by Kai Kazi
“Yes.” She whispered, and for once she had no qualms about lying,
“I’m sorry, my love.” He said, voice cracking,
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She whispered, “I love you.” He nodded and smiled, seeming to say something, but the words were lost in whatever world he was slipping away to. Avondale watched the light flee from his eyes, but could not look away when his chest stopped moving. She held his hand until it went cold, and then let it drop.
“Princess Avondale, is it?” The voice was unfamiliar, and the face it belonged to was no less so. She nodded,
“Duke Rothsay,” he said,
“Just do it.” She whispered,
“What?”
“What it is you are here to do.” She said, “I have no energy for fighting and no will to plead.”
“I am here,” he said, crouching by her side, “to return you to your father. A Royal Guardian told me you were still here.”
“You’re one of his men.” She said with venom,
“I am a man of Bledd,” he said, “but not one of his.” She sighed. Either he was lying, or he was not. She let him take her hand and lead her to a covered cart. Prisoners were being counted in the courtyard now, and the walls of the castle were blackened by fire in some places, crumbling in others. Bodies were being thrown into a pit. She stiffened, struggling,
“Greendale.” She said,
“His body will be brought to Avondale for proper ritual.” Rothsay said, and guided her into the cart. It was far from what she was used to, but Avondale leaned back against the hay and let sleep take her. As her eyes shut she thought she saw the colossal figure of the dragon in the distance. It was flying low and unsteadily… there was something, someone, on its back.
CHAPTER XXIV
“I am sorry.” Avondale bowed her head before Fiona; the older woman was sobbing, but there was nothing she could think to say or do that would ease her pain. “He was thinking of you in his last moments.”
“You were with him?” Fiona asked eventually,
“Yes.” Avondale nodded. The news of Greendale’s death had preceded her, but it was only right to see her personally. Sonja stood in the near distance, pretending not to notice Fiona’s distress.
“Good.” She gripped Avondale’s hands, “I am glad.”
“I brought you this.” She said, presenting Fiona with Greendales helmet, “It… is the least…”
“Thank you.” Fiona said, taking it with reverence.
Avondale looked at the huge table where she had eaten so many meals as a child; it was worn smooth by years of family meals, love, and good conversation. She ran her fingers across the surface with a smile,
“I want you to take rooms in the castle, Fiona.” She said, “I want to be close to you and the child.” She looked up, knowing she would say she did not want to be an imposition, “It would be of help to me, too.” Fiona nodded,
“Good. I will, let you gather yourself, and send men for your things after the funeral.” She said.
Sonja straightened as she approached, fine face bruised but animated,
“Did you tell her?” She asked, and Avondale shook her head,
“I couldn’t.” She said, “It was too much to put on to her now.”
“It’ll be obvious soon.” Sonja said,
“Until then I have you.” Avondale said, and Sonja laughed,
“Would you not rather be a Queen than Commander-in-Chief for a foreign nation?” She asked,
“Freja will be a fine Queen.” She said, “and I couldn’t be tied to a man. Well, not just one.” She grinned, and then said quietly, “Not just yet.” Avondale nodded and took her arm,
“Well I am glad of you.” She said, and Sonja patted her arm. They walked slowly to the pyre that had been built in the fields near Greendale’s Villa. Aiden was waiting there for her, his handsome face healing well. Avondale smiled and hugged him quickly; he slid an arm around her waist, but she jerked, sickness rising, and pulled away. She slid to Sonja once more and tried to ignore his hurt look. The men, bless them, were kind and respectful, but they smelled like men, and their laughs were too loud, and their hands were too big. She blanched at the thought of their touch, her stomach throbbing and twitching with sickness and fear.
As the fire caught at the base of the pyre Avondale swallowed. This was meant to be the end, but there was no closure, only the vague memory of that dragon in the sky, the sense that it was carrying someone, and the sense that an abyss was opening in front of her. She found she could not look for fear that it would look back.
TO BE CONTINUED IN…
KNIGHTS AND DRAGONS OF AVONDALE
FREE NOVELLA
Thank you for reading Sword and Sorcery of Avondale, in appreciation of your time and purchase please accept this free novella by Kai Kazi. The free novella, Tears from Carlisle Indian Boarding School, is from Kai Kazi’s Sad Short Stories anthology is a series of 10 standalone tragedies by Kai Kazi. Please note that unlike Sword and Sorcery of Avondale which sword and sorcery high fantasy fiction, the following free novella, Tears from Carlisle Indian Boarding School, is literary historical fiction. Regardless I hope you enjoy and thank you dearly for taking the time to read Sword and Sorcery of Avondale.
Tears from Carlisle Indian Boarding School
Chapter One
Nita
The reflection that looked back at Nita was like a nightmare.
Not in that it was horrifying, but in that the boy in the glass was like an otherworldly specter with Nita’s eyes and his mouth and his shoulders – but it wasn’t him. Like the shifting shadows of a nightmare that you try to flee from but are unable to run; that changes the edges of reality to something unrecognizable, until the plain of your nightmares surround you, threatening to never let you go.
