by Anna Steffl
By the time his feet reached the ground and he crouched to leap again, the ladder was out of reach. He scanned the length of the curved wall within sight for vine or low-slung tree he could climb to scale the wall. There was nothing. He picked up his sword. They were gone. Long gone on the other side.
What was on the other side of the wall? Nobles mansions. Perhaps someone had seen and could point him after them. His chest heaving, though he hadn’t run far, he turned back into the woods to get to the path to the gate. He had to find her.
He burst from the trees into the clearing around the statue.
A woman screamed.
“Hera!” She had just turned the bend in the path of the statue.
“You frightened the life out of me, Captain.”
“And you me. You’re all right?” He’d never felt so relieved in his life, not even after he’d escaped from Lake Sandela. Every muscle went soothingly slack.
“You aren’t. Look at your shirt.”
He glanced down at his shirt and felt oddly like laughing. There was a snag in the sleeve. A branch must have caught it and he hadn’t noticed.
“What happened?”
Then, he remembered. “I have to get to the gate. I saw two men take a woman through the woods. I swore it was you. She was wearing a gray dress.”
She rushed to him. “It could be Hera Musette.”
Hera Musette was fat. “No, they carried her up a ladder and over the wall.”
“But there aren’t any other Solacians in Shacra Paulus.”
He took her kithara and they ran for the gate. She held her dress from her feet so it wouldn’t slow her.
At the gate, he told the guard what had happened and an alarm sounded, sending soldiers to fan out in the direction of the place where the men had climbed the wall.
Degarius looked down at her face, bright red from heat. It could have been her abducted had she been a few minutes earlier, though there was no conceivable reason on earth why anyone would want to hurt her. But men’s baser instincts were beyond reason. “I don’t know what happened back in the wood. But it seemed well planned. They knew exactly where to climb the wall so they wouldn’t be spotted. Don’t walk here alone again.”
“I waited for you...as usual,” she added rather sheepishly.
As usual. Yes, they had a sweet little usual routine. He smiled despite everything. Perhaps just out of respite.
“But you never came.”
“The widshins game ran long. I left before it was over to try to get here.”
“I suspected as much. Everyone has been talking about the match for days.”
“Don’t walk alone here. I’ll be here every day. And if I can’t, I’ll send word and my man.”
DUETS
Citadel schoolroom, the next day
Arvana thanked the Maker Miss Gallivere had come to the schoolroom to practice a duet with the princess. All morning the girl had been in a stew, gouging wax from the tablet instead of changing the tense of the verbs in the Old Anglish poem. She’d not answered entreaties as to what was the matter; perhaps she would reply to Miss Gallivere’s. Arvana let the girls twitter while she worked out a harmony part for the duet.
There was a knock. The girls fell silent and stared apprehensively at the door.
Was it Chane, returned to claim the Blue Eye? No, it couldn’t be him. He’d enter without knocking and Jesquin wouldn’t dread seeing him. Arvana opened the door to find Prince Fassal pacing in the hall while his redcoat escort maintained soldierly composure.
The prince strode to her. “Hera, is the princess here?” There was something frantic, and yet dejected, in his voice.
So he was the reason for the princess’s distraction. They might as well resolve whatever issue was between them now, or the rest of the day was sure to be a waste of a lesson plan. “She’s here.” Arvana dismissed the guard, led the prince inside, closed the door after him, and stationed herself against it.
Jesquin’s chin puckered.
The prince only nodded to Miss Gallivere.
They were all uneasily eyeing each other.
“Might we go for a walk?” Fassal asked Arvana.
Arvana looked to the princess. An ashy pallor dulled her olive skin and her lips quivered, but she nodded her head minutely for Arvana to agree to the prince’s request. “The courtyard garden isn’t far. We can take a turn in it.”
With Gregory walking, or rather sulking beside her, Jesquin rounded a bush that clever shears had transformed into a bell. If she could just speak to him, everything surely would be fine. He’d know she meant no harm. How could he even think she did? She glanced over his shoulder. Oh, good Hera Solace! She’d paused with Esmay back at the rose bushes. Jesquin brushed Gregory’s cheek. It was rough with stubble. “You look tired, sweetest. I hardly slept at all, either. Wasn’t the night warm?”
