by B Lynch
“She might be with child,” Eliya speculated, and raised an eyebrow. She glanced at Caliandra, head tilted. “He didn’t…?”
“No!” Callie said, with scowling green eyes. “How could you think that?”
“Well,” Eliya started, “He was quite handsome, and very charming…” Eliya said, reminiscing; Caliandra grit her teeth at the thought, and Eliya, seeing it, reversed her opinion. “But clearly not enough to tempt you in that way.”
“Not until we’d been married,” Caliandra said, firm. “I loved him a great deal, but… I would have never been so foolish.” Perhaps I should have, she thought, the corner of her lips tugging downward with the regret. Or would that have only made things worse for me?
Eliya shook her head. “You need to forgive yourself, Callie,” Eliya said. “All of Yom’s blessings wouldn’t have kept him betrothed to you. Tara’s very pretty, and kind, but she also has an immense dowry to offer.”
Caliandra knew her - they’d only met twice, but she was pretty – apple cheeks, red hair, blue eyes, a delicate button of a nose, ample bosom, slender waist; yes, Tara was very pretty, in all the ways that Caliandra couldn’t hate her for, much as she tried. She could, however, hate the considerable wealth that had caught Iaen’s eye - the wealth of Tara’s father, Lord Ailin Dugal. Who, unlike Caliandra’s father, had been born into nobility. The Duke had his parents and grandparents’ fortune to build on, and could afford a most handsome dowry. That was enough to make Caliandra wish Iaen would choke to death at the wedding; that instead of eating cakes and sipping wine, he’d gag on the gold and earth he loved so much.
Caliandra hadn’t even wanted to think about what Iaen had done - how he’d betrayed her love. She’d sent him her angry letters, stained with tears. She’d refused to attend balls, social engagements, anything – because he and Tara might be there, lording over her broken heart. Even the thought of seeing him brought her anxiety. And then, when she had broken herself of thinking of him, and pushed him from her mind - his name came creeping back to her on Eliya’s lips, with news of his marriage. It was a stabbing, wrenching pain, stained with the feeling of failure.
“Callie,” Eliya said, with a sympathy Caliandra couldn’t stand – what woman wanted her younger sister’s pity? - “There are other men, you know. They didn’t just die off after he was born. Perhaps you should look outside the kingdom, as I did for Mas.”
“They’ll not even look at me, and you know why,” Caliandra countered. “Father’s dying. That’s what made Iaen change his mind, and when Father’s dead - I -” Caliandra trailed off; she hated to think of what came after her father’s passing. The future was not a happy place for her - no father, and no husband. Sadness and anxiety overtook her.
“I’m not you, Ellie. Nothing you do comes easily to me.” Admitting that felt worse still; of all the indignities, and horrid fates, hers seemed the worst, for it was the least certain. As Caliandra looked at her sister, who sat before her with hair like wheat at sunset, rosy cheeks, and their father’s green eyes, looking every inch the perfect daughter… Caliandra could not help but hate her. She hated Eliya for having brought the news. She hated Eliya for having the security she wanted - for still having a husband. For having a man who loved her more than money.
Most of all, she hated Eliya for being Eliya - for being everything she wasn’t. Eliya’s art was weaving tapestries of social circles, of knowing which strings to pull or cut. Her words were careful in public, less guarded in private - but always honest with Caliandra. Her face was gentle, and soft and kind; a haughty look had never crossed it. And she never frightened men off; she teased them, she flirted with them, or, like Mas, they fell for her with all their heart, one deliberate word at a time.
Caliandra felt, by comparison, that she was too quick to prove her wit, and too proud to let it go undefended. Too willing to challenge men, when they did not want to be challenged. Too eager to dismiss them, when she found them lacking. Iaen was the only one who had enjoyed such prickly company, and won her heart - which made his loss all the more painful. The list of suitors that preceded Iaen was thin; the line after, nonexistent.
“And I lack your sharpness and wit, dear sister, but we must use the tools Yom’s given us, mustn’t we?” Eliya replied. She reached out a comforting, delicate hand to touch her sister’s lap. Caliandra scowled at it, but did nothing to reject it; she still wanted comfort, all the same. “You’ll find a husband that appreciates your mind and beauty soon enough. You did it once before, after all,” Eliya said, adding a gentle smile.
