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The smell of stewed beef and cornbread drifting from the canteen has Silas eagerly anticipating his late supper. It is a great thing to expect—he is assured of the fact that he will receive all the food he requires, not just for survival, but for satisfaction. However, the quiet joy rippling in his heart at this moment comes from another source entirely.
Russandol is here, and Russandol is well, if somewhat weary from the road.
“Did you see him?” Silas asks Sanchez, a young vaquero with sharp eyes and a quick, easy tendency for comradery.
Sanchez has a partiality for paint horses and poker, and he has been kind enough to teach Silas a few strategies that will allow him to occasionally challenge Wister at the card table—a stepping stone on Silas’ mission to prove himself a worthy rival to Ames. Silas considers Sanchez a friend. Though they are not as close as Silas is with Henrik, he likes the man, and stands with him now at the pump as they wash their hands of Doriath’s dust.
“Did you see him?” Silas repeats, because his friend seems preoccupied by the way the pump has begun to stick on the downward swing.
“Sí,” Sanchez replies, smiling a little as he drops his weight on the iron handle, forcing it to work as it should. “I was with Reyes when he met the party at the border. Your friend is perhaps not so tall as you have just claimed.”
“Well, no one can rival Don Thingol,” Silas says hastily. “But Russandol—come, what did you think of him?”
Silas, remembering the order of his loyalties as well as Haleth’s words of caution, has said little enough to Doriath-folk of the man who threw himself into torture for Haldar’s sake, who helped free the slaves under Gothmog’s cruel watch. Still, he has mentioned him by name to more than a few vaqueros. He refuses to let sacrificial bravery go un-honored.
Sanchez dries his hands on a faded red neckerchief. Then he picks up his beloved new rifle from where it leans against the pump and runs his hand absently over the breech block, looking at Silas with a considering expression.
“It would be foolish to look at any caballo for only a moment and call it safe, no?”
Silas raises his chin.
“We aren’t discussing horses,” he says, “and I’m not asking you to declare a set opinion. I only want to know what you think.”
Sanchez’ mouth and eyes relax—he is smiling again.
“Facíl,” he says. “I think he cannot be a vicious man, to have a Silas stand behind him.”
The compliment leaves Silas unprepared to defend himself from the swift flick of a neckerchief, but he doesn’t mind. He is happy, now, quite grateful for many things, and should he wish to avenge himself upon Sanchez he has all the time in the world.
~
Silas’ excitement over Russandol’s unexpected visit does not last long— Bartolomé reveals that a master of hell is also here, sitting in the hacienda, at Thingol’s own table.
The knowledge bites like a whip, and Silas stares down at the dismantled pieces of his gun where it lies amid cleaning rags.
Melkor Bauglir is no Gothmog, crushing all before him with the brute strength of a bull and all the care thereof, but he is his own particular kind of devil. He is cruel, cunning, and delights in pain.
Animals, in Silas’ experience, are rarely malicious of their own accord—even the plantation dogs Silas feared as a child were only vicious because they were trained to be so. However, if the monster lurking in Doriath were any sort of creature, he would be a carrion-consuming snake, a gaping brown-banded cottonmouth who might not always kill with his poison but who still wields enough power to destroy a person.
Silas once knew a woman bit on the ankle whose skin blistered and withered away. Silas knows Russandol, and how he came down from the Mountain covered in scars from the most malicious of venoms. The woman lost her foot, and eventually her life—Russandol lost a hand. He shouldn’t have to lose anything else. Not his life, not his cousins, not his freedom.
All these are too dear.
Silas passes word to Miles, the leader of the rest of the traveling party, finding him in the largest of the longhouses in quiet conversation with a man named Wheeler, his second. Wheeler’s dark skin is not as weathered as some of the vaqueros who are always out in the sun, but he still seems like someone experienced in the danger and hardships of the world. Maybe it is the way he doesn’t immediately ask a host of questions about Bauglir and Russandol, or maybe it is simply the way he runs his thumb over his mustache, thoughtful-like.
Silas never really spoke with Wheeler in the brief periods of time he was in Mithrim, but maybe one day, when matters are less pressing, he will have a chance to befriend the man.
