The Princess and the Bear - Mette Ivie Harrison [56]
“And what will happen to you if you do not?” asked Richon.
The blacksmith held up his other arm.
Richon swallowed.
He remembered the royal steward’s cruel sense of humor. It was no stretch to believe that he would do what he had said to the blacksmith and laugh over it. But it sickened Richon to realize that he himself had laughed with the royal steward for so many years, and in no better causes.
“I will take those swords to the royal steward if you like,” said Richon. “I am going to find the army myself, to join with them.”
“Why?” The blacksmith was surprised and looked more closely at him. “You look familiar.”
Richon stiffened, but could not think how a blacksmith would have met the king.
“Well, no matter,” said the man flatly. “If you’re going to the battlefield, I won’t be seeing you again. One way or another you’ll be dead, and the rest of us will be taken by Nolira.”
“Doesn’t it matter to you if our kingdom is taken by another?” Richon asked.
The blacksmith shrugged. “One king or another—they take our taxes just the same.”
“Is that the way you truly thought of your king?” Richon asked.
The blacksmith thought a long moment. “I suppose—I felt sorry for him,” he said at last.
“Sorry? Why?” This was the last thing he had expected. Anger or jealousy, yes. But pity?
“He did not see how little he ruled the kingdom, I think. He believed he made the laws and the people listened to him. Perhaps those who lived in more far-reaching places believed that, too. But those of us who were near enough the palace—we saw the truth. He was a boy being pulled by a nose ring, like a pig to the slaughter. And he had not the least idea of it.”
“He should have known it. He should have been stronger,” said Richon darkly. “That was his duty, as king.”
The blacksmith sighed. “Yes. We all have our duties and we all fail in them at one time or another. Some fail more than others, I suppose.” He held up his one hand. “And some are given more obstacles to overcome. But I do not blame him. He was used as much as any of us were.”
Richon walked away from the blacksmith’s shop with a heavy burlap sack containing five well-crafted though hastily made and undecorated swords, all wrapped together. He carried them on his shoulder, and in his mind he carried the blacksmith’s evaluation of himself.
It was like being told that all his mistakes were, in fact, a great deal smaller than he had thought they were. Because no one had expected more of him.
After a long moment, he felt Chala’s hand on his shoulder. It was light but warm, and he looked up at her in surprise.
“I do not know what to do,” she said. “You are a human. You deserve to have a human response, but I do not know what it should be. If you would tell me, then I would do what would comfort you. If that is what you would like.”
It was a strange speech, but Richon could see it was entirely serious.
“It is not my place to tell you what you should do,” he said. “Not even a king can order another to give him comfort. If it is commanded, there is no true power in it.”
“But what if it is offered the wrong way, or if it goes on too long, or if there are others watching—” Chala stumbled over the words.
“It is your choice,” said Richon. “You must do what you wish to do.”
“And if it is not what you would wish?” asked Chala.
Richon wanted to sigh. “I will always appreciate your touch, Chala,” said Richon.
Her eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I am sure.”
“Oh. That is not so difficult, then.”
Richon used her hand to pull her closer to him so that her face was only inches from his. He could smell her breath, and thought how it had smelled when she had been a hound and he was a bear.
“Do not be afraid of me,” Richon said. That she thought she needed to be more for him! When he could see so clearly that it was he who needed to be more for her. For all of them.
“I may do the wrong thing. I may embarrass you among your own people,” said Chala.
“Never,” said Richon fiercely.
“I am a hound,” she said.
It was not an apology, simply