Synry
Episode Eight
Synry stood at the Captain's door, and checked his clothing over once more. Bran, riding on his shoulder, nibbled at his ear.
You look fine. Just knock.
Synry knocked. The Captain opened the door, and smiled at him.
"Synry. Welcome. I'm glad you could make it. Come in, come in. Dinner's almost ready." As Synry stepped across the threshold, the Captain gave Bran a strange look. Synry caught it, flushed red, and sent a quick thought to Bran to wait for him outside. Bran launched himself back out the door with a squawk, and took up a post on the roof of the cottage. Feeling nearly naked, Synry followed the Captain into the sitting room.
The room was like nothing Synry had experienced. It was much finer than the common room back on the farm, but homier than the Wizard chambers in the Duke's castle. There was evidence of money spent to decorate it, but always an eye to comfort and presentability. A few chairs were grouped before the fire, with low tables beside them, and the lamps that hung from the ceiling showed off the textured paintings on the plaster of the walls. He gaped for a while, trying to imagine what it would be like to live in a place like this, to have it for himself, coming and going as he pleased. He couldn't even begin to guess what it might be like. Nice, certainly.
Awake and aware, boy.
Bran's intruding thought brought him back to himself. The Captain was looking at him expectantly. Obviously, he had just been asked a question. With no idea what had been asked, Synry fell back on the safe answer he had learned in basic training.
"Yes, Cap'n," and then, as he remembered his manners, "If ye please."
The Captain smiled and turned away. Obviously he'd answered correctly. When the Captain turned back, it was to hand Synry a flagon of wine. Synry stared at it, not used to drinking anything but water, milk, and beer, and sampled it carefully. It was less sweet than he expected it to be, from the grapes he had eaten, with a strange sourness that lingered on his tongue. He felt the kick, though, stronger than beer.
"So, Synry, tell me. How are things going at the castle?"
"Fine enough, Cap'n." The Captain continued to stare at him, and Synry realized that more was expected. "Working with tinctures this week. Boiling down wortel sap, and infusing it with brimstone. Add a few drops to mineral water, and it forms the suspension for growing your tindertwig crystals. That's what we be doing next week."
"Excellent. So you're keeping busy."
"Aye, Cap'n." Again, the pause felt awkward and unpleasant. "And how're things back in the ranks, Cap'n?"
The details of the lives of the soldiers were apparently of great interest to the Captain, and Synry was able to relax as they were laid out for his inspection. All he needed to do was make the occasional grunt of encouragement, and the Captain continued to expound on the day-to-day happenings amongst Synry's former company.
After half an hour of this, a voice from behind Synry said, "Dinner's ready. Let's come to the table."
Synry stood quickly, nearly spilling his wine as he spun around. Standing in a curtained doorway was an older woman, smiling gently at him. He turned a bright red when he saw the hint of amusement in her eyes.
The Captain stood behind him, and said, "Synry, this is my wife, Marita. Marita, this is the young man I told you about."
"I'm very pleased you could join us for dinner, Synry."
All he could do was squeeze a tight, "Thank you, Mum," past the terror in his throat. He hadn't realized there would be anyone but the Captain here.
Of course he has his wife with him. What did you expect?
Don't rightly know. Never thought of it, is all.
As the three of them gathered around the table, another joined them. This was a younger woman, a little younger than Synry himself, bearing an unmistakable resemblance to the Captain and his wife.
"Synry, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Alirin. Alirin, Synry has recently left my company to be trained as a Wizard."
"Alirin made the soup herself, Synry. She's turning into quite a cook."
Synry smiled politely at Alirin as she ducked her head and blushed prettily. At least, he intended it to be a polite smile, but he could feel the muscles in his cheeks tightening, pulling it into a terrible, wooden grin. He tried to cover his expression by taking a sip from his wineglass, but realized as he brought it to his lips that it was empty. He took a split second too long to take that in to be able to fake drinking, flushed bright red, and set the wine down. Marita, seeing his aborted attempt at drinking, quickly refilled his glass. Synry took a deep drink.
