A Fire of Roses

by Melinda R. Cordell

  4

  An Audience with the King

  Gefjun’s eyes went wide. This was King Varinn? The man who killed gentle Thora, the queen’s daughter?

  King Varinn smiled then, as if relishing the shock on her face. “I see where your allegiance lies.” He turned to the woman he called Hedgehog. “Take this young lady up to the guest quarters and have her cleaned up. I will call for her later this afternoon. Pass this message along to the matron.”

  Hedgehog bowed. “Aye. Right this way,” she told Gefjun.

  “No,” Gefjun said. “One of my friends here is dying—will die if I am not there to care for him. He has a head wound and is in very bad shape.”

  King Varinn nodded. “I would not do this for any other prisoner. But I do this to honor the woman that you resemble so closely.” He added to the commander, “See that we get a healer down to the prisoners and have them treat the injury on … who is it?”

  Gefjun pointed out Ragnarok. “It’s him.”

  “Husband? Lover? Brother?” King Varinn asked.

  Gefjun frowned. What business was it of his? “A dear friend.” Not meaning to, she smiled at the memory of the duel they fought. Then she wiped the smile from her face and scowled.

  “It shall be done.”

  The commander bowed.

  Gefjun followed her up into the great castle of the king, her guts churning. She would much rather have stayed with her friends and shared their griefs. She would have much rather stayed with Ragnarok. What if King Varinn was lying about sending a healer down to him? What if no healer ever came, and Ragnarok died? She’d just lost Rjupa, and Skeggi, and most of all Ostryg. How could she bear another loss?

  The grief came then, cutting hard through her, and she had to stop and lean against a wall. How many more? How many more would she have to lose before this nightmare was over? And that unbearable desolation came over her and left her feeling like a wisp in the void.

  “Madame?” said the commander.

  And that word, the one that Ostryg used to poke fun at Dyrfinna, brought back a rush of pain, brought back Ostryg lying in a pool of blood, his head split in two, and Dyrfinna standing over him with her bloody sword. How Gefjun lay on his bloodied chest and sobbed for his ruined face, his ruined eyes, his eyes that were once so beautiful, and now she could never sleep, never dream without seeing that awful scene. Every time she closed her eyes she saw it.

  “Please. Let me go back to the ships with my friends,” Gefjun gasped. “Please. I don’t want to do this.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s the king’s command.”

  “Don’t make me do this! Don’t!”

  “It will go much, much worse for ye if ye refuse ta obey,” the commander said.

  And so, alone, she followed the commander through lush, opulent places.

  When Gefjun walked through the gate into the plaza before the castle, her eyes opened widely.

  Despite her grief, she couldn’t help her amazement.

  She’d expected to see a barren courtyard before this castle.

  Instead she saw a marvel of beauty.

  The courtyard was carpeted with tiny blue flowers, with an occasional yellow and white flower. Shy little flowers bent their blue petals to look at the ground. Stately stone walks led to the grand oak doors of the castle, dotted with gold bosses and handles. On the edges of the courtyard, great oak trees grew up with gnarled branches reaching every which way, and tendrils of ivy greened their wide trunks.

  In the middle of the courtyard, flanking the path to the castle, stood tall pillars and arches over the path, each of which had lush climbing roses climbing up and cascading over the tops of the arches. And to her amazement, some of the roses bloomed.

  She’d thought it was too early in the year for roses, but here they were, pink and white, many petaled, drooping from the arches, letting fall their petals to blow gently around the walkways. The fragrance was heavenly.

  Gefjun breathed deeply, unable to get enough of the glorious scent. What were these roses? Why didn’t she have any roses like this in Skala?

  The commander nodded and followed Gefjun’s eyes to the roses. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “How do they bloom like this? What kinds of roses are these?”

  “King Varinn breeds roses,” she said. “He brought the hardiest o’ his roses with ’im from his grandparents’ home in north Africa. He’s been cross-breedin’ ’em with yer roses in order ta find ones that will bloom in this climate and survive the winters.”

