by B Lynch
Ostre barged through the door, her nerves frayed. “Porthan? Ibhaen?” she shouted. She heard nothing. She shouted again. “Porthan? Ibhaen? Are you here?” She glanced around, nervously; she saw the tapestries that decorated the wooden walls, the flowers that she’d bought from the market the day before in their vases, and… at the top of the stairs, Kells, with a traveling sack slung over his shoulder.
“Where are they?” she shouted. “Where did you take them?”
“They’re packing,” Kells replied, stony. “I told them what you did. We’re leaving.” He looked over his shoulder, to his right. “Hurry.”
“They’re staying. This is their home. Not some filthy Erimeni hovel. They belong here,” Ostre shot back. “They have a future here. If you take them with you, you’re dooming them to a life as - as vagabonds, and mercenaries.” Her face screwed up with disgust. “How could you do that to our children?”
“I asked them,” Kells said, plainly, turning back to Ostre. “I asked them if they would prefer to stay, with you, or if they would come with me, even if it meant giving up all their friends… and they both chose me.”
“No,” Ostre said. “I don’t believe you. Porthan! Ibhaen! Come out here!”
Ibhaen marched out, first; her bag was filled, and she wore her traveling dress - one Ostre had picked out for her only months before - and… boots? Ostre saw the twisting anger on her daughter’s face. “I’d rather die than stay here with you,” she said. “You whore.”
The words punched Ostre, straight in the gut. “What did you just call me?” she said, stunned.
“Porthan’s not staying with you, either,” Ibhaen said, defiant. “He hates you. And I hate you.”
“He doesn’t,” Ostre said, shaking her head with anxious disbelief. “You’re filling his head with lies. Porthan loves me. He wouldn’t listen to your wickedness. He knows I’m not that kind of person.”
“Stop lying!” Ibhaen shouted. “Why do you hate us so much? Why would you do that to us?”
“I don’t hate you!” Ostre said, as she watched Porthan walk out of his room, and towards the stairs. “Porthan - Porthan, don’t go with them. Mother didn’t do what they said. And I love you so much, my little cub, so much -”
But Porthan edged towards Ibhaen, and took her hand - and stepped behind her. “She can’t hurt you,” Ibhaen said. “We’re leaving.”
“Please,” Ostre said, turning her attention back to Kells, “Don’t do this. You don’t have to take them. Let them stay.”
“They decided to come with me,” Kells said, “I will never set foot in Barra again. You aren’t fit to raise my children.”
“They’re my children, too!” she shouted. “Who taught them? Who suckled them! Who fed them? You? Where were you, when they were sick, and you were guarding the castle?”
“I was putting bread in their mouths,” Kells replied. “Should I commend you on doing what’s expected of you, up until now?”
“There,” she said, with an accusative finger. “That’s it. Why do you expect me to be your perfect, loyal wife? Why do you get their love, when you haven’t earned it? You haven’t given them your life, like I have! They should love me - not you, me! Me!” Her body quivered with anger, and fear; the words tumbled from her lips freely, and it felt like in that moment, she had forgotten all politesse. There was only truth on those stairs.
Kells didn’t reply to her. He turned to the children, and whispered to them, his face void of concern. Ibhaen and Porthan started down the stairs, and Ostre lunged at them, trying to grab any loose limb or fabric, to have something to pull on and maybe, they would see how much she needed them - and change their mind. But she grasped at air; they dodged her needy hands. “Please,” she said, filled with desperation, “Porthan, Ibhaen, please, stay, Mother needs you. My little cubs,” she said, but she saw no similar love in their eyes; there was only caution, the kind held for lepers and beggars. And those cautious looks split her heart in two.
Her former husband was the last to descend the stairs, and he did not glare, nor did she see pity in his eyes. It was distance - kin to the kind she saw in him, many days. But this distance was not the kind that built walls, or pushed her away, only to apologize later; this was a permanent distance. She knew it, just from looking at him. Her heart sank; this was truly goodbye.