“That’s just it,” Caliandra said, frustrated. Worry weighed upon her brows. “I can’t. I loved him. Who else in this land is high-born, and unopposed to a difficult wife? Who understands me?” Bitter anger filled Caliandra, and she let it loose. “You, mother, Father, Valric, Mae, Janni, and Royth - but who else?”
Eliya drew back, slightly, and avoided her sister’s gaze. “You… do have a reputation for difficulty,” Eliya said; Caliandra watched her sister choose words carefully, with a most diplomatic tongue and lightened tone. “Perhaps, if being married before Father passes is a worry of yours, you should aim to be more… forgiving of men’s faults.”
I could, Caliandra thought, but after a time, I’d only come to hate them more. Why bother? “It’s too late for that, now,” Caliandra said, bitter. “You’ve seen him. He fades before our very eyes. And when he dies, so go our crowns, and my prospects. I’ll have nothing to offer when he’s dead, only fading beauty and a far lower station. Why bother being kind?” Caliandra scowled. She wanted no more of the conversation, because of how close it was to the discomforts of her life - and yet she knew there’d be more of it. Eliya was nothing if not persistent.
“Because kindness wins hearts,” Eliya replied, as she gently cocked her head, and spoke slowly. “But it must be the right type, and it must be at the proper time… You recall how I approached Mas, and won him. And has he changed his mind, with our father in the Shade’s grasp?”
Caliandra did remember. Mas had come south, from cold Kersik, as part of a diplomatic trip of several weeks, to forge new trade agreements between their nations. Eliya had approached him carefully, but pursued him with a kind tenacity, emboldened by Royth’s prediction of success. She arranged for dances, for conversations, for walks about the castle grounds, for a day’s ride in the Kilcully Mountains, for hunting, and for fishing trips - and though the trade agreements had stayed almost the same, Eliya was the clearest victor; they exchanged letters for weeks afterward, and it was only months before Mas declared, to his father’s consternation, that he wished to marry Eliya. Caliandra shook her head, and pulled her legs in, against her chest. “He’s mad for you, he’s rich beyond measure, and Royth saw it in a vision.” Caliandra said. “That’s different, sister. It was fate. A dowry doesn’t matter to Mas. But what man will want the oldest and most difficult Feor sister, when he’s not paid for his trouble?”
Eliya paused. “Some man will,” she said; she laid a pale hand on her sister’s knee. “Keep your faith, sister. Yom’s path is set for you; you don’t see it yet, for he has taken you into a dark wood, but one day, the light will shine through. You’re only sixteen years old, after all. And perhaps you should see Royth, too. Maybe he’ll know when that man comes into your life.”
“Yes,” Caliandra replied with a scowl. “When I’m thirty and childless, I’ll be wed to a man-loving lordling who’s too scared to live his truth.” There was a knock at the door that drew Caliandra’s attention, and interrupted her thoughts. “Who is it?” she asked, her back stiff. She didn’t want to be bothered in her moment of weakness.
“It’s your mother,” the Queen Sophine replied, her voice muted by the thick wood door. “Am I allowed to enter?” Caliandra looked over at her sister, who only shook her head, as if to say, I didn’t tell her.
“Come in,” Caliandra replied, annoyed. Her mother opened the door, and stepped inside; her blue dress skated above the floor, and
a velvet cape flowed behind her. The blue contrasted with her olive skin, her hair – a darker brown than Caliandra’s and Eliya’s, which was pulled neatly back behind her head and held with gold clasps, set with emeralds – and her eyes, a shade lighter than the emeralds on her clasps. Her nose was long and sharp, like Eliya’s - not Caliandra’s, which was turned up to the world, like her father’s - and her cheeks were Caliandra’s, round and full. Caliandra saw the bags under her eyes, and the slow-spreading wrinkles at their corners, like cracking glass; they were far more visible since Father took ill. All of it created the appearance of a woman of great stature, hiding even greater private pain.
And yet, the Queen did not allow it to diminish her spirit. She closed the door behind her, and stepped into Caliandra’s room with a dignified stride. “I assume Eliya’s told you of the very poor decision Lord Iaen’s made?” their mother asked.
