by P. M. Biswas
“Here’s Maryada,” Emeraude said as Kay tailed them to Maryada’s bed, the nurses and healers bowing out of their path. “There will be a funeral service for those who didn’t—” Emeraude wavered, which was shocking for a woman who had always been unwavering. “There will be a funeral service. Tonight. You may like to attend, after you’ve bathed and supped.”
The very thought of a funeral was awful, but it was Tam’s duty to attend. It was the least she could do for her comrades. “I’ll be there.”
“And afterward”—Emeraude raised an eyebrow—“perhaps you can explain to me why Borik’s account of your injuries was so uncharacteristically inaccurate, and why it is that you are unmarked even though your clothing is all but ruined.”
Oh. That. Tam wasn’t looking forward to that either.
TAM DIDN’T get a chance to speak to Maryada, as Maryada was asleep under the influence of opium and valerian. Unlike Borik, whose potions to fight his infection could not be paired with painkillers lest the combination overdose him, Maryada was fortunate to not have sustained either poison or infection. Her limbs were intact, and despite the stitches peppering the incisions all over her body—there was scarcely any patch of skin without stitches—at least Maryada wasn’t trapped in the burning cage of consciousness like Borik was. Borik, who could not partake of the opium that could ease his suffering.
At rest, Maryada seemed smaller, not the hulking goliath who had beaten Tam soundly at sparring. Tam lightly touched Maryada’s forehead—beaded with perspiration, cool and clammy—before moving on. Out of all the survivors, only Feng was aware and coherent enough to engage in conversation. He would be Maryada’s deputy, just as Maryada had been Borik’s deputy before.
Tam didn’t dwell on how Borik would feel about losing his legs—what she herself would feel if after a lifetime of soldiering she was consigned to the sidelines, doomed to being a spectator and not a participant. Tam couldn’t dwell on it. It would break her.
It wasn’t as though Tam hadn’t seen wounded veterans before; it was just that they hadn’t been beloved to her, and that she’d never seen them like this, in the infirmary, in pain and hopelessly, terribly vulnerable. She’d only seen them afterward, with brave smiles plastered on their faces, getting clapped on the back for their courage, receiving medals, and having ballads sung about them by the court bard.
But behind that bravery was immeasurable anguish. Tam knew that now. She wished she didn’t.
The funeral service was held in the town square at the very center of the fortress, a large uncovered area generally reserved for public events—games, performances, plays.
Funerals.
Torches mounted on tall timber posts provided the only illumination in the square, because the sky overhead was as starless and depthless as an abyss. Underneath that vastness, the citizens gathered here seemed insignificant, like ants beneath the great turning wheel of darkness above them, poised to crush them at any moment.
Perhaps it was their transience that made them insignificant.
Or perhaps it made them precious.
On the platform in the middle of the square were five vacant coffins, devoid of inhabitants, each of them uncovered and filled only with a folded Astarian flag.
“There are no bodies,” said Kay, as hushed as he could be. “The survivors who fled were too wounded themselves to carry the dead. My mother would have sent another unit to retrieve the bodies, but it isn’t safe to approach the border again until we have more insight into the situation. It….” Kay paused, then continued. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing that they’re just—that they’re just out there, that they won’t even get a decent burial. They were all your friends. It must hurt you most of all.”
“No.” Tam gazed across the square at the children and spouses huddled in groups, crying quietly as their relatives consoled them. Some of those children, Tam had lodged with in the dormitory. She’d eaten breakfast with them for years. Chatted with them over supper. And here they were, robbed of their parents just as she had been of hers. She, too, hadn’t had her parents’ bodies to bury. She too hadn’t quite believed they’d died—not for many, many months. Without bodies to bury, the lack of closure was as debilitating as the deaths themselves. “Not as much as it hurts their families. Their children.”
Kay, likely reminded of his own father, reached for Tam’s hand again. She took it, and together they saw Emeraude ascend the platform in a somber black dress. The queen laid a bouquet of flowers in each coffin, her mourning veil shielding her features as she bent to say farewell to each soldier in turn.
