Alright! I’m sorry for taking so long! I got… distracted.
Distracted by this:
Isn’t my niece cute?
And this:
There are just so many books…
And this:
Internship life is exciting… and time consuming.
And this:
Boy, that jello fight was a mess.
PLEASE FORGIVE ME!
There’s also another reason why I took so long. It’s a dark secret authors don’t like talking about, but it happens. It’s not writers block, or the sudden discovery of the Food Network, or even the burning desire to read those books on my shelf.
I was bored with the story.
I kid you not. I was absolutely bored. It happens; it’s another reason why books take so long to come out. The authors get tired of the story. The story is old to them, the characters like relatives they want to move on and out, the plot as stale as week old bread, the conflict is nothing more than a fowl scent a whole can of air freshener can’t take care of. Authors write bad things when they’re bored with their stories. (FYI, I blame the entire Mesa adventure on this bored-ness). So… I simply just… didn’t write.
That’s not true. I wrote other things. I wrote about twenty five pages of Martin’s street days and when he met Fred. I would have posted that but… Cough… There’s a character in that story you haven’t met yet, and I didn’t feel it was right to introduce said character to you and destroy the plot for this story. There’s another twenty pages I wrote which will never see the light of day until I do some serious plot and character revisions (I can’t even bring myself to tell you the details of it). And then there’s about fifty pages worth of my adventures at Purdue (I actually wrote about my life this summer; I was shocked).
So there you have it. A combination of distractions and bored-ness meant all summer without more of Martin. Sorry! Thankfully, the last couple of weeks, I went back, re-read the story, and came to love the story once again. To the Gerlend Estates and Martin’s quest for answers!
(Again, I ask your forgiveness)
**********
Martin wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he finally saw the others on Sona’s prince list, but what he did see was not it. A large tent had been erected as the dinning hall within the mansion’s battlement wall. He was a bit surprised by the short wall they had to pass to get to it, and then remembered the outlay of the grounds. Merchants would often pay a high price to get protection the trained guards of Grelend’s estate. The previous lord had seen it as a business opportunity and had expanded his estates grounds to include a part of the merchant field. The short wall was just the original wall. However, with the new wall in place, merchants paid the nobles a large sum to stay inside.
“Do the merchants know they’ve been ousted by possible princes?” Martin asked an assistant to the lord who had been trailing them. The assistant smiled knowingly.
“They just been told they’ve been outbid by the government,” he snickered. “All they know is that Aeternan officials want something to stay protected. The rumor pool going around the merchants say that the young men here are a new set of Ghosts being trained. Only those working within the mansion itself know the truth.”
Martin frowned. “That’s a lot of people who know.” Judging by the emotions he felt, he guessed there were about a thousand people working within the mansion; guards, servants, assistants, scribes, cooks, stable hands. And that did not include those who were off duty at the moment. “Someone is going to reveal the truth.”
The assistant shrugged. “I wasn’t the one who came up with this plan, Ghost.” He nodded to Lord Grelend. “He’s trying to impress her Majesty. I think the plan is as fool hardy as you do. But what can we do about it?”
Martin let the issue go. The assistant was right. There wasn’t much they could do about it, short of him revealing himself and letting everyone go. However, he knew that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He needed to understand his powers; an impossible task his friends thought without the help of other Santers.
The dinning tent was already full of the Listed men. Martin paused just inside the tent opening, surprised by what he saw. The majority of the men were sitting with women close to their sides; these he figured were the married men. Sona had mentioned that most of them were married. There was, however, a separate section from the married men, and it had even more girls.
“Ah,” the assistant said, noticing his worried gaze at the smaller population of the tent. “I see you’ve discovered our bachelor tables. I hope you’re married.”
Martin groaned, rubbing his forehead. Did they really separate the men that much?
The assistant laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “So you aren’t married. I’m afraid you are going to have to join them.”
“Why?” Martin asked, noting the queen finish speaking with the servants outside. Once she came in, the whole tent was going to focus on her and those she brought with her.
“My dear Ghost,” the assistant said in a dry tone. “Assume you were married. How would your wife like it when some husband catcher was talking to her husband; who was just innocently chatting with an unmarried man? Wouldn’t she be jealous and cause… problems?”
Martin glared at the assistant but did not argue. It made sense. There was no need to cause problems when they could be avoided.
A herald sounded his horn right by Martin, causing him to step away. The noise of the tent gently died down as the occupants finished their conversations.
“Announcing, Her Royal Majesty,” the assistant said in a loud voice that carried, “Queen Abigail Santer.” The last of the conversations stopped and they stood as the queen swept into the tent and scanned them with her stern grey eyes. Her commanding presence drew the attention of everyone in the tent. Suddenly she smiled, easing the tension that had been building.
