Again meeting his gaze, the princess smiled gently, although her color did not return.
The silence, in which the ocean seemed to roar instead of talk softly to itself, was broken as someone seized Valoretta by the arm. Only Sara’s furious tones prevented the islander from reacting to the unexpected move. Low murmurs broke forth all along the pier as everyone watched in confusion while the nurse practically marched the princess back to the castle by her upper arm, carrying on a heated debate from which Arnacin could not make out any actual words.
Just as she entered the city's main street, however, Valoretta ripped herself from her nurse’s grasp and, yanking her skirts up, fled to the castle on her own. Once both ladies were out of sight, eyes began turning once again to Arnacin, who stood at a complete loss. Feeling the crowd’s gazes upon him, however, he glanced at them with an uncomfortable smile and quickly slipped away to the safety of his ship.
Storming through the double doors of the great hall, Sara just remembered to bob a crisp curtsy before she spat, “So you take no concern in it, do you? Do you realize what your numbskull daughter just did?” Although Miro barked her name, her fury drove her onward and she screamed, “She claimed that worthless rag from the sea! With a compass! In the custom of a lady choosing her lord!”
The hall fell silent. Briefly, the king’s eyes bore the same expression as when they were children and she had caught her younger brother repeatedly jumping off the throne. In that second, she saw his thoughts whirling. Then, surprisingly, he dismissed it. “Really, Sara,” he sighed. “Is that necessary? Do not forget you speak to your king.”
Behind him, Memphis’s face had lost all color. “What are you going on about?” The councilor’s tone was one of complete bewilderment.
“Valoretta claimed him, Sire,” Sara exclaimed, now choking on tears. “Worse than that, she fully realizes it and says it’s the best thing she’s ever done. Sire, I beg you, send him away before this grows any worse. He’s nothing, not even from the same country. What do you know about him, really?”
“Sara,” the king said, with little patience in his tone. “At least I know that he is a man of his word—”
“Boy,” the nurse mumbled, causing Miro to turn red in fury.
“Don’t you ever contradict me!”
“Please,” Sara gasped, sinking low as he stepped angrily toward her. “Your forgiveness, Sire.”
Taking a controlling breath, the king stated, “Yes, he is a boy. All the more reason for your fears to be senseless! He is still too naive and honest to even think of harm. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sara whispered. Behind Miro, a deep frown had appeared on his councilor’s face.
“You are dismissed.” Bowing, Sara obediently departed, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
Rain pummeled the ocean in the distance and streaked down the library’s only glass windows. Staring out at the storm, Arnacin rested his head against the windows’ wooden frame. Beyond the castle’s city, lying out in the harbor, was his small craft still moored to the dock. There it writhed in the tossing waves. Late autumn had once again sent all sailors to their home berths—all but that last little vessel bobbing in the bay. How Arnacin wished that it too was on its way to its own berthing place.
Yet it was not, and although the recent renewal of training with the swordmaster’s patient—if gruff—instruction had restored some hope that his shoulder would eventually heal enough to allow him freedom, Arnacin was beginning to believe that the war would never permit him such peace. While the arrival of heavy snow had produced a few breaks in the bloodshed, the war itself had not halted.
Hearing light footsteps approaching, Arnacin quickly straightened and, turning, he saw Valoretta with book in hand, coming to join him. She stared out of the window for a minute before mentioning, “Winter gives us a break from the wars, as you know—desolate as it may seem. You can be thankful for that much.”
“Yes,” the islander exhaled, dropping his shoulder back against the wall. “At least it gives us that much.”
“Arnacin,” the princess breathed sadly. “What troubles you, beside the fact that the season stops your work on your ship?”
For just a minute, Arnacin studied her, contemplating emptying all his frustrations, fears and burdens on her. Once again, however, he bit back the words and temper screaming to be loosed, venting it instead into wicked teasing. “Very well, My Lady. King Miro…”
“Never mind,” Valoretta cut off, quickly clamping her hand over his mouth as she did. Even with the band of her signet ring pressing into his lips, Arnacin could not suppress his grin. “I understand the aggravation,” she continued, “but should I allow you to joke on that subject, I shall be a very disloyal daughter indeed.”
