Love and Sacrifice: Book Two of the Prophecy Series

by Tove Foss Ford

  “Thank you, sir,” Villison replied, waiting until Menders was seated before sitting himself.

  “Menders will do. This is a home, Corporal, not a military installation. Uniforms aren’t worn in most circumstances. No-one calls the Princess or me or anyone else here by title unless circumstances require it.”

  Villison nodded.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone, without Hemmett, because I will admit that I still have misgivings about having you here,” Menders continued bluntly. He was pleased to see that Villison didn’t flinch. “Where have you been posted?”

  “Forsham,” the young man answered.

  Menders flinched. Forsham, a fort on the Upper Peninsula of Mordania, had recently been the site of an unexpected skirmish between an Artreyan battle cruiser and Mordanian troops present on the ground. For months, Artreyan patrol boats had cruised by the fort on the shore. Like clockwork, a Colonel Murcheson ordered Mordanian soldiers onto the open beach to fire at the boats with their rifles. The patrol boats would respond with a few rifle-fire salvos and go their way.

  Then one day the patrol boats were replaced by a battle cruiser.

  Colonel Murcheson ordered his men to remain in position in the open, even though the cruiser was shelling the beach and the Mordanian soldiers were armed only with rifles. He might as well have sent them out with flyswatters. They were mowed down by the dozens.

  “And how did you survive that debacle?” Menders asked.

  “Took myself and my men the hells away from the beach,” Villison replied bluntly, looking him square in the eye. “We weren’t going to sink a cruiser firing at it with rifles.”

  “No,” Menders said quietly. “And what happened to you for doing that?”

  “Fifty lashes, administered day before yesterday,” Villison answered, with no more inflection than if he’d mentioned he’d been given a demerit for talking in class. “If there’d been more high ranking officers left alive, they would have had me shot for it. I was lucky because it was another Corp who oversaw the flogging and he’s a mate of mine. Had them take it easy.”

  Menders ground his teeth. The only man in the situation who had behaved with any sort of common sense and Murcheson had him flayed alive.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” he sighed.

  “No, sir.”

  Menders rose, indicating for Villison to stay seated. He went to the door and called out to Franz, who appeared almost immediately. He had been wild to finally lay eyes on the legendary Villison of Hemmett’s letters home from the Academy.

  “Would you take a look at Corporal Villison’s back?” Menders said coolly. Villison stood, shucked off his uniform jacket and shirt, and turned his back to Franz.

  Franz blanched. Menders wanted to, but Villison deserved better than that.

  “This is a mess, son,” Franz said. “I’ll get my bag.” He exited Menders’ office quickly.

  “Look, I’m not going to give you the lecture I started out to,” Menders said suddenly. “All I ask is that you don’t make any pillows explode or set up practical jokes all over the house. Mind your manners and language around the ladies and children. I don’t care if you gamble and swear in the Men’s Wing, but please don’t set up a casino and beggar my tenant farmers or romance the local girls in an unchivalrous manner. Those are the house rules for all men living here. Always remember that this is the home of many people, not a boarding school or a bivouac. That’s it in a nutshell, Corporal.”

  “Why did you tell me to drop the titles and keep using mine?” Villison grinned.

  “Because I’m set in my ways,” Menders replied wearily. Seeing that torn back made him feel very old and very exasperated. It was typical of everything he hated about Mordania and the people who ran it.

  “Well, be that as it may, I wanted to let you know how grateful I am to be here,” the young man said as Franz came back into the room and opened his bag. He extracted swabs and several bottles, settling to work on the open slashes on Villison’s back. “That skirmish was enough to make me wish I’d just given them the answers they wanted on their exams and graduated higher in me class, or that me mother had let me go to Special Services training. I won’t let you down, Menders. I’m no paragon, but it’s important to remember that our boy Hemmett does love to embellish a story.”

  Even though Franz was swabbing his back with something Menders knew stung like all the hells, he grinned, the taut scar pulling his left eye into a comical wink. Menders found himself grinning back. He shook Villison’s wiry hand and left him to Franz, going into the hall to make Hemmett stop prowling around like a caged langhur.

