Sacrifice

by Cayla Kluver

  “A lady does not shout, Shaselle!” Mother admonished, ironically raising her volume to match mine. “Cannan will be here in a few hours—it’s time you made yourself presentable.”

  As she said this, a strand of her light brown hair came free of its bun, joining the other frazzled pieces that surrounded her face. Normally she was so tidy, and it was disconcerting to see her this way, in a simple skirt and blouse that were clean only because the maid was attentive. Sympathy swelled inside me, combating my anger, but as usual the latter won out.

  “No,” I muttered, my feet shoulder width apart, my hands on my hips. “I said I don’t care. I don’t care what’s proper, what’s respectable, what’s feminine. I won’t sit here in a pretty gown while you and Uncle decide into whose hands to thrust me.”

  My mother sat wearily on the sofa, but her voice was still forceful when she spoke, her critical eyes boring into me.

  “I’ve had all I can take. You are a young woman and need someone to support you now that your father is dead. It’s time to dispense with these inappropriate activities, or no decent man will desire you as a wife. No more horseback riding, no more playing about, no more breeches.” She gestured to my current attire. “Your childhood is over, Shaselle. This is life—accept it.”

  I cast about the room, desperation and hatred clawing at me—hatred of her, of this place and its painful memories, of the life she was advocating. She didn’t understand. She never had. Papa’s decision to let me ride and dress like a boy from time to time was the only subject on which Mother had ever challenged him during their marriage, and they had argued about it more times than I could recall.

  “Everything that he was to me you would take away.” I heard the choke in my voice before I felt the hot tears running down my cheeks. “Everything he wanted for me means nothing to you!”

  “Please listen,” she said more sympathetically, coming to her feet and smoothing the skirt that did not need smoothing. “As painful as this is for you to hear, your father spoiled you. He indulged you, promising me always that he would find you a husband who would indulge you as he did. But Baelic will never be able to make good on that promise. I’m the one who is left to cope with the task of finding a man of stature to marry you.”

  She took a breath to try to banish the quaver from her voice, for her own pain at her husband’s death was not far beneath the surface. “It’s too late for blame, so the least you can do for me is to go and put on a dress.”

  Trying in vain to control my tears, I tipped my head forward, hiding behind a curtain of hair.

  “No,” I repeated. “I don’t want any of this.”

  “Shaselle.”

  I knew without looking that she was coming closer, reaching out to comfort me. I sniffed and wiped my shirtsleeve across my eyes, turning my back to her before she could do so, for I did not want to succumb to her touch. Embarrassed by my emotional display, I rushed from the parlor to the entryway, rammed out the front door, then sprinted when I hit the open air, not wanting her to follow. The path beckoned, and the street beyond.

  Everywhere was evidence of the battles our men had fought, along with evidence of the Cokyrian victory—at intervals along the rubble-lined street enemy flags fluttered in the gentle spring breeze, and enemy soldiers patrolled the neighborhoods. Even in this wealthy residential area, which lay to the west of the main thoroughfare, crumbled pieces of stone from homes, splintered wooden beams, remains of furniture and other household items, and abandoned children’s toys were relegated to the ditches by the reconstruction crews, and ash from Cokyrian fires soaked multiple times with rain made a vile-smelling, mudlike substance that slickened the walk. We were more fortunate than most, for my family’s home had sustained little damage in comparison to the other houses in the area and had been among the first repaired, at Galen’s insistence, for he had been assigned to the reconstruction work in this section of the city.

  In truth, the crews were making good progress. The streets became visibly cleaner by the day, and dwellings that had slouched under the force of Cokyri’s domination gradually came upright with the hard work of Hytanican and enemy folk alike. I could hear workers calling to one another as they hauled materials up to second floors using ladder-and-pulley systems, the sound competing with those of straining horses, the thud of hammers and the grating of stone against stone.

  Where the problem lay was in looting—possessions and supplies would be stolen from homes and businesses by those who yet had no shelter. While the Cokyrian peacekeeping force did all they could to keep order, it was heartrending to think that our fellow Hytanicans might pose more of a threat to us than the soldiers who had invaded our homeland. Desperation could overtake good people. People who didn’t deserve what fate had handed them.

  I stopped at the end of the street, realizing that to go farther might be unsafe. There were pockets of the city, including my family’s neighborhood, that were, all things considered, calm—as peaceful as Hytanica got these days. Other places, in particular the wide thoroughfare that ran north and south, cutting the city in half, were rife with small rebellions—rebellions that Cokyrian soldiers brutally subdued.

  By this time, the afternoon sun had dried my tears, although the hole inside of me seemed to have grown. No matter what I did, that horrible, sickening emptiness in my gut expanded each moment I lived without my father. I tried to shut my mind, not wanting to think of it, of the manner of his death at the Overlord’s hands, a death I had been forced to witness, the cruelty of which had stranded me.

