by P. M. Biswas
But Tam would have to do it. She’d have to spout pretty phrases, to simper and flatter like the courtiers did. She’d have to act chummy with the elves despite knowing nothing about them except that they tended to wax lyrical with indecipherable platitudes about hearts and homes.
Tam resolved herself to behave more politely with Loren, even if his mere presence infuriated her in some inchoate fashion that she didn’t understand.
Count to ten before you prattle on, Tam thought to herself. No, count to a hundred. Or a thousand.
THE NEW day dawned with rays of pale, watery sunlight angling through the slats of the dorm’s windows and onto the closed eyes of the children in their bunks. Many of them groaned in complaint, flipping over to escape the unwelcome light. Tam yanked her pillow onto her own eyes to block out the sun before she remembered—
The mission. The delegation to the Wanderwood.
Astar! What if she was late?
Tam tumbled out of her bunk and fell to the floor with a splat. Her ears rang at the impact. Her nose throbbed painfully at hitting the floorboards. Gods, it was as if she’d been punched. Piotr stirred at the thud of her body against the ground and peeked blearily down at her from over the edge of his bed.
“Ow,” said Tam.
“Wha…?” Piotr rubbed his eyes. “Tam? What are you doing down there?”
“Suffering,” Tam muttered. She hoisted herself up, grabbed her bag, and sprinted out of the dorm at top speed. Her legs had never carried her so fast.
When she arrived at the fortress gates, she saw that she needn’t have worried. Only the ministers’ servants and stable hands were there, grooming the horses and loading them with richly quilted bags that looked nothing like Tam’s bedraggled knapsack. The ministers’ bags bulged not only with clothes but with perfumes and soaps; as she drew near to the horses, Tam almost gagged at the cloying sweetness of all those mingled aromas. Mayhap the nobles would insist that even the horses’ dung be perfumed so as to not offend their delicate noses.
Of course the ministers wouldn’t take “leaving at sunrise” as actually leaving at sunrise. They must be swanning about in their chambers in silken nightgowns, waiting for their golden tubs to be filled with scented bathwater. Tam’s guess as to the reasons for their tardiness was confirmed when she overheard the servants gossiping about how picky this minister was with her bath salts and how indecisive that minister was with his wardrobe, ordering his squires to lay out ensemble after ensemble for his selection.
These were the people Tam would be traveling with? Ye gods. She would have to practice her diplomatic skills far before she ever met the elves.
But thankfully this delay gave her the opportunity to run some errands.
She scampered to the royal armory, which was emitting puffs of black smoke from its crooked chimney and into the dim chalk-white sky. The royal smithy was attached to the armory for convenience’s sake, and performed the vital function of repairing damaged weapons or customizing them for those who could not use standard-issue weaponry. Like Tam.
Tam ducked into the armory’s gloomy interior, where the equally gloomy caretaker was polishing swords behind the counter.
“Hello!” Tam greeted him. “I’m Tamsin Bladeborn, and the queen has decreed that I be equipped with—”
“A spear, a shield, and a suit of lightweight armor. It said so in the missive her page delivered to us yesternight.” He jerked his chin at the shield-and-spear combination leaning against the counter, the spear’s handle painted with a red band that… wasn’t a training band.
“That isn’t a yellow band,” Tam said tremulously.
“Why would it be?”
“No reason!” The armor—a simple set of vambraces and a breastplate—was well suited to Tam’s physique. Tam hefted the spear, which was perfectly sized for her, and the shield, whose inner buckles fit the breadth of her forearms as if they had been tailored for them. Which they had. Although why the queen had all of her measurements, Tam didn’t know. Maybe Emeraude kept detailed records of the physical proportions of all her citizens, creepy as that was. “Thank you for producing these so quickly. There isn’t much time between midnight and morning, is there?”
“What are you talking about?” the armorer said. “The queen’s missive was delivered to us long before midnight yesterday.”
“Oh,” Tam said weakly, stupefied. “How—how long before?”
“Before the funeral service.”
What?