  “Cross breeding? You can do that with roses?” Gefjun stared in fascination at the blossoms. “But nobody does that. When you plant rose seeds, all you get are little sad roses that don’t bloom.”

  “Back in north Africa, they’ve been breedin’ roses fer centuries. They ’ave whole fields filled with nothin’ but roses so they can harvest attar—their oil. It’s worth more than gold. Out back o’ the castle, he grows fields full o’ roses. He breeds the roses, gathers thousands o’ rose hips, then plants the seeds. He waits four years fer them ta grow up, and then chooses the best o’ those roses and breeds ’em back again. He plants ’undreds o’ roses a year, and o’ those ’undreds, maybe about ten o’ ’em have the blossoms and fragrance and beauty he’s lookin’ for. If they grow ta be weak or scraggly, he gets rid o’ those. Ye have ta grow a lot o’ roses ta maturity ta find the true diamonds among the sand.”

  “That’s … that’s insane!” Gefjun said.

  “He ’as high standards. And he has a lot o’ gardeners.”

  “He does all that work to grow a rose?”

  The commander gestured at the climbing roses. “Not a rose. Roses. Like these. King Varinn is a very, very patient man.” The commander studied a branch of roses, then used her knife to cut off a group of young blossoms, newly opened. She dexterously clipped off the thorns with her knife and handed it to Gefjun. “’ere. It must be frightenin’ ta be ’ere and naught ken what will happen next. Take this with ye. Maybe it will help ye feel a little better.”

  Gefjun buried her nose in the blossoms. They smelled like her mother’s roses, only a richer, heavier scent. It made her want to cry. She nearly threw the rose aside because she didn’t want to start blubbering like an idiot right here in front of the commander. Instead, she indulged in a memory when a wild boar tore Dyrfinna’s kirtle off, and she was able to control herself once again.

  The commander led her through opulent hallways of stone, lovely wall hangings festooning them, tables with vases filled with flowers, statues, all kinds of art for her eyes to enjoy. Much, much lovelier than the queen’s keep, which was more austere and … well, not decorated at all.

  “’ere is yer room,” said the commander, bowing her in. A matron came over, Moorish, with her hair tied up in indigo cloths and looking marvelous. Gefjun kept looking, trying to figure out how the woman did their hair in those complex patterns, trying to follow the weave of the cloth in and out of their hair like the leaping of a dolphin in the water.

  “I understand you are to have an audience with the king,” the matron said, coming forward.

  “She is,” the commander said. “Fix a bath fer her, and lay out some clean clothes.”

  “I don’t need a bath,” Gefjun said. “I’m just going to talk to him, right?”

  “Aye, but he ’as also asked fer ye ta be a guest ’ere,” the commander said before leaving.

  “What for?” Gefjun asked, but the door shut firmly behind her.

  “No fear,” said the matron, studying Gefjun’s face. “He only wants to talk to you. I can see why. But you are safe here.”

  “He’s the enemy of the queen, and therefore he’s the enemy of my people. He shouldn’t trust me.”

  “He’s not concerned about that with you. Come this way, please.”

  Gefjun followed. “And why is everybody looking at my face and making weird comments?”

  “Your discussion with the king might clear up any confusion,” the matron said, go
ing to the fire and pouring hot water out of a caldron into a large tub.

  After the matron left the room, Gefjun bathed in water that smelled like roses, and they gave her a white kirtle to wear with soft new boots and a wide piece of orange silk that they draped over one shoulder and tied around her waist. Gefjun looked at herself in a piece of glass and wondered how she could sew one for herself when she got home.

  If she ever got home.

  And her heart sank to the bottom of her chest with a thud like a stone. She slowly sat on the edge of an amazingly soft bed.

  What was going to happen to her?

  Her guts crawled; she wanted very much to throw up.

  The palace was beautiful, but she couldn’t stand the suspense. She just wanted to know, right now, what was going to happen to her, so she could prepare her heart and spirit for whatever horrifying end she was going to meet.