As it is, Silas has responsibilities to see to. He returns to his own longhouse, where dwell Haleth’s people when they are about. There, he seeks out the few of his former companions in thralldom who also remained behind when the rest of the Haladin went away. He manages to suppress his own unease, to encourage them with reports of Russandol’s well-being and with bright words of their own safety in Doriath: “Don Thingol has made his agreements with Haleth—he would be a fool to break with her.”
After this, he tries to rest. He scarcely sleeps that night, worried for himself, worried more for brave Russandol who must withstand first whatever storm Bauglir has brought with him.
Tossing and turning in his bunk, Silas tells himself over and over that Haleth would not have left him behind in Doriath if she thought that Thingol did not consider himself bound to protect her people. He tells himself over and over that Haleth would not have allied herself with Thingol if she thought he were the sort of person to hand anyone over to a proud, vicious slaver.
Finally, he takes a small, rough-hewn box from under his bunk. Inside are the letters he has received from Galadriel, and he runs the tip of his finger over the bold-scrawled ink.
I’ve been growing in Doriath, Silas once wrote to Galadriel, after a visit to Mithrim in a green month, when he had found Russandol yet alive and Finrod’s sister more sun-gold than he had recalled. I didn’t know I could.
You best keep it up, his new, ax-sharp friend replied. I refuse to strain my neck by looking down on you, so long as you remember I don’t like to look up to a man either. It’s vexing. Sometimes I can’t bear to be in the same room as Finrod, just so.
Silas doesn’t laugh tonight, as he did upon the first reading of these admonitions, but he does smile. He reads all of Galadriel’s matter-of-fact letters three times over, and in their dry, brilliant daylight, he can forget for a moment the teeth in the night, gnashing and hungry for pain.
In the morning, Reyes does not blame Silas for his silence, nor for the bloodshot eyes half-hidden away under his broad, soft-brimmed hat. He merely clasps Silas on the shoulder, to stop his pacing outside a dusty corral by the stables, and nods ever so slightly.
“This day is the same as every other day,” he says. “You work for Thingol, and you are free. Nothing will change that. For now, stay away from the hacienda, and see to your friends’ needs down at the guardhouse.”
Silas looks in the opposite direction of the guardhouse, up the slight hill toward the hacienda’s clay glowing pink and red in the light of dawn.
“Russandol is my friend,” he says quietly. “I’m worried for him.”
Reyes grunts and begins to walk away, the tail of his braid resting against the back of his brown leather vest, but suddenly he turns and pierces Silas with a look.
“Trust Señor Thingol,” he says. “He judges men as he sees them.”
That will do no good, Silas thinks, if Thingol has any sort of spot in his eye. It will do no good if Bauglir gets his fangs into Thingol, poisoning his mind against Russandol with dreadful lies.
Reyes leaves, returning to the hacienda, climbing the hill steadily, and Silas pretends that gives him comfort. Maybe it does. The idea that Reyes would stand by and let Bauglir harm Russandol, Thingol’s guest—well it just doesn’t hold water. It wouldn’t make sense.
On the other hand, Silas has known the master of Angband for a long, long time, and he knows the man’s abilities. When he wants something, or someone, he almost always gets his way. Almost always, except—Russandol has escaped him before, and dealt him great damage. Perhaps the red bird can fly from the snake one more time, perhaps the snake will find that the red bird is actually a hawk.
“I’m going mad,” Silas says out loud, taking off his hat and digging his fingers into his short, thick curls. He must be calm for Russandol, ready and strong. Panicking will do no one any good.
“Just hold on,” he mutters, approaching the fence in front of him, clutching the rough wood like it has the durability of iron, like it cannot be chopped or burnt or blown over by a powerful storm. “Just hold on.”
The sun grows from a sliver against the horizon to half a circle, and Silas wakens from worry into half a plan. He will work in the stables, today, as much as possible. There is a chance that his friend or one of the cousins will come see to the horses, and then Silas can speak to him and ask what the rest of the plan shall be.
He doesn’t know if Russandol will call upon him for aid, but Silas would give it unasked for, as Russandol offered himself up for Haldar. Bauglir shall burn nothing and no one ever again—certainly not one of the bravest men Silas has ever met.
