by B Lynch
When the servants finally came to put him in the makeshift sling, a strong sheath of cotton set across two carrying poles, Marrol helped the King from his bed, and helped to lay him on the sling. A servant lay a blanket over Rionn’s lower body - one with a hastily stitched Barrish crest on it.
“Shall we depart?” Marrol asked.
The King nodded. Marrol gave the signal to the servants, and they began the walk down the corridor. He felt an odd sensation, knowing that all this would be done again, only too soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The mid-afternoon sun flickered through graveyard trees, ignorant and playful, while the black procession drudged to the temple gates.
The Prince's body had been first shown publicly, as was custom - pulled through the town of Alton by horse-drawn cart, surrounded by flowers, followed by loved ones on foot. The king was not among them; he was brought to the temple on a different cart, leaving Caliandra, Eliya, and Sophine to walk behind Valric’s body. The only difference between the two men, it seemed, was the flowers.
Caliandra looked out at the polite, sorrowful faces of the crowd. Some were more mournful than others; their wailing was wild, and their tears came heavy and thick. They had been paid well for their tears, as was custom. It was for that reason she tried to ignore them, but the sounds affected her all the same.
She also heard the murmurs of the crowd - Where is the king? Why isn’t he walking with them? I heard he can’t leave his bed - he’ll be in that cart next, you know. Caliandra felt another set of tears come to her eye. Just when she thought she didn’t have any left, a new reservoir was tapped - a new river of salt and pain.
In that moment, all Caliandra wanted was to hold on, just a little bit longer, until they were away from Alton, so that she could have another proper cry without everyone watching. The way she had one in her room that morning, before the ceremony, with Valric’s favorite sword in her hands. She hid it under her bed, along with a different dagger; the damned Erimeni took his favorite in the battle, Kells had said. Only his sword remained, and he had been only too happy to give it to her.
Eliya’s hand found hers, and she looked over. “You can cry, Callie,” Eliya said, with a tear-stained smile. “It’s proper.”
Caliandra choked back her sobs. “I don’t - I don’t want to be seen like this -” she said, to her sister. “Not here.”
“Shhh,” Eliya said, gently squeezing her sister’s hand. “It’s okay.”
Caliandra glanced over at her mother, who wore her funeral silks with proper dignity and sorrow. And yet, the look of pain on her face, it seemed, was inescapable. She was preparing to bury her own son, and as they walked, she could not keep her eyes off the cart. Caliandra allowed herself distractions; she returned nods from the people in the streets, and gave them silent thanks for their signs of prayers for her dead. The wheels creaked over the cobblestones, past what seemed like the last few that lined the sides of the road, on the way out of town. Caliandra had never been so happy for the sight of the forest, and the return to dirt roads.
But the last thing Caliandra saw as they left Alton was a little girl on the edge of the town, whose face was spotted and marked with leper’s spots - her bare feet were caked under layers of mud, and Caliandra could see the telltale gaps where fingers had gone missing. But the girl’s mountain sky eyes remained lucid, piercing, and brimming with sadness. As if, perhaps, her brother lay in that cart.
Or, as Caliandra guessed, that the little leper girl might soon join him.
The service was elaborate, befitting a prince; her father was seated, and wore his blanket with pride. Caliandra, Eliya, and Sophine sat beside him; behind them, the closest members of family who could attend - two of Caliandra’s uncles from her father’s side, and one from her mother’s. Not close ones, either; distant uncles she'd rarely heard mentioned. No grandparents or elderly relatives survived, or were able to make the trip; the Duchess Una, the prior King’s wife, had sent her regards, just as the others had.
After the distant family sat Fenwyn and Josske, Kells and his wife Ostre, Marrol, and Marrol’s wife, Patta. It was Ostre who surprised Caliandra, with a brief tap on the shoulder.
“I'm so sorry for your loss,” she said, with a sweet, warm smile. “It's a shame he was taken so young... Kells told me all about how he died, in the duel... So noble,” she said.
Caliandra nodded. But in her mind, she wondered how little Ostre knew about him. Valric was many things – quick to anger, loyal, fearful, covetous, loving – but she'd never expected him to be noble.
