by Sally Green
“Which command in particular were you concerned about, Father?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I told you what had to be said in the denouncement and told you to sound like you meant it.”
“Well, as it turned out, no, I could not in this instance do as you commanded.”
“What is it with you, Ambrose?” His father pushed back from the desk, shaking his head.
“What is it that means I can’t denounce my sister? I don’t know, sir. Perhaps I believe her to be a good person. A good sister and a good daughter. The bigger question in my mind is how you could do it, and do it so well.”
Ambrose’s father was still now. “You are as impertinent as you are naive, Ambrose. You are my son and I expect more of you.”
“And Anne was your daughter. I expected more of you. You should have protected her with your life.”
“You, boy, do not tell me what I should do.” Ambrose’s father lowered his voice. “She killed one of the king’s men. We’re lucky it wasn’t every one of us on the block. The king is looking for any chance to add to his income. We could have lost everything.”
Ambrose sneered. “Well, I’m glad you know your priorities. It must be a relief to still have your lands even though you’ve no daughter.”
“You are pushing me too far this time, Ambrose. I warn you to stop now.”
But Ambrose couldn’t stop. “And I wouldn’t worry about falling out of favor with the king. You denounced Anne beautifully. I’m sure the king, Noyes, and all the court were impressed with your words, your manner, your loyalty. And, after all, what does it matter to you about your truth, your virtue, or your honor?”
Ambrose’s father shot to his feet. “Get out! Get out of here before I have you whipped out.”
Ambrose was already leaving, slamming the door after him and striding down the corridor. Tarquin was running toward him.
“I could hear it all from across the courtyard.”
Ambrose strode past his brother. Outside, and with nowhere to go he stopped and roared his frustration, hitting and kicking the wall.
Tarquin came to stand by him. He watched and winced. And waited for Ambrose to calm.
Eventually Ambrose stopped and rubbed the blood and broken skin from his knuckles. “What is it with that man? A few words with him and I’m kicking walls and breaking my own fists.”
“He misses you and he cares about you. I admit he has a strange way of showing it. I suspect you miss him—and you have a strange way of showing it too.”
Ambrose gave a short laugh.
“It’s good to see you smile.”
Ambrose leaned his head against the stone of the wall. “There’ve been few reasons to smile recently.”
“For any of us.” Tarquin put his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder. “You know Father loved Anne. Loves her still. This has hurt him deeply.”
“And yet he still denounced her.”
“What else could he do, Ambrose? She’d been found guilty. If he didn’t denounce her, the king would take our lands. All the people in Norwend who depend on him would lose too. The king would win more. Father had to be convincing.”
Ambrose couldn’t answer. He scraped his forehead against the rough stone.
“Anne would understand, Ambrose. She knew the law as well as anyone. She knew Father loved her. It’s not right what happened, but don’t blame him.”
“But what they did to her . . .”
Ambrose had thought many times of Noyes’s men torturing his sister, the pain and the insults she must have endured, and yet she stood tall at the end. He was so proud of her. Her intelligence and independence inspired him, though most lords wouldn’t see those as good things. Anne had been extraordinary for a Brigantine woman—even for a man she would have been unusual. She had traveled widely, to Pitoria and beyond. She spoke several languages and had helped Ambrose and Tarquin to learn Pitorian. Ambrose remembered the lessons fondly as she encouraged him, saying, “No, make it more guttural, from the back of the throat,” and to Tarquin, “Don’t stand so stiffly. Your hands and your body speak too.”
And her own hands, which had signed so swiftly and so well, at the end were broken, that quick tongue cut out, those smiling lips sewn shut forever. What must she have been thinking, as they did it to her? Would she have just wanted to die as quickly as possible? Probably. She’d been captive for three weeks before her execution. Every day they would have tormented her. She was so thin at the execution. And all he could do was watch—and denounce her too.
Ambrose felt Tarquin’s embrace and only then realized he was crying again. He spoke quietly, still facing the wall. “I don’t believe she was guilty. I mean, I can believe she killed the soldier, but she would only do that to protect herself. But I don’t believe she and Sir Oswald were lovers. They were friends since childhood; he encouraged her to learn. She admired him and valued him as a friend. And, anyway, since when is the king bothered who has a lover? Half the court would be in his dungeons if that was the case. Though what they were doing way over in the west, I don’t know. That’s never been explained properly. Something else was going on; I’m sure of that.”
Tarquin replied almost in a whisper, “I don’t believe we know the true story either, Ambrose, but I’m not foolish enough to say that to anyone but you.”
“I’m a fool, do you think?”
“You’re honorable and true, Ambrose. And I admire you for your virtue.”
Ambrose smiled through his tears. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Tarquin was serious, though. “None of us really know what happened to Anne or Sir Oswald, but, whatever it was, it was against the king. I’ve just lost my sister; I don’t want to lose my brother too. I know you found it almost impossible to denounce Anne, but it was obvious you didn’t mean what you said. Small details like that can be enough to bring a man down when they’re against the king. Loyalty is all he wants and expects. Total loyalty.”
“And loyalty to my sister? That counts for nothing?”
