“Your Majesty—” Arnacin began with a sigh, yet the king cut him off.
“Carpason did say you were discussing Miran spies with him. The answer is ‘no.’”
“We were not discussing Miran spies.”
“The answer is still ‘no.’ You of all people should understand why it cannot be otherwise. Did you not say yourself that the war started through lack of ‘honor’? Should Mira encroach on their territory, it will confirm their accusations.”
“With all due respect, Mira did just attack it.” As Miro’s eyes flashed, Arnacin dropped his gaze, whispering, “Your Majesty.”
“The edge only—to demonstrate that Mira could take it, but chooses not to. Sending scouts throughout their land is entirely different.”
“I am not Miran, Your Majesty. If I go, I doubt they will look on me as Mira.”
“If I allow it, it will be Mira and, regardless, they know which side you support.”
“I am for the lives of both. It is for that reason…” He paused, hoping for the least offensive way to phrase his next words, “that I cannot continue aiding Mira if the strategy remains the same as it is now.”
Taking a furious step toward the islander, Miro hissed, “So you are capable of breaking your word. You have no choice but to continue aiding Mira according to your oath, and the current strategy is the only alternative to your stated ‘dishonor.’”
“The current strategy is condemning one or the other side to death, whichever one out-brutes the other.”
“Then so be it,” Miro snapped. “Do you think their excited wrath will not condemn Mira should I listen to you and those you’ve convinced of your folly?”
“Then secretly send me up there alone and execute me after you win!” Arnacin snapped in sudden anger. “That way, no one can think you condoned dishonor.”
Miro had frozen, regarding the islander as if he had never seen him before. Softly, he muttered, “Perhaps I was wrong to suggest you would break your word. Regardless, such an act would be far worse than normal dishonor, Arnacin, despite your surprising allowance of it in order to assist Mira.”
“Whatever you think best, Your Majesty,” Arnacin pleaded. “You must agree to some such action. This war can’t be allowed to continue until one side is annihilated, not for you or them. Currently, you are not even sure what drives them to persist in their hatred. Until that is known, the problem itself can’t really be solved.”
“Do not think I have not been contemplating that concern, Arnacin,” Miro sighed, reaching out to touch the islander’s shoulder. Arnacin’s backward step ended the gesture, and the king finished, dropping his arm back to his side, “But unless all the savages were eliminated, I doubt Mira would be any better off.”
“Mira will not win this war if this continues, Your Majesty. They have more unknowns with more land and resources.”
“I am hoping to fix that,” Miro stated, looking back at the scroll still balled in one hand. “As to alternate plans…” It was the king’s turn to pause contemplatively before he asked, “Have you tried asking the adopted natives for all they can tell you?”
“They have secrets they will bury with them in their graves, and I refuse to ask them to break their loyalty.”
“Then what if they returned to their own kind as ambassadors?”
“The natives would kill them as traitors and leave the bodies for the carrion.”
“Savages,” Miro huffed before exclaiming, as his thoughts turned, “To what on Mira are the adopted natives loyal?”
“Their blood, Your Majesty, or can you not understand that?”
Miro only said as he turned to replace the scroll, “You should not stay awake any longer, Arnacin.”
“Did you find what you wanted?”
“For now.” Miro was already at the door when he turned suddenly. “Arnacin, I don’t wish to ever hear again that you have been in the mountains.”
“Unless things change, I doubt you’ll hear of any such thing,” the islander whispered.
Miro started to open the door and then shut it, pressing, “And, Arnacin, I trust you have not betrayed Mira with such action already?”
“I would never consciously betray Mira, Your Majesty. It was Mira I gave my word to aid.”
“Very good,” Miro said with a nod. “Now, go to sleep.”
With that, the king left. Sighing, Arnacin snuffed out the candle. Yet there he stood, staring out the windows which the stars now shone through. His only movement was to approach that window and, with a sigh, drop his weight against its frame, where he stayed for hours more, watching the night pass.
For some time, Arnacin continued pushing himself so hard that he came down with the winter curse on its first sweep of the city. It kept him confined to his quarters for the better part of a week, and he recovered just in time to hear that he might wish to stay in his room. Not only was winter the common time for ambassadors to converge on Mira, but Miro had also chosen a new queen to give them more troops after losing so many over the year. The intended bride, Princess Rosa of Vemose, had herself arrived that very morning. Therefore, Arnacin holed up in the library to avoid all of the additional commotion this event caused.
Once all the ambassadors had arrived, the hustle to prepare for the wedding truly began, as Arnacin knew from sitting in the kitchens. Usually, the chefs were constantly placing food in front of him for as long as he remained there, but now they often forgot his very existence while he would watch them running hither and thither, on this assignment or that one. It often seemed to him, during that time that he had flown off the world unbeknownst to himself while it still continued to turn without him, spinning without pause.
In the shadows of the upper corridor surrounding the ballroom, Arnacin and Valoretta had a perfect, undercover view of the guests coming down the stairs opposite them, and those in the noisy ballroom below. Uninvited, and largely uninterested, the islander was nevertheless drawn to his current observation point against one of the columns, along which the railings of the opened corridor ran. Shortly after his arrival, the princess had joined him and proceeded with a running commentary on all the guests.
