by Beverley, Jo
Gods help me, I was in love.
Everything about Rolande delighted me: the way he smiled sleepily at me upon waking, his face creased with pillow marks. The breadth of his shoulders, the shape of his hands, his long legs and the muscles of his flanks. The obvious affection he had for his household staff, and the equally obvious way in which it was reciprocated. He had an open, easygoing manner about him which nonetheless managed to retain an element of royal dignity.
“So,” he said at the table where we broke our fast with crusty bread drizzled with honey. “Tell me, Anafiel de Montrève. Why should I wed Edmée de Rocaille?”
Coached by my ambitious foster-father, I had a considerable array of compelling arguments at my disposal. I abandoned them all. “Frankly, I’m not sure I can answer.”
It surprised him. “Why?”
I shrugged. “You know the advantages as well as anyone, your highness.”
His mouth quirked. “Rolande.”
I flushed. “Rolande. Marriage to Edmée brings an alliance with the House of Aragon, and the promise of a strong ally on our southern border. But … I am here on her behalf, too. I promised her I would not press House Rocaille’s suit unless I thought you were a man she could love.”
He was silent a long moment. “You find me unworthy?”
“Too worthy,” I said softly. “How can I advocate for Edmée, feeling what I feel today? I have compromised myself.” I paused. “Or do I attach too much significance to the matter?”
“No.” Rolande’s reply was swift and firm. “No. But …” He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. “I don’t have the luxury of choosing, Anafiel. I am my father’s only child, his sole heir. No matter what I will, I must wed, and carry on my bloodline.”
“Blessed Elua says otherwise,” I murmured.
“Blessed Elua was a god, not a king’s son,” he said dryly. “He had no concern for mortal politics.”
“I would not have you break Edmée’s heart.” I swallowed. “I would not break her heart.”
Rolande studied me. “Are you in love with her?”
I shook my head. “I love her like a sister. I, too, am an only child; Edmée is the nearest thing to a sibling I have, she and her young brother David.”
“Is she worthy of me?”
Stung, I shot him a fierce glance. “Of you or any man, your highness! I would not be here if she were not.”
“Peace, my warrior-poet!” Rolande said in a mild tone, raising his hands. “I suggest you counsel her honestly.” His broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “It may not be the course diplomacy recommends, but I think it is the best one nonetheless.”
YOU WERE RIGHT, Rolande; but you were wrong, too.
If the world had been a different place, a kinder, gentler place in which all of us obeyed Elua’s precept, everything might have been different.
It wasn’t.
You were too good for this world, you and Edmée alike.
I WROTE HONESTLY to Edmée.
She wrote honestly in reply, her letters tinged with affectionate dismay. My father sent you to court a royal bridegroom for me, and you seduce him instead? Either you found him so lacking you seek to protect me, or so perfect you must keep him for yourself. Which is it, Anafiel?
Meet him and decide for yourself, I wrote to her.
So I shall, in time, she wrote in reply. How can I not be intrigued by a man bold enough to capture your heart? If there is room for both of us in his, I can imagine far worse fates, near-brother.
Those words freed me from the shackles of guilt that weighed at me, freed me to enjoy my time in Tiberium with Rolande. The weeks that followed the arrival of Edmée’s second letter were some of the happiest I had known. Days were consumed with study; nights were filled with revelry and love. With the exception of barb-tongued Barquiel L’Envers, Rolande’s companions regarded our relationship well enough, and I formed friendships with several of the others. Even the Tiberians and the university Masters were reasonably tolerant, won over by Rolande’s good nature. It was Maestro Gonzago de Escabares, an Aragonian historian, who began calling me Antinous after the name of a young man who was once the beloved of a Tiberian Imperator. The nickname spread, and was meant more affectionately than not.
And then things changed again.
In the late days of autumn, the great rhetorician Master Strozzi made me a most unusual offer.