“Please,” she said, motioning for them to sit back down, “The meal has already been spread. I do not wish to keep you from your lunch. I will speak after.” There was a hesitant chuckle through the crowd as they sat back down. The count then directed the queen and the other dignitaries to the opposite end of the tent from the bachelor tables. Martin glanced briefly after them before going to the assigned tables.
Most of the men didn’t seem to notice him as he approached. Oh, a couple of them glared briefly as he sat down at the end of one of the tables, but their attention was quickly taken again by the serving girls. Then to his surprise, one of the girls noticed him.
The girl, a few years younger than him, hurried over and put a plate before him, smiling. “There you go,” she said, rubbing his shoulder. Martin involuntary flinched. The girl didn’t appear to notice. “Enjoy.” Smiling widely, she left to attend another man snapping for attention. Three other girls tried to beat her to him. Martin frowned.
“Welcome, newcomer,” said the man sitting opposite of him. He was a large man with the build and tan of a farmer. He reached across the table with a beefy hand. “My name is Jordan. You are?”
“Martin,” he answered, shaking the man’s hand. He suppressed a cringe as Jordan’s large hand nearly crushed his.
“So,” Jordan said, grinning and leaning forward. “You’re on the.. List?”
Martin finally managed to pull his hand away. “Obviously,” he chuckled weakly. “From what I’ve heard, I’m the last one to arrive.”
“Finally,” grumbled the man sitting next to Jordan. This man was the opposite of Jordan. Slim and short, he wore a sharp vest over his silk shirt. The large mole under the man’s nose identified him immediately.
“You’re Calvin Armour,” Martin said without a question in his voice. Calvin frowned.
“How did you know who I am, commoner?”
Martin rolled his eyes. “You’re the adopted son of Richard Armour, a famous merchant. I’ve been to Nacre and seen both of you.” That wasn’t a lie. Suit had him see every important merchant, general, noble, and politician in Aeterna. He could recognize a large portion of foreign figures even better.
“Then you have me at a disadvantage, commoner,” Calvin sneered, displeased that Martin wasn’t impressed with his already important status. “Who are you? Another farmer like our bulk of Jordan?”
Jordan smiled broadly, apparently pleased by the description. “There’s no dishonor in being a farmer,” he said, a hint of force in his voice. He winked at Martin. “Without us farmers, no one would get fed, now would they?”
“I’m not a farmer,” Martin sighed, realizing where the conversation was going. He might as well get it over with. “I’m… Ghost Eighty-One.” The men who had been listening froze, Calvin looked as if he had been slapped in the face, and Jordan’s eyes were wide.
“Ghost Eighty-One?” Jordan asked, awed. “Really?”
Martin shrugged. “Last I checked.” Fred had approved of it, so he figured it was alright.
“You’re here to protect us then?” asked the man sitting next to him. “There are Ghosts out there now?” The others listening watched him openly now, excitement in their eyes.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I really am on the List.” He was glad to see the disappointment in their eyes and returned their attention to the meal and girls. His job was to be unimportant. Another listed man, even the famous Ghost who saved the Stand, was just another possible prince.
Calvin, on the other hand, finally shook out of his shock and was evaluating him with new eyes. “You don’t dress like a Ghost.”
“I don’t?” Martin asked with mock shock. “I must have left my uniform at home then.”
Calvin blinked, surprised by his response. Jordan just laughed.
“A Ghost with a sense of humor!” he roared, banging the table with his strong hand, tipping several cups over. “I never would have thought! All the stories give Ghosts serious sense of duty and no time for fun.”
“We have to take some fun when we can,” Martin said seriously, finally looking down at his meal, a plate of meat, potatoes, and some green vegetable. “You never know when your last day is.”
That last remark, casual as it may seem, ended the conversation. Martin tried not to smirk as Jordan tried to pick up a conversation with Calvin to talk over the awkward silence. This was what Martin was trained to do. Manipulate others to dismiss him. Perhaps he had gone a little far; many of these men probably wouldn’t want him to try to befriend them. They would avoid him and consider him… too different to approach. But having friends wasn’t the mission. He was to find possible threats. Besides, he didn’t want more friends who would feel betrayed when they found out the truth.
*******
Queen Abigail watched the listed men eat, careful that they didn’t notice her sanction of them. She held back her opinion of them; this gathering was unlike any group she had seen. It wasn’t an army to judge on their formations, it wasn’t merchants trying to swindle each other. They weren’t even nobles squabbling about matters of state. No, these men came from different backgrounds. Each had their own story to tell and dreams they wanted to live. How could she judge them as a group? No, she needed to do something different.
“I wish to meet them,” she said in off comment to Lord Gerlend. The feathered lord chewed thoughtfully for a moment.
“Meet them, your Majesty?” he asked, gazing out over the men. “One at a time?” She nodded. Gerlend fidgeted. “That is a… big task.”