Ostre called after her children, and they did not answer; tears flooded her eyes, and her chest heaved with sobbing as they turned away from her. Kells, too, ignored her; she grabbed him by the sleeve with desperate fingers, and he stopped. “Please,” she begged, as her hands found purchase, and tried to pull him closer to her. “Please don’t do this. I can change. I won’t do this again. My eye won’t wander. My lips are your lips. Let us - let us go to bed, and let me show you how faithful I am, please - you can’t leave.”
Kells slowly drew his arm from her grasp, and turned away. “Koshat,” he said, to the children. An Erimeni phrase he used infrequently enough that the meaning still lingered on her tongue, yet took time to recall. We leave now, he said.
They did not hear her as they left, and Ostre tried to move herself to stop them - but she couldn’t. She felt paralyzed. She tried to keep Porthan’s face in her heart, and watch as the little tufts of brown hair bounced on his head out of the door, behind his sister. Kells’ frame darkened the door, and soon, that too was gone. And Ostre was all alone, in her husband’s house, with nothing left but his name.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Caliandra’s room was busy with furious motion, and yet, an odd quiet had settled upon it; the King directed a whirlwind of servants to make last-minute changes to her coronation attire, as Janni and Mae watched intently from the side, a pair of intrigued shadows. Next to them, Peacebringer had been lain against the wall. As Caliandra watched, she heard the knocks at the door, and her head jerked up. “Mother!” she said. “Come in! They’re almost done. You must see it - it looks gorgeous.”
“I can’t believe your dress is almost ready,” Sophine said, as she stepped into the room, her excitement palpable; she looked around, searching for something with eager eyes. “Where is it?” Caliandra frowned slightly, and blinked. What is she talking about?
“Dress?” Caliandra said. “What made you think I was wearing a dress?” Her tone was at once quizzical and disdainful; it set her mother on the defensive.
“What else would you wear to your coronation?” Sophine asked, with mild surprise. Caliandra swooped over to the batch of servants nearest the window, and wrestled the fabric away from them. She grinned as she brought the embroidered blue pants up to eye level.
“These,” Caliandra said, with an excited look in her eye. All measure of enthusiasm disappeared from her mother’s face.
“Yom’s teeth. You must be joking,” Sophine said, in utter shock.
“I had them taken in,” Caliandra said; displeasure coursed through her. She gripped the pants tighter, and her knuckles began to whiten.
“You already hold a man’s position,” Sophine said, with raised voice. “Do not aggravate your problems by wearing their clothing, too.”
“Why? Why am I allowed to be King, but not to wear what men do? This is my declaration, Mother,” Caliandra said, as she held the pants up. “This is the message I send. I am not any woman - I am their leader, and their equal.”
“Then lead,” Sophine said, her tone stronger and more forceful. “And prove yourself to them. Don’t bother with petty theatrics. If your sister were here, she’d agree with me - and Yom above, Fenwyn would be furious with you.”
“I will not be another woman with a crown,” Caliandra shouted back. “I have to be more than that. I am no Queen, Mother. I am King. They will know and respect me, and they will not see me crowned in a damn dress!”
Sophine looked at Janni and Mae, for their opinions; the pair’s eyes nervously looked away. The servants stopped. Caliandra threw the pants back to the pair of servants she’d taken them from. “Keep working!” she shou
ted; needle and threadwork resumed. Caliandra felt palpable frustration at her mother’s suggestions.
“Caliandra, I beg you to reconsider,” Sophine said, as she lowered her voice. “You have my support as your mother, and my unconditional love, and I simply wish that -”
“You wish that I would do as you think, and give up my silly whims,” Caliandra interrupted. “But this is no whim. This is my choice. I will not give them what they expect. I will give them what they need.”
“Yes,” Sophine said, sarcastic, “A woman who thinks herself a man. Shall I have Bevi fetch meat from the kitchen, to stuff your pants?”
