by Anna Steffl
Sibelian frowned in disgust. “I will not claim false laurels. Stellansonson and his lady did it.”
Degarius saw the brilliance of the plan. It could save thousands of lives, maybe even their own. “An honor is not an honor if thousands needlessly die for it to be known. We ask you to abide your guard’s suggestion. We will testify to Sarapost it was the case.”
On a long exhale, Sibelian considered. Then, his mouth crept into a smile. He gave Degarius his captain’s sword and then took Assaea.
Degarius didn’t notice the sensation of the sword leaving his hand. It wasn’t what made him complete, wasn’t the better half of him.
“Release Stellansonson. He will ride with me to the border.” He weighed Assaea in his hand. “I was promised this sword and believe me, I wanted it, wanted anything I might eventually be able to use to stop this madness. I was there when Alenius had the Beckoner sewn into his chest.” Sibelian threw a repulsed look at The Scyon’s corpse. “I wished I could have killed him then, but the eunuchs were on their guard. I know what he became. Now, I must thank my enemies for delivering Gheria from a madman. Who is the lady? Is she the Solacian?”
The Gherian commander escorted Ari to Sibelian. Without a coat, she was shivering.
“The lady is Miss Nazar,” Degarius said.
“I would take your hand and kiss it, but you see I only have one. Know I would not, will not, hurt you. I am a man of my word.” He raised Assaea as in salute. “Captain Berlson, you bring Miss Nazar.”
The commander removed his coat and draped it over Ari’s shoulders, put his hat on her head, then went down on one knee and told her that his name was Berlson, that he had seen everything and regretted he had not helped her until the end. He would allow no woman’s valor to be greater than his own. He would lay down his life for her for saving Gheria. Ari, who obviously didn’t understand half of what Berlson was saying, looked anxious for him to rise.
“You have an admirer,” Degarius said. For once, he was glad of it.
The snow-sputtering sky made the night black. With an escort of torch-bearing Fortress Guards, the small circle of light in which they rode moved as fast as was possible down the snowy Gherian roads. A sleigh carried the fire draeden’s head. As Degarius rode, he recalled all he knew of his father’s profession. His fear was the parties would meet and opportunism would sink his intentions. How was one to prevent that?
First, he must know with whom he was dealing, which was more difficult than he expected. As well as he knew Fassal, he could not absolutely say that the prince would subscribe to his peace plan. Though Fassal had seen the brutality of war, he was still an excitable youth. Would he decide to launch the campaign against the Gherians now that uncertain leadership weakened them? Would he risk Acadia gaining contiguous territory to Sarapost in exchange for the security of defeating the Gherians, their longtime enemy? On the other hand, would he take a chance on peace with a potentially unstable neighbor? If Sibelian secured enough troops, he could decide to attack Sarapost to prove his power. Was Sibelian going to be a trustworthy negotiator? Often, one tyrant replaced another in a coup.
Peace. At one time, Degarius would have spoken passionately for war, to decimate the Gherians in their time of weakness. Repay them for their trespasses. Why did he want peace now? Have I become my father? The twinge of amusement lasted a second. He wanted peace for the girls whose tattered frocks smelled of tears and dirty soldiers. He wanted peace for the boys and men, black coat or blue, so their lives wouldn’t end with their bodies crumpled in inhuman positions, their faces locked in inhuman expressions. But not Alenius’s kind of peace, the kind of peace that came from fear instead of men making choices by the governance of their hearts. Degarius grimaced at the benevolent picture he was painting of himself and how Heran Kieran would approve his rationale. He just wanted to sit at his table at Fern Clyffe again—under different circumstances.
Finally, they paused to rest the horses and warm themselves. Arvana, huddled in Commander Berlson’s huge coat, was worried about the effect of prolonged cold on the fragile skin of Nan’s feet. Yet she kept the concerns private. He was sitting across the fire with Sibelian, and she wouldn’t embarrass him with her womanly anxiety.
Berlson, Arvana’s self-appointed protector, pointed to Degarius and spoke to her in slow Gherian so she would understand. “Stellansonson husband?”
