by Susie Mander
The sky starts to rain with a sigh of release, and I quicken my pace. The wet grass pulls on the hem of my dress.
Drayk’s voice reaches me through the dark: “Verne.” He jogs to catch up and we stand in the open beneath the flagpole. The barracks are dark. Most of the soldiers are still in the mess hall enjoying the celebrations. Water drips from our hair. I can feel the warmth of his wet body reaching out for me. If I stepped forwards I could touch him.
He takes my hand and pulls me along the side of the barracks away from prying eyes. “You shouldn’t be out here without Bolt.”
“After all our training, I think I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
He chuckles. “You’re right.” Barely able to keep eye contact, he squeezes out an apology. “I shouldn’t have walked away. Not in front of everyone.”
“Why did you?” I say, my voice catching.
“I’m not from Tibuta. Not originally, though I have lived long enough to appreciate that there are different ways of doing things. You are a woman grown. People talk. They think—” Drayk runs his hand through his beard “—they think I take advantage of our friendship.”
“They think you take advantage of me?” I laugh. “More likely they think I have taken you as my consort.”
He does not say anything but instead grinds his toe into the ground. I can sense his anger.
“Let them think what they will. What does it matter even if you were my consort? What difference would it make? You are my friend, Drayk. I have told you I cannot live without you. I rely on you for your good counsel as my mother did. Do they say you lie with her too?”
“Don’t speak to me of your mother,” he says with more contempt than seems appropriate. “Anyway their rumours matter to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to think I am using you.”
“How on earth could you use me?”
He shakes his head.
Frustrated, I clench my fists. “Drayk, I have often thought about making you my consort. But I cannot. The title is demeaning. And yet I cannot stay away from you either. I have tried, Drayk. I told myself I would maintain my pride. I stopped going to the barracks so poor Alexis and Carmyl wouldn’t have to make excuses for why you could not see me.”
“I am not permitted to feel anything for you, not openly,” he says, wiping the rain from his eyes. “You are heir to the Tibutan throne and I am…I am a humble servant. Anyway, I promised myself I would feel nothing after my first wife. And yet…”
“You may not be permitted to feel anything but there can be no punishment for me. I search the inside of my skull and find no opposition and yet I know that it would be unwise to profess my feelings for you. What about our friendship? Still, I cannot continue without knowing. Even if you choose to deny me, I must know, Drayk. My feelings for you have developed beyond friendship. You said I am more than a friend. Do you really feel the same?” I hold my breath.
“Yes,” he whispers. “I have held my tongue because it is not the Tibutan way but I have wanted you for a long time.”
My words catch in my throat as I try to articulate my relief, my joy. Tears come freely now and mingle with the rain.
He folds his arms around me and with my ear pressed against his chest I can hear his heartbeat. “I am afraid,” he whispers and kisses the top of my head.
I pull away and plant my lips against his. The sensation is light, like feathers, and warm.
“I am sorry,” he says, and kisses me, harder this time. “I am so, so sorry.”
It is as though he apologises for something yet to come.
With my body entangled with Drayk’s, my lips pressed against his, I feel only fear: the fear of persevering—I am not ready to take him as my daroon—and the fear of turning him away. Both paths are black tunnels. Rather than face the fear I fall into it. I allow myself to melt into Drayk, my mind evaporating, my inhibitions ignored. I do not know where my small self has gone. Wherever she is, she is not speaking.
Our first kiss seems to last an eternity. Drayk lifts me onto my tiptoes, I thread my fingers through his hair and am anchored to him while we soar through the air, weightless.
“Come on,” Drayk says, taking my hand. We run through rain past the Throne Room, laughing. I am aware only of the rivulets of mud, the soggy ground and the sensation of his big hand holding mine. The rain is like curtains enclosing us, hiding us. Above, mountains of clouds rumble as if the gods are shaking their fists.
We hide between two tall hedges in the garden where the light is dim and no one will recognise us. When Drayk pushes his body against mine I can feel him through my soaked dress. His skin burns. He puts his hands around my waist and leans down, his breath a lover’s touch.
