The General's Leman: A Love Story

by Alma Boykin

  The news changed nothing. “What does it matter, Colonel?” Exhaustion replaced anger, as usually happened following an attack. “You have a wife. Go back to her, enjoy her presence for as long as the peace lasts.” No matter how much she hated his cruelty, she would not stoop to his level by wishing him ill. She was a Contracta.

  He turned to leave, and she let her head hang, then tried to lean back against the wall, to get more heat. A few more minutes and she’d be able to walk enough to get to her herbs and the relief they offered.

  “Eleána, you will not believe me, I’m sure, but know this: on my honor I never married or agreed to an engagement.”

  “Then why did you ask for your liberty?” She believed him, but she had to know.

  He stopped, still facing the gate, voice as hard as stone. “I did not request my liberty, as you put it, Contracta Eleána. I wrote you, hoping that you were alive, trying to find you. It was not until we found Ochoa’s stolen letters, including four from you addressed to me, that I had any idea what had arisen, or even that you were still alive. I wrote to tell you that I loved you and that I wanted you at my side once more.”

  His words crushed her. Eleána let herself slump sideways on the sun-warmed bench, claw hands over her face, sobbing. He had not destroyed their Contract—she had. The misery from cramping muscles was as nothing compared to the agony from her shattered pride and broken heart. Her world dissolved into pure pain and her body twisted as another set of spasms wracked her. The muscles in her chest and throat began to tighten and she choked, struggling to calm down so she could breathe. Then she stopped fighting. Why bother? She’d destroyed everything.

  He heard her moan, and then a gasping noise. Despite his fury René turned, watching as Eleána collapsed. Her still-lovely face warped into a hideous caricature of her beauty as the pain took hold. Her skin began turning pale as she fought against the choking spasms. Her body went rigid and the gasping sounds stopped. “No,” he whispered, horrified, as blue replaced pallor.

  She barely heard his steps as he ran to her side. He spoke to someone, and hands gripped one arm, turning it, forcing it to extend. Eleána tried to protest but the spasms forbade it. Then the grip released. She felt her muscles relaxing and darkness filled her mind.

  René held his breath as the medic worked, injecting the muscle relaxants into Eleána’s vein. The first dose had kept her breathing, but could she tolerate the second, stronger, targeted drug? They had only one way to know, and so he held her wrist, fingers resting on the pulse point, hoping against hope. Her pulse slowed, then grew steady, and as he watched she sagged, once more a sleeping dancer and not the twisted, rigid travesty of herself. He looked away, blinking hard as the plants and fence blurred.

  “Sir?” He looked back at the medic, who told him, “She can’t stay here, sir. She needs the full suite of treatment.” The army medic tucked his supplies back into their bag, adding, “I’ve never seen such an advanced case survive this long, sir.”

  René rose from his crouch beside the bench. “She’s coming with us.” He turned to Maj. Mancuso. “I want a proper medical transport waiting in Santo Dorado. We’ll take her that far with us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The medic began recording his report as he monitored Eleána, still semi-conscious on the bench. René ventured inside the tiny cottage, a shack really, and turned off the stove before whatever was cooking boiled dry. As his eyes adjusted to the dusty shadows, he looked around, appalled at the bare floors, crude bed and furnishings, and the lack of comforts. How could she have survived here? It was a disgrace to him for his Contracta to live in such conditions! He saw a small shelf in a corner and went over, finding her Contract, a piece of opal glass from the window of their apartment in Isla del Morada, and a silvery memory ball, no larger than his thumb. He knew what he’d find if he activated it: pictures of them, and of his children.

  René also found her cases and began packing. He stopped when he heard her voice asking the medic to leave. He called over his shoulder toward the open door, “No, Eleána, he will stay until we get you to proper medical care.” A hunched-over shadow appeared in the doorway and he marveled that she could even bear to walk. “You should not be living in these conditions, Contracta,” he informed her.

  She gathered what little remained of her dignity, pulling it around her like a tattered shawl. In her pain she had called him a liar. And now he’d begun reclaiming his gifts and support, as per their Contract. Well, she’d traded and worked for the chairs and table, and those he had no right to. She sagged down onto the half-polished seat, folded her hands over her skirt and watched him, silent.

  “Where are your anniversary gems?” He asked at last, closing the third case.

  “Do you not remember? I sold them to pay for your mother and father’s honor marker. I paid so that the marker would remain in your family name, instead of your sister’s husband’s name.” He should have known! She’d written to him, telling him the details and how his accounts had been locked temporarily. Then she recalled what he’d said about the letters. She closed her eyes, repeating, “The jewels are no longer in hand, but the marker is yours.”

  He frowned, confused. Her words made no sense. She had access to his pay accounts. “But you had access to my funds.”

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled, trying not to raise her voice or tense her shoulders again. René remained as innocent of financial events as he had been before the war, it seemed. “The payment came due during the months that your accounts remained under security lock, gentle sir. Rather than risk delay while I appealed the hold and negotiated a limited funds release, I sold the gems to another Contract pair.”

  Well, René thought, that made sense, but her current residence most certainly did not. He stopped packing the last case and made a shooing motion. The medic nodded and went back outside. René sat down in the other chair, facing Eleána. “Eleána, why here?”

  She blinked at him. “I don’t understand, gentle sir. What do you mean?”

  He waved at the shack and its contents. “Here. So far from home, in the back of nowhere, with no access to proper medical care, living like a refugee.”