“You attribute your lack of sleep to the warmth? Whose warmth? But I didn’t come here to talk about the weather. Let us be direct as we’ve always been. Do you wish me to come to Summercrest or not?”
“Of course I wish you to come!”
Gregory clasped her hand from his cheek. “Jesquin, if you prefer someone else, tell me now. I don’t wish to be captive at your family’s house to receive a dismissal.”
Prefer someone else? Had her behavior with Stevas Ousterhall really been so immoderate? They had played widshins and later sang together after dinner. Could she be blamed if Ousterhall had a beautiful voice, and it was a treat to sing with him for others’ enjoyment? She knew the answer, knew it last night from Gregory’s stony good night. She knew it in her conscience. But she’d been hoping that he’d not really noticed. “What do you mean a dismissal?”
“As I said before, if you prefer someone else.”
“You think I prefer Stevas?”
“You call him by his child name?”
“He is a childhood acquaintance, Gregory.”
“An old acquaintance makes friendly, not bold, overtures.”
“Men behave like that.”
“You’re a princess. Every man with eyes will have them upon you. I’m resigned to that. But is it acceptable if a man, old acquaintance or not, holds your hand as he walks with you?” He held her hand up and released it. “Is it right for you to let him wrap his arm around your waist as you sing together?” He stepped away from her.
“Of course not!” Jesquin cried, truly frightened at the specter of her behavior when viewed from a consideration outside of her own enjoyment.
“It’s not right for you to accept his blatant advances if you mean to accept me.”
As much as Jesquin disliked criticism, she only paid heed to the last words. “Accept you? Are you proposing?”
“Are you prepared for that? Are you ready to swear off Stevas and all others?”
“Not if you ask me in that way. Gregory, how dreadful.”
“I don’t wonder Prince Fassal is upset,” Miss Gallivere said. “Jesquin and Lord Ousterhall sang together last night. He has quite a delicious voice.”
“Surely the prince wouldn’t be upset over a bit of singing,” Arvana said.
Miss Gallivere laughed. “It would depend on the song and how it was sung, would it not, Hera? But, I suppose you have no understanding of such things. Oh, look. They’re holding hands. I do hope all’s well between them. I warned her against going any farther with Stevas after I saw how Gregory reacted last night.”
“That’s thoughtful of you,” Arvana said.
“It was selfish. I don’t know how I’d like being in Sarapost without Jesquin. From what Captain Degarius says, it’s nothing to Acadia, but I feel I might make something of it with the princess.”
Arvana clutched the front of her habit. It was as if a horse had tossed her, and she was lying on her back without a breath in her chest. Hadn’t she prayed for happiness for them? Shouldn’t she rejoice the Maker heard her prayer? She looked for a place to sit, but there were rose beds to each side. “When d
o we lose you to Sarapost, Miss Gallivere?”
“Much sooner than the princess, most likely. I’m of age.”
“I wish you joy.”
“You’re so good,” Miss Gallivere said.
“I give you joy.”
“You already have, Hera. Maybe you should give it to them instead. Quick, pretend not to see. They want to slip behind the tree to kiss.”
Arvana granted the princess and prince the moment of privacy to reconcile—and afforded herself a second to wonder why she had to hear of Captain Degarius’s engagement from Miss Gallivere. Couldn’t he have told her? She rested her hand on her stomach, over the sash where the medal was secretly pinned. He had many opportunities to announce it during his visits to the archive. Ah, the answer was obvious. Theirs was a professional association. It was only in her wishful thinking that it was a true friendship. He told her not to walk alone because it was a gentlemanly duty. Whatever the case, Arvana knew she must walk alone. She couldn’t face him in an hour’s time.
Miss Gallivere slipped a handkerchief into Arvana’s hand. “You’re quite affected. It’s hard for you to think of the princess leaving. You must account yourself something of a mother to her. I know she feels that way about you.”