  Leaning against the side of a building adjacent to the roadway, I sank down, not wanting to go home. Here, where there was noise and activity, it was easy to pretend things were different. My father’s ghost didn’t wander these streets like it did the halls of our home. But I would soon have to return and comply with my mother’s wishes, for it would not do to rile Cannan, my father’s brother.

  I had always known I would marry, and had not been resistant to or afraid of the prospect, but that had been when Papa was alive to make sure my husband would be a kind, tolerant, high-spirited man who would not deny me that which I truly loved—riding horses. Now, with the choice of suitors narrowed by war casualties and the more traditional mindset of my mother, the prospect of wifehood was terrifying, along with the knowledge that in embracing it, I would have to let go of the best way I knew to remember my father. At that, the anger boiled back, and with it, inexplicably, a fresh surge of tears.

  A small amount of ash-mud splattered toward me as a horse-drawn wagon went by, leaving dribbles on my clothing, and I came to my feet, sending some dirt flying after it with the toe of my boot before starting home. When our manor house, with its second-story gallery that served as the reception room where my father had loved to host parties, came into view, I veered toward the back of the property. No one would see me, and I needed additional time to compose myself. Without thought, I walked toward the barn where I had spent hours—days cumulatively—with Papa, learning about horses and tack and the proper care for both.

  The moment I stepped inside the sturdy stone structure, I was met with a devastating and powerful rush of nostalgia. The smell of leather and hay was the smell of my childhood, of everything I had lost. It was all so wrong, the idea that Papa would never again step out of that tack room carrying his saddle, getting ready to take me and my brother out riding, the ridiculous concept that he would never ride again.

  I walked up to the first stall on the left, which ho
used a dark bay mare named Briar, the horse my father had always called his baby. Every time he approached her, she had perked up her ears and rumbled a greeting deep in her chest. I put my hands atop the door, and she came close to let me stroke her face, but made no sound. Even she knew the world was amiss. I glanced down the row of stalls, which housed my petite sorrel mare and my brother’s gelding, as well as Alcander, our best beginner horse, the one Queen Alera had occasionally ridden, and heavily exhaled. Would I ever ride again?

  At the touch of a hand upon my back, I jumped, not having heard anyone come in. At first, the familiar features, the hair so dark it could have been black, the deep brown eyes and the muscular build of a military man sent a jolt through my being. Then I realized it was my uncle standing beside me and not the brother he resembled so distinctly.

  It was impossible to disguise my condition—I was an exhausted, puffy-eyed, miserable mess, and I hated to have the captain see me like this. I blubbered some nonsense about needing to leave and tried to step past him, but he caught my elbow and pulled me into strong arms that felt so painfully similar to my father’s. Too tired and weak to resist him, I crumpled against his chest, surprised to find after a while that I was gripping his shirt like a child.

  He held me for a long time, until I eased myself away, my eyes on the wooden floor. I didn’t want to look at him, mortified by the state in which he had found me, and having no idea what he must be thinking. It was to be expected, after all, that when the head of the family came to discuss marriage plans for his niece, the young woman in question would be polite enough to show up.

  “Don’t be ashamed, Shaselle,” Cannan said, with more understanding than I deserved. “This family has endured a tragedy.”

  His straightforward approach had unnerved me at times over the years, particularly when I’d gotten into trouble alongside Steldor and Galen, but this time I appreciated it immeasurably. He wasn’t angry with me.

  “You know your mother is frantic,” he resumed.

  It wasn’t a question, just a reminder, for he was aware that I had a functioning brain. Of course my mother was worried—who wouldn’t be with our kingdom in disarray? Nonetheless, due to some horrid fault in my conscience, I didn’t feel guilty.

  “Uncle, please,” I implored, raising my hazel eyes to his face. “Can all of this not wait?”

  “All of what?”

  “The marriage,” I said more meekly. “It’s too soon. I can’t… I’m not ready. You understand, don’t you?”

  He was nodding. That was good. He looked around the barn for a moment as though he were remembering his younger brother, then his eyes came to rest once more on me, a decision lying in their depths.

  “Shaselle, your mother is coping the best way she knows how—by refusing to let herself dwell on the past. She’s moving on. To you it may feel premature, but it’s what she needs to do.”

  “I know,” I murmured, putting a hand over my mouth in disbelief of the number of times sadness could overwhelm me in a single day. And my mother would be feeling the same, having lost her husband of twenty years. It didn’t seem fair, how tremendous sorrow was—no one stood a chance against its weight.

  “But are my needs so unimportant?” I finally asked, in spite of the remorse that had at last wormed its way into my gut.

  “No, and I will give you time, as much as I can. But your mother is being practical. Dahnath is already betrothed, and at eighteen, it’s time for you to find a husband, as well. This is how things would have progressed were your father alive.”

  Despite the reasonableness of his words, I shook my head. “You don’t understand. Papa was going to find me a husband who would appreciate me, all of me.”