“She thinks she’ll die alone,” Eliya replied, frowning at Caliandra. “Please tell her otherwise. She won’t listen to me.”
“As if you’d understand,” Caliandra snapped.
“I’m trying to, Callie,” Eliya replied, hurt. “I want what you do. I want you to be happy, and married. Mother wants it, Father wants it, Valric wants it - ”
“Valric only wants the glory of war,” Caliandra scowled. “He wants to be a Yom-damned hero. He couldn’t care less about me being married or not, only which of his friends he’ll visit.” She was jealous of that, too; he came and went as he pleased, even more since Father became sick. It was as if Valric was avoiding them… but he’d returned the night before, stressed, but hopeful.
“Caliandra,” Sophine said, firm, as she approached the bed. It was a tone Caliandra knew well, and it filled her with apprehension. She watched her mother bend her knees, and lower herself to be gracefully level with her daughter’s eyes – relieving herself of her royal station. Caliandra met her eyes, which had unexpected warmth in them; she had thought herself ready to be scolded. “Iaen’s made a terrible mistake,” Sophine said. “Let him have it, and say nothing else on it. Such a fool doesn’t deserve your tears. You have a new chance - for a new life, and a new love. And it will be far better to you than you can imagine. I promise.”
“I wish I had Valric’s freedoms,” Caliandra said. “At least then, my life wouldn’t be at the mercy of a man’s whims.”
“And yet it would,” Sophine said; a dread seriousness crossed her face, and her shoulders stiffened.
“How?” Caliandra replied, puzzled. Her mother’s words confused her.
“Your brother has the dignity of dying in battle, as the new King wishes it,” Sophine said. “There’ll not be a crown to keep him from danger.”
Eliya scoffed. “That’s never stopped him from seeking it out,” she said, wryly. Her remark drew the Queen’s ire, and Caliandra saw her mother give a glare that froze her sister’s heart.
“Sorry, Mother,” Eliya replied, eyes immediately downcast.
“You’re lucky, Eliya,” Sophine said. “I hope you never need to see how lucky you are. And Caliandra,” she added, “There’s no dishonor in running a great house. And whoever should choose you, they’ll be the better for it.”
Her mother’s words brought fresh tears to Caliandra’s eyes – not because the words had made their mark, but because they had reminded her of what she had lost. Iaen had promised her an equal hand in managing his affairs. She’d planted the idea in his mind as they watched the land from the southwest turret, tangled in each other’s hands, feet dangling over the side; distant figures smaller than ants tilled in fields, and went about their business, ignorant of the rolling hills, the far-off green giants of the Kilcullies, and swatches of purple wildflowers that dotted the hills. Tangled lips led to talk of tangled lives, where Iaen promised she’d run more than his house - he wanted her help with his estate, too. They swore love to each other, forever. Always. Until the glittering stars fell from the sky, and the night was blacker than pitch.
All of that, he gave up; cast aside, for a prettier woman with a bigger dowry.
“Of course. I know,” Caliandra muttered, as she looked away. It was hard to imagine a better life, compared to the one she’d lost - and the one she lived in. She glanced back at her mother, and asked, “How’s Father doing today?”
The Queen’s face softened, and she sighed; Sophine’s stern lips drew downward, into a slight frown. “No better than yesterday, I’m afraid,” she said. “The healers have done all they could.”
“Is he… still well enough to play chess?” Caliandra asked, hopeful for some small normal touch in her life, a minute comfort. Some days were better for chess than others; the worse days were full of blood-wet coughs and agony.
“He is,” Sophine replied. “You will put proper clothing on first, though. I can’t have the both of you wearing sleeping gowns.”
Caliandra nodded, and started to get off the bed.
“And Caliandra?” Sophine said, stopping her.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Let him win, for once.”