Arvana unfolded the handkerchief. It was large, certainly not a woman’s, and edged in black and silver thread. “Forgive me.” She returned Captain Degarius’s handkerchief, unused. “I knew this was coming. Yet, one is never quite prepared.”
“I promise to look after Jesquin for you.”
“Will you for now? I feel unwell and wish to leave.”
Fassal snapped a flower stem and held the bloom to Jesquin. “Will you be my wife?”
She brought the flower to her nose. She never looked as beautiful to Fassal as at that moment when her full lips opened slightly and she whispered, “Yes.” It was impossible for him not to kiss her. The taste of her still lingering so sweetly on his tongue, he said, “I know we can’t announce anything quite yet. But you must know how happy I am. You have relieved all my pain with one word.”
“Pain? Don’t make me think you suffered. How could you when I have been thinking about my wedding dress for weeks and weeks? Would you like to hear about it?”
Much rather wishing to hear her profess her love for him, Fassal remarked, “I am sure you will look stunning in anything.”
“It shall be lavender silk, with the neck done like this.” She traced a scooped line across her chest. “And the sleeves will be slit like so. What do you think?”
“Delightful.”
“I drew dozens of pictures of it while I was supposed to be writing lessons. Sketches fill the margins of Acadian History 350 to 500. Do you think lavender goes well with my hair?”
“Jesquin, my dear!” Fassal laughed at her concerns. They were refreshingly petty after his wrenching worry.
“How I wish I could tell everyone today. But we have to wait until I’m of age, don’t we? You know it’s less than three weeks to my birthday. Time has gone so quickly as of late. But these next weeks, I fear, will be intolerably slow.”
“Intolerably.”
A HOMECOMING
Lady Martise’s house, later that day
The dreadful clanging from the bell in the Saviors’ Gate roused Arvana from playing a melody she’d known so long by heart that she didn’t have to peer through the candlelight at the music or think about how to move her fingers and which strings to press. It wasn’t the steady toll of the hours. She drew the kithara close to her body. The bell kept sounding. Something was wrong. She laid the kithara on her bed and went into the hall.
Musette, who was also just coming from her chamber, flagged a servant. “What is happening?”
The servant shrugged.
“Is Lady Martise home yet?” Lady Martise was dining at the Citadel this evening.
“Not yet, Hera Musette.”
The bell kept ringing.
An awful premonition filled Arvana. Had The Scyon somehow guessed where she was because of her opening the relic for the “game” on the Feast of the Saviors? Was it sending the fire draeden for the Blue Eye? Or for Lukis’s sword? Everyone in the Easternland knew it was in the Citadel. She flew downstairs, burst outside onto the front drive, and scanned a sky that glittered with thousands of stars. Was the one with a faint red twinkle a distant draeden? Had a watchman with a spyglass looking for Orlandian pirates spotted it? If they didn’t stop ringing the bell, it would be a sure lure for the creature—as well as the thousands of lanterns the sound was summoning into the streets.
Musette grasped Arvana’s arm. “Let’s find out what’s happening.”
It seemed every citizen of Shacra Paulus was headed to the main street running to the docks. It was the area below the Saviors’ Gate. A full-grown draeden could destroy the population of the city in one easy breath. But, as they went, the prevalent notion in the crowd was that Acadia had won a great contest in Orlandia, and Prince Lerouge had returned to proclaim it. A victory procession would be winding to the fortress. A little boy drew a circle of adults by insisting he had seen the king’s open carriage leave by the Saviors’ Gate an hour ago.
Chane.
A mounted redcoat Household Guard who Arvana recognized was riding past, up from the docks. Arvana waved frantically, but he seemed not to see her. She darted to him. He must stop.
The guard yanked on the horse’s reins. “Whoa! Hera, I nearly ran you down!”
“Is it true Prince Lerouge has returned?”
“Not the prince, Hera. The governor.”
No draeden. No Chane. Just Keithan home to celebrate a triumph.