~
Silas’ decision to keep vigil in the stables works in his favor far sooner than he hoped. Midmorning has not arrived before one of his frequent glances out of a stable window rewards him with the sight of a party approaching from the hacienda, and there, flanked by his cousins, walks the stooped, slow-moving figure of Russandol himself.
He is alive, and—oh the relief Silas did not know he was craving, to see his friend walking free and unharmed!
Still, not everything is well. Bauglir walks unhindered also, in a sombrero of all things, with Mairon skulking beside him, and Silas has all sorts of last night’s worries springing back to life in his heart.
He didn’t know the hunter was with Bauglir—instinctively, he tries to make out the man’s belt, as if he would dare enter Doriath with his typical trophies swinging from it, dipped in the dried blood of his victims.
It isn’t such an absurd thought. He’s seen countless horrific things, both as Bauglir and Gothmog’s thrall in the west and as his old master’s back east. Mairon is just as vicious a manhunter as any other Silas has known, only he doesn’t limit himself to runaway slaves.
The group is close enough now to see all clearly, to see that Bauglir must have put constraints on Mairon’s wildness, but Silas cannot watch anymore.
Clenching his teeth, ignoring the tingling of the blood running through his veins, Silas shakes off all fear for himself and makes a sudden decision. Long used to acting as unobtrusive as possible, he fades into the shadows, avoiding the sun streaming through the long stable’s many windows, the dust motes that laze visibly in the air. He passes Russandol’s horse, Alexander, and the horses of all his company. Then, finding a door in the back, he nods at the whistling vaquero bringing water buckets in from the pump and slips out himself.
He will wait for just the right moment.
The moment comes—he exchanges a few short words with Russandol. After, Silas hides in an empty stall, spreading fresh new straw, until there is no chance that his former master could turn on his horse and see even Silas’ dark silhouette against the hazy September sky. Silas rests his cheek against the thick wooden handle of his pitchfork and breathes deeply.
“Hold steady,” Russandol had said to him, so quietly that Silas had to guess rather than to hear. Hold steady, and that was all. No command to fight or rescue or escape.
Thinking hard, Silas sets his jaw and descends to the guardhouse. There, he delivers his messages, the one commanded and the one that Russandol did not have time to utter.
“There are soldiers outside of Doriath,” he tells Miles and Wheeler, bringing them ill news for the second time in as many days. There is another man with them today, a smith named Azaghal, who Miles does not motion away when Silas asks for a moment.
With effort, Silas does not twist his hat in his hands—he keeps his shoulders pulled back, his chin up. “They are Bauglir’s, but they will not enter if Thingol can prevent it.”
Silas pulls them to the side, to sit at one of the tables where the guards take their meals. There are but a few guards about, and none stand near enough to hear, but Silas still smiles as though he were only asking after their comfort.
Miles frowns darkly, Wheeler crosses his arms, and Azaghal begins to ask questions. Silas shakes his head.
“Keep heart but do nothing yet,” he says. “Russandol does not want action now—he must have a plan he is working through. He’s ridden out with Thingol and Bauglir in a large party. We’ll know what’s what soon enough.” He almost expects an argument, or at least further inquiry, but the men before him exchange solemn glances and nod.
“We’ll wait,” Miles says, “as long as may be wise.”
And that is what they do, wait, as the day drags on, from hot morning to sweltering afternoon. Silas, in speaking of Mithrim with Miles and Wheeler, finds it easier than he expected. Perhaps it is that he has grown in confidence, perhaps it is that they clearly regard Russandol with respect.
He begins by asking after Gwindor and after Belle, who now goes by Estrela. Then he asks about the children, the sneaking dark-haired boy who never spoke, and the brittle, blond girl who snapped and cringed at turns. Frog and Sticks, although Galadriel had informed him in a letter that Frog had a new name.
“Amlach is a mischievous scamp,” Miles says, “liable to get underfoot.” The very faintest hint of a smile crosses his face, and then he turns his pipe in his hands and continues. “I have spoken little with him, and less with the girl, but we all have seen her order Maedhros’ youngest brother around, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Not a soul begrudges the children their willful ways.”
