining the iron deposit behind the house, he was barely interrupted while pouring over the remaining books he had yet to read. Inevitably, they too were packed away and s.h.i.+pped to a merchant warehouse with many other vital possessions. Still, there were many furnis.h.i.+ngs left within the house as Droya pointed out that an empty one would raise questions best left unasked.

On the last day before the honor band was scheduled to show, a relieved and more relaxed Morrel returned from the nearby village after getting Rithus squared away in a nice cottage just inside the wall. Orison had always wondered about the nature of the closeness between the two ex-slaves but was too polite to ask. It seemed his guess had been way off when he overheard a snip of conversation between Morrel and Droya where the wood elf referred to the nearly venerable Marshlander as 'the boy'. Orison had forgotten that elves live a good deal longer than the other races so it wasn't surprising that Morrel might have had a soft spot for the reptile man after having watched him grow within their mutual captivity.

Orison eavesdropped as the conversation continued.

Droya said, "I would feel a great deal braver about all of this if I knew you were coming along but Orison insists that having a fair folk in his group would make things harder on him at the inheritance arbitration, especially one who served in a Domain household, but I'm not convinced. Surely the added safety would be worth what little trouble your presence might cause."

Morrel slowly shook his head while he said, "It's only been a few years since the averted civil war. Northlanders are fairly tolerant on the surface but their grudges run deep. It doesn't help that Empire and Domain settlements still dot the landscape where feudal lords lined their pockets for land rights.

"It's hard to say if your boy is right or wrong but you'll have me in the shadows here until you leave. There's plenty of tree cover between here and a full day out too, if your honor guard isn't feeling... honorable enough. It won't be too late to change plans then. In truth, I feel ill at ease leaving the little tadpole alone for so long and more so at trusting his well being to a merchant group when it's time to rejoin you wherever Orison's path leads next.

"Pity we didn't have the fortune to run into any traveling mercenaries. By reputation, they're loyal enough when the coin's good. Keep your eyes sharp for such an opportunity if one arises. Some hired Northlander muscle would see you safer than an old tree strider like me where you're going anyway."

Droya sighed and said wistfully, "I'd still feel more secure with you watching over us than a complete stranger, no matter how 'more appropriate' they are... I know I've asked a dozen times but any more advice?"

Morrel chuckled and said, "I've shared all I can but if you absolutely must hear something I haven't yet said, make sure that your boy does his pole bridging barefoot, or at least without those d.a.m.n boots on. He knows why... Tell him he can't train his endurance properly if he cheats. Oh, and make sure he uses the candle. I don't know why he whines so much about a blister on his b.u.t.t when he loses concentration. I nearly lost count of how many times I almost lost my virtue to a piece of sharpened bamboo when I did that training."

Orison muttered to himself, "I suppose he walked through six feet of snow up-hill both ways on his ten miles to school when he was my age."

Morrel turned towards the corner Orison was hiding behind and delivered deadpan, "Nonsense, it doesn't snow in the vale. I swam and the day's training camp was never closer than twenty. The slowest had to ferry the fastest home on his back. And let me tell you, that made the rapids tricky."

Despite thinking to the contrary, Orison had no trouble sleeping through the night. All the last minute preparations and planning may not have worn him out physically but mentally he had been exhausted. Never the less, when Morrel had tapped him awake in pre-dawn light to let him know that the honor band had decided to show up a bit earlier than what was considered respectable, he was ready to go. Standing by the front door with his mother, their travel bags neatly arranged to the side, it was the band that was taken by surprise counter their band marshal's obvious intentions.

Seeing the first light of the sun glinting of the band scout's helmet as he bounded ahead for the last few thousand feet, Droya said nervously, "I thought you said not to get a wagon, that we would have our transportation provided to us? Aside from the horse under their leader and the two other horses pulling a supply cart, I see no other transportation."

Orison replied darkly, "I said we had to use the transportation provided us or risk slighting the band. And that's not a supply cart. Technically it's a prisoner cart but if it had chains or manacles in it, Morrel would have said something. Likely, the idea is to lead us into Whitewater disgracefully. Honestly, I couldn't be happier though. The more petty c.r.a.p like this they try to pull the less likely they're planning something worse... Get your game face on, mom. It's time to say h.e.l.lo."