CHAPTER TWO
Caliandra stared at the chessboard, on the border of distraction. The noonday sun blinded with beams through a nearby window, and the verdant green of the forest outside called her attention - but those were not what troubled her most. Her slender fingers settled on a knight of carved ivory, and she calculated moves in her head; a gentle zephyr flowed through the open window, tussling her hair about in the breeze. Seconds later, Caliandra’s white knight captured a black pawn, which disappeared into her hand. As she saw the field of play, her father would be in check within a few moves - if he didn’t move his queen, or his legs again. The board uneasily rested on top of a plain white quilt, laid over his thighs. Only minutes before, the bedridden king jostled the board - on purpose - to bring panic and a frustrated smile to his daughter’s face.
“Come now, Callie,” King Rionn said, weakly, as he moved another pawn forward with a trembling hand. “You’re slipping.” His proud, regal face had grown thin and gaunt; his sunken blue eyes, same as her sister’s, held flashes of friendliness of warmth, but more often showed a weary defeat. Only when they played chess, as they used to, did she see that old glimmer in his eyes.
“Am I, now?” Caliandra replied, as she pushed her own pawn into position, and circumventing his queen. Her knight would still be in position. “I thought you’d prefer to win.” She normally enjoyed playing against her father, but the news of Iaen and Tara’s betrothal had tossed her about, and the discussion with Eliya and Mother had put her on still more uneven ground; seeing Father’s sickly form made her feel as if she’d fall.
“I prefer to win honestly,” the King replied, and added, with a wink, “Or at the least, to think I am.” She allowed herself a smile; he couldn’t have known how it might affect her.
“So how do you know you’re not beating me by skill alone?” Caliandra said with droll inflection and a raised eyebrow. She turned her head towards the King, slightly, to get the sun out of her eye.
The king reached over the board, and delicately tapped one of Caliandra’s rooks, which blocked her King from her father’s knights. “Because you haven’t moved that yet,” he said. “You’re holding back.”
“Eliya tells me I should be kinder,” Caliandra said, simply, as she moved it, to take a bishop he’d placed further down the board, to threaten her own King.
“I’d sooner ask a cat to give up its claws,” her father replied. “A loss to you is a joy, and a privilege. But perhaps today is different,” he said, as he slid his ebony queen across the board, and seized his daughter’s rook. “Check.”
Caliandra was startled. “What?” she asked. “No, that -” she stopped herself as she realized her mistake. She thought she had blocked the queen; but he’d baited her into moving, and when she did, it created a different path. “Damn it.”
“I’m not dead yet, Little Bear,” the King snickered, as his eyes danced with mischievous glee – bringing li
ght to the rest of his pale, gaunt face. “It’s your move.”
Again, Caliandra stared at the board; her right hand found strands of her chestnut hair, and twirled it as she focused. Finally, she let go of her hair, and moved her pawn within striking distance of her father’s knight, to bait him in kind. He furled his eyebrows. “A rash move,” he said. “I thought you’d gotten better at thinking ahead.”
Caliandra said nothing, and waited for him to move; the King moved his rook for a cautious defense. Then, she pounced with her queen, and removed it from play. He countered by taking her remaining knight with his own; she attacked with her bishop. “Checkmate,” she said, surprising her father.
He seemed stunned, but then, his surprise turned to delight. “Well played,” he said, as he chuckled, and the board jostled in his lap; pieces clattered and danced on the wood. “Well played, Caliandra.” He offered her a smile. “You should teach your brother chess, once I’m gone,” he said. “I know he’d resist, but if he could be taught to think before acting...”
“He’s not the chess-playing kind, Father,” Caliandra said, as she re-organized the pieces, and set up for another game. “You know it’s not dangerous enough for him.”
She heard her father sigh. “That’s very true,” he said. Caliandra looked up from the board, to see the despondent expression on his face. There were far graver matters in his mind than her own, she judged.
“What troubles you?” she asked, concerned.
“He hasn’t come to see me in weeks,” the King said. “I hear his footsteps in the hall… but they always quicken near my door, and carry him past. And I’ve heard he’s been… irritable.”
Caliandra held her tongue. She’d not known that Valric had avoided their father as well, but his behavior was hard to ignore. Irritable’s not the word I’d use, she thought. She’d seen him lash out and hit a servant the week before – bloodying his face for a minor infraction. Irritable barely described Valric; frightening was far closer to the truth. She said nothing to her father, out of fear it’d worsen his condition. Their mother had privately given the Prince an earful.