So Emeraude had—
Emeraude had already decided to send a delegation to the Wanderwood before she’d even called the court into session? Not only that, she had decided to send Tam?
“May Astar preserve me from ever having to play a game of chess against that woman,” Tam said under her breath.
When the armorer looked at her askance, Tam bowed meekly and beat a hasty retreat. With her weaponry and armor taken care of, Tam jogged back to the gates to check the readiness of the delegation… and found that Lady Zameen was the sole delegate present, seated astride a dappled gray gelding and speaking solemnly to a man whom Tam vaguely recalled as Zameen’s husband.
And there, amongst the ministers’ graceful thoroughbred horses, stood Maple, her broad workhorse’s frame sticking out like a sore thumb. A stable hand confirmed that she had been stationed there as Tam’s ride.
“You again,” said Tam, and Maple looked as if she was thinking the same thing. “Well, at least we match each other. We both look like the peasants we are. Let the nobles have their slender, dignified steeds, eh? We’ll show ’em what real horses are like.” Tam piled her spear, shield, and armor onto Maple’s back, and Maple neighed in displeasure at the additional load. “Sorry,” Tam apologized. “I have to go. I’ll be back in time for our departure. See you!”
Then Tam rushed off again, this time to the infirmary. After all, Tam couldn’t prance off to the Wanderwood before popping in to see Borik, Maryada, and the rest.
When Tam got there, though, she was waylaid by a stern man in a nurse’s apron. It was the chief nurse.
“Are you aware that it is just past dawn?” He glowered down at Tam. “Visiting hours for families and friends do not begin until after breakfast. Even the spouses and children of these patients may not see them until then.”
“Please,” said Tam. “I’m—I’m going away. Far away. I have to… I have to see how my unit is doing before I go. I have to say goodbye. Please?”
The nurse studied her narrowly. “You were in here with the queen,” he said. “Yesterday.”
“Indeed, I was here with her and Ka—I mean, the prince.”
“You’re Tamsin Bladeborn.”
“Er, yes?” How did he know Tam’s name?
“I suppose I can permit you to peep into the curtained areas and see whether the patients are awake. If they are not, then you may not wake them,” said the nurse in possibly the most threatening tone Tam had ever heard. “But if they are, then you may exchange words with them. Just words, mind. Not paragraphs. And do it quietly. If you wake any of the patients who are asleep, then you will be banned from visiting the infirmary.” The nurse’s brows lowered. “Permanently.”
By Astar. This nurse was downright petrifying. It was as if Tam was being told she would be hanged, drawn, and quartered.
“F-fine,” Tam squeaked. “I’ll… I’ll be careful.”
The nurse sniffed disdainfully and went back to rolling up reams upon reams of steamed bandages. Tam edged past him as she would past a tiger, and headed straight for Borik’s bed.
Borik was fast asleep. The strain had faded from his features, and he no longer had the feverish cast of a man trapped in unremitting agony. He must have weathered the effects of the poison and the resulting infection enough that he too could be given opiates to ease his torment.
Tam sat on the chair by his bed and took his hand. It was far bigger than hers, a bear paw within which her own hand seemed like a cub’s. She stroked her fingertips ge
ntly over his bruised knuckles, doing it as lightly as she could so as to not wake him.
It eased a knot within Tam to see him resting peacefully. His missing legs still jarred her, and there was a dark swoop of sorrow within her at the sight of his stumps, but she could well envision how Borik would react once he was recovered. He’d refuse to despair—not visibly, at least—and would go around showing off his new peg legs and joking about what a fearsome pirate he’d be. He’d probably get the court bard to write a ballad about the peg-legged spear-wielder.
It wasn’t in Borik’s nature to brood or to pity himself. He didn’t even pity other people; that was what had endeared him to Tam all those years ago, when her parents had died and everybody had walked on eggshells around her. Everybody except for Borik, who’d yanked her along to spear practice by the ear.
If you’ve got time to mope, you’ve got time to train, he’d said, and while Tam had intuited that this was Borik’s own method of distracting her from her grief, she’d been grateful for it, more grateful than she’d been for the careful, compassionate, heartfelt condolences of the other adults around her.