My lips stroke against his. A flame ignites inside me, an old, familiar yearning. I am afraid it will take control of me…My kiss is deep, wet. I drink of the rainwater that runs down his face and over his lips. I grope for something to hold onto, something firm to reassure me that he is real. I move from his waist, fondling the hem of his tunic and running my hand up the rough material to his chest. I run my hands along his shoulders, which are hard beneath the wet fabric. I explore the contours of his face with the tips of my fingers: his lips, his chin, and his eyes. I want to imprint the shape of him in my memory.
He brushes my hand aside and kisses me with a sudden hunger that startles and excites me.
Laughter reaches us from beyond the garden. Our lips part. Our eyes interlock. Though I cannot see the detail of his face—it is in shadow—I know his eyes. I know the grey and blue specs in his irises, I know the expression of mild amusement.
The sound of drunken conversation gets closer.
“You should go,” I say and step away. He will not release my hand and he pulls me to him.
“Promise me you will come tomorrow,” he says.
“I promise,” I say and kiss him again.
We turn from one another and I hurry towards the apartments, my heart racing. The taste of him lingers in my mouth. The heat lingers between my legs. I walk on light feet, feeling as if a gentle breeze could toss me off the edge of the world. My senses have been blown open. I’ve stepped into an adult’s world. I hunger for full knowledge, a complete picture of the balancing elements: pleasure and pain.
When I return to my room, Piebald is waiting. I wipe the rain from my face and take a deep breath. “What do you want?”
The little man pushes off the wall. “What are you up to, highness? I know you are up to something.”
“Stay out of my way,” I say, shoving past him.
“Your mother wants to see you.”
“Now?” I say, whirling around. It is long past midnight. The ball is well and truly under way.
“Your family is waiting in the War Room.”
To get to the War Room one must first descend a narrow set of slate stairs through a trapdoor in the grass of the Upper Ward. The bunker is oppressive. For my mother it provides a sanctuary where she can comfortably ignore difficult questions. Down here my mother could slit my throat and no one would even hear me scream.
I walk quietly, holding one arm out to steady myself. With the other, I hold the drapery out from my feet. I hesitate in the doorway. I can hear my father’s voice. He sounds cheerful, which is unusual. I can also hear Adelpha.
I know my father is capable of happiness. I remember the joy in his eyes as he lifted me from my cot, the cooing and gurgling as he tried to communicate with me as a baby, our shared secrets when I was a little girl. There was no sudden change, no abrupt moment I can point to, except the moment with the tavli board—but even that was one of a collection of moments. My father lost himself slowly, imperceptibly so that where there was once a creature of light with a wide smile and bright eyes now stands an old man.
I step into the room. Smoke hovers like a storm cloud against the ceiling. There are no windows, only air vents emitting the slightest whisper of fresh air. The s
tench of burnt whale oil is overpowering.
My mother and father sit opposite one another, hunched over a map of Longfield, a small candle burning between them. It is rare to see them without the insects of the royal court buzzing around their heads. I am mesmerised. My father almost looks…I have always seen my father as the runt of the litter, skirting around the heels of the bigger, more aggressive pup, my mother. Not today, though. Today they are almost equal.
Adelpha is leaning against the wall in shadow.
“You wanted to see me?” My voice shatters the peace, which falls like a thousand shards of glass. My father’s light is extinguished. He is himself: old, worn out.
“Angelfish,” he says, gesturing for me to sit. I slump into a heavy wooden chair.
“I have summoned you here because this evening I received some news that is relevant to you both,” my mother says.
“They explained the situation to me while Piebald was looking for you,” Adelpha says.
I find her smugness infuriating. “What situation?”
“For some time I have been hoping to form an alliance between Whyte and Tibuta. Caspius has abandoned us and we need soldiers—not our own, who we cannot trust, but men of Whyte who will squash the uprising.”
“But Caspius is our long-time ally and has always supplied aid. Surely Jace has not abandoned us. He is married to aunt Aria,” I say.