“Thank you,” Caliandra said. “Your sympathies are appreciated.”
“You should be proud of him,” Ostre insisted. “Of what he did for his men.”
Caliandra was. And yet, she was not; he'd given his life to save his men, but it was his actions which had placed them in danger's way, his reckless nature that had pushed him to leave his father for a minute chance – so infinitesimally small - to hold on to his own influence. To stay Prince, for but a little while longer. And to keep their father alive. And to keep Caliandra a Princess.
The notion ripped at her. Why was I so quick to judge? She thought. I called him a self-absorbed coward, and he acted for us. All of us – including himself. Is there nothing noble in that, in how he gave up his life?
The ceremony began, and she ignored the priest, choosing instead to dwell on her own sorrows. The ancestors were invoked; the body was brought in; blessings were said, and the smell of sweet incense tickled her nose. And when it came time to speak, the Queen looked to her. “I cannot,” Sophine said, her voice cracking. “Please, Callie. Speak for us.”
A nervous catch found itself in Caliandra's throat. She hadn't prepared anything. “But I -” she started, then stopped herself. She saw her mother's eyes; the Queen could not muster the strength. “Of course,” Caliandra said. She stood up, and edged towards the front, where the priest stood.
“And now,” the priest said, “a few words from Princess Caliandra Feor, to mark the passing of her brother, Prince Valric Feor, on behalf of her family.”
Caliandra turned to face the crowd, and took a breath. She couldn't imagine where to start, and hesitated. She searched her mind for a perfect beginning, found it, and began to speak.
“I choose not just to remember my brother's sacrifice -” she said, “His last, desperate act. When I remember Valric, I will remember what he taught me, and what we learned from each other. I will remember our mischief, and stealing just-cooked meats and pastry from the kitchen before dinner. I will remember the days the three of us explored the castle, and when he'd steal away, and teach me to fight with a sword.” She expected her mother and sister to scowl at that. It was a surprise, then, to see the hint of a smile on their faces.
“I could not teach him patience... I don't think anyone could, to be fair.” She paused, and allowed for a few chuckles to ripple through the audience. “But he taught me exuberance. He taught me the value of taking the day. Of burning brightly, when others' flames are weak... Of putting others before yourself.” She thought briefly of exposing the things he'd done. The awful stories she could remember – of his disobedience, his recklessness with women, the way he mistreated the servants... but as she looked around the room, she knew she had to abide by decorum. And she wondered if that would always be the way – that someone who'd done good in their last act would be redeemed, and all but sainted, regardless of what else they'd done in their lives. “That is what I've learned from him,” Caliandra said. “I have learned to be loyal. I have learned to be just and kind, and to revel in what life gives us. For it is too brief, and it is we, the living, who must carry those lessons with us.”
She walked over to where Valric's body lay, covered by a deep blue funeral cloth, and kissed his forehead through the cloth. She returned to her seat, and it was then that she saw her father cry. It seemed restrained and proper; dignified tears trailing down a proud, high cheek. But she could see that it was as a tric
kle before the flood, held back by only the frailty of his body.
The priest called for those who wished to pay their last respects; Caliandra looked over at her father, who seemed on the verge of greater tears. “Would you like me to fetch guards to help you walk?” she asked. He hesitated, uncertain of the effort – and regarded the audience around them. “It'll be no trouble to them,” she insisted. “You're their King, and they'll understand.”
“Yes,” he finally said. “Please.” Caliandra motioned to two nearby guards, who helped her father up, and brought him over to his son's covered body. They held him up under his shoulders, and had to bend with him so that he could lean over. She saw him whisper, and then nod to the men to help him back to his seat.
Next was her mother; she wept again, and traced the outline of his head through the cloth, and kissed him on the lips. After her, Eliya, who kissed him on both cheeks, and touched her hand to his heart. Caliandra kissed him on the forehead, and whispered, “thank you,” to unlistening ears. “I know what you were afraid of. And I am, too. Give me your strength, brother.” She made the sign of the Circle, and stood up to rejoin her family.