“One of them is my son,” Abigail pointed out. “It’s the first time I will have seen him in nearly two decades. Can you blame me for wanting to spend a little more time with him, make up for the time we have lost?”
Gerlend flinched at her icy tone. “No, I suppose not.” He waved one of his attendants over. “Create a time chart for our men,” he ordered. “Each one will have a personal interview with her Majesty. How long will each meeting last, my Queen?”
Abigail thought of it for a moment. “Fifteen minutes should be fine for now. Perhaps it will get longer after we’ve whittled down to fewer.” It was a daunting task, now that she had voiced it, but she would not budge. She meant what she said. She wanted a bit more time with her son.
As the lord described the new task to his attendant, the queen looked over the men again, wondering. One of them is my son. Oh, my boy, where are you?
By chance she finally spotted Martin. The poor spy was sitting with the bachelors, ignoring the serving women who tried to catch his eye. His focus was on the men around him, and judging by the reactions around the table, he had just told them he was the Ghost. One man was laughing about it.
“I feel sorry for him,” Sona said softy, her gaze also on the young spy. “He has to deal with them.” There was a hint of annoyance in her tone, making the queen smile. It was only a matter of time before Sona made a claim on the Alex.
“What do you think of the group, Sona?” the queen asked. “All the hard work you and your fellow researchers displayed in something more than a list.”
Sona slowly scanned the tent, her expression thoughtful. “I actually expected more men in this group…” Indeed, there seemed to be more women, either the wives of the men or servants, who occupied the tent. “It is interesting to see them, though,” Sona went on. “I never just see words on a page when I read a report. I know there has to be a face with the name. I’m actually seeing their faces for the first time.” She stared openly at one young man with missing teeth in his grin. “Not all of them match my imagination.”
Abigail silently agreed, watching the different men interact. There were obvious farm boys, a few shred merchants, beggars, soldiers, craftsmen. All of them were so different. Only one thing in common brought these men together.
“I wonder how much we’re going to have to teach him,” Abigail said softly. Her son was among these men, she could feel it. But the true question remained; one that kept her up at night with worry. Would they find him before any more harm could come to him?
*************
Janice Sargent was a large, intimidating figure of a women who was in charge of taking care of the housing needs of the listed men. She stared down her square nose when one of Gerlend’s assistants introduced him to her. Martin stood at attention as she walked around him.
“The last one?” she muttered to herself after she was done circling him. “Don’t look like much, do you? But if you’re on the list, you’re on the list.” Martin wanted to roll his eyes. This woman obviously did not care for her job or charges, but she would do what was required. “Follow me, young man,” she snapped, walking away from the dining tent and into the line of tents behind it. “I’ll introduce you to your tent mates. Hurry up! You could be the prince, but I won’t stand for laziness!” Martin groaned; she didn’t even look back to see if he was following. The assistant patted him sympathetically on the shoulder before shuffling off to the mansion. Adjusting his pack on his shoulder, Martin sulked after Sargent.
They were coming near the edge of the encampment when she finally stopped. “That’s your tent,” she said. “If you don’t like your tent mates, shut up and live with it. You’ll be going to classes with them. Do not go anywhere alone. You need special permission to leave the mansion grounds.” She rolled her eyes. “Gerlend’s orders. Complain to him about the rules. Oh. One last thing. Breakfast is served at eight, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. If you miss it, you go hungry. Am I understood?”
“No kitchen raiding,” Martin nodded. “Got it.”
“Be careful, young man,” she said, waving a finger at him. “I don’t stand troublemakers long.” Snorting in satisfaction, she stormed away, muttering about the young upstarts she had to baby sit.
Martin frowned after her. That was it? She said that she was going to introduce him to his tent mates. Consigned to having to introduce himself he started for the tent.
“Hey, Ghost!” Jordan said, running up to him. The large man was grinning as he approached. “It looks like you’re going to be my tent mate!” The farmer slapped him on the back, nearly driving the air from his lungs.
“Wonderful,” Martin gasped, trying to match Jordan’s grin. “So, is it just the two of us or…?”
“Oh no,” Jordan laughed. “Calvin’s in our tent too. And Var.” Jordan glanced at the tent, looking a bit uneasy. He leaned down to Martin. “And between the two of us, Var is… not the most agreeable tent mate.”
Great. He was stuck in a tent with a cheerful farmer, a haughty merchant, and a man not even Jordan liked. He suddenly found himself missing his room at the Tree, even if some considered it more of a closet than a room.
Jordan entered the tent, holding the canvas aside for him. Martin sighed and entered the tent. It was a larger tent than those he was used to, with enough room for four cots and walking space between them. Three of the beds had trucks stuffed under them, the bedding with a well slept in look. But Martin dismissed the interior of the tent to focus his attention on the other man in the tent.