Emeraude then retreated into the throng, just another mourner, as the priest replaced her on the stage.
The priest—a gaunt, aged man with a balding head—peered out over the sea of citizens gathered before him. The torches cast shifting shadows that rendered the onlookers insubstantial, like ghosts. Like this itself was the land of the dead.
The priest raised his arms, his trailing sleeves spreading like a bat’s wings.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“Today,” the priest said gravely, his words resounding and sonorous, “we honor those who have sacrificed themselves upon the altar of the holy, for there is no task more holy than the defending of one’s homeland. Each soul sacrificed thus is like a pearl on the necklace of Astar and will adorn Him for eternity, nestled against His very breast. For Astar adores those who do their duty.”
It was the same sermon Tam had heard eight years ago, from the front row, where the families of the soldiers now were. There had been other burials in between that Tam had attended—other burials she had sorrowed over—but this was her unit. These were her fellows. A fierce longing pierced her to see them again, to talk with them again, to spar with them as she had never gotten to do. She longed to sing crude songs with them at campfires, to march with them across the ceaseless miles, to complain about the tastelessness of their rations, and to jostle each other in jest while reading love letters from afar.
All the things that she’d hoped to do with them, but now never would.
“As I pronounce each warrior’s name, I ask you to pray for their safe passage into the nightlands.” The priest lifted a taper to light it against the nearest torch, and then bent to light smaller candles in each coffin, chanting the names as he did so. “Isman Alvi. Collard Beaumont. Marta Copperworth. Yvette Mossman. Dale Vyner.”
The mourners echoed each name as it was spoken, and as Tam repeated the names, memories filled her mind of those who had departed—the shapes of their smiles, the sounds of their voices.
“May these valiant souls sleep peacefully in Astar’s eternal night, and may the serenity of the nightlands ever be with them.” The priest gestured toward the coffins. “You may now approach to pay your respects.”
The families went first, of course. The remainder of the spear-wielders went second, the dozens of them who, fatefully enough, hadn’t been sent on that scouting mission. They would have a drinking party after this, in which they would slam sloshing tankards onto tables and tell tales of their departed friends. Tam would’ve liked to join them, but she knew she wouldn’t be permitted there, as she wasn’t officially a soldier.
That, and the queen expected her in court, posthaste. Tam didn’t have the luxury to go drinking like an adult, or to throw herself onto her pallet in the dormitory and snivel into her pillow like an infant. Tam was neither adult nor infant; she was some in-between creature, ungainly and half-formed. Neither childhood nor adulthood accepted her. She was a pariah in both worlds but had obligations to both.
So after climbing the platform and paying her respects to the dead, Tam had to fulfill her responsibilities to the living. Tam followed the queen and her entourage of guards back into the palace, with Kay in tow.
TONIGHT IT wasn’t Emeraude’s study that Tam had to report to; she reported to the court itself, that grand hall of mirrors with the chairs of ministers arrayed on either side of a gleaming marble aisle. As a
midnight session of the court had been called, it wasn’t daylight that illumined the hall but rows of lamps that hung from the arched ceiling. The lamps swung on their brass hooks, sending streaks of what seemed like fire dancing across the gems embedded in the walls—gems that reflected the lamplight and flashed in dazzling colors.
The ministers assembled underneath those gems were similarly garbed in bright, bejeweled robes that showed off their status. They were all flawlessly groomed, their hair combed and tidied by countless attentive squires, showing none of the haste with which they must’ve tumbled into clothing to appear so suddenly at court. Only the ministers’ pinched mouths and tired eyes belied their displeasure at the unusual hour of their summons.
It galled Tam that most of them had not attended the funeral service. The ingrates. Since ministers could choose whether or not to give of their private time outside of court sessions, they had no vested interest in attending the frequent funerals that had become routine during wartime. Only if they themselves were acquainted with the deceased did they bother showing their arrogant, condescending, patrician faces.
Kay took his place beside the queen, their plain black garments setting them apart from the ministers as much as the crowns on their heads. Their thrones were two out of the three situated on the dais, all hewed from a rich oiled mahogany and cushioned with gold-and-scarlet upholstery. The throne in the middle had no occupant, having been long vacated by King Ulster. Once Tam’s parents had stood behind that throne, just as Emeraude’s and Kay’s personal guards now stood behind theirs.