As she released him, Arnacin shrugged innocently. “You asked what troubled me.”
Shoving her book into his chest, Valoretta pierced him with a knowing look and stomped off to fetch another volume. Arnacin watched her go, his victorious grin firmly in place.
The princess returned shortly thereafter. Instead of opening the new volume she held, however, she said, “I think the king needs a friend. Carpason’s dead. There are no others. In his desperation, he’s looking to you.”
When Arnacin only snorted softly in contempt, Valoretta joined him, placing her hand on his arm. “Please, Arnacin. Try to be a friend and overlook your disagreements. He needs it so, yet I have no audience with him. I’m not his war councilor, an attendant or even one of his generals. There’s only you. Don’t let the politics divide you.”
For a long moment, Arnacin stared into her face—at her earnest, sky-colored eyes, compressed lips, and locked jaw. Finally, he nodded and she smiled in gratitude.
Arnacin did not have a chance to act on his promise until late one night, when he noticed the great hall’s doors still guarded and knew what it meant. Approaching the nearest guard, Arnacin asked to be announced.
Inside, Miro stared out the far window into the blackness beyond. “Your Majesty?” Arnacin inquired with a slight bow. “It’s rather late. Is there anything I may do for you?”
A slight smile flickered across the king’s worry-laden features, yet other than beckoning the islander closer, he did nothing else at first. Finally, he looked over, softly demanding, “End this war, Arnacin.”
His shoulders stiffening, Arnacin reminded him after a pause to gather self-control, “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I’m not a god. I can’t clap my hands and restore peace.” It appeared that Miro was no longer listening. Urgently persistent, Arnacin continued, “If you wish to end it, there must be some…” He faltered, yet he had already gone too far and in a whisper, cursing himself for his lack of tact, he finished, “…cooperation.”
Regal coldness abruptly returned to Miro’s countenance as he turned back to his throne, and Arnacin knew only providence would keep the king from seeing the islander’s whole reason for entering as manipulation. “Thank you, Arnacin of Enchantress Island, for your concern. Yet you need your own rest.” His tone was coldly polite. Of course, providence would overlook them.
Bowing in response to the dismissal, the islander tried once more. “Is there anything else I may do for you before I go?”
With a small sigh, some of the remoteness left the king. “No, Arnacin,” he whispered, “You need your rest.”
Thunder cracked across the bay and rain poured in heavy sheets from the sky. Slamming the keep’s door on the storm, Arnacin sighed, slowly pulling his soaked hood off his head.
“You were out in that?” The stunned voice caused him to quickly straighten as he searched for the speaker and met Councilor Darien’s gaze.
“I was making sure my ship was alright,” Arnacin replied, starting coldly past.
“I have a warm fire in the other room,” Darien mentioned, gesturing to the nearby doorway. “Dry off there and talk with me.” Pausing suspiciously, Arnacin inquired, “What do you really want? You couldn’t care less for me.”
“Are you that unforgiving?” the councilor questioned softly.
Pulling his dripping cloak closer about himself, Arnacin drew back.
“I wish to come to an agreement—that is all. Will you refuse to give me a chance?”
Too cold to argue, Arnacin followed the councilor into the side room and allowed the man to take his cloak before he slipped wearily into a chair by the fire.
“It must be nasty out there,” Darien commented, hanging the drenched cloak nearby and then joining Arnacin in a chair across from him. “I admire your staunchness to keep at that…” He paused, a faint sneer apparent even as he tried to hide his disgust by serving hot cider and offering some to the islander. Then he regained control of his expression and finished, “…ship, but you waste your time and energy, my boy.”
“How is that?” the islander demanded, declining the offered cup.
“You have an obligation to Mira, which does not seem likely to end, Arnacin.”
“Now we understand each other,” Arnacin stated coolly. “You wish to convince me that I had better leave, if I have any real intention of doing so.”
