The Mansions of Idumea (Book 3 Forest at the Edge series) (87 page)

Thorne squinted. “What’s that supposed to
mean?”

Shem’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
Maybe wasn’t one of
them
. Yet. “Nothing.”

Thorne reached into his jacket pocket and
pulled out a sealed parchment. “This is for you,” and he held it
out.

Shem kept his arms folded as he eyed the
parchment. “Who’s it from?”

Thorne shrugged slightly. “My father handed
it to me, but it’s not written in his hand. I don’t know.” He
looked at the script
Master Sergeant Zenos
longingly.

Shem still didn’t take it. “What’s it
about?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Thorne
impatiently shook the message at him. “All I know is, I’m supposed
to give it to you in private and that—”

Whatever he was about to say next was
apparently painful. Shem studied his eyes and enjoyed every
moment.

“—and that I’m supposed to be
learning
things from you,” the captain admitted. “I’m not ready for . . .
everything yet. Not even sure what any of that means,” he mumbled
in frustration. “But apparently you do.”

Shem stared at the captain, completely
perplexed.

The younger Thorne wasn’t one of
them
yet, not a Guarder like his father, but soldiers younger than him
had been in the past. Shem was adept in reading men’s faces and
eyes, and it was obvious that Lemuel Thorne was deliberately being
left out. Maybe this was some kind of new procedure, some kind of
test.

But for who?

And the thought of learning from a master
sergeant? Well, Shem wasn’t sure which of them was more irritated
about that.

Shem finally took the message from Thorne’s
hand and shoved it into his jacket. The captain was clearly
disappointed it wasn’t about to be opened and read in front of
him.

“I thank you, Captain,” Shem said formally,
“but I’m sure there’s nothing I can teach you, nor is there any way
you can provide assistance with the colonel.”

Thorne took yet another step closer. One
more, and he’d be on Shem’s toes. “Oh, but there is. There are a
great many—”

“I’m late for duty, Captain Thorne,” Shem
snapped to attention. “I’m sure you don’t mean to hold me up from
doing my duty, correct sir?”

Thorne blinked in surprise and stepped back.
“Why, of course not. We’ll talk later—”

But Shem was already out the door, clenching
his fist as he marched out of the private quarters, through the
barracks for the rest of the soldiers, and into the growing
twilight with the parchment nearly burning a hole in his
jacket.

He knew what he needed to do, and hoped he
could pull it off, even if it wasn’t dark yet. Some things just
couldn’t wait. He was still early to lead out his new recruits for
a training ride—not that he’d admit that to Thorne—and he had a few
minutes.

He retrieved his saddled horse from the
stables and rode out to the forest. With a quick glance around to
make sure no one was watching, he directed his horse to a small
break in the trees, then prodded his mount to hurdle the low cattle
fence. He dismounted, tied up the horse behind some large boulders
and out of sight, then slipped up through the trees in a fast
jog.

“Whoa! What in the world are you doing here?
And now?”

Shem nodded at the two men in green and brown
mottled clothing he startled near a fresh spring. “Been given
something that I was, honestly, afraid to open on my own.” He
chuckled nervously as he pulled out the parchment.

The two men came over to see. “Who’s it
from?” one of them asked.

Shem shook his head. “Delivered by Captain
Thorne, handed to him by General Thorne, but originally?” He
shrugged and broke open the white waxy seal. With a deep breath, he
unfolded the parchment and read out loud, his two companions on
either side.

“‘Master Sergeant Shem Zenos: For years we
wondered about you, our Quiet Man—’”

Shem groaned.

He’d nearly forgotten about that title he
gave himself long ago. In the beginning, the Guarders were putting
someone in to get close to Perrin. Shem took that position, and
then he let the Guarders know, through a dropped message, that he’d
always remain the Quiet Man and not interact with them, but would
keep Perrin Shin in the game. A few times over the next few years
they’d sent in others to “help” Shem, but Shem always helped them
out instead: out to the forest to never be heard from again.

He thought they’d forgotten about him.
Obviously not.

One of the men in green and brown clothing
patted him comfortingly on the back as Shem continued to read.