The cloth-covered body was lifted up by several guards, and a final blessing was made by the priest. The guards lifted it into the sepulcher, and lifted the cover into place.
With that, the ceremony was finished; the King was helped out to the cart by several guards. Sophine, Eliya, and Caliandra followed close behind, out of the long temple hall, and into the daylight awaiting them, beyond the candles and high ceilings.
Caliandra glanced over at her mother, who still had that same sad smile on her face, and took her hand, squeezing it. She offered her mother the kindness of a smile; her mother returned it, and squeezed back.
“He’ll take care of us, now,” Sophine said, turning to both her daughters “Just like your grandparents, and the Kings who came before us.”
Caliandra nodded, and looked out, to see Castle Claine in the distance, with the sun lingering above it. At the proper angle, it seemed to sit atop the castle, like a crown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Melancholy dominated Caliandra’s mood for the days following the funeral; as such, Janni and Mae had informed her that there was such a thing as being too sad, and the only cures were singing, men, and mischief. Caliandra reluctantly agreed; Eliya declined to participate. She was concerned about appearances, as was their mother. Another twist of the knife, Caliandra thought, knowing that Eliya apparently felt time spent with her sister was beneath her. In Janni’s eyes, it was her loss. Caliandra didn’t disagree.
The trio had snuck a spyglass from Royth’s room; it was poorly locked, and of little obstacle to Caliandra, who knew all the castle’s secret passages. She found them a way in, and a way out; they stalked over the ramparts, spyglass in hand, to watch the young men spar in the barracks, bare-chested in the afternoon heat. Caliandra was awarded the first look by Janni, who handed her the spyglass. “Tell us what you see,” asked Mae, giggling and pushing back a lock of black hair. “And describe it. Like Oran’s sonnets.”
“I certainly will,” Caliandra replied, taking up the device with a dull smile. She still felt a blank lethargy, but it was somewhat exciting.
“And don’t look too long, either,” Janni teased, “It’s unladylike.”
Caliandra rested her arms upon the rampart walls, and looked through the spyglass. The soldiers below were all muscular, and varied in shape; some tall, some stout; some golden-haired like Janni, with sky-blue eyes; others shaved, bearded, bald, or both of the latter. Some with faces marred by wounds, others like pristine sculptures. They all bore the marking tattoos of their warrior’s profession; some tallied the slain tallied along their arms, others the places they’d fought. All bore a simple black bear-claw design inked on their chest’s center, above their ribs. Caliandra glass alighted on the men in combat; a red-haired wild-man of thirty years, five crude tattoos ringing his biceps, and a muscular young man, tall in stature, with short brown hair and little ink aside from the claw.
Judging from his movements, she would not guess him inexperienced. He dodged the red-haired warrior’s blows easily, and countered them with attacks of his own – skilled, pointed, and tactically sound. As impressed as she was by his rippling form, she was even more so intrigued by the way in which he fought. He’d learned his swordsmanship well, but did not rely exclusively on it. He thought quickly on his feet, and took the fight to all corners of the terrain. Mae poked her.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“They’re fighting, Sparring, I mean,” Caliandra said, flustered. “The one on the right is a youth; the other, a more experienced fighter.” No sooner had she said it than the experienced fighter landed a furious, cracking blow on the youth with his fist. She winced. Janni delighted in it.
“Experienced, indeed!” she said, letting her tongue dance on the last syllable. “I’ll take the older man, any day.”
“And when he’s white-haired and creaky, you’ll be his nurse,” Mae joked, smirking at Caliandra’s side. “Oh, give me youth to be lost in, and to age with, and to enjoy our fading years together.”
“I hope you marry an old goat who’s all gums,” Janni scowled. Caliandra, who could scarcely keep her eyes off the younger man, laughed hard enough to lose grip on the spyglass. It tumbled from her hands, to the ground below.