It had to be Var and Martin could immediately tell that this man would rub on his nerves. Var was... handsome, at least to any woman. Though Martin never cared for looks himself, he could tell that Var was very concerned about his own. His clothes were made of the finest material and tailored to fit. His posture was straight, his handsome face clear of any blemish, and his black hair in the current long style. Sitting on his bed and writing something on a flat board, he looked up as they entered. He frowned.
“Who is this commoner?” Martin gritted his teeth. He was all too familiar with the tone Var used; this man was more conceited than Calvin!
“He’s our last listed man,” Jordan said, shifting uneasily as Var stared at him with annoyed grey eyes. “He’s our tent mate…”
“That much is obvious,” Var interrupted, dismissing Jordan with a wave of his hand. Var set his board aside and stood. “Var Bontaren,” he said, extending his hand. “I am a Master Glassmith.” Martin shook the man’s hand, noting the lack of calluses that usually came with a craftsman.
“Martin Stevens,” he said as they let go. “I’m Ghost Eighty-One.”
Var raised an eyebrow. “Ghost Eighty-One? From Evan’s Stand this last winter?”
“Last I knew,” he said, shrugging. He glanced at the unused bed and dropped his pack on it. “Glassmith you say?”
“Master Glassmith,” Var corrected, a hint of defense in his tone. “I do more than mere glass work. My work is more art than simple glass. Perhaps you’ve seen my work; it’s very popular in the north country by Seal’s Bay.”
“I haven’t been up north lately,” Martin told him. “I doubt it.”
Var narrowed his eyes, taking in again his common travel attire. “And I doubt your claim.”
Jordan gasped. “But, Var! He came with the queen this morning! Surely her Majesty wouldn’t employ imposters!”
Var finally showed an emotion other than annoyance. He grinned at the news. “The queen is here?”
“Yes,” Martin replied, his tone perhaps harder than it should. “She is. And if you want to question my Ghost status, I’m sure you can ask her if I’m lying.”
The challenge hung in the air and Var stared at him with uneasiness. “Perhaps I’m too quick to judge,” he said, backing down from the challenge. He glanced at the pack Martin had dropped. “I just… expect more from Ghosts.”
“We have to travel light,” Martin pointed out, thankful for his relationship with the Ghost General and the knowledge he gave him. “We can’t be slowed down with petty materials.”
Var’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing in anger. He had caught the jibe at his profession. “I don’t like you, Ghost.”
“Surprise,” Martin sneered. “I assure you that the feeling is mutual.”
“We have class this afternoon,” Jordan said quickly, stepping between them. He looked uneasy at both of them, as if he expected them to start fighting. “I think you’ll like our classes, Martin. We’re learning about court manners…”
“They’re trying to teach us all to be the prince,” Var snorted. “I think they should spend more time figuring out which of us is the prince and let the rest go back to their own lives.” He rolled his eyes. “But no! We must all learn ‘court manners.’ A waste of time and effort, I say.”
“But,” Jordan said, “the head researcher arrived with the queen today. I’m sure she’ll find out who the prince is in no time.”
I doubt that, Martin thought. The only reason why he knew he was the prince was because of three mages who managed to change his face. And then there were those powers he still didn’t understand…
“She?” Var asked. “The researcher is a woman?” He snorted. “Let me guess, she’ll want to interview us, all the while enjoying how many young men are trying to impress her. She’s probably an old crone. Interviews aren’t going to reveal anything.”
“You never know,” Martin said, shrugging. “You might let something slip and she’ll immediately throw you out for being an imposter.”
“Funny,” Var sneered. “You’d better be nice to me, Ghost. I might be the prince.”
Martin snorted. “The same can be said to you.” He nodded at Jordan, still standing between them. “Even our farmer could be the prince. Better be nice to everyone, don’t you think?”
Var narrowed his eyes, obviously too flustered to answer. He went over to his bed and picked up the board he was using. Martin noticed the letter fastened to it. Var was quick to hide the letter. “Our dear farmer is right, Ghost. It’s time for class. I’d rather not wait to the end and get a seat near the back.” He left with his head held high.
Martin turned to Jordan. “You’re right,” he said. “He’s not the most agreeable tent mate.”
************
Ah, Var, I have some plans for you… I again apologize for this last summer. And speaking of distractions… I’m now an aunt of twins! Lisa and Russell were born this morning. They probably won’t be as distracting as Aurora (niece pictured above), but that’s because they live down in Utah and not fifteen minutes away. Another distraction is next week when my family and I will be headed to Yellowstone for the last camping trip of the year (though, truth be known, it’s my only camping trip of the year. That’s what I get for working summer jobs). If I post something (and I probably will, considering that I’m liking my story again), it’ll be Saturday. I think that’s everything.
One last apology before signing off. SORRY!
