by CW Thomas
“Truthfully, I find my life rather meaningless. To love someone, I think, would be a great fulfillment.”
Arrahbella considered this for a moment, but Scarlett couldn’t tell by the blank expression on her face if she was moved or revolted by the notion. Then she said, “I think that would be lovely,” and Tristian smiled.
Their conversation moved on to lighter topics. Tristian regaled Arrahbella with stories about the great sea captains of Tay and the battles they had fought in the waters before the city. Arrahbella told him tales of her home land and answered many questions he had about the strange creatures there, including the one he found most fascinating: the basilisk. Edhen had no such creature, but many believed that on Efferous it could grew big enough to swallow a man whole. Arrahbella explained that if the basilisks ever did grow that large it was a long time ago, and that today they were no wider than a man’s leg.
Finally she serenaded him with a song from her homeland. Scarlett didn’t understand any of the words, but the young woman’s voice was remarkable.
As evening began to close in around them, Tristian stood and said, “You have had a long trip, and I wish to give you plenty of time this evening to refresh yourself, indulge in the castle’s hot baths, and make yourself at home.”
Arrahbella dipped her head. “My lord is too kind.”
Her eyes then went to Scarlett, which made her tense. Scarlett was much more used to being ignored, taken as one of Tristian’s servants, and though that was a role she often played for appearances sake, there was little truth to it.
Arrahbella walked over to her. She bent down and said, “Hello. And who might you be?”
“Oh,” Tristian said, “my apologies. This is Red, my friend. She doesn’t speak.”
“Red. What an interesting name.” Arrahbella looked down at Scarlett’s embroidery. “What lovely work.”
Scarlett smiled in thanks.
When Arrahbella stood up, she asked, “Is she your sister?”
“No. A friend.”
Arrahbella looked at Scarlett once again and her confusion was evident.
“Oh,” she said. “I see.”
The three of them rode together in Tristian’s carriage back to the castle. This discouraged Scarlett who had planned on asking Tristian what he thought of the beautiful princess, having already written, Do you like her? on her chalkboard. Out of fear that Arrahbella might see it, Scarlett erased it before climbing into the carriage.
Two Efferousian maidservants were waiting for the princess on the castle’s front steps. After Tristian had bid her farewell, they escorted Arrahbella to a private area of the castle that had been reserved for her.
Scarlett noticed Aamor lingering just inside the entryway eyeing the foreign princess as she and her small entourage glided past.
Scarlett hurried up the steps to meet Aamor, eager to fill her in on all that had transpired. When she noticed that Tristian had not followed, she stopped and turned around. He was walking down the street into town, limping along with the assistance of his cane. She started to go after him when Aamor reached out and touched her shoulder.
“Let’s leave him be for now, love,” she said.
While Aamor went off to attend to other tasks throughout the castle, Scarlett made herself comfortable atop the front steps where the late summer sun had warmed the stone. She sewed for a while on her embroidery, recalling Arrahbella’s kind compliment about her work. Scarlett didn’t think it was anything that special, just an image of a bear on beige fabric, and not even a very good one. She wondered if the young woman had been genuine with her compliment.
Bickering from inside the castle caught Scarlett’s attention. She listened for several moments from the castle steps, but the voices were too hushed to make them out. She stood and tiptoed toward the open front doors.
Peering into the entryway she noticed King Dagart and Queen Catherina having a fiery, but hushed, discussion. Their voices echoed down the corridor to Scarlett’s ears.
“And here I was daring to think you’d come back after three years with a little more fondness in your heart,” Dagart said.
“Please,” Catherina moaned. “Of all the things you ever wanted from me fondness wasn’t one of them.”
“So what do you expect? Do you want them to marry tomorrow?”
“No, but perhaps a little sooner than two years.”
“A year and a half. Enough time for me to see how genuine she is.”
“What, you don’t trust her?”
“Not entirely.”