Miles pauses as Homer wanders by, complaining about the quality of his bedroll to anyone who will listen, and then he glowers after the man as he latches onto an unsuspecting vaquero. There are a limited number of bunks in this guardhouse, large though it is, and most of Russandol’s party did not make a fuss about sleeping on the floor. Most of them.
Homer has never exactly asked for a bunk, according to Wheeler, but he does talk an awful lot about various aches and pains. Makes quite a few implications regarding poor hospitality.
Silas almost says, “He reminds me of Lem, just a little,” but these recent companions of Russandol’s never knew the ill-tempered man, and anyhow, it doesn’t seem like a decent comparison. Even Lem had a sort of backbone, after all. Homer doesn’t seem to have much more than a persistent tongue.
The conversation resumes. Wheeler asks if there are any children in Doriath, and suddenly Silas is struck by the fact that several children, including a curious eight-year-old missing her front teeth, live with their families on homesteads in Doriath some two miles to the west of the main house.
These families are not large, but the mothers and fathers in them till their own plots of land, grow their own food and small livestock, and work from time to time in Thingol’s fields and orchards when the season or weather demands it. They are farmers and weavers, and their children are free. Silas does not often have occasion to interact with them, but the little girl Juanita sometimes follows her mamá to visit the longhouses to greet all the guards, cowhands, and fieldhands, and to deliver bolillos and fresh herbs to the cook.
She sometimes comes to the longhouses.
Bauglir is riding about, getting the lay of the land, no doubt drinking in every stone, field, and flower with greedy eyes. Mairon is in Doriath too. Mairon the hunter and flayer, who has no pity for age or innocence.
Shuddering, berating himself for not thinking of the children earlier, Silas begs pardon of Miles and Wheeler and hastens to find Reyes, or anyone who might send him word. For all he knows, Reyes is still out riding with Thingol and Russandol.
“Sanchez,” he cries, upon sighting his friend leading a saddled horse out of the stables.
Sanchez pauses and turns sharply, the tilt of his head betraying confusion over the note of desperation in Silas’ voice. The mare stamps her feet at being drawn up so abruptly.
Silas hurries forward. He can only see little Juanita, can only think of the way she skips about in her bright red skirt as if life were a surety and a joy. He thinks of her happy laughter when Mablung and Beleg brought her pretty feathers and colorful stones from their last long journey, and he is mortally fearful that, if things go very wrong, he might one day hear her suffering as well.
Frog and Sticks would have died if Russandol had not gone back to save them.
“Sanchez,” Silas calls again, stumbling to a stop, and his friend hums a questioning reply. His horse snorts loudly, and Sanchez calms her with a hand on her soft nose.
“The children,” Silas says. “Juanita and her mother, they shouldn’t leave their homes. Not while Bauglir is here.”
“They won’t,” Sanchez replies, much too calmly. How can he know?
Shaking his head, Silas tries not let his imagination run wild. He doesn’t want Bauglir and Mairon to get even a glimpse of little Juanita, of anyone who belongs to the hard-working families living upon Doriath’s land. They’re supposed to be safe here.
Everyone is supposed to be safe here.
“The one called Mairon,” Silas manages to say, tongue thick in his throat. “He’s dangerous. He’d hurt anyone he could—”
“The families have been warned to stay away from the hacienda for now,” Sanchez says, briefly gripping one of Silas’ arms with his free hand. “I took them the message myself, before any of the visitors arrived. No need to worry, amigo.”
The soft, reassuring tone of his voice reminds Silas of how Sanchez soothes a frightened colt, and it reminds him of the first month when Silas had arrived in Doriath. He used to flinch if spoken to abruptly by anyone who wasn’t Haladin, but Sanchez always took great care to be inoffensive, until Silas grew more comfortable and could stand boisterous voices and friendly jests.
“I—I see,” Silas says at last. “I suppose I should have realized.”
Sanchez only smiles, switching his horse’s lead from one hand to the other. “Está bien,” he says. “We are all on edge. But if it would help, come share my watch with me—I have been ordered to protect the very people for whom you fear.”