  Yes, she was clean and wearing nice clothes. But this was how they treated sacrifices to the gods. Or a new member of some king’s harem, where’d she’d have to pretend to enjoy the affections of every rotten-toothed man who smelled like arse.

  “No. Absolutely not,” she muttered.

  She was a prisoner of war–surrounded by luxury, but this was still war.

  Were they going to leave her alone with the king?

  She didn’t have her work knife any more, but she could still kill. Poisons. Choking. Magic.

  As distasteful as it was to her, she could use all her healing arts to kill. If she killed one king, she could end a war—and save so many more lives.

  And she could avenge poor, gentle Thora, who he’d killed.

  Then the matron appeared in her doorway. “Come with me, please.”

  Gefjun rose, her intentions crystallized, and followed.

  Whatever it takes.

  5

  Prisoner of War

  The matron led her into the orchard. Blossoming apples, pears, and peaches grew in rows. In the front of the orchard, on a small bench, sat King Varinn, who rose when she approached.

  His eyes weren’t red-rimmed now, as if he’d taken time to recover. Gefjun was in awe at the grandeur of his appearance. He had a white turban around his head, and he held in his hand a bricklike book with leaves of paper inside of it, which he shut as she approached. He gently laid the book aside.

  Though Gefjun was sullen at this man who had captured her and her friends, whose so-called warriors had flung her friends and the people she’d been caring for overboard to drown, she forced herself to do a curtsey. “Your majesty.”

  “Walk with me,” he said. “I promise to do you no harm. I only wish to talk to you.”

  “And then what?” she snapped. “Then what happens to me?”

  The king’s brows lowered ever so slightly, but otherwise his face remained impassive. “I cannot make any promises, except that I intend to treat you as fairly as possible.”

  The way your people treated Rjupa and Skeggi fairly? Gefjun wanted to snap. The way you treated Thora fairly, when she came to your house at your invitation, and you killed her? She managed to hold her tongue. People had been killed for saying less. She simply nodded. Then a lump filled her throat so tightly that she couldn’t have spoken, even if she’d tried.

  She walked with him through the trees. He strolled at her side, one sable hand wrapped around the book.

  “I need to ask you, first of all. Who are you? Where are you from? Who are your people?”

  How much should I tell him? Gefjun wondered, but could see no other way but to tell the truth. If she lied about who she was, it would come back to bite her.

  King Varinn was an imposing man. But Gefjun wasn’t about to be swayed by it. She was frightened, yet she carried herself tall, because one side of her refused to back down. One part of her scowled at him and shook her fist, and called him names under her breath.

  You squirrel head, she thought. You vulture barf. You son of a groundhog. Old insults she’d made up when she was a kid and everyone annoyed her.

  But outwardly, she was cool and quiet.

  “I’m Gefjun Ragnedottir of Skala,” she said smoothly. “My mother is an herbalist. My father was a soldier in the queen’s army until he lost his right arm, and now he takes care of my mama at home and has a business mending iron tools.”

  He looked at her keenly. “You look about sixteen years old.”

  “I’m eighteen.” You one-legged mountain goat, she added to herself.

  He shook his head a little. “So it’s not you. I thought you looked a little young.”

  “Who is this person that you think I look like?” I hope she comes back and kicks your sorry arse on my behalf.

  He looked into the pink blossoms of a cherry tree as they curved in the soft breeze, and a few petals drifted down. Gefjun had to admit, despite all her silent swearing, that this orchard, sight and smell, was heavenly.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t swear at this hammerhead halibut for taking my friends and I captive.

  “She is… somebody I knew a long time ago,” Varinn said quietly. “Not that long, to be honest. But it seems like it. I haven’t heard from her in about two years. But that was all on me. Not her.”

  “What is her name? Where is she from?”

  He hesitated, looked at Gefjun’s face, seemed to melt slightly. “Do you know any people from Brittany?”