Dinner was much more lavish than Synry was used to. The bread and soup turned out to not be the entire meal, and it was followed with roast fowl, turnips, and a nut pastry for dessert. All through the meal, Marita and the Captain kept encouraging conversation between Synry and Alirin, much to Synry's discomfort. Alirin spoke easily enough, and was friendly enough, buy Synry could see disdain in her eyes whenever he tried to speak of something she might find interesting. Talk of the barracks made her shift nervously, while talk of his alchemical studies made her eyes glaze over, and talk of his magical training seemed to repulse her.
Finally, the meal was done, and Marita and Alirin stood to clear the dishes. The Captain led Synry back into the sitting room, and refilled his wineglass for the fourth – or was it fifth? – time. He sat Synry down near the fire, and leaned close.
"Look, Synry, lad, you don't have to try so hard. You're among friends here, you know. I just thought that, I don't know, you might like a little time in a real family. Not like the place I found you."
"Nought wrong with where I come from, Cap'n."
"Yes there is. You were treated as a slave. You were half-starved when we brought you here, and most figured you were an idiot. Those people took advantage of a young boy, worked him almost to death, and gave him no place in the family. Did you ever once sleep in the house? I thought not."
The wine was making it hard for Synry to keep up with what the Captain was saying. Of course they worked him hard. He'd been an unlooked-for burden on the family; the least he could do was earn his keep, as Gwillem always said. He'd never slept in the house, because there was scarcely room for the real children. He wasn't hugged and coddled like the real children, because he wasn't one of them. His parents were gone. How could he explain to the Captain that he still owed these people his respect and his gratitude?
"Might have been worse, Cap'n. Leastways, I lived through it."
"Yes, you did. I don't really know how, but you did."
"They fed me. I worked to earn me keep. And they couldn't touch me where I live, anyway."
"What do you mean?"
Synry felt the grin steal over his face, the smile made broad and sloppy by the amount of wine he had drunk. He tapped his temple four or five times, and winked laboriously.
"I just lived in here, Cap'n. In me own head. Things get too bad, I just go inside where it's nicer. Nought can touch me there."
The Captain looked hard at him for a few moments, then nodded and sighed. "That's just not healthy, though, lad. You need to learn how to fit in with other people. Normal people. A family." His voice trailed off as he gestured helplessly, trying to convey something inexplicable to Synry.
He thinks he's responsible for you. He took you from that place, from a life that he thinks was cruel and wrong, and he wants to keep saving you until you're saved all the way. He wants you to be like someone who grew up somehow else.
Not possible, thought Synry. Can't change who I am, and can't even make me want to be someone else. But he knew that the Captain wouldn't understand that he could only survive by staying who he was, by hanging on to his origins. He looked pleadingly into the Captain's eyes for another minute, and he knew that his whole soul was on his face for a moment, a desperate longing that the Captain would probably misinterpret. Bran understood, but no one listened to the bird but Synry himself. And no one listened truly to Synry but Bran.
The moment passed, and Synry had control of his face again. But the Captain required an answer.
"Family, Cap'n? Don't rightly think that's for such as me. Just a soldier, after all."
"And a Wizard. And a man."
Synry shrugged. "Maybe. Still working for someone else, though. The Duke, Gwillem, the Wizards, they all take charge. And I just live in here," he finished, tapping his head again.
"But that's not... It's not right, Synry."
The silly grin came back, sliding over his face without his volition. "Cap'n knows I ain't right in the head. Gwillem said so."
There was nothing to say after that, and soon Synry was walking carefully back to his bed in the Wizards' workshop in the castle. Bran was quiet, for a change, letting Synry sort through what had happened that evening. He knew that, in some unknown way, he had disappointed the Captain, and he felt sorry about that for some reason he couldn't identify. Maybe it would make sense when he sobered up.