“Young Antinous,” he said to me in his private study, stroking his beard. “You are in a position to provide a service of untold value for your Prince Rolande. There is but one price. You can never, ever speak of it to him.”
I stared at him in outright astonishment. “What in the world do you mean?”
Master Strozzi lifted one hand in a portentous gesture. “I can speak no more unless you swear on Rolande’s life that it will never leave these walls.”
I shook my head, rejecting the offer without a thought. “No. We keep no secrets from one another, he and I.”
He shrugged and lowered his hand. “As you wish. Be advised that you speak of this meeting at your peril; and his.”
That night, I told Rolande of the extraordinary conversation. He heard me out patiently, and when I had finished, he said, “I think you ought to take him up on it.”
I stared at him, too. “Are you mad?”
“Think on it,” Rolande said. “He takes a conspirator’s tone. If there are those who seek to use you to get at me, best to learn it now. Easier to avoid the serpent in the path before you than the asp at your heel.”
The following day, I begged another audience with Master Strozzi and told him I’d had a change of heart.
He listened impassively to me, his hands folded on his desk. “You are here at the prince’s bidding.” I opened my mouth to deny it, and he forestalled me with one lifted finger, his gaze flinty. “Did you imagine for one instant I did not know exactly what you would do when I made the offer? We’ve had our eye on you ever since Prince Rolande left the brothel with you.” At my startled reaction, a hint of a smile curled his lip. “Ah yes, it was noted. Whores make some of the best spies.”
My skin prickled. “Who is we, Master?”
Master Strozzi rose from his desk and paced, hands clasped behind his back. “Who indeed? We are everyone and no one; we are everywhere and unseen. Did you think my warning in jest? It is a simple matter to slip poison in someone’s food. How well do you know Prince Rolande’s household staff?”
I didn’t answer, my thoughts racing.
“Oh, of course you could dismiss them all,” he said, following my unspoken thoughts. “Even the cook who’s known him since he was a babe. But who would you hire to replace them? Who can you trust?”
“You are threatening the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange,” I whispered in shock. “It is a dire business. I will go to the ambassador.”
His smile widened. “I am a respected scholar. Who would believe such a thing? No one in a position to help you.” He waved one hand. “Any mind, I am not threatening the prince. Now that you understand what is at stake, I am restating my offer to you.” He leaned over me. “You’re a quick-thinking young man. Observant, too. We can teach you to hone those skills, the better to serve the prince. Would you like to be able to anticipate a man’s actions as surely as I anticipated yours?” He paused to let the words sink in, pricking my curiosity. “To read a man’s thoughts on his face? To catch a lie before it’s spoken?”
“At what price?” I asked.
Master Strozzi gave an eloquent shrug. “Only your silence. You will return to Prince Rolande and tell him that I offered to counsel you in the art of selling access to royalty, bending a sympathetic ear to select causes for coins. Then you will begin your true lessons in the arts of covertcy.”
Easier to avoid the serpent in the path before you than the asp at your heel …
I made my choice. “I will do it.”
WAS IT THE right choice or the wrong one?
I
think it was the right choice.
The choice I made afterward … that, I will never know.
I LIED TO Rolande, who believed me without a second thought, having no cause to do otherwise. I kept my silence to protect him, and began my lessons, thinking to divine the nature of this omnipresent, invisible menace.
I studied the arts of covertcy.
To my surprise, my instructor was not Master Strozzi, but Maestro Gonzago, the Aragonian historian who had dubbed me Antinous. He had a keen mind, and I admired him. When he asked me to aid him in compiling research for a treatise on the history of relations between Aragonia and Terre d’Ange, I was flattered.
Less so, when I learned the truth.
“Why, Maestro?” I asked him. “Why this …” I gestured vaguely, having no idea what this meant. “This … vast scheme?”
“The currents of history may turn on a single branch,” he said in a pragmatic tone. “Many branches together may form a dam. The patterns of influence interest me. Do they not interest you?”
I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. “I think so, yes.”