“Nan...” No, she mustn’t call him that aloud. Perhaps in the trials of battle it had not mattered when she called him Nan, but now was different. “Degarius...Stellansonson...is not husband.” She felt the lump of the emerald ring inside the mittens Berlson had given her; she’d left Lina’s fine gloves in the pocket of the coat she gave to the Lily Girl. She couldn’t keep the ring or sell it. Nan had his reason for giving it to her. It wasn’t a gift. It was a payment she’d neither asked for nor wanted. It was her right to return it. If she could just rid herself of every worldly reminder of him, she could start a true life anew—the life she never started in Solace because she’d kept her father’s kithara. “I was a Solacian, but now want to go to Sylvania. If I had coin I would make a home there...”
“Coin? You need coin for home?” Berlson rose, circled the fire to Sibelian, and after a word with him, took something. He returned to Arvana and sat again beside her. “From Sibelian,” he said and presented two gold pieces the size of her palm.
“Too much.” She tried to give one back.
Berlson shook his head adamantly. “Sibelian once promised you home and hearth. He is good to his word.”
“Promised me?”
“Yes.” Berlson smiled so wide the corners of his mouth disappeared into his bushy beard.
“I don’t understand—”
“No, you can’t understand.” Berlson took her mittened hand and curled it over the coins.
She could not estimate their worth with any exactness, but knew they would purchase far more than a home. She pictured a new kithara. “Kithara,” she said to Berlson and wanted to tell him about rosewood and inlay. However, her Gherian did not extend to these rarer words so she removed her mittens, put the coins in the coat pocket, and pantomimed playing.
Before sunrise, they arrived in the territory where the two armies camped. Degarius went along to witness Sibelian rouse from bed the generals sympathetic to the coup and to execute Alenius’s brother and supporters. Degarius heard every order. Sibelian was clear in his directives—no engagement with the Sarapostans. The troops marveled at the draeden’s head and whispered in admiration of Sibelian’s deed.
In preparation for their venture into Sarapostan lands, the Gherian standard was rigged with a white parlay cloth. As they started, the snow thickened but a Gherian scout who knew the land intimately was leading them to the Sarapostan encampment. They slowed to cross the small stream that would become the Odis River. While regaining speed, a group of horsemen shot out from a windbreak on their left. Because of the snow and dark, Degarius could hear the familiar mix of horses and men, but could not see the force until they were on top of them with drawn weapons. Evidently, the Sarapostans could not see the white pennant. Degarius bellowed for his countrymen to stand down, but they were already engaging the Fortress Guards and couldn’t hear him over the battle cries.
“Stay with me,” Commander Berlson shouted to Arvana, and she pulled her horse in next to his. They were trying to ride out of the melee. A Sarapostan with a ready sword appeared beside Berlson. The captain laid a huge blow on the man, knocking the sword from him, and he dropped a horse length back. Then, the Sarapostan was at Arvana’s right. He brought his horse flush against hers. Their stirrups met. She felt a sharp thrust to her side, then the Sarapostan split from her.
At last the words “envoy, envoy” were universally shouted by Sarapostans and Gherians. Several of the Sarapostans recognized Degarius, and they vied to ride at his side as escorts into camp.
Arvana wondered why her side should hurt so dreadfully where the Sarapostan had hit her. The hors
e’s movement and her respiration exacerbated the pain. However, the horizon was alight with Sarapostan campfires so she gritted her teeth; the end was near. They rode through rows of tents and lanes of slushy snow to a village, then to a house, its windows golden with candlelight. Prince Fassal and his huge dog burst out. Nan dismounted while his horse was still walking. He and Fassal embraced into a single silhouette against a rectangle of light spreading out from the house’s open door. Their deep chortled laughter of greeting carried above the braying horses, shouting soldiers, and the dog’s eager barking. Nan affectionately rubbed the dog’s scruff. How free he was with them. Nan, Degarius, had never embraced her without it ending in reservation or regret. She knew she should be happy for him. He had averted a war. They had stopped a terrible evil. Still, it made her sad to know that the joy was between Degarius and Fassal. Hers was always to be a private one. Oh, Ari. The sadness dissolved into an amorphous feeling of fatigue. She knew she should dismount, but she didn’t have the strength to lift her leg. How long had it been since she’d slept or eaten? It seemed like weeks. Her side had hurt so much, but now it didn’t hurt at all. A low buzzing closed in around her head. Vaguely, she felt the reins slip from her mittens.