It is a kind offering, a way to ease Silas’ own tumbled-up mind.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, for while he knows Russandol would be just as concerned about the children, he also does not feel right leaving Russandol’s men to themselves, without an ally. However, upon a quick conference with Miles, in which he warns him of Mairon, Silas finds his conscience soothed.
He eats a little, finds some coffee to take with him in case the watch runs late into the night, and saddles his horse. He rides out after his friend, and as he leaves, he can see Thingol’s riding party returning in the bright, afternoon distance.
It is well that he does not go to the guardhouse that night, remaining instead with Sanchez till mid-morning, taking turns in waking and sleeping, for at some point the guardhouse has received a new guest.
“Mairon is in there now,” Reyes says bluntly, stopping Silas outside the guardhouse when he returns to check in on Russandol’s men. He looks a little tired, his broad shoulders pulled back more stiffly than usual. He looks like he is examining every inch of Silas’ face, like he expects him to argue or dart forward in concern.
Silas hold himself steady, clamping down on the multitude of fears that cry out from inside him. He thinks of Haleth, of what she would say, and do. He thinks of the respect he has for Reyes, and how Mairon has no respect for anyone.
After a moment, Silas says, “Señor Thingol would not want his guests to be harmed.”
“Nor do I,” Reyes reassures him, dark eyes serious. “For this reason, I have the hunter under the strictest watch.” Go to the stables—I shall send your friends there within the hour, where you may prowl about as you please, and have the better charge of their safety. After this, they will move to one of the other buildings. Perhaps where the Haladin usually sleep. ”
Silas carefully keeps his mind and hand away from the pistol resting at his hip. Reyes is doing his best. Silas must do his. That means thinking like Russandol as well as Haleth, keeping the peace, waiting patiently even when danger breathes hotly in your face.
He goes to the stables, as instructed, but when Miles and the rest arrive, he does not sit with them for long, or walk with them among their horses. Instead, after reassuring them that they will be settled away from Mairon, he sets himself to restacking the woodpile at the side of the barn.
From there, he has a good line of sight on the guardhouse. Just in case.
~
In the shadow hours of the following morning, Silas sits on a bench in the longhouse where Russandol's men sleep, inhaling the steam from a cup of coffee the like of which he is still grateful to have.
There are guards about—men who Silas trusts, as far as intentions go, and skills almost the same—but Bauglir’s hunter walks among them now, just down the way, and Russandol remains under the same roof as Bauglir. Night and day alike are uncomfortable—all action is done on pins and needles.
He has now spent long hours with Miles and Wheeler and conversed with all the men Russandol brought with him, liking them more or less (Homer is the less). He does not know how well they can fight, if it comes to it, and whether the former thralls living in Doriath who have promised Russandol their loyalty will make much of a difference.
The knowledge of Bauglir’s soldiers troubles him, and he wishes that Mablung and Beleg were not still in Mexico, because he has been in Doriath long enough to be familiar with their cunning and reliability in dangerous situations.
He cannot but be lonely in his worries, and the only small consolation he has is that Henrik is far away and safe with Haleth. Silas doesn’t want Henrik anywhere near Bauglir’s company.
On that score however—if only the rest of the Haladin would come back unexpectedly, Silas would feel more assured of the outcome of these passing days.
As it is, he is the sole Haladin present who has has any training with guns, and thus he feels the burden of acting for the safety of all.
Now, with rain falling heavily on the roof, creating a steady low rumble, Silas worries that a monster cannot be contained indefinitely.
He says as much to Francisco, a weathered little vaquero who followed Mairon around for most of the day before and who now sits in the shadows opposite Silas, rolling a cigarette.
Francisco sticks the cigarette in between his dry lips and nods once. Campfire tales last spring had often revolved around the vaquero’s past life, and though Wister and Henrik doubt that he had slain quite so many mountain lions or truly survived more than two weeks in the hottest and cruelest region of the Mojave desert, Silas isn’t so sure.
He’s lived long enough under the rule of brutes, among fiends and cowards, to recognize true, natural courage when he sees it.