Whenever Nita would wake up with a choking fear pumping through him from those nightmares, he’d jump from his bed and dash to his parent’s room like there was a hound on his heels. He’d wrap his arms around his mother before she was ever awake; even though the sickness would sometimes keep her from returning the embrace, she’d whisper something low and warm to him, comforting those frightful visions away.
Nita’s mother would not be comforting him again; not in this school. Not for a very long time.
The reflection of him was like a painting that had been smeared with ash; the color was gone, the careful brushstrokes smothered and trimmed. His clothes were pastel and plain; the black hair that hung past his shoulders was gone, and reduced to the short, nearly bald crop he had now. Even the glow of his dark skin had faded, dimming somehow; perhaps to be more like these white people. That was their intention, wasn’t it?
The thought that these people could even change the color of his skin made him rub his arm, pulling his eyes away from the reflection. He didn’t recognize himself now; he knew his mother would not. The only ones who recognized him were these white faces who raised their voices and scowled when Nita spoke in his native language.
The thought of his language being unwanted was a concept as foreign as the sun not belonging in the sky; what else was he to speak? They were the words his mother spoke as she asked him to help her across the room, to fetch some water, to bring in some game. It was the voice of his father, and his friends, and his elders.
But that was days ago, and the school demanded he accept the concepts that made no sense, as if the sun really didn’t belong in the sky. As if his hair didn’t deserve to be long, and his language didn’t belong in their world, and his clothes didn’t belong in their midst. They didn’t rest until they had stripped him of everything, handing him colorless shirts and uncomfortable shoes and hair too short and a language too hard. The feeling was almost physical; as though somebody had reached into his heart and taken away the things important to him.
Just days ago, nothing else had mattered. His family was close to him, his home, his air, his sky. His mother was sick, but they were all together. From the time the sun
rose to the moment it set down, he was restlessly helping his mother cook and create beads, learning the ways of his people.
He knew no one now. Nita was twelve years old, nearly a man, nearly everything in his tribe; and now he was pulled away, shoved into a uniform, shoved into a desk, and everything he cared about was shoved back down his throat with every harsh reprimand. Carlisle Indian Industrial School was his new home, and he couldn’t understand why.
Nita stepped back from the mirror, standing in the middle of his small room. The day had only begun, and inside the seclusion of colorless concrete walls was the only place he belonged now. Class would not start for some time. His new roommate sat on the bed opposite to his own, the same color skin contrasting the lightness of his uniform.
He was just like him, Nita knew, and so far that was all he knew.
“So, what’s your name?” Nita asked, English jagged and awkward in his mouth.
“I’m Pamuy,” the new kid muttered -- the first word coming as a struggle, but his name sounding fluid in his voice. “And I still don’t understand why I’m here.”
Pamuy’s form was like a puppet whose strings had been cut, letting him sink into a pile of sagging limps. Dejectedly, he perched on the edge of his cot, hands resting uselessly in his lap as he looked down at the floor. None of the boys had been allowed to bring anything from their homes with them. They were given three sets of clothing, instruction after instruction in a language Nita didn’t understand, and then last night, they had been led in something that must have been a prayer, with hands folded and heads bowed. They prayed to a God Nita didn’t know, but was assured that loved him.
Nita knew of gods – the gods of his people. He didn’t understand why this god, who loved him, would order for him to be taken away from his family.
Nita feared these people, even when he was back home, with his family – with his tribe. He’d heard the elders talking of the English pushing their way in; talking of these foreigners taking what they believed was theirs. His mother would run her fingers through his hair, soothingly, when the talk and the fear made him curl up against her. She’d tell him that there were good and there were bad -- the same was for the animals, the same was for the gods, the same was for the trees and the plants. Some leaves were poison, some were healing; some gods were wrathful and some were kind.
She’d promise that he’d be safe; always.
He had always believed his mother, but these new people, who took him from his family, made his mother break her promise. That made him think perhaps his mother had been wrong. Maybe what his father had been vividly angry about was right; these long days without his family, with his culture and his people stripped away from him, let a feeling like resentment and anger grow inside him. It wouldn’t let Nita believe anything more. Those people never understood their ways, and now they were going to get rid of them.
His room here was freezing; it was as though they knew nothing about how to keep warm at night. One night, loneliness was sapping away at him like the shivers wracking his body, and he knew if he was home, he would’ve been able to step out into the night, gather some good burning wood, and make a small fire to warm him. Even if it was dark, it would be warm. But they never let him into the forests outside, and he knew the punishment would have been worse than the shivers.
Nita was hungry, and he’d only been there a few days. The food they gave him was tasteless and foreign, holding none of the flavor of fresh game; and they never gave him enough. They wouldn’t let him hunt to feed himself either. For a split second, he thought if he offered, they might be thankful for the effort; but the atmosphere around him was like a thick blanket, weighing him down with tension.
He felt like he’d stumbled into a snake’s nest, like the one day he’d found a nest when gathering food for his mother. The creatures had risen up, a piercing hiss threatening him, and he didn’t move – a single breath could startle them into striking. He’d never been bitten before, he’d never seen a snake strike, but he knew without knowing that it’d take almost nothing to provoke them. He waited for them to calm and he backed slowly away; it was nature, it was the flow of the Earth.