“What a dog you are, Degarius. I’m so damn glad to see you alive.” Fassal wrung Degarius’s hand. “Of all things, sneaking into Gheria in the midst of a coup.”
“Speaking of dogs, call your beast off of me.” Degarius laughed. Caspar kept jumping at his side.
One of Fassal’s assistants took the dog’s collar.
“Come, let me introduce you to Sovereign Sibelian,” Degarius said. “I gave my word we’d call off the war.”
Fassal and Sibelian had just exchanged bows when an urgent hail went up. “Degheria, Degheria. Stellansonson.” It was Commander Berlson. Degarius turned around. Something was going on behind them. Riders were about-facing their horses.
“Go,” Sibelian said.
Degarius, followed by Fassal and Sibelian, wove through the mingling Sarapostans and Gherians to a circle of men who’d dismounted. Those with lanterns held them aloft to illuminate whatever was in their midst. Degarius pushed through.
Berlson, his ruddy, fleshy face knotted, was crouching beside Ari. She was lying motionless in the snow. Blood stained the inside of her opened coat and her dress at the hip. “I didn’t know,” Berlson said. “They thought her a soldier...wearing my coat and hat.”
For a long moment, Degarius just stood trying to understand the blurry image he saw. A part of him refused to believe it. Another part had seen this far too often. Both, as always, told him to stay back from it. Grief gutted you. He looked away, had to look at anything else. He blinked his eyes open as wide as they’d go and looked at the soldier bearing the Sarapostan standard. Damn it, I’m a soldier.
But then a hand lighted on his shoulder and Fassal muttered, “Oh brother,” and it was as if Degarius’s own weight was an unbearable force pulling him down. His knees buckled, and he came to them. He couldn’t breathe. He bowed his head, and as he came over her and cradled her limp body to his, he exhaled the prayer that filled his chest to bursting. “Maker, don’t take her. I beg you, don’t take her.”
Someone was pulling at Degarius’s coat, as if trying to drag him away. “No,” he growled. “You can’t take her.”
“Brother, my physician is here. You must let him tend her.”
SOLACE
Field Marshall Fassal’s house, Sarapost-Gheria battlefront
“Hera, you’re awake! I was hoping you’d wake while I was here. You’ve slept the day.”
“Princess Lerouge?” Arvana rubbed her knuckles to her eyes.
“Not Lerouge. Haven’t you heard? I’m married.”
Arvana began to prop herself on her elbows to survey her surroundings, but the motion ignited the pain in her side. The last thing she remembered was a blur of people around her, someone tugging at her clothes, and then a bitter taste in her mouth. Now she lay in a comfortable bed in a cozy room with a splendid fire and the princess bedside in a chair. “Are we in Sarapost?”
“Sarapost? We’re at the front. It’s much more diverting here than in Sarapost. I go among the soldiers every day and it cheers them. Evenings I host receptions for the officers. A Gherian officer is sitting outside your door and every so often, he looks in. I can’t understand a word he says.”
“Commander Berlson?”
“Does he look like a red-haired bear?”
“Has peace been made?”
“They are finalizing an agreement now.” A crease marred Jesquin’s brow. “I wished to be with you before, but I couldn’t countenance being in the same room with the man who killed my brother. Gregory finally insisted he spare five minutes to witness the signing and took him downstairs.”
“He was here?”
“It must have been terrible to be his captive all these months.” Jesquin shuddered. “Gregory is so obstinately attached to him he refuses to see his character and give him to Acadia for trial.”
“He did a great deed to help Sarapost.” Arvana wanted to say that he sacrificed the thing dearest to him, his sword, for Sarapost, but it was all to be a secret.
“My husband said something to that effect—that he ventured to the Forbidden Fortress to negotiate the peace, but I can’t agree with Gregory he deserves a generalship or a position in court for it. He’s a murderer. By pure luck, he arrived after the coup. Did you see the beast? Gregory said they’ve brought its head, but he wouldn’t let me see it. He says it is the most horrible thing ever and I’d have nightmares from it. Did you see Sibelian kill it?”