“‘Now that we finally know who our Quiet Man
is, we wish to thank and congratulate you for your years of devoted
service. We also now expect great things of you. Placed into your
care, and for your training, is a young man of great promise, such
as yourself—’”

Shem frowned. “They can’t be talking about
Lemuel Thorne!”

“I think they may be,” the other man in green
and brown said. “Onion cake?”

“Mushroom pudding,” Shem clarified.

“Just as bad.”

Shem continued reading. “‘—great promise . .
. who we expect you to instruct and bring up as—’” Shem stopped
reading, his mouth too dry to continue.

One of his companions completed the sentence.
“‘. . . bring up as your
replacement
in Edge
.
’ Oh,
Shem. I’m so sorry—”

“Not going to happen,” Shem whispered firmly.
“They have no idea what’s really going on, nor will they.
Ever.”

“Keep reading, Shem,” the other companion
said gently.

Shem swallowed and finished the message.
“‘Once the captain is fully trained, under your guidance, he will
be ready to become one of us. And you will be sent to do even
greater work—’”

He could barely say the next words out
loud.

“‘—with Shin in Idumea’.”

One of the men let out a low whistle. “You’ve
impressed someone, Shem Zenos! No signature.”

“Of course not!” said the other man. “What’d
you expect? ‘All our love, Mr. Evil, Head of the Guarders’?”

Shem stared at the message.

“What are you going to do?” one of the men
asked.

“Nothing,” Shem whispered.

“Nothing? Shem, do you realize what this is?
Who it’s from?”

“No, not really,” he admitted. He handed it
to one of the men. “You knew some of the handwritings—does this
look familiar?”

The man sighed sadly. “Been waiting for years
to be useful in that manner but . . . the hand is tight and forced,
as if purposely trying to disguise the writing. Sorry, Shem. It’s
not familiar to me at all.”

“It’s all right, Dormin. Was a long shot,
anyway. Still pass it around, see if we get lucky. I’m sure it’s
not General Thorne’s writing, but since it traveled through him,
it’s reaffirmation of what we know about him.”

“True,” Dormin, the last son of King Oren
nodded. “We’ll do our best. But Shem, you can’t ignore this.”

“I’m not,” he assured the men. “But I’ve been
thinking: Thorne doesn’t know what’s in this message. He was only
told he was to learn from me. But no one has specified
what
he’s supposed to learn, have they?”

Dormin and his companion looked at each other
with knowing smiles.

“And they already trust me, so if Thorne
fails to make any progress—whatever kind they’re looking for—the
blame will be on him, not me. They’ll assume
he’s
failing in
his duty, not the Quiet Man.”

The men’s smiles grew broader.

Shem began to grin as well. “The only thing
left to do is to send our own message back. Something vague so as
to not be dishonest, but something they’ll interpret as what they
want to hear.”

“How about, ‘Message received, Quite Man
understands’?” Dormin’s companion suggested.

Shem grinned. “Perfect! Can I leave the
delivery of that to the two of you?”

“May take a few days to find a contact,”
Dormin told him, “because they’re just reentering the forests
again, but we can take care of it.”

“Good,” Shem said.

“Uh, Shem?” Dormin’s companion started
hesitantly, “what about the
other
problem?”

Shem exhaled and rubbed his chin. “Working on
it. Right now I’m just watching, but I have a feeling he won’t be
as troublesome as we fear.”

“But he
could
be, Shem. Remember that;
there’s a great deal that he knows, and someday he just might slip
up.”

“Message received,” Shem said soberly. “Quiet
Man understands. Well then, I suppose it’s time for me to get back
and teach my recruits a thing or two about identifying
Guarders.”

---

Mahrree was grateful to see Rector Yung
coming up the road. She’d been sitting on the front porch with her
children, thumbing through a collection of old army books, setting
some out to sit overnight to try to remove some of their musty
smell before they were donated to the fort.

But what they were really doing was avoiding
the house. Something
had
died in there.

It wasn’t just the wilting flowers that gave
the effect—flowers that Mahrree intended to throw out into the
front garden before bed. But it was the heavy mood that accompanied
Perrin when he lifted out High General Shin’s sword. They all felt
it, and they all avoided talking about it. Perrin still hadn’t come
back down, and Mahrree hadn’t dared to go upstairs.