Emeraude’s introduction to the reason for this conference was as cool as ever. “We have convened this emergency session to discuss the account of Tamsin Bladeborn, recently of the spear unit dispatched to the border.”
Tam, who was bowing before the dais, looked up in startlement. Emeraude had called her a part of the spear-wielders. Mayhap it was only because the queen wanted the ministers to take Tam seriously. Yes, that must be it.
“Bladeborn was described by several witnesses—indeed, by the entirety of the spear unit that survived—to have sustained mortal injuries during the clash with Axenborg. However, as you can see, she now stands before us whole and unharmed. This is another mystery that complicates what occurred on the border yesterday. Now, we have already discussed the supernatural nature of that occurrence, and the possibility of Axenborg having either been possessed by Danis’s unknown powers or voluntarily switching sides and allying with Norvald instead. Both possibilities are, as we agreed unanimously, alarming. Without Axenborg’s alliance, our nation of Astaris is as good as finished.”
Murmurs of disquiet broke out amongst the ministers. After eight years of relative stasis in which Astaris’s coalition with Axenborg had created a tenuous equilibrium, the ministers must’ve hoped that Axenborg would continue being a dependable buffer between them and the threat of Norvald. That key pact was now at risk.
“Bladeborn’s account may yet contain the antidote to our problems.” Emeraude’s eyes fixed, uncannily perceptive, on Tam. “Since the sentries posted at the gate saw Bladeborn riding in from the direction of the Wanderwood, I have deduced that the source of Bladeborn’s apparently miraculous revival may have originated from the Wanderwood as well.”
Tam gasped. She’d forgotten that Emeraude could calculate any equation, even with unknown variables, and could infer that which was unsaid.
Emeraude curled her fingers around the clawed arms of her throne and regarded Tam impassively, as regal and enigmatic as a sphinx. There was no motherliness in her, no fondness, no softness. Here, Emeraude was queen. “Go on, Bladeborn. Give us a complete description of what you experienced.”
Tam gulped. She would have to talk about elves. Elves. Who would believe her? It was madness. Everyone would assume it was madness anyhow, except for Emeraude, whose intellect was unrelentingly unbiased and would not react with incredulity to any story as long as it was provable, and Kay, who would trust Tam even if Tam were to claim that the moon was made of cheese.
The ministers had no such incentive to believe her. Their snooty, skeptical stares were merciless. As Tam began recounting her sojourn to the Wanderwood, she saw the ministers react just as she had predicted—and just as she had dreaded. Scoffs and guffaws punctuated her narration. Humiliating as it was, Tam lifted her head stubbornly and persisted in doing what her queen had asked of her.
Emeraude did not come to Tam’s defense. Emeraude did not ask that the ministers contain their merriment until Tam was done speaking. Somehow that only made Tam straighten her back even more, because this was what Tam had always wanted—being treated like a soldier, like a grown-up, left to fend for herself. Emeraude may have planned that too. Gods alone knew what Emeraude didn’t plan.
“A kindly elf with convenient healing magic?” Mysenius, Minister of Finance, was beside himself with mirth. “Come now, lass. The elves have ever been evil. It is common knowledge.”
Tam had never, ever thought she would wind up defending Loren—whose intentions she still didn’t fully comprehend—but she did owe him a life debt. Having that debt mocked aroused in her an unbidden anger, even though she herself hadn’t offered Loren the appropriate gratitude.
Somewhere between leaving the Wanderwood and appearing before this court, Tam’s attitude toward Loren had changed. Seeing what had happened to her peers—both those in the infirmary and those whose coffins she had just paid her respects to—had lit in Tam an urge to respect the fact that she was alive… and to respect the elf who’d kept her alive.
Tam didn’t like Loren or his kind, nor did she care about them, but what sort of warrior would she be if she didn’t defend the very being who’d saved her life? The life her parents had given her?
“My lord,” Tam ground out, “what evidence is there of the elves being evil?”
