The men below saw their ruler kneel and tensed, hand to weapons. A clipped order from their captain, however, forestalled any stupid action. Captain Jennet was of Lannish blood, a clan known to have intermarried with the Pentacas, and so he knew what such things meant. A Ron Tikkum was in progress, a ceremony of cleansing. Captain Jennet watched the ceremony with undisguised relief.
At last it was over and the King rose. The Gibbor stepped back and wiped tears from his eyes.
“It has begun. I can feel it,” said Ranald, thumping his chest. “A dead man has left my soul.”
“The dead are heavy,” agreed the Gibbor, then cleared his throat. He appeared ill at ease. ‘I’ve pledged my blood to keep the Sacred Forest inviolate. Most times, my blood isn’t necessary. I have certain arts that cause the forest to appear what it is not, but my camouflage didn’t stop your father. He marched right in and would have done the unthinkable. I sent him away in disgrace, knowing the effect it would have on a man of his mettle, yet I had no choice. He’d nocked the arrow.” The Gibbor walked to the edge of the rock and looked down on the waiting men. “So much blood has been spilled. So many children left unsired. There is no seed in a dead man’s loins.” He stepped back from the ledge and faced the King. “A moment ago, you asked Jah forgiveness for your father. Now, I ask that you forgive me.”
Ranald blanched visibly, then turned away, struggling to regain his composure. He was flooded with a myriad of emotions ranging from rage to a sense of absurdity. Time froze. The men at the base of Ron Jonna looked like puppets. Ranald heard only the wind. Only the wind while he stood, saying nothing.
“It isn’t required,” said the Gibbor, finally. “It won’t affect the lifting of the anathema if you refuse.”
“It’s not a refusal, Seer. I don’t know if I can.” The Warrior King turned, looking drained by the years. “I remember my father as a plunging warhorse who rode straight ahead. Fearless, but not always wise. I can imagine that day in the forest. Would things have gone differently had I been along? Perhaps, but I wasn’t there. I was rolling dice with my friends.” Tension showed in the cords of his neck; he viewed the Gibbor through narrowed eyes. “But I can see how it happened. I can see how the whole bloody mess began. Once my father made a choice, no other choices were possible. As for forgiveness?” Ranald snorted. “Where would I begin? The friends I played dice with are dead, picked off by this war in one way or another. My father’s soul has writhed in torment for close to twenty years. My mother, Queen Aubra, died screaming, tortured by the thought of sharing my father’s fate.” The Gibbor made a sound of protest, but the King continued. “I have no wife, for marriage negotiations require tact and I haven’t had time for diplomacy. My days have been filled with blood, muck, and the sounds of dying men. Your Whitehair arrows shoot deep. When you ask for forgiveness, I don’t know if that’s possible. In some respects, I, too, am a dead man.” Ranald paused. “But I can give you understanding. That day in the forest is as clear to me as if I’d been there. I can hear the shouts, the threats, envision how this war began. It’s understanding I can give.”
“Understanding is enough for now,” the Gibbor said at length. “At least I’m not a monster in your eyes.”
Prompted by a sudden thought, the King asked, “Can you really change into a bird?”
“Falcon,” corrected the Seer. “The answer is yes. It’s one of the gifts of the Blue Stone.”
to be con’t.
I am glad that Gibbor and the King have made some kind of agreement and found some peace.