It's late when Tiemann gets back to camp. He navigates past the campfires, shoulders aside the panhandlers and camp followers. They make a path for him, broad and battle-scarred, the hang of his sword and the bearskin over his arm keeping everyone at a wide berth.
Finally, he reaches the tents with the Anthem's red sigils. Their band of mercenaries can afford to have charms of protection sung into their oilskins, but even so, they adhere to a strict watch roster; Davor believes it keeps them sharp, keeps their skills whetted. It's a cold night on the plains, and Celtic Skib is on watch outside, huddled in his skins over a bowl of stew, shortbow at his heel.
"You took your time," Skib says, without looking up from his bowl. He has a touch of the fey which comes from his Celtic blood, can sense a man at fifty paces. "You hungry? The boy went into the town this morning, so there's local meat."
"I've eaten," Tiemann says, and the image of Archuleta's dark head bent over the plateful of simple market fare rises unbidden in his mind, together with the rush of quick blood to his face.
Skib looks up at this, his eyes narrowing. "So it would seem," he says. "Whom did you meet in the lacing parlor, Tiemann? You have new inkspell, and there is something else as well."
Tiemann raises a hand, the new tattoos on his knuckles catching the firelight. "Leave off your faery folklore; I don't wish to discuss it."
"Dave will want to discuss it," Skib warns, as Tiemann pushes past him into the tents.
Their redheaded Gaelic leader is lounging in his chair, playing a game of dice with young Kyle, their long-haired page, by candlelight. Andersson the axeman is sprawled on his front, leg propped out stiffly before him - he's having the wound he'd taken during their last campaign seen to by their camp physician.
"You're back," Davor says, and Tiemann makes his way to Andersson's side. He's concerned about the Norman; his leg wound keeps re-opening with all the recent travelling they have had to do.
"How is it today?" Tiemann asks their physician. Melua's frowning in concentration as she puts her singing bowl down, muttering to herself in her mother tongue. Tiemann's facility with languages is excellent, but it doesn't extend to that of the Kingdom of Goryeo.
"It would be better if you all didn't insist on bloody riding everywhere at all hours," she says finally, in Saxon, though it's without force, and starts to wrap Andersson back up. Tiemann knows how she worries about them, and the affection and respect is mutual: for instance, if Dave as much as looked at her with his usual amorous intent, Tiemann would stab him unquestioningly.
"I met a talented artisan in the town," Tiemann says, casually, dropping the skins from around his shoulders and exposing his new charm to the light. "You should consider an appropriate ward, Andersson, I believe it will assist."
"I am having no inkspell, and that is final," groans Andersson. Melua lifts her own candle and examines Tiemann's new Gallic rose of lys tattoo very carefully.
"Tiemann, this is really excellent. Powerful," she mutters, and across the tent, Davor raises his head.
"That sounds interesting. Tell me more about this artisan."
His touch is light, and fire, rain on a parade. His eyes are like one thing in this life that's true, a breath that only I can breathe.
Tiemann avoids the gaze of his oldest friend. "Tomorrow," he says, and makes his way to his sleeping rugs.
He falls asleep to the sound of Archuleta's luminous voice, singing his spells into Tiemann's skin, into Tiemann's heart.
Interlude [PG]
Finally, he reaches the tents with the Anthem's red sigils. Their band of mercenaries can afford to have charms of protection sung into their oilskins, but even so, they adhere to a strict watch roster; Davor believes it keeps them sharp, keeps their skills whetted. It's a cold night on the plains, and Celtic Skib is on watch outside, huddled in his skins over a bowl of stew, shortbow at his heel.
"You took your time," Skib says, without looking up from his bowl. He has a touch of the fey which comes from his Celtic blood, can sense a man at fifty paces. "You hungry? The boy went into the town this morning, so there's local meat."
"I've eaten," Tiemann says, and the image of Archuleta's dark head bent over the plateful of simple market fare rises unbidden in his mind, together with the rush of quick blood to his face.
Skib looks up at this, his eyes narrowing. "So it would seem," he says. "Whom did you meet in the lacing parlor, Tiemann? You have new inkspell, and there is something else as well."
Tiemann raises a hand, the new tattoos on his knuckles catching the firelight. "Leave off your faery folklore; I don't wish to discuss it."
"Dave will want to discuss it," Skib warns, as Tiemann pushes past him into the tents.
Their redheaded Gaelic leader is lounging in his chair, playing a game of dice with young Kyle, their long-haired page, by candlelight. Andersson the axeman is sprawled on his front, leg propped out stiffly before him - he's having the wound he'd taken during their last campaign seen to by their camp physician.
"You're back," Davor says, and Tiemann makes his way to Andersson's side. He's concerned about the Norman; his leg wound keeps re-opening with all the recent travelling they have had to do.
"How is it today?" Tiemann asks their physician. Melua's frowning in concentration as she puts her singing bowl down, muttering to herself in her mother tongue. Tiemann's facility with languages is excellent, but it doesn't extend to that of the Kingdom of Goryeo.
"It would be better if you all didn't insist on bloody riding everywhere at all hours," she says finally, in Saxon, though it's without force, and starts to wrap Andersson back up. Tiemann knows how she worries about them, and the affection and respect is mutual: for instance, if Dave as much as looked at her with his usual amorous intent, Tiemann would stab him unquestioningly.
"I met a talented artisan in the town," Tiemann says, casually, dropping the skins from around his shoulders and exposing his new charm to the light. "You should consider an appropriate ward, Andersson, I believe it will assist."
"I am having no inkspell, and that is final," groans Andersson. Melua lifts her own candle and examines Tiemann's new Gallic rose of lys tattoo very carefully.
"Tiemann, this is really excellent. Powerful," she mutters, and across the tent, Davor raises his head.
"That sounds interesting. Tell me more about this artisan."
His touch is light, and fire, rain on a parade. His eyes are like one thing in this life that's true, a breath that only I can breathe.
Tiemann avoids the gaze of his oldest friend. "Tomorrow," he says, and makes his way to his sleeping rugs.
He falls asleep to the sound of Archuleta's luminous voice, singing his spells into Tiemann's skin, into Tiemann's heart.