Catherina giggled. “And what part of you is so distrustful?” She reached down and grabbed his crotch. “Are you sure you’re not just stalling the wedding so you can break the mare on your own?”
Dagart slapped her hard across the cheek. Scarlett had witnessed him do the same to Tristian earlier in the day, but this blow had made the queen stagger. To Scarlett’s surprise, however, Catherina came up smiling.
“I see time hasn’t changed you much either,” she said.
“Tristian will marry the whore when I deem it necessary.”
Catherina looked at him and smiled. “Whatever you say, my dear.”
The king turned in a huff and disappeared into a room at the end of the hallway.
Catherina glanced toward the entrance. She locked eyes with Scarlett, a glare that startled her and sent her ducking back behind the door. She stood there a moment, heaving, terrified of being noticed by the queen. In the two years she’d spent in Tay, Scarlett had heard nothing but horror stories about Lady Catherina’s explosive temper. They said the queen was a woman to be either pitied or feared, but Scarlett had yet to make up her mind about which.
“Don’t be afraid, child,” Catherina said. “Come to me.”
With her heart thumping like a rabbit in her chest, Scarlett moved out from behind the door. The queen was standing in the middle of the stone entry court, her thin frame draped in lush silk and lace. Despite how small she was, the woman emanated power and menace.
“My, my,” Catherina said. “I had heard of the resemblance, but, by the gods, you look just like her, the daughter I lost all those years ago. Please, come closer. Let me look at you.”
Scarlett walked toward the queen with unhurried steps, trying to be obedient, but craving nothing more than to run the other way.
“Is it also true that you cannot speak?” Catherina asked.
Scarlett nodded.
“Good,” she said. The queen looked off to the left as though speaking to someone else, someone who Scarlett couldn’t see. “I do not ever whish to hear this ghost child speak.” Her eyes blinked and refocused on Scarlett.
“You saw the king hit me, didn’t you? It’s all right, you know, to allow a man to hit you. It makes them feel in control. He thinks he’s running this kingdom, and so I endure his abuse. It’s a trick all women must learn, but it takes time, patience, and determination because men are stupid and stubborn.” She caressed Scarlett’s cheek. “You see much in this castle, don’t you, little one?”
Scarlett decided not to answer that question.
“One thing I do not wish you to see is me,” Catherina said, her tone icing. “And I do not wish to see you. Keep your,” she paused, shivering, “disgusting face out of my presence, for the pain I feel looking upon you is… is…” Her voice faded away.
“Mother?”
The queen jerked her hand away from Scarlett’s face, blinking her teary eyes as she looked toward the entryway where Tristian stood with his cane.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, quite,” Catherina said. “Just speaking with this child.”
“Her name is—”
“I care not about her foolish name!” Catherina snapped. She cleared her throat, smoothed out the front of her dress, and walked away.
Tristian watched her go before looking toward Scarlett. She tried to appear brave, but she knew the fearful impression Catherina had left on her face lingered
bold enough for Tristian to see it.
“You’ll have to forgive my mother, Red,” he said. “She has not been well for many years.” He ambled over to her. “Father sent her away for some care, but…” He grimaced. After a breath he said, “I fear it has all been in vain.”
Without another word he climbed the steps to the second floor.
Scarlett ran outside to collect her embroidery, and then pattered after him up the stairs and down the main corridor. Through the last door on the right was Tristian’s bedroom. She found him there seated on the edge of his bed, a downhearted expression upon his face.
“Please close the door,” he asked.
Scarlett obeyed. She walked to her bed that was situated in a small veiled cove across from Tristian’s. She sat down on the mattress, watching him, her insides burning with questions she wanted to ask.
Tristian started to unbutton his shirt when he noticed her looking at him. He shrugged. “Well, I guess this will be my story then,” he said. “A pawn in my father’s warmongering.” He peeled off the gambeson, and then went for his boots. “Love? Humph. You can forget about love. We have nothing in common, her and I. She shares my father’s ideals, not mine.” He hunched over his knees, staring at the floor. “Love was never meant to find me.”