Rector Yung turned at their gate and came up
the walk, looking at the dying flowers. “Was lovely at first,” he
said softly. “But now . . . maybe not such a good idea.”

“It’s all right,” Mahrree assured him. “My
neighbors across the road were going to let their goat in here in
the morning to clear it all out.”

Yung nodded and stopped on the stairs to
evaluate the dozens of books laid out as if on display. “From the
Shins?” he asked reverently.

Mahrree nodded, Jaytsy sniffed, and Peto
cleared his throat.

Mahrree looked deliberately at her children
and said, “Would the two of you see what else is in the crate while
I chat with the rector?”

There was nothing left in the crate—they’d
unloaded the rest of the books, Relf’s old uniforms, and Joriana’s
hats already—but her children knew how to take a hint.

After they had gone into the house, Mahrree
sat on a step and patted next to her for Yung to sit down.

“How is he?” the rector asked as he joined
her.

“Surprisingly well, considering.”

“Shem filled me in a bit on their little
adventure to Idumea,” Yung confessed, and gave her a significant
look.

“So what did Perrin
not
share with
me?”

Yung sighed, checked behind him to make sure
the door was secure, and said, “Did he mention sedation?”

A while later Mahrree held her head in her
hands, and Rector Yung patted her back in a grandfatherly way.

“He told me about half of all that,” she
whispered to Yung. “And not so many details about what happened in
the Conference Room. Or his reaction in the cellar. Or that it was
Kuman. Kuman!” Her head snapped up. “He made my dress! Well, now I
MUST let my mother slash it to shreds!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Shin. I wrestled with my
mind all afternoon if I should tell you all that Shem revealed to
me. I certainly don’t want to step in between a husband and a wife,
but when men like your husband experience all that he has—”

Mahrree turned to him. “What do you mean by
that?”

Yung studied the stairs he sat on, thinking
for the right words. “You said he seems to be doing surprisingly
well. Mrs. Shin, I’ve been a rector for a very long time. I know
men. Perrin shed a few tears, felt some comfort, and now that he’s
home again he’s going to think it’s all over. He misses his
parents, but believes he’s finished mourning. He hasn’t.”

Mahrree bobbed her head back and forth.
“Well, of course not. When I lost my father, I went up and down for
many moons, so I can—”

“You can relate, yes Mrs. Shin,” Yung cut her
off gently and put a hand on her shoulder. “But he
thinks
he’s over it. I just want to warn you, when a man thinks he’s over
something, he refuses to deal effectively with it when it rears up
again and surprises him.”

Mahrree’s shoulders sagged. “What does that
mean, exactly?”

“Men in the army deal with violence and death
frequently, and know that on any day they may face it. That creates
a heightened state of alertness. Does your husband ever seem
tense?”

Mahrree scoffed. “A better question would be,
does he ever seem
not
to be tense?”

Yung nodded slowly. “A mind can handle only
so much of that, Mrs. Shin, and only for so long. Something like
this can . . . push him too far.”

“Meaning?” She was starting to grow
anxious.

And Yung could tell. With great compassion in
his eyes he said, “This might be the berry that breaks the
bear.”

Completely bewildered she asked, “What in the
world are you talking about?”

Yung frowned. “They don’t have that
expression here?”

Mahrree’s blank look answered that
question.

“Guess it’s a Flax and Waves story,” said
Yung apologetically. “You see, years ago some teenagers went to the
berry fields near the edge of a forest. The wild blackberries were
ripe and they went to have a little feast and enjoy the sunshine.
Further down they noticed a bear, also enjoying the berries and the
sun, but far enough away that the bear didn’t pay them any
attention. During the course of the afternoon, the teens and the
bear drew closer together, until one of the young men decided to
toss a berry at the bear. He hit the animal on his back which
didn’t bother him.

“Well, you know young men: it became a
contest, and despite the warnings of the girls they were trying to
impress, three boys tossed more and more berries at the bear, a few
even hitting him on the snout, which made him snarl briefly, but
wasn’t enough to distract him from his gorging.