  “He’s one of your Men,” Menders said as Hemmett looked toward him. “He’s to behave, as I said before. He’s being patched up by Franz. Apparently he was flogged a couple of days ago.”

  “Yes, I know,” Hemmett answered, looking relieved. “Thank you, Menders.”

  “He’s not to be your second,” Menders said.

  Hemmett kept his counsel.

  The Shadows, Mordania

  4

  Cook’s Particular Spoon

  “L

  et me stir,” Borsen laughed, reaching for Cook’s particular spoon.

  “That you will not, you’ll make hash of it,” Cook laughed back, turning her back to him, stolidly stirring a pot of simmering sugar syrup.

  “Let me!” Borsen tried to reach around her for the oarlike spoon she treated like a treasure. It was the mainstay of her kitchen arsenal, used for everything from ladling stew to stirring yeast starter for bread. It was also her favored weapon, brandished at people who interfered with her cooking and used to rap the knuckles of those who attempted to snitch food from pans.

  “Oh, let him,” Katrin teased from her vantage point on the other side of Cook. “It’s a long time off the boil. He’ll get bored long before then.”

  “Not me,” Borsen retorted. “I want a turn!” He feinted at the spoon again, managing to get a grip on the handle.

  “Now see here, you young demon,” Cook exclaimed, giving the spoon a vicious wipe on a kitchen towel before turning toward Borsen and swiping at him with it. He dodged, laughing, and reached for it again. Cook giggled and swung the spoon playfully.

  There was a sharp cracking noise. Borsen’s face paled as he stared at the forefinger of his left hand, which was bent sharply in a very wrong and sickening direction.

  “Grahl’s teeth!” Cook gasped, jerking the spoon away in reflex. It caught Katrin squarely in the right eye.

  “Ow!” She jumped back, lost her balance and fell. Her eye throbbed.

  The spoon clattered on the tiles as Cook tried to help both of them.

  “My poor darlings,” she gasped, trying to pull Borsen close while hauling Katrin up off the floor. “I barely touched him with it. He reached… I never meant to hit him…”

  Katrin shook her head to clear it and reached out for Borsen’s hand.

  “It’s broken but good,” he said almost calmly.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Cook groaned, looking at the distorted finger in dismay.

  “You hit him?” Varnia Polzen shouted, appearing in the doorway. Varnia supervised the housekeeping staff at The Shadows. “And the Princess?” The young woman stormed across the kitchen. She took in Borsen’s finger and Katrin’s rapidly swelling eye.

  “Now you see here, my girl,” Cook bristled. “There was no wrongdoing, we were only playing…”

  “Playing that broke his finger?” Varnia’s voice rose toward a shriek. “You don’t miss a chance with that damned spoon and now look what you’ve done!”

  “Varnia, she didn’t…” Borsen began, clutching his injured hand to his chest, his face creased with pain.

  Varnia had hit her stride. Though her usual demeanor was taciturn, she had a hot temper. Any perceived threat to Borsen brought it out. She’d come to The Shadows from her father’s nearby bleak, unfruitful farm at the same time Borsen had been apprenticed to The Shadows’ tailor. Var
nia had developed an intense protectiveness toward Borsen over the last three years.

  “Can’t you understand that he’s frail, that you can’t bash him with a spoon you could row a boat with?” Varnia shouted, grabbing Cook’s shoulders. Her years of hard work on her father’s farm gave her a grip like iron but Cook had been kneading bread and stirring enormous pots of food for decades. She had arms like a blacksmith. Varnia found herself sprawled on the floor with a bruised bottom and a spinning head.

  “You bitch!” she yelled, scrambling to rise.

  “No-one move.”

  Menders was in the doorway. Katrin saw his eyes flicker over the scene and unaccountably found herself starting to snicker, though she was shaken and her eye was watering copiously. They must look as if they’d been brawling. She caught Menders’ eye, then looked pointedly at Borsen.