  “I will do everything within my means to see that your father’s standards are met.” Cannan waited, but I did not acknowledge him, wanting even further assurance. “Shaselle?”

  I took a shaky breath. “Do you swear?”

  My uncle’s eyebrows drew together in response to this unladylike demand, but I wanted an answer, and to hell with being a lady anyway.

  “I swear that I will try.” His response was safe, but still reassuring, for at what did the Captain of the Guard fail? Even our defeat by Cokyri had not been complete, for it had resulted in a treaty and our return to our homeland.

  He walked with me to the house, where I could see my mother gazing at us through the parlor window. She came into the entryway to greet us, her face awash with relief at my safe return. I hung my head and walked past, no doubt seeming disrespectful when all I really wanted was to retreat. She knew better than to take offense, but I nonetheless heard Cannan tell her to leave me be. I climbed the stairs and turned left toward my bedroom, listening to their footsteps enter the parlor, where presumably they would discuss my situation.

  I closed the door of my sanctuary and leaned against it, releasing my breath. More than anything, I craved solitude of late, and this was one of the few places where I could find it. I gazed past my bed through the double window on the opposite wall, wishing I could fly as free as the birds twittering in the trees. With a sigh, I crossed to the dressing table, pulling the pins from my straight, light brown hair and letting it tumble almost to my waist.

  After a sponge bath, I donned a simple blue dinner gown, black garb for mourners having fallen out of practice since the war. If every person who had suffered a loss were to dress in accordance with custom, the city’s occupants would appear to have withered just like the scorched lands beyond the walls. Aggrieved was everyone’s state of being; it was understood.

  I left my room, my elder sister, Dahnath, auburn-haired and beautiful like all the women on my father’s side, joining me in the hallway. To my relief, she said nothing, although I was sure she knew of my flight from the house. Her nature was to be soft-spoken and studious, but she readily found fault with me for my candor and volatility, and for the fact that I didn’t do much to control it. Papa had always joked that I should have been a boy, but on some level my family believed it, and it wasn’t difficult to tell whether or not they approved.

  Mother had called my younger siblings to dinner, and they were gathered around the large mahogany table when Dahnath and I entered the dining room. It was apparent that we had walked in on the end of an uncomfortable exchange, for our mother stood beside our father’s vacant chair, her eyes upon Cannan.

  “Won’t you please?” she said, her voice beseeching.

  Following a moment of atypical uncertainty, the captain acquiesced, coming forward to lay his hand atop the chair’s back and nodding once. My uncle’s words about Mother and her need to move on swam in my head as we all took our seats, Cannan settling into Papa’s place. Incredibly, I didn’t resent this, perhaps because the empty chair was too stark a reminder of our loss; perhaps because my father and Cannan had not only been brothers, but best friends; perhaps because it felt like I had a little bit of Papa back.

  The kitchen staff entered with platters of savory food, serving Cannan and my mother first, then the children: Dahnath and me; Tulara, who was dark like Cannan and Papa, and at sixteen, easily the prettiest and most feminine of the girls; Lesette, who at fourteen had not yet lost all of her baby fat, her rounded cheeks framed by wavy medium brown hair; Ganya, who had been sickly since birth and was still too fragile for her thirteen years, but whose chocolate hair and delicate beauty drew approving glances; and Celdrid, who in looks and disposition was my father’s double and who had taken Papa’s death, if
possible, harder than the rest of us. At eleven years of age, he had worshipped his father and, as the only son and youngest child, had been given an acceptable amount of special treatment. He had always been a cheerful, energetic, exceptionally adorable boy, but in the aftermath of Papa’s death, he had become morose, speaking little and sleeping less. Like the rest of us, he had been forced to the military field where the Overlord had methodically murdered all of Hytanica’s military officers, taking extra time with my father for his resemblance to the captain, who had escaped his hands. Although my mother had attempted to shield Celdrid’s eyes from what was happening, the tortured screams of the dying men could not be shut out.

  Conversation throughout the meal was spare, largely because there were few pleasant matters to discuss. Cannan also seemed more interested in observing than in talking. We had, after all, become his responsibility. He would safeguard Celdrid’s inheritance, arrange marriages for each of his nieces when the time came and provide for my mother throughout her life. My uncle, as with all things, took his duties seriously, and was watching for signs that any among us was ailing more than circumstances warranted.

  We were about twenty minutes into our dining when my brother pushed his plate away, the food upon it barely touched. He slumped forward, putting his elbows on the table and dropping his face into his hands. His manners and appetite had been sorely lacking of late, along with the rest of the personality we loved, but none among us could stand to reproach him, not when he was so melancholy.

  “Celdrid?” Mother asked, sounding disquieted but not surprised.

  He shook his head, fingers enmeshed in his dark hair, eyes still on the tabletop.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, the words barely audible.

  “You have to eat, Celdrid,” Mother insisted, while Cannan watched with a minute crease in his brow.