“He can and he has.”
Standing over the map, I examine the nations of Longfield. The mainland is like two hands cupped around the Vestige Sea. Tibuta is at the centre of those hands, a few specks of black dust. “Why have they abandoned us? Is our marble worth nothing?”
“Marble is irrelevant during times of war, when kings and queens are more concerned with timber to build ships, grain to feed soldiers and iron to forge weapons. We cannot let old blood ties lead us to destruction. Your uncle is too busy with his north western border to help us,” my mother says. She points to the line between Caspius and the Dual Kingdom. “He fears attack from the west from King Aaron and rightly so. Since Aaron secured the Gregarian coast by marrying Queen Zellina he has put significant pressure on your uncle. He has outposts on the entire border. The fighting, which was once contained to the Black Strip,” she runs her long finger nail along the border between Whyte and Caspius, “spills over into Caspius. King Aaron will have your uncle bending the knee soon enough.”
“But Uncle Jace is our ally. He is family.”
“We need aid, Angelfish, and your uncle simply cannot give it to us. The people will starve,” my father says. His matted beard is so long it rests on the table.
“So he hasn’t abandoned us,” I say, my voice rising. “He simply isn’t in a position to help.”
“Jace has betrayed us and promised Asher to Isbis. If Caspius is caught between the Dual Kingdom in the west and us to the east…well…”
“They will be crushed between us,” Adelpha finishes for her.
I look at them each in turn. “You will turn against your family so you can take all of Longfield for Tibuta?”
“We are not interested in that. We are interested only in survival. If we do not align ourselves with the Dual Kingdom of Whyte and Gregaria we risk their allegiance to Isbis or the Spice Isles, which would leave us vulnerable, an island all alone in the Vestige Sea, surrounded by enemies. We have no choice.”
“Our mother is right. If you think about it, Ooruk is neutral.” Adelpha points to the northernmost nation on the map, a mountainous region that is considered holy. “They are too busy waiting for the Elysian Gate to open and have ignored our pleas. The Salt Kingdom is not interested in our petty spats.” She points to a narrow strip of land south of Ooruk, a desert barrier between Ooruk and Caspius. “Historically Isbis is hostile towards us,” she points to the large coastal land to our east, “and though they are too busy fighting the Spice Isles,” she points to the islands to our south, “they cannot fight each other forever. With Whyte, Gregaria and Tibuta under the same flag, the rest—Caspius, Isbis and the Spice Isles—will fall in a heartbeat. Most importantly, Whyte has agreed to send troops.”
“I see.” My voice is cold.
“There is no room for sentiment in politics. Our options are clear,” she says.
“Adelpha is right,” my father says, adjusting his stained black tunic.
“Have you asked Drayk for his counsel? I doubt he would support this,” I say and my parents exchange a suspicious look. “What?” I say because it annoys me. It is as if I have stumbled upon a secret. “Why do you keep doing that?”
My sister has a knowing grin smeared across her face.
“Ashaylah, don’t—” my father starts, but my mother holds up her finger to silence him.
“It is interesting that you should mention Drayk,” she says, rummaging for something hidden in the folds of her peplos. “You see, I found this.” She unfolds a piece of parchment. A letter written to one of the families of the victims from the riots. With my seal on it.
“I should put you to death,” my mother says, shaking her head slowly. “But instead, I will let the prince decide your fate.”
“Ashaylah, you are being unnecessarily cruel,” my father says but is ignored.
“Sit down,” she snaps and I instinctively take my seat. I can hardly tear my eyes from the letter. Proof of my disloyalty.
“As I explained to Adelpha, we need to secure a blood tie between Tibuta and Whyte. Prince Slay Satah is of the right age and we feel we ought to take this opportunity before someone else does. The emissary from Whyte has confirmed the prince is on his way to discuss marriage to one of you in exchange for food to satiate the angry masses and men to suppress the uprising. Whyte has promised to expel the rebels. We will conduct a cleansing of Tibuta. There will be no one left to oppose us. With a mere drone we will silence our enemies.”