Caliandra glared at her mother, and had no response; heat rose to her face, and her cheeks grew hot with anger. She turned back to the servants who were working on her doublet. “Work faster,” she said. “The coronation is days away, and we must be ready in time.”
“Don’t be foolish, Caliandra,” Sophine said. Her words drew Caliandra’s attention. “I am happy for you, but this… why must you make things more difficult for yourself, when they will already be challenging?” she said, gesturing to the pants.
“Our women soldiers don’t wear dresses,” Caliandra replied. “Why should I? Because it’s what’s expected of me?”
“Yes!” Sophine said, in disbelief. “Caliandra, you are nobility! You are not some… axe-swinging battle-wench, you are mother to a nation. You are more than a woman, you are a symbol. You are their hopes and dreams, their guiding light - and that gives you power. That is your power. Without the people, what are you?”
“I have the Peacebringer,” she said. “I have the right to rule.”
“You have the right, and you have a prophecy. But those alone won’t make you a great king,” Sophine said. “Politics needs a delicate touch, Caliandra. You know this.”
“Sometimes it does,” Caliandra said, her eyes cast to the side. “Sometimes, it needs a bold fist.”
“Sometimes not,” Sophine replied, her voice full of caution. “There is talk that you will schedule the execution to take place shortly after your coronation.”
Caliandra’s eyes darted back to her mother, and glared. “And what if I have?” she said.
“I have no quarrel with that,” Sophine replied. “It is the right thing to do. Let that be the message you wish to send. Not this petty foolishness about clothing.”
“It needs to be done,” Caliandra replied, “I am a King. I already set a precedent by drawing breath. If I do not take advantage of it by pressing boundaries, then what different would I be from any who ruled before me?”
Sophine sighed. “Very well,” she said, with a curtsy. “I will see you at dinner, then.”
Caliandra offered her a nod in return; having to bow to no one was a privilege she’d gotten used to quickly, and liked. She watched her mother leave, and turned back to the pants; they were lovely, and perfect, and in that moment, she hated them more than anything else. She wanted to tear them to blue-and-silver shreds, because of her mother’s words. Mae’s voice piped up from the corner, and stopped her thoughts.
“I think they’ll be a fine choice,” she said. “The pants.”
“Yes,” Caliandra said. She managed a weak smile, and her anger dissipated. “They will, won’t they?”
“Indeed,” Janni said. “I don’t think your mother truly knows what you’re trying to accomplish. She’s mired in tradition. You need to look beyond that.”
At that moment, Caliandra was unsure: what would the future hold, if I did this - if I defied tradition? She could change her mind, after all… there would be time enough to make a dress from whole-cloth, if she needed it. But the path, just like holding Peacebringer in her hand, felt right. It felt necessary.
It was a moment before she realized she’d done just that - as if she were sleepwalking, while awake. She held the axe close to her, like a lover seeking reassurance, and spurned the startled looks on the servant’s faces. “Finish the pants,” she said. “The coronation will be a vision of the future of Barra, and it will be done as I say it is.”
The servants quickly went back to work. Mae looked at her, concerned. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes,” Caliandra said, “Now, I am.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
Patta did not know Marrol had been arrested until he had already been taken; in the brief moment before she heard why, she was terrified. I never meant it to go so far, she thought. But then, she heard that he’d been arrested for treason. She did not hear it from someone she trusted, or a member or her family, or a messenger from the castle; she heard it the worst way possible, overhearing a stranger’s conversation on the way to her brother’s shop.
Marrol had been acting strangely in the previous weeks, but Patta attributed that to the affair; something she knew was inevitable. Men like Marrol were not content without heirs, no matter how much she gave him.
She walked faster to the shop; the door was open, and Talwyck’s wife, Cait, was inside, sorting a new shipment of fabrics. “Is it true?” Patta demanded, as she rushed in. “Is my husband a traitor?”
“I - Patta, where did you hear -” Cait was flustered, and confused. She left the fabrics as they were, and turned towards Patta with a quizzical expression. “Who told you?”