Maestro Gonzago gave me a shrewd glance. “I am a mere scholar, but you are a well-positioned branch. I will teach you to leverage your placement wisely. What you do with this knowledge is your choice.”
All my life, I’d been reckoned clever and observant; but I never learned to see the world as I did until Gonzago de Escabares taught me to do so. He taught me to look and to listen, to distinguish a man’s trade by his clothing, his success at it by the set of his shoulders, his origin and history by layers of accent and dialect. To gauge a man’s state of mind by his gait; to gauge a woman’s happiness by the tone of her voice, the tilt of her head. He taught me to study faces, to watch for the myriad minute expressions that we make unawares, and the meanings thereof.
He taught me the nine telltales of a lie.
He quizzed me mercilessly about what I had seen throughout the day until observing and memorizing became a force of habit. He sent me on errands with my ears filled with wax plugs, forcing me to rely on my eyes; and when I had mastered that skill, he sent me out with drops of belladonna in my eyes, rendering the world over-bright and my vision blurred, painful and useless, forcing me to rely on my ears as I blundered my way across the city.
Later, both. I had to trust my nose.
And I learned; day by day, week by week, month by month. All the while lying to Rolande and feeling sick in my belly about it; but I learned.
Come spring, Maestro Gonzago revealed the scope of the puzzle and the final price to me.
The Unseen Guild.
HOW MUCH OF what I was told was truth, and how much lies? That is another thing I will never know.
All these long years, I saw no evidence of the Unseen Guild’s hand in Terre d’Ange, no sign that their reach extended as far as they claimed, was as dire as they claimed.
But someone is behind the plot that took my life.
I may have made a terrible mistake.
IF ROLANDE HAD not been recalled to Terre d’Ange, things might have fallen out differently. I was there when he received the official missive from a royal courier clad in the dark blue livery of House Courcel, a silver swan on the insignia on his breast. I watched Rolande read the letter, his face turning pale.
He raised his head and met my eyes. “Father orders me to return forthwith. The Skaldi are raiding along the border of Camlach, and the realm takes it amiss that the Dauphin gallivants in Tiberium while D’Angelines die. I’m to take command of the border patrol.”
“Then you must go,” I said promptly, knowing his sense of honor would permit nothing less. “And I with you.”
Rolande hesitated. “You would be safer—”
“Don’t even suggest it!” My voice was fierce. “Would you dishonor me? I’m a lord’s son, trained to the sword. My place is at your side.”
He looked relieved. “I’ll have word sent to the University.”
Guilt pricked me. “I’ll tell Maestro Gonzago myself. I owe him that much.”
“Ah, your research project.” Rolande gave me a curt nod. “Go, but be swift about it, Anafiel. We’re meant to leave in a day’s time.”
Maestro Gonzago winced at the news. “So soon!” he said in dismay. “I knew it was a possibility, but I prayed we’d have more time.” With unwonted urgency, he clutched my hands. “You’ve a choice facing you, young Antinous. All that I’ve taught you is in the service of an organization committed to gathering and sharing information that might alter the paths of history. Do you swear loyalty to the Unseen Guild, its resources will be at your disposal.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked softly.
“You can walk away from this. As ever, silence is the price.” His grip tightened. “If you break it, death.”
I’d come to love the lessons, to love the insight into human nature I’d gained; but I hated living a lie. Hated lying to Rolande.
With sorrow, I withdrew my hands from his grasp. “I’m sorry, Maestro. I did not mean to waste your time. But I think … I think if I swear this oath, I will come to regret it one day. One day, it will pit my oath against my love for Rolande, and there will be no winners in that battle. So … I choose silence.”
There are a multitude of fleeting expressions that cross our faces unaware, manifesting in the eye blink between reaction and thought; I knew, because Maestro Gonzago had taught me to see them. And in that instance, I saw the faintest hint of relief flit across his features.
“So be it,” he said with apparent regret. “I will report your decision. For my part, my door will never be closed to you, my dear Antinous. I hope you will remain in contact with me.”