Borik wouldn’t let himself mope either, so Tam couldn’t allow herself to mope for him. It would be an insult to the hero he was. She wouldn’t impinge on the privacy of his loss, wouldn’t insert herself into his much-needed space with patronizing promises of assistance.
Borik had respected her space, even when she’d been a child. Now it was her turn to respect his. After bending to place a kiss on his hand, Tam lowered it gingerly back onto the mattress and left his curtained enclosure.
The ward was uncannily hushed—still bodies on still beds—and was distressingly reminiscent of a mortuary. Only one alcove had some movement in it, and sure enough, the occupant soon pushed aside the curtains and poked her head out.
“Psst,” hissed Maryada. “Hatchling. Over here.”
Tam tiptoed over to Maryada under the watchful eagle eyes of the nurse.
“Maryada,” she said as she entered the enclosure and tied the curtains shut behind her. “I’m glad to see you awake. How fare you?”
“How fare I? I’ve had nothing but soup since I woke up. I’m about ready to abscond from this depressing room and steal some proper food from the kitchens.” Maryada brightened. “Do you happen to have any bread on you?”
“Er. No?”
“No dinner rolls? The soft, warm, freshly baked dinner rolls with knobs of butter melting atop them?”
“No.” Tam stifled a giggle. “Was that even a question? It sounded more like a fantasy.”
Maryada’s stomach growled, and she patted it as one would a disobedient pet. “Oh, I’ve been fantasizing aplenty. Roasted quail with mashed peas. Custard pudding. Candied apples. Those gorgeous potatoes with the stringy cheese.”
A grin pulled at Tam’s mouth. “Potatoes are gorgeous?”
“They are a very attractive vegetable.”
“I’m starting to worry about your sanity,” Tam said, “if root vegetables are beginning to seem attractive to you.”
“I’m stuck in here with nothing but stock soup and a never-ending series of revoltingly flavored potions. The last potion I had resembled raw sewage in both taste and consistency. Not that I’ve ever ingested raw sewage. But still.”
Tam surveyed Maryada concernedly. “Is that why you’re so… buoyant? Is it the morphine?”
“The effects of which are swiftly fading, alas. But yes, I may be a tad more cheerful than the situation calls for.” Maryada pointed at the stool by her bed. “Have a seat, would you? It’s good to see you intact after… seeing you not-so-intact.”
“Um. Yes. About that.” Tam sat on the proffered stool. “I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t stay for the whole battle. I left you and Borik and the remaining spear-wielders to fight while I crept away like a coward—”
“Oh, hush,” Maryada said. “Borik threw you onto that horse and slapped its behind hard enough to send it galloping to the stars. You weren’t even conscious when you left, were you?”
“But… you and Dale and Marta, and—all of you stayed and fought, and some of you didn’t even make it—”
“That’s war, my dear,” Maryada said, and though a shadow of heartbreak flashed across her eyes, she didn’t so much as flinch. “We who sign up to the military know full well that we might die in service. It is not that we shouldn’t mourn each other, but rather that our mourning should strengthen our resolve to honor those who have passed, to conduct ourselves in a manner worthy of their legacy and to ensure that their sacrifice was not in vain.”
Tam swallowed. Her bereavement was a heavy weight within her chest, impossible to dislodge by any means. She envied Maryada’s strength. It wasn’t just strength of the body—that, Tam could beat into herself with increasingly brutal training regimens. No, this was strength of the spirit. What would Tam have to do to gain strength like that? What would she have to undergo? How many friends would she have to lose?
Maryada lightened the mood by chucking Tam fondly under the chin. “There is yet time for you to grow up, little one. Do not hasten the process unduly. Enjoy your innocence.”
While you can, was left unsaid.
Tam had to change the subject. As much as she could in an infirmary ward. “H-how are your wounds? Are they healing?”
Maryada snorted. “I have as many stitches in me as an old sock. In fact, I’m beginning to believe I am a sock. Torn and mended in too many places. And the mends show.” She preened. “They do, don’t they?”
