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Meravelle shook her head. “Grandfather says a defender can’t leave the Craedenza foundation stone while there remains a threat to the Craedenza.”
Wringing her hands together, Raelene moved to get a better view. Indeed, Vindrake’s fighters had remounted and were riding back from where they came. Standing alone on the edge of the porch, the boy still held the strangely-patterned green sack, which appeared to be all but empty.
“Can we not go out and tend the wounded since we can’t bring the oath-bound back to the healing house?” Raelene asked.
Mera blinked back tears as her mind grasped the truth of the situation. “No, we can’t. Should we attempt to treat them on the foundation stone, we would likely be bound by
their spilt blood. Grandfather warned me I couldn’t stand with him to defend the Craedenza, told me I might become oath-bound, though I didn’t believe him at the time.”
The boy clutched the sack against his chest, pointing at the decimated Craedenza defenders, who remained on the foundation stone, frantically tending to the wounded and weeping for the dead. “Are those the oath-bound?”
“Yes, Markaeus,” Raelene answered.
In a flash, Marakaeus was gone, scurrying toward the Craedenza defenders, ignoring Raelene’s protesting cry.
“Markaeus! Come back!”
Raelene made a move to chase the impetuous boy, but Mera grasped her wrist, holding her back as he climbed the steps to the foundation rock. “You mustn’t risk yourself unless you wish to remain in Craedenza for the rest of your life. Surely the boy is too young to be bound.”
“Are you certain?”
Meravelle sighed, wishing for once she had the moral latitude to tell a small lie.
“No... not beyond all doubt.”
Hopping up and down, Markaeus attracted the attention of one of the few defenders still standing, opening his odd bag and pointing inside. The woman, a weathered-looking archivist known as Lasselle, shook her head, with a wide gesture indicating the dead and wounded oath-bound. Then she pointed a craggy finger at Meravelle, and sent him back.
With a doubtful pout on his face, he returned, and Mera sagged with relief. As she’d hoped, the Craedenza did not bind him.
Stopping an arm’s length away, he lifted his chin and asked, “Are you Meravelle?”
“Yes.”
“Are you oath-bound?”
“No.”
His brows furrowed, and he backed a step away. “Then you can’t be trusted.”
“Markaeus,” Raelene scolded, “you’re being disrespectful. Meravelle is entirely trustworthy, and you’re rude to say otherwise.”
“But Kaevin said the scroll would only be safe with an oath-bound.”
“What scroll?” asked Raelene.
“An important one.” He edged farther back, looking ready to bolt.
“We must deal with it later. At the moment, we have wounded coming,” Meravelle pointed down the lane where a wagon approached, laden with injured villagers. “It seems Vindrake’s men also attacked other parts of Glaenshire.”
“What’s more, I hear the sound of drums announcing the return of the Water Clan horsemen,” said Raelene, craning her head the other direction.
Mera still needed to deal with the boy and his scroll.
“Young sir? Your name is Markaeus?” Mera inquired, with a polite bow.
“Yes.” He turned his head, watching her from the corner of his eye.
“Well, Markaeus, since you’ve already walked safely on the Craedenza foundation after blood was shed in its defense, you can simply return and store your scroll inside the Craedenza. The doors are locked, but of course that will not deter you. When this battle ends, if any oath-bound remain, you can place it in their custody. And if not, it will still be safer in the Craedenza than any other place.”