So Nita stayed quiet, casting away this inclination of helping them; he couldn’t give them reason to strike, and like a reasonless snake, he knew without knowing it’d take almost nothing to provoke them.
They tried to assure him everything would be alright. His mother had assured him with a firm expression that it’d be alright when they came into his village, gathering together the children. Nita saw the fear in his mother’s eyes when he was loaded into the back of the car, white faces guiding him in. Nobody got scared when everything was alright.
The children beside him in the car didn’t share the fortitude of their parents, and tears streamed down their faces. The white faces smiled like there wasn’t crying -- as if by ignoring it, it ceased to be. These teachers, these foreigners, said Nita was lucky – they all were lucky. They were going to be given an education; they’d be taught how to live in a civilized society.
Civilized society. At the time, Nita didn’t understand what that meant.
As the days went by, he learned the definition by example: it meant loneliness, and hunger, and being cold, and waking up each morning not knowing how long this future of narrow halls and pastel clothes would stretch out before him.
He woke up early each morning, before the wakeup call rang out, expecting his mother’s voice nearby and his bed underneath him. Instead he looked up at a grey concrete ceiling, and it’d all begin again. The English schoolmasters had a ritualistic way for him to groom himself, and make his bed, and arrange his clothes, and the system was strictly enforced.
His new roommate, Pamuy, manage to gather together his puppet strings and rise from his bed to make it. He struggled to make the edges of his blankets perfect, and Nita felt his pang of anxiety from across the room – a familiar feeling in this school. He helped Pamuy wordlessly, and then they both stepped into the hallway. Their backs pressed against the outside of the door as they stood rigidly, mirroring the line of children who quietly stood against the rowed doors. They waited as the schoolmasters wandered past them, one by one, inspecting them.
“Good morning, students. For those who are new, I must prepare you for what is expected,” One tall schoolmaster began in a reserved, formal tone as he gave each a stern, assessing glance. “Here, we are going to build decent, upstanding citizens out of each of you. We are going to keep you from the hedonistic lifestyle you’re accustomed to. You will learn to love your God, and do the things that are pleasing to him. Every one of you needs to learn to put your old ways behind you, and we will show you how you’re supposed to live your life.”
He stopped, looking down at Nita. His hand reached out and Nita tensed; his fingers clasped the edge of his collar, adjusting it so it laid flat. He gave Nita a pointed look, pressing his lips together disapprovingly, before stepping away. “The rewards that you receive will leave you forever grateful for our guidance and support.”
Chapter Two
Alba
“My mother doesn’t speak English; she won’t understand what this means,” Alba said, her eyebrows furrowed as she stared pensively at the sheet of paper before her. She looked up to her teacher, beseeching. The paper was thin and simple, but it was the only connection she’d had to her people in days; it was her only tie to her life like it was before.
“I’m sorry, that’s the only way you can write a letter back home,” Mrs. Greenspan said, nonplussed. She didn’t glance up from the sheet of paper she graded.
Alba’s gaze fell, wondering if she should bother continuing the letter. Her mother wouldn’t be able to decipher the foreign letters; she’d be thrilled to receive something from her daughter -- the daughter she hadn’t seen in so long – but it’d be worthless scribbles to her. Writing in her native language would get the letter thrown in the trash and earn her a reprimand. Alba grimaced down at the blank paper, wishing she c
ould somehow convince it to tell her mother she was alright.
Alba longed to see the upturned corners of her mother’s mouth, the waves of her father’s black hair, or even children younger than her playing in her favorite creek. She missed her tribe; she missed being able to feel the earth beneath her feet. This dullness in her ears, left by the absence of her native language, was more unbearable than it all. She couldn’t stand not feeling the words of her home playing on her tongue. English was such a cold, harsh language that lacked all the personality of her own; it didn’t catch the same sounds or fill her mouth in the same way.
She could tell without looking that the bent heads at the neighboring desks were not in concentration. Each child of darker skin looked down at the paper, feeling the same lonely twist in their chests -- the same helplessness of having their language pulled from their mouths and now from their hands too.
At first, the shared grief of all the girls around her had been comforting; it made her feel like a part of a community, like the tightness of her tribe. Now the comfort had turned sour in her chest, and the collective helplessness only added gravity to the sadness. Not only she was without power, but so were all of them.
They were left to look at their papers, knowing their loved ones would receive a collection of symbols, see the signature at the bottom and know the words were an outpour of something -- love or hatred, loneliness or happiness, fear or assurance – but be unable to understand them. It made Alba feel worse to know she’d never receive a response. They couldn’t write in anything but English, and they wouldn’t be allowed to have anything not in English; it was strictly forbidden.
That initial shift, from the voice Alba’d known all her life to the straight formality of English, had been hard on her -- on everyone. Mrs. Greenspan would walk the hallways of the girls’ rooms; sometimes even late at night when everyone had thought she’d left. She’d bark out a surprise reprimand, a scolding for saying anything that wasn’t in English. She had ears like a deer in the woods, waiting for a single shift in the green to be out of place, so she could leap into the fray – but a deer would run. Greenspan came and found them.