It is as if everything has gone still. Memories that point to this moment bombard my mind: the emissary from Whyte talking to my mother outside the Chamber of Petitions. That time I spoke to my father recently and he told me whatever happened I should trust my mother’s judgement.
My mother’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I will let the prince pick which one of you he wants to take back to the Dual Kingdom.”
I snort. It is such a startling, inappropriate sound that my parents and the imposter look at me as if I am mad. “You want one of us to marry the Prince of Whyte to stop the Shark’s Teeth and protect your pride?” I hoot with caustic laughter. “You want to pretend this is Jace’s fault so you can justify democide?” I thump the table.
“Stop laughing, Verne. You are lucky not to be hanging from the Justice Tree this very minute,” my mother says, an archer preparing to fire.
Adelpha rolls her eyes.
My surprise gives way to hot anger, which builds and builds, writhing to break free. “I cannot believe this,” I say, springing out of my chair and knocking it over. I take an arrow from the quiver, nock it and fire. “I have often admired and feared how calculated you are, Mother, seeing nations like these pieces on a map, cities as assets or liabilities, never fully appreciating the faces behind a war, the individuals who will suffer. What about the people of Tibuta? You are willing to let them die rather than negotiate?” I pause to breathe. “You will force the Caspians into a war they do not want to fight. Everyone in Longfield will have to pick a side.” It is unlike me to speak so boldly but anger bubbles in my soul and spews over the edge. “A cleansing?” I spit the word out. “We do not need a cleansing. What we need is peace. You propose to destroy the Shark’s Teeth, our people, like a coward…a…a murderer. There is no honour to it.”
Gone is my fear of reprimand or punishment. Gone is my desire to ingratiate myself. Gone is my timid, small self. I will happily betray my mother again and again if it will mean I can stop the bloodbath. If it means saving thousands of Tibutans, I will do it. My pulse pounds in my head. I feel trapped, tricked. I am outnumbered. But it is no matter; I will fight.<
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My mother’s voice is icy. “Sit down, Verne.”
“Angelfish, we need Whyte. You must understand. Please sit down.”
I pull out another arrow and shoot. “Understand? What is there to understand? We are all pawns to her: Aunt Aria, Uncle Jace, you, Tibuta. Pieces to be moved or exchanged however she sees fit.”
My mother’s composure is breaking. She gets to her feet. “How dare you? I do not treat you like pawns. Everything I do, Verne, everything is for Tibuta. Even if our soldiers are loyal, their brothers might not be. Or their sons. Use your head, you stupid girl.”
Adelpha is leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed.
“You have made it very clear where your loyalties lie and they are not to this nation,” I say.
My father sighs heavily. “Verne, this has been a very difficult decision.”
“Has it? It seems like you made it quickly enough. You have invited foreign soldiers—men, with men as their monarchs—into Tibuta to kill Tibutans. In Ayfra’s name I pray this is a dream. If you do this, everything our ancestors have done, everything they have worked for, will be for nothing. You will tear this nation apart.”
There is a long, drawn-out silence as we reach behind us for arrows to reload our weapons and discover are quivers are empty. Our arrows are embedded in each other’s flesh or lie around the room. My father tries to take my hand but I snatch it away. I shake my head in disbelief. “Let Prince Satah come. Let him pick whoever he wants. You are making a terrible mistake. I am ashamed to be a Golding,” I say.
“Thank the tides we have Adelpha,” my mother says.
Part three
Chapter fourteen
The soldiers and their chiliarches have been relegated to the mess hall, tucked away in a maze of chambers connected by breezeways, narrow arcades and rows of columns. I stand outside listening to the raucous laughter and the shouts for more wine then enter and scan the room. Hydra, Petra’s chiliarch, is propped up at the head of a far table. The commander grips the handles of an earthenware cup with hands scarred from battle. She is in mid-conversation and occasionally waves furiously to emphasise her point. Petra’s head is bowed, her body rigid, suggesting the taciturn strategos has been patiently listening to the commander for some time.