“Do not try to misunderstand me,” Darien warned, with the first trace of temper. “I was merely venting my frustration about the fact that we are fighting a losing battle.”
“If you felt so deeply about peace, I would expect you to start suggesting things to your king.”
“My king, Arnacin?” the councilor pressed, lifting an eyebrow. “Do you not also serve him?”
“I am an independent. Never have I claimed anything else.”
“So you think this is not your war?” Turning away from that piercing gaze, the islander said nothing. “If I told you I have pondered the means of gaining peace, what would you say?” Darien pressed.
“Then say it.”
Slowly leaning back in his chair, the councilor drawled, “The savages hate and distrust Miro—he will never appease them. But if someone new were to take control, someone they revered and who promised peace, the whole thing may be at an end.” He paused, waiting for the islander’s reply. When none came, he commented, “Although your plan is well thought out, it is naive, as anyone should expect from someone your age. A wall will only serve to give the appearance of fear, which will encourage boldness on the other side. We must never falter in our show of fearlessness and strength. It is the only thing that upholds a kingdom. Think about that before you speak again, lest everyone’s high opinion of you is shattered.”
Leaping to his feet, Arnacin snapped, “I’ll have you know, I don’t care what they think of me, and however seemingly appropriate all your plans are, they’re sixty times as weak! I would sooner be deemed weak and prove more unbreakable than your hidden, spineless backbones!”
Chuckling softly, the man inclined his head. “Exactly, but there is only one way for you to succeed in that goal.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment before he concluded, “A revolution.”
Arnacin turned coldly away at that, yanking his cloak off its hook. As he reached the door, the councilor seized his right arm, whispering, “You possess the skill and the mythical image—I possess the brains. Mira can be saved from the war and her current monarchy. Does that mean nothing to you? Does this land’s safety and peaceful tranquility with all nationalities mean nothing to you?”
“If it did, I would do it honestly—”
“I see. It’s protection of the princess that holds you back.”
“You prove to me by the second that you, in fact, lack the brains needed,” Arnacin hissed, struggling to yank away from the fingers digging into his arm. Strangely, Darien’s hands bore all the strength his character lacked, or else Arnacin’s shoulder was even weaker than he had admitted to himself. “I gave my word to Miro to aid him.”
Arnacin gasped as Darien slammed him into the wall. “Every man here knows you barely gave any such thing,” the traitorous councilor hissed. “You refused to give your word, as a matter of fact. You simply nodded. Now you have seen Miro’s stupidity. Your very honor demands you help everyone live better than they do under him. He’s killed thousands of men in his quest for supposed peace, kept us all ducking our heads in fear of attack, weaseled taxes out of all he can. Is that who you support?”
“Should I support you instead?” the islander growled, struggling to pull himself away. “You and your mass of high-thinking snakes, who worm about the king’s feet with all their acclaimed wisdom and intelligence? If you complain at his actions, you complain twice as much about yourself. Miro is weak—there is no argument there—too prone to listen to the hissing of imbeciles like you who only really want one thing—your own glory. When did you start concerning yourself with peace? Was it when a spark of fear entered that perhaps you’ll lose, or when this mad idea entered that you could see even your savages worship your goodness and wisdom? If ever you succeed, I will still know you for who you are.”
Backhanding Arnacin across the face, Darien warned, “Be that way, cockspur, but if you breathe word of this conversation, it will be your neck in the noose. You yourself have said the snakes could accomplish it.”
“I wouldn’t think of saying anything, only because you are all true-blooded chickens, far too cowardly to be any type of threat. I’m sure anyone with intelligence already knows you’d stab the king in the back if ever you felt you could gain from it.”
Darien’s grip loosened and Arnacin yanked himself away, storming out.
Chapter 18
Cornyo
ALTHOUGH STORMS REMAINED FREQUENT THAT winter, heavy snows only came for a few weeks in the middle of the season. Those weeks paused the war only that long and, due to the continued battles, the ambassadors who normally filtered in during those months never appeared. Any ambassadors who did arrive quickly left as soon as their business was completed.