  She was shocked when Menders’ face went gray as he took in the broken finger. Varnia was picking up momentum, rising from the floor in a rage. Cook was barely holding her ire but Katrin could see a vein pounding in her temple as she crossed her arms and faced Varnia down.

  “You see here, young woman,” she said in a low, grating voice, “I love both these children as my own and I wouldn’t willingly do any harm to either. I’ve been here caring for Katrin and everyone else since we all were sent out here. Borsen is as dear to me as my own son. Yes, it was foolish to be horsing about in the kitchen, that I’ll give you, and now they’re both hurt as a result. Nothing was done in anything but a bit of fun. You get a grip on that temper of yours and fast. I’m still in charge in this kitchen and I won’t be coping with tantrums.”

  Menders stepped in front of Varnia as she went for Cook. He said nothing, pointing adamantly to the door. Varnia glared for a few moments, meeting Menders’ white-eyed gaze boldly. Then she bolted away.

  Cook sighed suddenly and groped her way to a stool.

  “I swear on my child I never meant to hurt them,” she said, her voice suddenly weak.

  “Of course not,” Menders answered, patting her shoulder fondly before going to Borsen. Katrin was inspecting his finger while he said, “At least it wasn’t my drawing hand.”

  “Don’t be brave, it hurts to break a bone,” she answered. Menders looked at the finger again, maintaining his composure this time.

  “That’s nasty, but Doctor Franz will put it back right,” he remarked heartily, thankful that the bone hadn’t gone through the skin.

  “I swear it barely touched him,” Cook quavered. Borsen and Katrin nodded agreement.

  “All right,” Franz said, coming into the room with a breezy smile. “What now?”

  Katrin felt relieved until she saw Varnia come in behind him. Her face was pinched and white, blotched with red patches. Katrin could see her hands trembling.

  Franz was pointedly ignoring Varnia’s currents of rage. He inspected Borsen’s finger.

  “A dose of ramplane and I’ll fix that good as new,” he said, using a clean towel to wrap the hand loosely. Somehow Katrin knew it was to hide the hand from Borsen’s – and perhaps Varnia’s – sight. “Let me take one look at your sister’s eye and then we’ll go to my office and get started.”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll just look like Kaymar for a while,” Katrin murmured as Franz leaned over to study her injury. He smiled. Recently one of Kaymar’s explosives had misfired and he was sporting two black eyes and singed eyebrows. Franz patted her on the shoulder, told her to put some ice on her eye, then took Borsen away with him.

  “How could it just give way like that?” Cook asked desperately. “I only touched him. He grabbed at the spoon, otherwise it wouldn’t have touched him at all. It was just a graze, I swear it.”

  “He’s fragile,” Varnia hissed viciously. “Even an idiot can see that…”

  “I told you to leave this kitchen,” Menders interrupted. “Go, now, to your room and stay there until I send for you.”

  “I won’t,” Varnia retorted. “I’ll have it out with her.”

  Menders turned and faced her. Katrin felt the room go cold.

  “No-one here is unaware that Borsen is fragile,” he said in a grating tone. “I appreciate your concern and your love for him, but you will not have it out with anyone. Go to your room or leave The Shadows.”

  Varnia nearly retorted. Then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen.

  The neglected pan of sugar syrup boiled up and Menders turned swiftly, pulling if off the fire before it went everywhere.

  Doctor Franz set Borsen’s finger with a minimum of trouble, but the young man’s frail constitution quailed under the shock. He ended up in bed for several days with a slight fever and general fatigue. Katrin spent much of her time with him, playing games, talking and reading. Her eye had swollen into a pugilist’s pride and she’d felt pretty rattled for a day or two as well. She welcomed the chance to lounge around and rest.

  Their invalidism kept them from full awareness of the storm that had erupted in the household.

  Varnia was, apparently, one for grudges. As far as she was concerned, she was in open warfare with Cook. Being young and driven entirely by emotion, Varnia started one confrontation after another. Cook, on the other hand, became intensely defensive. She tended to face Varnia down with her particular spoon in hand, which only fanned the flames of the young woman’s anger.