Scarlett reached for her chalkboard and scrawled a simple message. She trotted across the floor and stood in front of Tristian. Before showing him the message she placed her small hand against his chest, over his heart, and tapped it three times. Tap. Pause. Tap, tap.
Tristian looked at her, confused.
She did it again. Tap… tap, tap.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
Scarlett turned her blackboard around. I love you.
His eyes grew soft. He hugged her, squeezing her across her tiny shoulders.
BRYNLEE
“Oh, please,” said Sir Dunmore Waters. “The fall of Aberdour was inevitable, and the way it fell a disgrace.” He swirled his wine around in his goblet before tossing back another gulp.
“And it likely will never recover,” said a second man, Kerk Drhakozi. He sat cross-legged on a sofa next to Cordelia whose fingers toyed with his rich blond curls. “Orkrash attacked that kingdom with a vengeance, leveled the outer towns, and burned the main city to the ground. Some say he had a particular hatred for Aberdour, but no one knows why.”
Warming herself in the lounge chair by the hearth was the conversation’s third participant, a smug looking woman by the name of Mistress Rose Gown. She was middle aged, with a provocative combination of sensuality and sophistication. “Aberdour has been the laughing stock of this realm long before its pathetic collapse,” she said. “While every kingdom was conquered by the high king, what did the lord of Aberdour do? Nothing. The fool left the doors of his city open. He let his children roam and play. It was business as usual all throughout the kingdom until The Raven stormed its gates.”
Sir Dunmore lifted his goblet. “All hail the name of Sir Komor Raven.”
Rose lifted her glass, as did Kerk. There, in the common room of Mungo’s brothel, the three of them drank to the health of the high king’s military leader.
The petite voice of a ten-year-old girl cut through the break in the conversation. “It’s true that many point to the open doors of Aberdour as proof of Lord Kingsley’s negligence, but I’ve always felt it speaks most profoundly of his compassion.”
The four conversationalists swiveled their heads in unison and gaped at Brynlee Falls. She stepped into their midst, an elegant blue gown hanging off her shoulders. It was padded at the hips, giving her otherwise narrow frame a pair of lovely curves. “So many people had been displaced by the wars that they had nowhere to go. The king of Aberdour turned his city into a refuge for widows, orphans, and the elderly. His efforts to help them saved the very beating heart of Edhen.”
Rose’s face lit up. “Well said, child.”
Sir Dunmore grinned. “It appears we have a historian in our midst.”
Brynlee put on her prettiest smile and dipped her head in humble acceptance of the praise.
“I knew a historian once,” she said. “A man by the name of Pherson Elms once said of Aberdour’s siege, ‘Those carrying the knowledge and heritage of Edhen would’ve been lost, be they driven out to the sea by spear or into the ground by sword, had they not been welcomed into the bosom of Aberdour.’”
“And what does that mean?” asked Cordelia, the prostitute nestled at Kerk’s side. She had never proven to be the brightest flame on the nightstand, but with breasts as large as hers she never needed to be.
“It means our great realm would’ve lost much during the war had it not been for Lord Kingsley’s willingness to save it,” said Kerk.
“But what is Aberdour today?” Sir Dunmore said. “It has limped along for three and a half years, a shadow of its former self. Would it not have been more prudent for Lord Kingsley to secure his gates, hire reinforcements, equip the city with greater siege weaponry to defend itself?”
Brynlee cleared her throat. “I believe it was the Fellian philosopher Gerhardt Baudendistel who said, ‘A world with more weapons will toil, but a world with more mercy will thrive.’”
Everyone’s eyes went to Sir Dunmore. The tall knight appeared stumped for a moment. “Philosophers.” He spat the word like spoiled wine. “Clever word smiths they may be, but realists they most certainly are not.” He downed the last of the wine in his goblet, prompting Brynlee to grab a pitcher from a nearby table and bring it to him.
“More wine, my lord?” she offered.
He lowered his glass.