“It’s being said all about town,” Patta replied, as a worried look crossed her face. It had better be a rumor, she thought. “Has Talwyck come back from the castle yet?”
“Not yet,” Cait said, unsure. “He was there for the meeting about the escaped Kersikki prince. Apparently, he and Lady Eliya left in the night, and have not been caught since.”
“Yom’s knees,” Patta muttered. “Can those damn guards do anything properly?”
“Apparently not,” Cait replied, as she returned to sorting the fabrics. “Help me with this, will you?”
“I can’t. I’ll go find Talwyck at the castle. I have to know,” Patta said.
“Please, Patta. Stay, and help me.” Cait said, her voice soft and all but pleading. “He’ll be along soon enough.” Patta sighed in frustration; her brother’s wife was right.
“Very well,” Patta replied, as she busied herself with the linens. “I just wish he’d said something.”
“You would have helped him?” Cait asked, shocked.
“No! Not at all. But if I knew what risks he was taking, I…” It was then that she realized there was little she could have done. She could not have insulated herself any better by knowing about the treason, than by not knowing. Only the affair was something she could have stopped.
Patta soon felt Cait’s hand on her shoulder. It was then that she realized Cait had noticed her silence, and her hopelessness. “Are you all right?” Cait asked.
“No,” Patta said, shaking her head. She couldn’t control the sadness she felt, which only magnified it; it made her feel helpless. “He… he had an affair,” Patta said, as she felt tears welling in her eyes.
“Oh, Yom,” Cait muttered. Patta felt Cait’s arms wrap around her, and hug her tight. “I’m so sorry, Patta.”
“I knew,” Patta said, as she began to sob. “I knew, and I didn’t stop him. I wanted to - I wanted to hurt him. And now…”
“If it’s true, he’s hung himself by his own rope,” Cait said, grimly.
“And me,” Patta replied, as she sniffled, and wiped away tears. “And me. I’m the wife of a traitor - who can’t even keep, her own husband, in her bed,” she said, her voice halting between sobs.
“No, no, no, no,” Cait said. Her hands stroked Patta’s hair, and her voice was soft - worried, yes, but soft. “You don’t need to worry. You have us. We’re here for you.” Patta heard footsteps at the door, and turned her head; Talwyck was there, animated by a dread seriousness. “Tal,” Cait said, “Is it true what they’re saying about Marrol?”
“I’m sorry,” Talwyck said, to Patta. “But it is.” Everything seemed as if it gave way beneath Patta; her legs grew weak, and she fell into Cait. The tears flowed more r
eadily than before, and all she could think of was that word, traitor, over and over, as she slowly fell to the floor.
“They’re going to kill him,” she sobbed. “They’re taking everything away from me.”
“You’ll have your house,” Talwyck replied. “You’ll not want for money.”
“Who cares about money!?” Patta snapped. “Nobody will listen to a traitor’s wife. My influence will be gone.”
“They’ll listen to me,” Talwyck replied, as he knelt on the ground. “Patta. Patta. This isn’t over. If we petition the King, she might be lenient to him. It’s not a promise, but if they gave Royth a stay of execution, I see no reason why we shouldn’t try.”
Patta couldn’t stop the tears, but she nodded, regardless. It was a good a plan as anything. “Please wait… I can’t go in looking like this,” she said. “My makeup is ruined, and my clothes -” Cait gently brushed a tear from Patta’s cheek, and stared at the spot for several seconds. “What is it?” Patta asked.
“Perhaps it should be ruined… or not present at all.” She looked over to Talwyck. “Do we still have some of the simple cotton dresses I’d been making, for the farmer’s wives?
“Yes, in back,” Talwyck said.
“Can you fetch one that will fit her?” Cait said. “If she’s going to beseech the King, perhaps she shouldn’t look proud, or composed.” Talwyck got up, and walked towards the back, leaving Patta with Cait. Cait helped Patta stand up, and as a customer entered, she shooed them away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I cannot help you now. Please come back tomorrow. Family troubles.”