“Oh, damn!” Caliandra muttered, cringing. Some of the men noticed, and looked up. Mae ducked behind the ramparts walls, as did Janni and Caliandra. They heard mumblings down below – men talking loudly about girls on the ramparts. Caliandra peeked over the wall, and, to her horror, the young fighter had picked up the spyglass. Her eyes lingered, and his found them. She panicked, and ducked.
“We have to get it back,” Caliandra said, as her heart pounded.
“Are you mad?” Mae replied. “We’re not going down there. No high-borne woman’s allowed in the barracks, and – and Sir Royth won’t miss it,” she said, sheepish.
Caliandra turned to Janni for her opinion. But Janni was already halfway to the stairs. “Where are you going?” Caliandra hissed.
“I’m getting it back,” Janni replied. Caliandra darted after her, and chased her down the stairs into the barracks proper. But when she emerged, at the bottom, she couldn’t find Janni; she did, however, find the young fighter waiting, spyglass in hand.
To her added embarrassment, he was handsome – strikingly so. His eyes were blue, and soft and kind – very unlike the warrior’s gaze she expected. His cheeks were flat and angular, with a tell-tale scar down his left, stopping just shy of his chin – bordered by a swelling, from where the red-headed man had hit him. His muscles were uniformly taut, and bore a light film of sweat upon them. She lighted upon his tattooed chest, his stomach, and then his eyes again before realizing she was speechless. His cold blue eyes were framed by close-cropped brown hair, and a jagged path of scarring down his right cheek that touched his handsome chin. His was an earthy beauty, like jutting mountains and wild streams.
Just like the man Royth had described: a prophecy, made flesh. A little gasp escaped her lips, and she did her best to hide it.
“Princess,” he said, offering her a slight bow. “I don’t think you’re allowed in the barracks... I imagine that’s why you’d brought a spyglass, eh?” he asked, holding it out to her with a smirk. She took it, blushing furiously.
“I was admiring your technique,” she said, nervous, “You fight very well for your age, Sir…”
“I’m not a Sir. That’ll take some time yet.” He replied, taunting her.
“Well – surely, you have a name?” Caliandra asked, reasserting herself. Mere seconds had passed and already, he had her unbalanced.
“Darryn,” he replied. “You should go.” His mouth hadn’t fully closed before he added, “I’m sorry about your brother, the Prince.”
“Thank you,” she said, not wanting to leave. Not wanting him to go. And yet, he did – he tu
rned, and went back to the fight. She lingered, rapt; unbidden, her eyes sought to memorize every inch of his back and behind. Then, she panicked – realizing that the longer she stared, the quicker it’d be for someone to find her. Sense quickly returned to her, and she ran back to the stairs, where she found Janni hiding in a corner; her friend was grinning from ear to ear. “You scoundrel!” Caliandra said, blushing, as Janni snickered.
“You’re going to be in tremendous trouble,” Janni said, chortling.
“We’re going back upstairs – now,” Caliandra said, all but dragging her friend by the ear. Janni peppered her with questions – and Mae, waiting at the top of the stairs, had even more. As she answered them, she began to blush more than she scowled.
He was real. Royth had seen him. But how could he be real? Royth had lied to Valric… But he’d seen into her future. She knew it. She wanted to trust him with all her heart, the way she had before – but with Valric’s death, his predictions were laced with doubt. She didn’t dare tell Janni or Mae about what Royth said. She didn’t know what they’d think.
The three were snickering and laughing in the hallway to Caliandra’s room, spyglass in hand, when they saw Hanne approaching them, walking with Eliya. “Have you been enjoying yourselves?” Hanne asked, with a sharp tone to her voice. “Spying on the guards as they practice their swordsmanship?” Mae turned ivory white; Janni glared at Hanne. Caliandra stood her ground firmly, with clenched jaw.
“I didn’t know you wanted an invite,” Caliandra replied. “I would’ve gladly included you, as I offered my sister.” She wouldn’t have, but it was not the point; Hanne had sparked a duel of courtesy.
“And I would have declined, because it is not ladylike to sneak and spy,” Hanne said, locking eyes with Caliandra.
“Hanne, please,” Eliya said. “She is trying to get her mind off the loss of our brother; surely, you can understand that.”