“Aloysius believes he comes first, you know that.”
“So you think I’m doomed?”
Tarquin shook his head. “No, but I think it’s dangerous for you here in Brigane now.”
“It’s dangerous everywhere now.”
“That’s not true. But we’re not welcome here. At court hardly anyone meets Father’s eye and even fewer talk with him. He’s been invited to dine with no one since our arrival, and no one has accepted his invitations to call on us; they’re all suddenly very busy with other engagements.”
“Father should count himself lucky. They’re all two-faced rats. I wouldn’t trust any of them.”
“Being ostracized isn’t a positive thing, Ambrose. With no allies at court, we’re weak. Back home, among our people, we’ll be safer.” Tarquin took a deep breath. “Father and I are returning north to Norwend tomorrow. Why don’t you come with us? At home you’ll be away from the Royal Guard, the court, and from the king.”
“My work is with the Royal Guard. I swore an oath to protect the princess. I’m not going to run away.”
Tarquin sighed. “Your work is another thing that’s dangerous, brother. I saw that look you shared with the princess at the execution. You show your feelings so plainly on your face, Ambrose. Noyes and Prince Boris will have noticed too. Noyes notices everything.”
“So now I can’t even look at someone without them seeing a crime?”
And all he did was look at Princess Catherine. He had to look at her. Her father and Boris appeared triumphant, but Catherine was different. She was so sad but calm too. Looking at her had helped him bear the sadness and pain.
Ambrose saw Catherine most days as he stood guard outside her chambers, rode with her, occasionally spoke with her. Ambrose loved the way she smiled and laughed. He loved how she answered Boris back, with wit and spirit and int
elligence. He loved how she took on different personas, provoking Boris by being outrageous, but only with Ambrose would she be sweet and gentle and thoughtful. At least as far as he knew, only with him—and was it wrong that it irked him to think she might be sweet and gentle to other men? He loved the way she slid her slim foot into the stirrup and how she sat so strong and upright in the saddle and yet how, that hot day at the end of last summer, she’d ridden her horse into the sea with a look of such freedom and wildness, and jumped off, laughing, and swam around his own horse. He despaired when Boris heard of it and for two weeks she wasn’t permitted to ride at all and had never swum again. He despaired that somehow they’d ruin Catherine as they’d ruined Anne. And yet somehow, so far, she wasn’t ruined by them; she was as strong as them.
Tarquin nudged him. “As I said, you show your feelings on your face, and I’d call that look ‘love.’”
“Admiration, respect, and, I admit, a certain level of fondness, are what you see on my face.” Ambrose nudged Tarquin back, though he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
“Well, make sure that’s all anyone sees. And make it a lower level of fondness too.”
“Take comfort, brother. This look of fondness will soon be replaced with a look of utter boredom: Princess Catherine leaves for Pitoria in a week to be married to a prince and I’ll remain here, a lowly soldier and guard.”
“Still, you need to take care, Ambrose. Noyes was watching you closely.”
“Stop worrying! Even Noyes can’t persecute me for a look.”
MARCH
CALIA, CALIDOR
MARCH STOOD still and silent by the drinks table. He was supposed to look straight ahead at the wall opposite, but if he angled his head slightly to the right he could see as much as he needed.
Lord Regan sat with Prince Thelonius in the bay window at the far end of the room. The prince was leaning forward to Regan, almost looking up at him, almost asking rather than commanding. Regan rubbed his face with one hand and gave a short nod. The prince leaned back and said loudly, “Good. My thanks.” March had angled his head back to look at the wall as the prince called, “Refreshments!”
March picked up the carafe of wine and the silver platter of grapes and moved toward the two men. He could feel the difference in mood. The prince was still looking tired; he’d aged ten years in the few weeks since his wife and young sons had died. However, his eyes now appeared not so empty; he was almost smiling. Prince Thelonius had seen few visitors, and even Regan had been kept away since their tempestuous meeting after the funeral, but in the last few days things had changed. The prince had woken earlier, dressed, bathed, talked lucidly, and last night he had demanded Regan be sent for.
March poured the wine. Since his wife died, the prince had started drinking during the day. Not much, but every day, and that didn’t look to be changing.
“Water for me,” Regan said.
March put the grapes down and walked deftly back to his position. He picked up the water pitcher and selected the wooden bowl of hazelnuts rather than the plate of dried apples, which looked unappetizing. He returned slowly, studying the two men again as he approached.
While the prince’s demeanor had improved, Lord Regan’s certainly had not. Regan, the trusted, closest, oldest friend of the prince, was typical of the lords of Calidor: attractive in the way of the rich, powerful, strong and healthy. He wore a frown now. It suited him no less than his smile. But then everything suited him. Today he wore a gold-colored velvet jacket that glistened when it caught the sun. It emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, as did the finely plaited brown leather straps that crisscrossed from his chest down to his hips, the straps holding his knives. Regan was the only man permitted to be armed in the presence of the prince; the only man able to frown while the prince smiled.
March put the bowl down carefully, moved the grape platter a little to the side, adjusted the bowl of nuts a final time.
