The Baron became silent.
• • •
Chill wind caressed the beaded sweat on Päl’s forehead as he closed his eyes and opened wide his other senses. He smelled the crisp decay of autumn leaves, heard the soft, whispering shuffle as the wind tossed them about on the grounds of the gardens. He cocked his head to his right shoulder, felt the bite of steel between the index finger and thumb of both hands.
With a spin he directed and controlled the blade from his right hand to the top of the target, then followed the release of his left blade to the bottom, forming in the air a double-strike he’d perfected years ago. He saw in his mind’s eye where the blades would strike the target. That was the key—to know the direction and visualize it.
The spin completed, Päl came to land in a crouch, the thrown blades now replaced by new ones pulled from hidden sheaths beneath his clothing. The simultaneous thwack as the blades hit the tree twenty meters away brought a smile to his face. The first of the afternoon.
My son doesn’t know me.
Again the realization yanked away his momentary glee and he lowered his arms and straightened. He recalled the young boy’s formal bow—his son’s dark, even gaze that measured and sized up the room, analyzed things in an almost combative style. Much as his mother did at times when she entered a room.
I don’t know my son.
“Päl?”
The familiar voice of his wife brought his thoughts into a happier place as he turned to see Khim and Chauncy approaching. Khim held a large ceramic mug with the Wyndham-Sandoval crest painted on the side. She was just as beautiful now as the day he’d met her. Her dark, raven hair contrasted with his own blond tresses now held back in a single ponytail at the base of his top-knot. She was the night to his morning. She was his place to run to when the world turned chaotic and cruel.
And he loved her unconditionally.
Chauncy’s stately form was the opposite of Khim’s. She was a short elderly woman, rising to Päl’s shoulders, with wiry gray hair and a cherub face. His former nanny and foster-mother had lost weight since he’d seen her, and her skin, though usually pale, seemed much more so in Robinson’s evening light.
He retrieved and resheathed his knives and stepped toward them.
Other than Khim, Chauncy had been the only member of the house to greet him with a smile and a warm embrace. Just as she did now. “What are you two doing out here?” he took the offered mug from Khim and kissed her cheek. The cup warmed his fingers as he inhaled the aroma of spiced wine.
“Com’n to fetch you in to get ready. Guests are already arriving.” Chauncy clasped her thick hands in front of her green skirts.
Päl had completely forgotten about his parent’s social event to supposedly welcome their son home from the war.
He groaned.
“Forgot, didn’t you?” Khim’s voice wasn’t as light as it had been earlier when he’d arrived home. They’d spent most of the first hours of his homecoming in private, rediscovering each other again.
Päl nodded. “This party is little more than an excuse for my mother and father to renew their presence within the family. It’s all politics—in which I will never participate.”
Chauncy gave him a light laugh. “You’re a Sandoval, Päl. It will pull you in anyway.”
“Not if I stay with the Rangers,” he sipped the wine and felt its warmth spread through his extremities. It was indeed becoming colder in the advancing evening. “I’ve no time to worry about the larger picture there.” He flashed back to the last battle on Ashio and then quickly tucked it away. I can’t think of fallen friends now.
“And why the long face?”
He shrugged.
Chauncy put a hand on his shoulder. It felt warm and comforting. There was so little contact outside of private rooms in this house, or on his family’s estates on Exeter.
Päl handed the mug to Chauncy. He absently pulled his knives from their sheaths and in unison began weaving their blades between his fingers. He looked at his wife, whose own gaze was locked on his hands and their movements. She looked extraordinarily pale in the waning light and her eyes were wide holes filled with shadows.
“Khim?”
She looked up into his eyes.
It was the knives. Khim had always hated his knives.
“I’m going in, Päl,” she turned and then paused. “You need to get changed.”
He watched her walk away as he continued to move the blades between his fingers.
“She’s not much into your choice of weapon, is she?” Chauncy shifted her position and set the mug on a nearby garden bench.
He shook his head. “No. And with our earlier discussion of our son’s education…” He let the sentence trail off as he turned and abruptly threw the knives into the dark. He spun, retrieved his second set in a fluid movement born of practice and control, and threw again.
Chauncy followed him to the tree and stood beside him as he judged their placement.
Four blades in a cross pattern. Shoulders, neck and lower abdomen. He pulled them from the tree and resheathed them before reaching deep into his trouser pocket to retrieve his Battle Academy ring.
“You still have that thing?”
Päl nodded. It had been a gift from his father. Päl’s abrupt promotion and draft into service had precluded his official graduation, and so Marquin believed it was right he have one. “Yeah, but I learned knives from Master DeGigli before I had the ring. I can’t wear it and throw. Disrupts my aim.”
He gestured for her to step toward the house and he followed. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, Chauncy.”
“If you’re thinking of me in that, and hurting my feelings—please don’t. You’re my life’s work, child. And even if I didn’t give you life’s first breath, I was there when you learned your greatest lessons.” She gave him a