“They’ll be very impressive scars,” Tam said dutifully, and Maryada scowled at her.
“Just for that insincere compliment, you owe me a spar,” Maryada declared. “Several spars.”
“I wasn’t being insincere!”
“Yes you were, you imp. Good luck with your mission, by the by. I heard. Well, everyone heard. Gossip spreads like wildfire around here. I’m sure there are footmen and scullery maids who know of your legendary rendezvous with the elves and the task now entrusted to you by the queen herself.”
“Blimey. No pressure,” Tam said dryly. “And it’s not elves, plural. It’s elf, singular. I met only one elf. Just the one.”
Maryada raised an eyebrow. “Was it a pretty elf?”
“Maryada!” Tam exclaimed, scandalized.
“What? The elves are rumored to be as beautiful as they are deadly. I’m just curious if the myths are true.”
“They’re not,” Tam lied. “He was quite plain.”
“How disappointing.”
“Aren’t you already married? Should you even be wondering about how beautiful elves are?”
“Marriage did not destroy my imagination.” Maryada winked. “Besides, my wife would be right there wondering with me.”
“That’s… more than I ever needed to know about your imagination. Or your marriage.” Tam got up, dusting her knees. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. Goodbye.”
“So soon, hatchling? Ah, you must have to ride out.” Maryada reached out to clasp Tam’s forearm in the absence of a spear with which to salute her. “Do us proud, Tamsin Bladeborn. Do the spear-wielders proud.”
Tam blinked rapidly to forestall what she suspected was the onset of tears. She succeeded. Barely. “Goodbye,” she said again and left.
Tam strode back to the gates with her head held high, encouraged by what Maryada had said.
Maryada was right. Death was inevitable in their profession—in Maryada’s profession and in the profession Tam could only publicly adopt once she was eighteen. If Tam intended to serve in the army, she would have to come to terms with the certitude of her own death and—even more difficult—the certitude of her comrades’ deaths.
That wouldn’t take away from Tam’s desperation to survive, especially not in the midst of a battle, but it would give her the fortitude to go back into battle after nearly dying again and again. It would also give her the power of conviction, a power that could only come from wanting to live up to someone�
��s legacy—the legacy of her friends who had perished.
Tam had been driven to honor her parents’ legacy, and that drive had enabled her to keep going without them. Now, after listening to Maryada, Tam realized that she would have to do the same with those whom she had just lost—Dale, Yvette, Isman, Marta, and Collard.
The list of names written in her heart’s sacred book would only grow longer with every battle. It was a terrible but undeniable truth, and perhaps its undeniability would help her accept it like Maryada had.
Perhaps it would become a part of her as the years passed, until it became livable. Until, even if every fresh loss stung like the snap of a whip, Tam would be able to take that pain into herself and live with it. Until, even if she was brought to her knees with woe, she would be able to get back up and dive back into the fray. Until she could carve the very grief that overwhelmed her into a weapon with which to vanquish her enemies.
That was what it meant to be a soldier.
Maple was waiting for Tam by the gate, still laden with Tam’s armor and looking as disgruntled as ever. The other ministers had finally deemed themselves sufficiently primped for the trip and had arrived with more servants lugging more luggage. The ministers then clambered onto their horses, using the cupped palms of their pages for support.
Queen Emeraude was preceded by a retinue of guards from the sword unit—tall, strapping warriors who were bristling with blades of all sorts. They looked thorny from a distance, like human cacti. Which was a bizarre mental image.
Kay scurried up to Tam, toting a leather satchel of such undeniable quality that it could only belong to a prince.
“Tam!” Kay panted. “I made it! I was pouring my potions into bottles and putting labels on them.”
“If they’re your usual labels, I won’t be able to tell what’s what. Acacia guandariva? How would I know what that’s for?”
“First of all, there’s no such plant as Acacia guandariva. You just made that up. Kindly stop inventing species that nature itself has not invented. Secondly, I did take into account your illiteracy when it comes to herbs—”