As a thickset, bewigged man walked stately down the stairs, the princess remarked, “Lord Fruea from Comsta.” She shook her head. “They practically stuff themselves there, according to their fashion. As far as those absurd false curls, though—there are worse. Vanderoo men braid their hair and that’s not even the worst country out there. There is a country that occasionally sends ambassadors, Garamitx, where the females cut their hair short and the men let it grow—which is completely backwards.”
She met her companion’s incredulous glance and shrugged. “It is their belief that long hair is noble and cropped hair is a show of meekness and servitude. Therefore, they scoff at us as a kingdom where our females are the ‘masters.’” Arnacin smiled at her wicked grin before turning back to watching the guests.
“Oh, and to add to that land’s strangeness,” Valoretta added, her previous thought gone from her face and tone, “I believe you can appreciate this one… If you were to tell them you were a shepherd, they would take it that you are a layabout—useless, lazy and good-for-nothing—unless you said it while guarding sheep. That word has two meanings, you see.” The answer she received was an amused puff of air.
For a couple of seconds, they stood in silence until another man passed, fluffing the ruffles at his throat. Unable to control his laughter at the absurdity, Arnacin mockingly imitated his stiff stance and flapping hand gestures until Valoretta’s elbow made sharp contact with his ribs. “It’s not funny,” she breathed. “That’s the Baron Daequan and he very much wishes to impress me.”
The islander’s reply was to raise his eyebrows. Smiling primly, she answered the unvoiced question, “He has much to learn about impressing me. Personally, I think his only intention is to attain equal or better status than his king.”
Both turned quickly as someone stopped behind them. There stoo
d Miro, his crown gleaming on his brow, dressed in his own finery. As Arnacin paled, shrinking against the banister’s pillar with an apologetic bow, the king passed him a brief smile of comfort before offering his arm to his daughter. “My Lady, it is time. We can no longer avoid the festivities.”
Sighing, the princess slipped her arm into her father’s and together—suddenly both looking coldly regal—they descended the stairs with the honorable guests, Princess Rosa and her brother, falling in step behind.
Arnacin remained leaning against the pillar, while below the music and dancing began. It was with contemplation that he noticed the many shifts in Valoretta’s character, depending on with whom she was dancing. With those she felt safer around, she remained quiet, almost expressionless in all her stateliness and, with those she disliked, a petty, childish smile would cross her face while she prattled non-stop—to her partners’ clear annoyance—all for the sake of quickly removing herself from them without fear of insulting anyone.
As was the custom in Mira, Valoretta performed the first dance with her father and was then passed off to the new bride’s escort, the second prince of Vemose. For a moment, the Miran princess remained quiet until her wish for information overcame her nervousness and, smiling coyly, she asked, “Now, why would your father be interested in agreeing to Mira’s proposal?”
“Why?” the prince repeated, before turning the question around. “Why would Mira make the proposal?”
Laughing in false gaiety, Valoretta stated, “Honestly, you ask the wrong person. I’m a princess. I never know what passes in the world of politics.”
“Is that so? Your father never tells you anything, even if only to inform you how to act?”
“Of course not. He would never approve,” Valoretta continued in her light, air-headed tone. “But perhaps you would tell me. And then, I’ll know anyway.”
Her ploy worked and, laughing almost victoriously, the prince’s fingers tightened possessively around the princess’ waist. “I will tell you everything after we’re married,” he stated in a secretive murmur.
It took all of Valoretta’s political training not to pale and twist away. Instead, she fluttered, “Married? We’re not going to marry.”
“But we are. You asked before why Vemose agreed—such a connection might gain more as time went on. In the mass of your suitors, we will stand in higher regard.”
“Your connection won’t sway Father’s mind. He may have someone picked.”
Valoretta’s words were too much of a challenge—she knew it—yet the words had freed themselves even as she tortured her mind for an excuse to escape his clutches without arousing his suspicion or hostility. Her dance partner, however, grinned. “My sister is marrying your father for this reason. She will have his ear for our cause, I’m sure. If you know otherwise, I can call off the marriage.”
She did know otherwise, or she hoped she did, but giggling pettishly, she crooned, “I’m marrying someone more handsome and rich than you. Father promised.”
All suspicion died in the prince’s eyes and, smiling as if he knew far more than her, he finished the dance with her and passed her along to the next arms that presented themselves. Trembling, Valoretta did not even look up, only knowing she danced with a Miran by the style of boots moving before her swaying skirts.
“Don’t worry,” the soft words made her jump slightly and she looked up into Lord Carpason’s tender eyes. “The new queen will have no sway over the king.”
“How can you know?” the princess breathed.
“In the first place, this marriage is only taking place to further the war’s needs, as I’m sure you know. Therefore, the king has no love for the poor thing and will never begin to give her his ear. In the second place, she was chosen partly for her lack of character. Naturally, her family believes she will push for them since she has always done exactly as they tell her in everything. They forget that once she is Mira’s queen, those with the highest authority will be Mirans, not her siblings and father. And, lastly, I know the king has already picked his future king.”
Paling, the princess gasped, “Who?”