“Wh-why,” Mysenius floundered, “we haven’t dealt with them for centuries. Surely that is proof enough.”
“That is not proof,” Tam said emphatically. “That is tradition.”
Just then, Tam saw a spark of emotion in Emeraude’s eyes—an emotion akin to pride—but Emeraude smoothed her expression once more. “It is as Bladeborn says,” Emeraude assented. “We cannot afford to base our foreign policy on assumptions. We assumed that Axenborg was a permanent ally. We were wrong.”
“Your Majesty,” said Minister Chen, “charming as the girl’s anecdote is, it is obviously fabricated. For all we know, this Bladeborn is an agent of Axenborg—or even of Norvald—who has been spying on us, and whose mysterious recovery is due to Danis’s sorcery and not some elf’s selfless charity.”
“Do not dare to question Tam’s—Bladeborn’s character,” Kay said hotly. “She is a thousand times more honorable than doddering old vultures who cannot even recognize the truth when they see it.”
“Kay,” said Emeraude sharply.
Kay shut up, scowling but obedient. Then he flushed, slowly and deeply, probably realizing that he’d overplayed his hand.
“See?” Chen said smugly. “Through his outburst, the young prince has revealed his favoritism toward Bladeborn. For which he cannot be blamed, of course,” Chen added hurriedly. “His friendship with a lowly soldier is a sign of his generosity, a generosity which has been cleverly exploited. If anything, it reinforces my suspicion of Bladeborn. Despite her youth, it is not impossible that her parents were also traitors, and that she was given the mission to befriend the prince, to earn his loyalty and therefore his—”
“Be quiet,” said the queen flatly. “The Bladeborns were the guards who died saving my late husband’s life. Their virtue is beyond question.”
Chen fell silent, wide-eyed. He could hardly dispute the motives of those who had sacrificed themselves for the king. “Well. Still. Her parents’ virtue is no guarantee of hers.”
Kay looked like he was gearing up for another outburst, despite his best efforts to not unintentionally disadvantage Tam’s case. He was practically aboil with rage,
his cheeks a blotchy red. “Virtue? You—” Kay visibly controlled himself. “Ministers. Tamsin Bladeborn, despite having befriended me, has never once taken advantage of that friendship to ask boons of me or to acquire riches in my name or through my association. Why, she has never asked me for so much as a piece of jewelry.”
Tam frowned in puzzlement. “What would I do with jewelry?”
“See?” Kay mimicked Chen derisively. “Can you say that of yourself, Minister Chen? Were you a prince’s friend, would you not use that to advance your career and build lucrative connections?”
Mysenius came to the besieged Chen’s rescue. “What connections could a peasant make?” Mysenius jeered. “A child born of the rabble, a girl of low blood—”
Kay, who was getting blotchier and blotchier, interrupted Mysenius’ tirade with a snarl. “I have experimented with healing potions for years and have therefore tested the various properties of blood. I can say with confidence that human blood does not differ in the slightest between the so-called nobility and the so-called rabble.”
Mysenius huffed, clearly disbelieving.
“My son,” said Emeraude, “is sentimental but not a poor judge of character. While it may be that Bladeborn is Danis’s agent, consider that in showing up after the battle as she has, hale and healthy, she has only rendered herself more open to suspicion, as you have just showed. Logically, it would have benefited her and her master more for her to return moderately wounded and hence even more trustworthy than before.”
Chen and Mysenius traded glances; Tam got the distinct impression that they were allies, although allies to what purpose, she did not know.
“I concur, Your Majesty,” said Lady Zameen, Minister of the Army and formerly a commander herself. She was elderly and emaciated, clasping a cane in a fragile, blue-veined hand, her breeches and tunic devoid of the decoration generally favored by nobles. “I trust my spear-wielders, and they uniformly trust Bladeborn, whom they consider one of their own. I have conferred with those of them who were conscious enough to comment on her character and on the events that unfolded at the border, and their statements corroborate Bladeborn’s account. Which brings us to the most pressing issue of this conference—what do we do with elves that may not be what we had always deemed them to be?”