  The name sounded familiar. “Is that in West Francia?”

  “Yes, though the Brittany kingdom wants to have as little to do with Francia as possible.”

  “I don’t think I know anyone from there.”

  His face fell.

  He looked so disappointed that she said, “I’m very sorry. I wish I could help you.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “But I can’t send you back with your friends.”

  “What?” Gefjun squawked. “Why not?”

  “Looked at you, dressed as you are, like a queen. You can’t go back with a bunch of stinking prisoners to live in the pens.”

  “Those so-called stinking prisoners are my people, my friends that I love dearly.”

  “All the same, I won’t send you back.”

  “I can take my old clothes and you can keep this dress. I’m fine with returning your dress and this jewelry. But I want to stay with my people.”

  He brought his hands together, palm to palm, and pressed them against his lips and shut his eyes for a moment.

  Then he opened them, fixing her with a serious gaze. “If I may be frank, I am not sure what to do with you. If I put you with the prisoners, there’s a chance you’ll be shipped out before I could intervene. And then I’ll have lost you a second time.”

  It was strange when he addressed her as if she were a woman that he knew intimately, even though they were complete strangers.

  “Lost you a second time? What do you mean by that? I have never seen you before in my life,” she asked.

  The king’s eyes hardened. Then she realized that her question had an edge on it. So what? It felt good to jab him back. The power wasn’t all his.

  “Every time I see you, I see the woman I lost, long ago,” he said. “But every time you speak, I realize that I am merely lying cruelly to myself. That will be all for today, Gefjun. Sóma will take you back to your quarters.”

  “With my people,” she insisted.

  “No, here in my castle. That will be all,” he added to Sóma, the matron, who nodded and gestured to Gefjun to follow her.

  “Oh, no. Send me to be with my friends,” she said. “I am not here for your pleasure.”

  Her words were biting, and she raised her head.

  King Varinn had not moved. “No, you are not here for my pleasure. That is very clear. All the same, you are an enemy prisoner of war. I will treat you fairly—for a time. It gives me joy to look upon your face. Perhaps it would be better to look upon your face … but only from a great distance.”

  Gefjun’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the king.

&
nbsp; “Did you just insult me?” she whispered.

  He bowed and turned away.

  But now she glimpsed the small volume in his hand.

  “Wait!” Gefjun squawked. “That’s Thora’s book! That book she carried with her and read all the time back in the old days!”

  King Varinn’s face changed as he stared into Gefjun’s face, shocked, and then down at the book, gently brushing his hand across its soft, worn cover of dark lambskin.

  “How dare you steal Thora’s book,” Gefjun hissed. “How dare you. After all you did to her. She was my friend.”

  His face darkened, flushing. The hands holding the book shook.

  “Sóma,” King Varinn said, his impressive voice deep and trembling. “Please take this woman out of my sight.”

  And he turned, with not even a bow, and walked fast into the orchard.

  Sóma said softly, “Gefjun. I must ask you to come with me.”

  “That book belonged to Thora!” she fumed. “He has no right to hold it. None!”

  “Gefjun, please come with me,” Sóma said again.

  “Yeah? And if I don’t?”

  The matron was wearing indigo silk, which luffed in the breeze like butterfly wings, and she’d twisted a piece of the dark blue silk through her braids. “Then you’d miss a very good supper of bread, cheese, and honey, and the chance to sleep on a very soft bed in a quiet room, undisturbed, until it was time for breakfast the next day.”

  “What would happen to me if I chose to miss those things?” Even though she really wanted that meal and lovely sleep.

  Sóma looked at her with a gentle smile. “Come with me. There are some things I need to explain to you.”

  Gefjun sent one more look over her shoulder but followed her.

  Curb your tongue, she scolded herself. You have a chance to kill that man. You need to make the most of it. For Thora.

  “What am I even doing here?” she grumbled. “This is all … I don’t know, weird. I’m invited into the enemy’s house because I look like some gal he knew. You know what that’s going to lead to.”