The bell had stopped tolling. Their gray habits afforded Arvana and Musette a swath through the crowd. There hadn’t been so many people in the road since the king’s birthday when traveling jesters came with their cages of pacing panthers and sleepy Orlandian alligators. Midway through town, in the canyon of what in daylight showed as the brightly painted two and three-story homes of wealthy merchants, the crowd abruptly hushed, parted, and condensed onto either side of the street. A solid line of soldiers advanced. The king, Lady Martise, the princess and Prince Fassal, were seated together in an open carriage that led a procession of nobles and dignitaries. The carriage stopped for the soldiers to clear the street. Arvana pleaded to the nearest guard, “I must speak with Lady Martise.” The guard, not of the household, didn’t recognize her.
“Lady Martise,” Musette shouted.
Hearing, Lady Martise shrilly reprimanded the guard to let them in. As Arvana passed through the cordon of soldiers, she saw behind the carriage a gardenia-strewn red-draped pallet, borne by six soldiers. Those in the carriage had looked sober but not carried away by grief. It couldn’t be Chane.
Lady Martise leaned over the edge of the carriage. “It’s Keithan dear. I’m sorry.”
“Not Keithan.” Disbelief froze Arvana. “I pray for him.”
“Prayers don’t stop arrows. An assassin.” Lady Martise spat the word with bitterness. “A coward put three arrows in his back. Orlandia will regret this brazen show of impudence. Lerouge will send an armada and every spare man to hold them accountable.”
Musette cried, “Murdering an official of Acadia! It’s unheard of.”
The carriage lurched forward and the pallet followed. Arvana’s stomach turned from the potent, sickeningly sweet scent of the flowers. Keithan. He’d been like a brother, a good brother to her. What good had her prayers been against arrows? What good had they ever been? They were unworthy. They didn’t return her father’s sight, save his life, or bring her brother home. They didn’t keep Keithan safe. The Solacians would say her consolation must be that he was with the Maker now, existing in a fuller love, but the words seemed hollow creed. The red of the shroud and the white of the flowers blurred into a watery haze. The mourners in the procession, their forms as insubstantial as spirits to her bleary vision, floated past.
Arvana blinked her eyes clear. Before her in the
procession were Captain Degarius and Miss Gallivere. Merciful Maker, no. Couldn’t her sorrow be a pure thing, even for a moment? Must she see them together? She’d not gone to the archive today to avoid him, to give herself a chance to find joy in their union before facing him. Dear Maker, no tears. She must only cry for Keithan. Shoulders brushed past hers. Everyone was moving, but she couldn’t.
“We’ll be pushed down if you don’t move,” Hera Musette said. “Either we walk with them or move from the crowd.”
He had to go to her. He didn’t know what he would say or do, but it was necessary. Degarius disengaged from Miss Gallivere’s arm. “Carry on. I’ll catch up.”
“Are you going to tell your acquaintance how unseemly it is to mourn in public? “
Degarius stopped. “What?”
“Someone must tell her before she disgraces herself.”
Degarius looked back at the throng of people at the procession’s edge. Where had she gone? He searched, but the crowd seemed to have swallowed her.
“You’re too late. Lady Martise’s other Solacian took her away. At least some of them have more than the appearance of goodness. I believe Hera Solace fooled even you. She was the undeserving recipient of your nobility more than once.”
“I was fooled but not by her.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
By only the strictest sense of honor did he hold his arm stiffly out to Miss Gallivere.
ICONS OF THE SHACRAS
Teodor’s workshop, Shacra Paulus
Master Teodor’s stomach preceded him from behind a towering stack of cut oak boards waiting to be fashioned into shields. He didn’t look like a man who ever used a shield, Degarius mused. Hopefully, he knew how to make one, or better yet, the promised three thousand.
“Prince Fassal and Captain Degarius, come.” Teodor led them past a row of men sewing leather bindings with curved needles. “These are yours. Mostly lowland oak. I had to use ash on a hundred or so when we ran short.”