  “Why don’t you just send Varnia back home?” Katrin asked in exasperation after Menders had to interrupt lessons to quell yet another noisy squabble between the two women.

  “Because this is her home,” Menders answered tersely. He sighed and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Varnia hasn’t had the privilege of a good upbringing,” he said after a moment, his voice less harsh. “She was raised on that ghastly place without a mother, without any sort of love or tenderness. She loves Borsen as if he was her own child and she’s reacting as a mother – a wild, savage mother with no proper breeding – would when perceiving a threat. Cook is reacting as a woman who has managed, without intention, to injure two children from the Royal Family. If word of what happened got back to Court, Cook could be summoned and executed.”

  “No, Menders!” Katrin gasped. “It was only play!”

  “I know,” Menders responded. “But we live with reason here. There is no reason at Court. It’s unlikely word would travel there, but Cook is understandably anxious. So she lashes back at Varnia when ignoring her would be the most effective thing to do.”

  “Hard to ignore,” Katrin sighed. Varnia was so intense, always keyed up as if she expected to be attacked any minute.

  “She’s always so ready to fight,” she continued, trying to think the matter out.

  “Give some thought to what might have made her that way.” Menders picked up the Surelian text they had been working with. “She was not given your advantages of a loving home and people with patience and education around you. Varnia has had to fight, for many reasons. I’m as fed up with this situation as anyone but we have to be enlightened in how we deal with her.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Katrin whispered, looking at the book again.

  Doctor Franz held a meeting of the household and explained that Borsen had very brittle bones as a result of being severely malnourished as a child. He would have a high risk of fracture all his life and would have to curtail his physical activity. He had to give up the tumbling and handfighting techniques he had been learning with Menders’ Men. He was grappling with the decision to continue riding or not.

  This made Borsen quiet and withdrawn, which only fueled the flames of Varnia’s anger. The arguments and confrontations between Varnia and Cook became daily occurrences.

  “If it hadn’t happened and we didn’t know about how frail his bones are, he could have ended up with much worse than a broken finger!” Cook shouted in the kitchen one day. “Perhaps that was a blessing!”

  “You took a swing at a little boy with a great stick of wood!�
�� Varnia shouted back. “Don’t try to make it sound like a favor!”

  “Get out of here!” Cook’s voice resounded into Menders’ study and Katrin watched as he clenched and unclenched his fists and rose mechanically. She trailed along in his wake.

  “This is going to stop,” he said sharply as he reached the doorway of the kitchen.

  Both women started and turned toward him. Cook colored with embarrassment. Varnia’s chin went up defiantly as she met his gaze.

  “Varnia, I want you to stay out of the kitchen altogether unless you are specifically asked into it by Cook,” Menders continued, walking over to her. “I have to be able to trust the two of you to manage peacefully together when the family is abroad. You’ll have to convince me that will happen or I’m going to find another situation for you. If I can’t, you’ll have to return to your father’s farm. Cook has been here since we first came to The Shadows. We can’t do without her. Much as I’d hate to do without you, the household could manage.”

  Katrin was surprised to see Varnia’s eyes widen slightly. She’d been so steely and forceful since Borsen’s injury. Then Katrin saw the Polzen farm in her mind.

  It was a freeholding bordering part of the eastern border of The Shadows. Varnia’s father was the worst kind of farmer – callous, negative and convinced that his way of doing things was the only way. His continual crop failures and thin, sickly animals told another tale.

  There were four grown, uneducated, half-savage sons from Mister Polzen’s first marriage who did little about the farm unless they were driven to it by their father brandishing a stick or strap. Varnia, the child of Polzen’s second wife, was years younger than her half-brothers.

  There had been an ugly confrontation between Mister Polzen and Menders early in the family’s stay at The Shadows. Menders had ridden by the Polzen farm and seen a cow down in the barnyard. He’d assumed it was dead and waiting for disposal – until the stricken animal moved slightly, groaning in agony, her swollen tongue lolling from her mouth into the pool of blood she lay in.