“Sibelian? Yes.”
“He sounds ever so heroic. His men have fashioned him into a legend, like Lukis or Paulus. Perhaps all the clans will support him and...ah.” The princess pivoted in her chair to lean over and right a bit of lace turned inward on Arvana’s neckline. “It’s one of my nightgowns. Do you like it? It’s a bit plain, so I’ve never worn it, but it suits you. Don’t worry if your stitches soil it a bit. I have many others.”
Arvana noted for the first time the silky, white sleeves. She felt her side. A thick wad of bandages covered her hip.
“I have a grand idea. I’ve been thinking on it while you slept. Since Solace is no more, you could start a new order here in Sarapost. I would make a generous donation.”
Start a new order like the Founder? The idea of it made Arvana ease back into the pillow. Being a Solacian was a worthy life to which she was accustomed. It would be a comfort to go back to it, even with the challenges of organizing a new order. But at the thought of a narrow cot, her body ached for the warmth of his body curled to hers in the Gherian inn’s bed. How could she ask novices to forsake earthly desires when she could not? “It’s a kind offer, but I renounced my profession. Sibelian gave me a handsome gift. I shall go to Sylvania.”
“You cannot!” Jesquin pouted and testily crossed her arms.
“The last thing I would want is to disappoint you, but I can’t stay in Sarapost.” Arvana ran her thumb against the smooth back of his ring. “I know you understand.”
“It’s because of him, isn’t it? Oh, what a relief that is. Gregory bet me a week’s pocket money the horrid man turned down the generalship so you would go with him to his country house. I knew—”
Arvana rose to sitting despite the pain and tightness at her hip. “He declined the generalship?”
“You must lie back down. Gregory’s physician had to stitch your side. He said you were immensely lucky the way the blade entered and that you were wearing that heavy coat, riding breeches, and a dress.”
“He’s downstairs?” Arvana threw back the covers and shifted her feet from the bed. Jesquin jumped up. Her alarmed expression swam in Arvana’s still-woozy head. She steadied herself on the bedpost. “Where’s my dress?”
“It’s quite ruined, I imagine.”
An extra blanket was across the foot of the bed. Arvana unfolded it and eased it over her shoulder
s like a cape.
“Please get back in bed.”
“Berlson,” Arvana called. The door opened, and in peered the commander. In Gherian, she asked, “Will you help me go...?” She didn’t know the word for downstairs, so she pointed downward. “I want to speak with Degarius.”
“I’ll bring Stellansonson to you.”
“Not in this room. I won’t abide it,” the princess said. “What he did—”
“Please take me, Berlson.”
“For a moment,” he said and gently put an arm around Arvana’s shoulder. He assisted her down the steps to the parlor door just off the foyer. Without knocking, he opened the door. “Stellansonson.”
Stares and the clinks of coffee cups settling into their saucers greeted them.
“I heard you rejected a generalship,” Arvana said into the silence. “Is it true?”
Degarius, without his glasses, squinted, gulped the coffee in his mouth, frowned, and rose. “Excuse me.”
“With pleasure,” Prince Fassal said and to Arvana added, “You gave us quite the scare.”
Degarius came straightaway. Berlson remained in the foyer with them, but stood to the side. It would be pointless to ask him to leave.
“You should be in bed,” Degarius said. “Let me help you back.”
“I slept enough. You haven’t.” Despite his ever-noble stature, his complexion was sallow. She looked to his boots. “It was cold during the ride. Did your feet suffer?”
“Let me help you back—”
“I came to ask, I heard...the generalship meant the world to you. Why won’t you have it? Is it because of the peace?”
“The peace? Yes. I think I’ve earned the right to go home.”
“Home.” There was the answer. Fassal, as she, had speculated too far into his reasons for declining the generalship. It was only out of gentlemanly courtesy he sat with her when she slept, just as he’d done when Kieran was ill. Nan had been through much and simply wished to have no more of soldiering or politics. Ferne Clyffe was the dream he’d been deferring. She thought of her own recent dream—the house in Sylvania, the kithara—and reminded herself of the pleasures of being one’s own mistress. “Yes, this is all over now. I wish to go home, too. Sylvania is beautiful in spring.”