  “But that’s what I am.” Had René been injured in the head? It was the only explanation she could think of. Granted, he’d always been stubborn, but really? She felt her hands beginning to cramp again. “After the attack on Morada I had no place to go. You’d all-but denied me, so I had no claim to your support or that of the Training House. What remains for a Contracta without a face or body, without a Partner or sponsor? So I came here, away from memories, where I could make a living with my herbs and plants and some needlework.” She managed to straighten her back a little and lifted her hands onto the table. “I earned these, the table and chairs, the mattress and bedding, and the clothes in the basket by the bed. They and the food are mine.” He had to leave them.

  It took several seconds for her words to sink in. He drew back, appalled. Had she suffered brain damage as well as warp gas? Did she think he was claiming her property? “Eleána, what do you think is happening?”

  “You are reclaiming that which is yours, since I,” her voice cracked and as he watched she began to curl in on herself, twisting once more. “I broke the Contract by denying you and saying that you spoke falsely.” She sounded dead and as he looked into her eyes, their fire faded.

  He shook his head, got up, turned her chair away from the table, and crouched in front of her, taking her hands in his. “No. You broke no Contract. I broke no Contract. I am packing your things because you are coming back with me, Contracta Eleána Norhado. You will get treatment for warp gas poisoning, and then you will return to your proper place, at my side. My duties require a hostess and escort, Contracta Eleána, and I still refuse to marry, especially now. Do you understand me?”

  Tears trickled down her face, still soft-looking after all she’d been through. “You want me with you? To train your escort?”

  He grit
ted his teeth and shook his head. “No, I want you to be my escort once more, to be my Contracta and leman. Why don’t you believe me?”

  She tried to speak, but could only gasp, closing her eyes as another wave of spasms gripped her body, warping and wrenching it. He moved, holding her so that she didn’t fall out of the chair. “We’re leaving, getting you to medical help now.”

  She felt another set of hands on her wrist. The medic’s voice explained, “I can’t give her anything yet, sir, although as fast as she’s burning through the drugs, I should be able to stop the next attack, or at least ease it.”

  “Good. Help me get her to the vehicle.” The men all but lifted her as they led/carried Eleána out the door, through her garden, and up to a dark brown military vehicle. “Mancuso,” he called. “Pack everything that’s left, except the clothes in the basket, the bedding and the furniture, and bring the four cases out here. Harvey,” he pointed to his driver, “Go tell the prefect that if anyone touches anything in that shack before I give permission, it’s on his head.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eleána gasped, “The chickens! Tell him that Martina can have the chickens. I don’t want them to starve.”

  René relayed her orders and Harvey trotted off. René turned back to the vehicle as the medic and one of his guards finished bundling Eleána into the rear seat. He joined her, taking her hand again. “We’re leaving, Eleána. You will get proper medical care if I have to pull rank on every floor of the medical plaza to do it.”

  She could still barely believe her ears and eyes. “You … you still want me.” She whispered.

  He turned on the seat so he could pull her against him, ignoring the soldiers around them, ignoring the dust and dirt on her clothes and hands. “It was knowing that you waited for me that kept me going, my golden shadow. I was fighting for you, and for my children, but more for you. I love you.”

  Eleána closed her eyes and let the tears flow. “Forgive me, star of my heart. I love you.”

  Four weeks later she studied her reflection with a critical eye. She’d lost an inch of height that she’d never regain, but she’d regained her proper erect posture. With enough training, she’d be able to dance once more. She wore a discreet wig that blended perfectly into her natural golden-brown color, covering her short hair until the length grew back out. New green-opal clips held the edges back from her face. The green, almost the same shade as her gown, complimented her eyes. Eleána ran appreciative hands over the lush fabric. She no longer had to match René’s uniform or wear black. As a general officer’s leman she could wear any color or pattern that she pleased. Eleána had briefly contemplated appearing in the sparkly, rainbow-colored confection from the “bad choices” page of the fashion news, but common sense, and her astonishment at the price for the dress, had won out. Now she gave herself one last check, adjusted her hair clips a centimeter or two, and glided from her dressing room.

  Tonight she and René were hosting a gathering for several senior diplomats and military leaders. To her delight, etiquette had not changed over the past four years. Although, she thought as she gathered her skirts and descended the stairs from their private rooms, given the tectonic pace of cultural change in the military, she should not have worried. Technology developed faster than thought, it seemed, but generals still hosted parties and the higher-ranking women served the tea while the lower ranks poured coffee. She smiled a little, then smiled even more as she heard her Partner attending to some last minute matter. General René Jerome Atwiler now, she had to remind herself.

  René finished a last-minute correction to the seating chart and cards. He heard soft footsteps approaching and he turned to see a vision from paradise. Eleána, her grace and beautiful posture now restored, glided to him with her dancer’s walk. He’d never seen her in green before and he devoured the sight. He’d ordered her to grow her hair out again but had left everything else up to her, trusting that her good taste remained intact. It did. He extended his hand and she rested hers on top of it, the work callouses now smoothed and softened. He lifted the hand and kissed it. “I thank you for gracing this gathering with your beauty, Contracta.”

  A flush rose on her cheeks and throat, and she glanced down for a moment. “It is I who must thank you for making me welcome and for offering Partnership.”

  He released her hand only to take her arm. Together they strolled out into the jasmine-scented garden, where tiny lights bobbed in a fountain’s waters and their guests had begun to gather.