Regardless of the political respite, tensions remained high. Despite the howling wind and blowing precipitation that kept Mirans at home, towns would frequently burst into flames along their borders.
Meanwhile, Arnacin continued training under the swordmaster, inside on the bad days and out on the better ones. As the last month of winter came and he became better at moving at the last second, the islander was ordered to switch to his right hand.
When the swordmaster thought it time to test Arnacin with other knights, however, his shoulder was not up to it.
“You pivoted too soon!” the swordmaster snapped, halting what had become an actual bout between Arnacin and Hadwin. As Arnacin stepped back, panting, his palm pushed into his right shoulder, the swordmaster shook his head. “Your turn must be sudden, boy. It must be quick, seemingly unplanned, completely smooth, as if you are not moving at all, or the better swordsmen will engage. You cannot allow that sort of pounding on your shoulder. You must have no contact with their weapon at all. You’ll not have a shoulder left, and very likely no life either.”
Arnacin did not reply, striving not to cry out from the unrelenting pain running through his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Hadwin spoke up. “I should have stopped.”
Meeting the knight’s deeply concerned gaze, the islander shook his head dismissing the need for apology, yet the swordmaster spoke for him. “If you don’t block when you see it coming, he won’t learn.” Turning back to Arnacin, he ordered, “Have one of the physicians run cold water over your shoulder and then come back. We can’t waste Sir Hadwin’s time.”
Nodding, the islander stumbled away, passing the remains of the Tarmlin troop packing for their leave early the next morning. Hadwin had left them to it, having agreed to assist the swordmaster for the day he was there.
When Arnacin returned, the swordmaster ordered him to use his left arm and they continued until nightfall.
Before the swordmaster, the knight lunged at the islander. Time and again, Arnacin either stepped back or slipped to the right or left and, if Hadwin turned, he dodged again, striving to slip a blow in with the practice blade or, at the least, avoid en
gagement without being hit. By the time they quit, the swordmaster was rubbing his forehead with his fingers and Arnacin was swaying in pain. Despite not using his right hand after that first bout, it burned.
“Enough,” the swordmaster sighed. “We’ve worked too hard. You have the grace, boy. Use it! Yes, he knows what you’re going to do, but not to which side!”
Calming, he commanded, “Don’t use your right shoulder at all tomorrow and wash it regularly in cold water. As a matter of fact, don’t leave your bed unless called by Miro. I’ll have the physicians hold you to it. The day following that, we’re going back to the bathhouse.”
Without possible argument, Arnacin merely sighed as he bowed his begrudging submission. Hadwin voiced it best as they turned away together, “I know. If only sailing didn’t count so much on your arm’s strength.”
“Something like that,” the islander whispered.
That night, fevers attacked Arnacin, and it was both easy and hard to stay in bed as per his orders once the sun rose. He had been the one to push his training this time. He could not complain that the swordmaster was too harsh.
All the same, there were occasions where his shoulder reaped its revenge, and when the physicians came in later that morning to find him shivering with sweat running down his face, they informed the king that he had come down with a minor bout of the winter curse due to overexertion. Whether they knew what they were talking about or not, it hardly mattered.
They told their patient to stay in bed and perhaps the sickness would be gone in two days. Between the fever and his throbbing shoulder, the islander had no will to argue. With their help, he slept through most of the day.
He woke intermittently, however, from various dreams where his own stupidity left him stranded on Mira. For it was his own stupidity. The swordmaster had been very careful with Arnacin’s training considering his nature.
The truth was that the islander was slowly healing and growing even better at controlling his pain. He knew many would call him foolish, but fear forced him to continue. He was fearful that his shoulder would never heal and, if he let it sit, he would never learn to control the pain, never learn to fight well through it. Also, he feared that he did not have the time the physicians had mandated. A small persistent whisper in the back of his mind said that he needed to appear completely hale and whole before the spring.
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