Francisco mumbles something in Spanish, but when Silas tilts his head, he says, in English only slightly more intelligible, “No worry. Man is animal. He bites, I kill. Or you kill.” Another nod, and a puff of smoke when he takes his cigarette from his mouth.
Silas has never killed a man before, but for Russandol and Russandol’s people, for all the former slaves who have sought shelter and a good life in Doriath’s lands, and for children like Frog, Sticks, or Juanita—he thinks he could do it now without hesitation.
Would Haldar know him if he saw him today?
~
Time passes slowly. Silas waits and works and guards, ready always for a signal to act, until the warm earthy evening when Reyes tells him to meet him behind the stables.
He does so, and is overjoyed to see Bartolomé standing at Reyes’ side, blinking nervously into the setting sun. In the corral next to them, a barn cat perches on the edge of a water trough, and a chestnut horse nickers at it.
“Oh, you haven’t gone,” Silas says, wildly grateful that Bartolomé had been wrong about being dismissed from Doriath’s service. He didn’t know what the young man had done to warrant Thingol or Reyes’ displeasure, but he owes him much for bringing him the news of Bauglir.
“I—I suppose not,” Bartolomé says, clasping his hand with the air of one who has escaped a terrible fate but cannot explain his own luck. “At least, not until today.”
Silas tilts his head, confused, but before he ask any questions, Reyes interrupts rather gruffly.
“I’ve already told you that are not being thrown out,” he says, and Silas has lived in this land long enough that his brain supplies the exasperated Dios mio that Reyes does not utter. Reyes seems on the edge of his patience, his words and brow both pulled tight.
“Your mission this night,” Reyes continues, staring straight at Bartolomé, “is in Doriath’s service. Think on that, rather than any past mistakes.” Finally, he turns to Silas. “You will join Bartolomé in a party of some twenty other men—pack lightly, and when darkness falls, you will leave with them in secret.”
Silas feels the command tug faintly at his life-long instincts, a wind to blow him where it will, but he is no rag, flag, sail, or sheet. He is his own, and he does not bend his back or his neck or the pride he was never allowed to have before, back there.
He stands eye to eye with Reyes, clad in a shirt of the same good quality as every vaquero on the ranch, and the dust in his dark curls will not have to wait weeks or months for the chance of clean water to wash it away.
He has his own horse, and he wears his own gun when he rides the borders of Doriath. Haleth gave him these, for she cares for her Haladin well, but Reyes is the one who gives him responsibilities on the ranch. Silas, judged and approved, trusts Thingol’s right hand to give him as much of the truth as he can, unshaded by lies.
Silas opens his mouth and says something he once would not have dared to ask when he was a slave torn from his little sister in the east, or a stumbling waterboy pacing one of Bauglir’s failed cattle ranches, or the grieving friend of Haldar, crying only in the night to evade cruel overseers.
“Why?” he asks. It is a demand, and then, because he must make his position clear, he says, “I cannot leave Russandol here alone. I won’t.”
Slowly, Reyes draws out an oilskin packet tucked behind his vest. “Your Russandol will not be alone,” he says. “Indeed, this journey you make will be for his sake—he has spent a long time writing out letters to Mithrim, and he requires a messenger whom he can trust to deliver them safely, to the right people.”
Letters? Written by Russandol? Silas had not been aware that his friend could do such a thing, hampered as he was by the loss of his right hand.
“Who are they for?” he asks, “What do they say? Has Thingol come to an agreement with Russandol, have they formed an alliance against Bauglir?”
Reyes holds up a hand, and the wrinkles around his eyes pull tighter as he frowns.
“I have not read them,” he says, “nor shall anyone for whom they are not meant. Maedhros Feanorian was very clear on that, and I presume his trust in you will not be broken.”
A long time ago, Silas lived in a world where trust was not something given to him. He had been a slave, then, and his obeisance could only be gained through cruelty, through fear. From the day Russandol burned down the thrall camp, however, his life had changed.
Now he is ever free, ever Haladin, ever eager to help his friends.
“Of course it won’t,” he says, the rays of the setting sun resting warmly upon his dark skin, resting red like fire on the ground all about. “Russandol knows I will do whatever he asks.”