“Your barbarian boy seems determined to be slow today,” Regan growled.
“Take your anger out on me, not him, my friend,” the prince replied gently.
March poured the water slowly. He would have loved to throw it in Regan’s face, but he concentrated on the slow and steady stream, letting Regan’s words wash off him.
March was used to receiving the occasional slight, though it was rare for a lord to lower himself to comment on a servant. Mostly the insults March received were mild: “jokes” about the prince having civilized him, or being referred to as “the last of the Abasks.” Sometimes there was genuine interest, though that was mainly about his eyes, as people would stare into them and tell him their opinion, which was usually either “amazing” or “freak.” One young lord only the previous month had demanded March stand in the light so he could see them better, remarking, “I’d heard that Abasks had ice eyes, but there’s blue and silver in there with the white.” He’d ended by saying, “Most unpleasant.” Sometimes people commented that they thought all the Abasks had been killed. March had used to think that too, until he met Holywell.
“I’m not angry,” Lord Regan said. “Can’t I disagree, though?” It seemed his anger was making him raise his voice, March noted as he made a snail-paced return to his post by the table.
“You’re my friend. I need your help. I asked as a friend.” The prince’s words were also raised enough for March to hear them now.
“And afterward? What do you think will happen? You are respected, but this isn’t like bringing in some Abask brat to wait on tables.”
March lost the prince’s reply as he was thinking, Fuck you! Fuck you!
Regan was right, of course; Prince Thelonius was respected and March was nothing but a servant, a virtual slave. The prince represented all that was civilized and refined; March, all that was primitive and uncultured. The prince had a reputation for wisdom, honor, and fairness; Abasks had a reputation for being mountain-dwelling trolls.
March had worked for the prince for eight years—half his life—and he’d learned about his home country and his people from the Calidorians. There was no one else to learn from, as Abask had been destroyed in the war between Calidor and Brigant. Prince Thelonius had been granted the princedom of Calidor by his father and had refused to hand it over to his brother, King Aloysius of Brigant, on their father’s death. Then they had fought, as only brothers could, with hate more passionate because they shared the same blood, and as only rulers could—with armies.
It was an uneven fight. Brigant was bigger and stronger and Aloysius the more experienced leader, but Prince Thelonius had something Aloysius could never claim: the love of his people. He treated the citizens of Calidor well, taxed them fairly, and ensured the laws were applied wisely. Aloysius ruled Brigant through terror and violence. The Calidorians feared Aloysius and loved Thelonius.
Abask, the beautiful, small mountainous region that was March’s birthplace, lay on the border between the kingdoms but had always been considered part of Calidor. When Aloysius invaded, his armies burned their way across Abask, aiming for the Calidorian capital, Calia. Thelonius’s army was almost overwhelmed. Pulling all his forces back into a defense of the city, Thelonius managed to hold Calia for over a year, before counterattacking and driving Aloysius’s army back across the border to Brigant, when, finally, a truce was declared.
Brigant was despairing, their treasury empty and their army depleted. Calidor was exhausted but jubilant at having thrown back the bigger invader in a glorious and honorable defense against greater odds. The bonds with the Savaants to the south improved further, trade grew in the following years, Calidorian farms and vineyards prospered, and the towns were rebuilt. Few Calidorians cared about what had happened to the mountain people of Abask. And there were few Abasks left to care either: the Abask fighters had been wiped out in the first battles of the war and Abask was overrun, its surviving people left to starve or taken as slaves by the Brigantines.
Only seven years old when the war began, March’s own memories were vague. He remembered being told his father had been killed, and his mother and sisters died at some point but he wasn’t sure when. Mainly he remembered his older brother, Julien, holding his hand as they went in search of food. He couldn’t actually remember the feeling of being hungry, but he knew he must have been because he definitely did recall eating grass. But mainly he remembered holding Julien’s hand and walking day after day until Julien collapsed and some Calidorian soldiers returning from the border had pried him off his brother’s dead body and carried him to the safety and warmth of the prince’s camp.
March used to think of himself as lucky: lucky that he’d not starved; lucky that he’d been rescued by the Calidorians, and not the Brigantines; lucky that the prince had taken him in and trained him to be his personal servant; lucky to have enough food to eat every day.
He thought all that until he met Holywell.
March had been back to the land that had once been Abask, when he was traveling nearby with the prince. He’d slipped away from the royal entourage and climbed up into the rugged mountains. He’d hoped to remember places or recognize some feature of the landscape, but in honesty it all seemed strange: more rugged and inhospitable than he’d thought. After three days he returned to the prince, telling him some of the truth.
“I needed to see it, sire.”
“And what did you find?”
“The mountains remain, and a few ruins, but the bracken and woods have reclaimed the land. No one is living there.”
The prince had smiled sadly. “It was always a tough existence, living in the mountains. Your people were strong and resourceful.”
And left by you to starve or be taken into slavery, March wanted to shout in the prince’s face.
“Well, I’m glad you returned to me, March. I was lost without you.”
And March had taken a breath and forced out his reply. “It’s right that I should come back to you, sire. After all you’ve done for me.”