I bent my head and kissed his cheek. “I shall.”
YOU KEPT YOUR word, Maestro; better than I did.
You were a good teacher, and a good friend, too. I have valued our enduring relationship. You tried to warn me.
The Skaldi have found a leader who thinks.
Mayhap that is why I am dying.
The memories come faster now. Faster and faster. I am awash in their current. I cannot stop them.
DURING THE YEAR I spent patrolling the Camaeline border with Rolande, the Skaldi had not yet found a leader who thought, but they were tenacious and doughty warriors, pouring through the high mountain passes to stage raids on vulnerable villages, looting them and taking female captives.
Rolande was a natural leader skilled at commanding men, always willing to hurl himself into the forefront of a battle. Where he went, we followed. Not a man who fought under him begrudged him his status.
As good-natured as he was, he kept strict discipline. When word reached him that one of his men had gotten a young widow with child and abandoned her, he dismissed the fellow in disgrace and took personal responsibility for the woman and her infant son, promising they would never again lack for aught. As ever, his sense of honor demanded nothing less.
It was a difficult time, but it was an exhilarating time, too. After my first battle, I felt sick and strange to myself. That never changed, although I grew accustomed to the feeling. In a sense, I was glad not to lose it, for it meant I had not become inured to the horrors of warfare.
But the fighting itself … there was a certain terrible glory in it. Anyone who has lived on the dagger’s edge between life and death will know what I mean; to those who have not, I cannot explain it.
It brought us closer together, all of us; and especially Rolande and I.
Until I confessed the truth to him.
It came after a hard-fought battle in the narrow, winding passes above the village of Liselet, where horses were no use. We’d routed the raiders, and I lost sight of Rolande as he raced after them on foot around a hairpin turn. Ahead, I heard a chorus of defiant roars and the sound of blades clashing.
Three of the Skaldi had made a stand, safeguarding their fellows’ retreat, and Rolande was nigh overwhelmed. My heart in my throat, I threw myself at the nearest man, raisin
g my buckler, hacking at his wooden shield, driving him backward. Still, it wasn’t enough. For the space of a few heartbeats, our fates hung in the balance …
… and then more of our own men arrived, turning the tide. We killed two of the Skaldi, and the third fled.
“Shall we go after them, my lord?” Gaspar Trevalion inquired.
“No.” Rolande grimaced, one hand pressed to his neck. “We’re too close to the border.” Blood welled between his fingers. “And I fear I’ve need of attention.”
It scared me.
The wound wasn’t serious, requiring only a few stitches to close, but it could have been. An inch or two higher, and it could have severed the big vein in his throat. The thought of coming so close to losing him made me dizzy, and the lingering guilt of my deception was leaden in my belly. I had to disgorge it.
That night, in our shared tent, I told Rolande the truth about Tiberium and the Unseen Guild, speaking in a low whisper.
He rose and walked out into the starlit night without a word. I followed him in anguish past the outskirts of our camp, past the startled sentries, along the verge of a dense pine forest.
Well out of earshot of the camp, he halted. I did, too. He spoke without turning around. “You.” His voice was strained. “I don’t even know what to say to you, Anafiel. I trusted you with everything I am, and you lied to me.” He gave a harsh, ragged laugh. “Is this how you honor what we are to one another?”
“No!” Beneath the stars, I dropped to my knees. “No!” I struggled to draw breath, feeling as though my chest might crack open. “I thought … it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, so very sorry. More than anything, I love you.”
He was silent.
“Can you doubt it?” I was desperate and crazed, the words from an ancient oath spilling from my lips, unstoppable. “I swear on the blood of Blessed Elua himself that I love you, and you alone. By the blood that Blessed Elua spilled, for so long as we both shall live, I bind myself to you, and you alone—”
“Anafiel!” Rolande was kneeling before me, his hands hard on my shoulders, eyes wide. “Don’t!”