“Learned and polite,” Rose commented. “What a remarkable young lady. Miss, you must tell me your name.”
“Emma,” Brynlee answered. “And I did not wish to offend you, Sir Dunmore. I was merely fascinated by your conversation.” And that wasn’t a lie. The regal knight in his long velvet blue tunic had caught Brynlee’s attention the moment he’d started speaking. He claimed to have traveled much of the known world, and as he conversed with Rose and Kerk she found he had a tremendous knowledge of history.
“No harm done,” the gray-haired knight said, giving her hair a quick stroke. “I often bore of pompous old men speaking before they think with no real knowledge of that which they’re speaking. You, young lady, are a breath of spring air.”
Brynlee flashed a delightful smile and a cute little giggle, both of which she had practiced to charming perfection.
Interest. That’s what it was all about. Catching a client’s interest, yes, but also holding that interest, which was sometimes easier said than done.
“Where did you learn so much, Emma?” Rose asked.
With practiced enthusiasm, Brynlee answered, “My mother and father taught me to read when I was young. I find I very much enjoy books, and so I read. A lot, actually.”
“It’s true,” Cordelia said, looking bored next to Kerk. “Hardly a day goes by when we don’t see her with a book in her lap.”
“Some men like having their minds aroused by a knowledgeable woman,” said Kerk.
Cordelia poked him in reproof.
“Not all men, my dear,” Kerk said. He gave her cheek a small kiss, which seemed to reassure her. She linked her bare slender arm around his and pressed into him.
“It is true,” Rose said. “Some men are looking for more than a pretty face, a woman who can stimulate their other brain.”
Sir Dunmore laughed.
Rose turned to Brynlee. “Tell me, Emma, Mungo is your master, correct?”
“He is, my lady.”
“And has he realized what a smart young woman he has in his midst?”
Brynlee shrugged.
“I don’t think that’s the brain Mungo thinks with, Mistress,” said Kerk.
The remark elicited a squeal from Cordelia. Her hand shot to her mouth to cover her embarrassment and mask the parade of snickers that followed.
Brynlee could only imagine how Mungo would’ve re
acted to such a comment were he not away on business.
Something clamored across the wood floorboards of the upstairs hallway. A spattering of laughter followed, the deep chuckles of a happy young man coupled with the flirtatious giggles of one of Mungo’s prostitutes. A moment later, the long blond haired head of Prince Camdyn Lochnor appeared over the gallery railing. He looked down into the common room, beaming like a little boy.
“You were right, Sir Dunmore,” the prince said. “She was indeed very flexible.”
A half naked prostitute danced up next to him, sweating, and brushing her mangled red locks away from her freckled face. It was Fetinah. She was known all throughout Perth for her athletic sexuality and vocal inhibitions. She draped her lithe form around the prince’s long neck and kissed him.
Sir Dunmore lifted his goblet to the young man. “Well, done, my lord. Have your fill, because tomorrow we ride for home.”
Camdyn looked at Fetinah. “Again?”
She blushed and pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, my prince!”
He scooped her up into his arms and hurried back to the bedroom, the woman squealing and giggling.
“Are there not many decent whores in Frostkeep?” Kerk asked.
Dunmore shrugged. “If plump and lazy is decent then our kingdom is rife with the best.”
A bout of laughter followed.
“Tomorrow we ride for the kingdom of Tay where I’m sure my young lord will sample many more fine women. After that we ride north for home.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Tay,” Brynlee interjected. “I hear the castle there glows white. I wonder, is it from the sea salt or from magic?”
Dunmore chuckled.
“You are a curious little one, aren’t you,” Rose said. “Come here, child.” She sat up in the lounge chair, swinging her legs out onto the floor, the numerous crinkles of her elegant red dress bunching in her lap. Brynlee had heard that Rose owned a lavish brothel in northern Perth. Adored by men, feared by other women, Rose had a reputation of being a fierce businesswoman and a voracious lover.
“Are you working yet?” she asked.