Her searching gaze received no more answers than her ears, as the lord shrugged. “I wish I knew. The fact that I know you are engaged at all comes only through observation. For instance, his disregard whenever the subject of your marriage arises and his stubborn refusal to begin examining some of your suitors.”
As the princess lowered her gaze in sudden hopelessness, the lord added lightly, “If that does not lighten your fears, I know a princess who knows how to achieve exactly what she wants.”
“What do you mean? I am not disobedient.”
“Except with your nurse?” Valoretta could not quite maintain her bland expression of innocence and a fond laugh escaped the lord. “It would not be hard at all for said princess to suddenly grow dangerously ill on the day she was to meet her future husband and remain on the edge of death long enough to call off the marriage. In fact, under certain circumstances, Sara would even aid in the lie, I am sure.”
Smiling in mock offence, the princess quipped, “I see you are so eager to give me suggestions on how to avoid foreign marriage. To whom, then—closest friend of the king—do you wish to see me wed?”
“I had no one in mind, but I would agree with your nurse on this one. I would pray for a Miran.”
“Yes, that way I will become engaged to a grandfather and, on our wedding day, it may be him on his deathbed.”
“Or,” the lord stated mischievously, “the king may pick a child for you, and no question will be in anyone’s mind as to who rules, since there will be ten years between you and the king.”
Smiling at the joke, the princess curtsied at the close of the dance and twirled around to the next man awaiting her partnership.
When the meal came, Arnacin finally turned away from his observation point, rolling his eyes at Valoretta’s game, but at that moment, as extreme cold washed over him, a sharp cry rang from below and the lights appeared to dim.
It was with pure instinct that he whirled back around, his hand shooting to his side where the Tarmlin blade hung—yet nothing existed to cause such fright that he could see. Still, everyone in the room below had become like statues, their gazes all fixed on the same, empty spot. While Arnacin’s gaze bored into that spot, he thought he heard, as if from far away, the low hissing of evil words, their menace clear even without understanding what was said.
Just as suddenly as the sensation had come, the room lights reignited and warmth crept back as, around the islander, doors slammed and dozens of castle inhabitants swarmed into the corridors above the room. The sound of frantic conversation erupted, thousands of questions and concerns crashed like a wave on the shaking nobles.
A trembling touch on his arm caused Arnacin to glance over to where Sara suddenly stood beside him. “Did you see it?” she nearly squeaked in an attempt to control her own voice.
“What happened?” Arnacin inquired, suddenly realizing that his knuckles were turning white around his sword hilt. Dropping his arm to his side, he looked back up to see Sara staring at him in wonder.
“Did you not even hear it?” the nurse pressed.
“What exactly did you hear?”
“Don’t lie to me, boy…”
“I never lie. Now, what happened?”
“The whole castle saw it, heard it or, at least, something like it…” Through her fluster, her eyes looked at Arnacin as if he was a spirit himself. “Look, whoever you are, a mist rose and through it I saw the gnarled bones of one of those horrible savage priests. Before I could scream, the eyes lit…” She trembled, steadying only as Arnacin grabbed her shoulder. “I can’t explain it. It told me that all of Mira should leave this land by tomorrow or death will sweep over us.”
“Don’t listen to it,” the islander advised after a moment of horror. “If they did have the power to do so, don’t think you’d be standing here now.”
“So you say,” Sara sco
ffed. “What do you know of their intentions?”
Arnacin did not reply, watching the king command silence below. As the panicked voices came to order, Miro stated, “We will ignore the pathetic threat. It has no power behind it, save for scaring those who allow it to scare them. Their charlatan sorcerers cannot even heal the sick through their magic. If this is what they have resorted to, it is only a sure sign that our victory is near…”
Calm settled over the crowd. Yet, despite such logic, Arnacin continued to feel uneasy until the sun broke over the far mountains in the east, dispelling the night’s ominous shadows and hidden evils.
Chapter 12
The Savage Trap
“ARNACIN,” VALORETTA FINALLY SPOKE UP as they sat in the library that afternoon. Looking up from a journal written by one of the most skilled generals in Mira’s past, the islander waited. “Do you think we shall be wiped out for not leaving—that the savages can call on their gods to do so?”
“I highly doubt it,” Arnacin comforted her, while returning to his book. So far, the mediums only seemed capable of scaring people. “I don’t think much of their gods in general, much less that they could just wipe you out on the natives’ request.”
“You don’t believe they exist, do you?”
“I don’t know if it matters whether I do or not,” the islander contemplated. “I haven’t given it much thought, but I know one thing—if they were gods, they could not simply be told what to do, which would mean your leaving or not leaving would not be in the natives’ jurisdiction.”
“Yet what if they became increasingly angry and finally decided they had had enough? What then?”
For a long moment, Arnacin was silent and still, pondering those words. Eventually, he shrugged. “They don’t have the power.”
“Your island believes in only one god, yet you don’t believe other gods can have power? Where one god exists, can’t others also exist?”
“I really can’t answer that.” The honest truth was, Arnacin would not consider it for long. One fact remained regardless of the potentially unnerving answer. “But I know that other gods are powerless in comparison.”
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