It took nearly four months for the King's forces to amass and prepare the rout of Merodach's rogue armies. By the time Darrick and High Constable Ulric were ready to disembark, summer was in high bloom. Outside the city gates, heat shimmers arose from the grand thoroughfare as the Army assembled, camping on the grassy hills and beneath the trees that lined the great road's walls. To Gabriella, the line of tents seemed to stretch off towards the horizon in nearly infinite numbers, and yet she knew that the sight was deceiving. It was a relatively small militia disguised as a larger one, embellished with full armour, archers, trebuchets, and even a pair of enormous ballistas—monstrous crossbows mounted on carts, bristling with twelve-foot, iron-tipped spears.
Gabriella walked along the thoroughfare with her father and Sir Ulric as they inspected the troops.
"Are the trebuchets and siege engines truly necessary?" the King asked, shading his eyes with the flat of his hand. "After all, they will be Camelot's own fortresses upon which you will be descending."
"Camelot's fortresses which have fallen into the hand of your enemies, sire," Ulric replied gruffly. He was a barrel of a man with a shock of red hair, pork-chop sideburns, and a matching pointed goatee. His short leather cape flapped in the hot breeze. "The war machines are a show of force if nothing else. It is essential to let the brutes see the might of the Army they have chosen to oppose. Our magical arsenal includes Whisperwind bellows, Scattershot flares, and twelve score lightning arrows. I expect that many of them will turn and flee, tails between their legs, the moment they witness our approach."
Gabriella asked, "How many trebuchets does this leave to defend the city walls?"
"Four, Your Highness," Ulric answered stiffly, not meeting her eyes. "But it is of no consequence. These six will be returned under my command before the first snow of winter."
"What if Merodach and his forces attack us before your return?" Gabriella pressed evenly.
"I assure you, Princess," Ulric said, changing his tone to one of indulgent condescension. "Whoever is in charge of this rogue band of villains, they will be far too busy fleeing the Royal Army to mount any attack here at the city walls."
"I appreciate your confidence, Sir Ulric," Gabriella commented, meeting the large man's eyes, "but what if you are wrong?"
There was a short, awkward silence, and then the King spoke, "Sir Ulric is High Constable and our chief strategic adviser, my dear. He has our complete trust in such matters. Tell me, Constable: how long will it take you and your men to reach the rogue encampments?"
Ulric nodded and resumed his walk along the thoroughfare. "Two months, sire. We have mapped a route that takes us around the western edge of the Tempest Barrens, meeting the enemy before they can force their way into the more populated villages at Broadmoor Valley. There, we shall descend upon the hills and rout the villains into the open, camp by camp if necessary."
"And what if Broadmoor Valley is not in fact the destination of this 'rogue band', Constable?" Gabriella asked pointedly. "What if their intention is to cut straight across the Tempest Barrens, driving directly into the heart of Camelot?"
Ulric glanced back at Gabriella, his face tense with annoyance. Quickly, however, he covered this with a show of patient amusement. "My dear Princess, what a delightful imagination you do have."
"The Barrens are not a place through which any sane general would lead his troops, Gabriella," the King explained pedantically. "They are, as the name suggests, a desolate wilderness, treacherous, haunted by horrors and divided by the Cragrack Cliffs. Surely, you have heard the history of the Tempest Barrens from Professor Toph. Centuries ago, wizarding armies warred there, decimating the land with their black magic for miles in every direction. For that reason, the Barrens form a protection against any attack from the north."
Gabriella had heard the histories. She nodded, tight-lipped, unconvinced but disinclined to argue with her father.
"I assure you, Your Highnesses," Ulric went on confidently, "upon our return, not six months hence, we will declare the complete victory of your sovereign forces over the scourge of this rabble of malcontents. Fear not, either of you."
Satisfied, both the King and Sir Ulric turned and began to walk back towards the open city gates. After a minute, still frowning dourly, Gabriella followed them.
"I do not trust Ulric's plans," she said later that evening, speaking to Darrick under the shelter of his father's blacksmith shop. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, full of switching wind and heat lightning, hinting at a midnight storm. "And frankly, I do not trust him. He's arrogant. He does not take the threat seriously."
Darrick sighed harshly, leant his hammer against the anvil, and ran a bare arm across his forehead. His features were lit by the orange light of the forge. "Everyone knows what we are facing," he said wearily. "Ulric's plans are solid. For the Lord's sake, Bree, they're my plans as well. I helped draw them up."
Gabriella heard him but only shook her head, staring into the glare of the furnace. "I do not like it. I sense that this is a grave error."
"I understand your worries," Darrick said, hefting the hammer again and laying a fresh sword across the anvil. With careful precision, he struck the glowing red metal, shaping it and sending up bursts of sparks. He didn’t need to smith his own swords, of course, but insisted upon it, claiming that there was no better or more loyal weapon than one forged with one’s own hands. Gabriella, of course, found this habit both silly and endearing. Darrick examined the line of the sword critically and then turned and dipped it into a barrel of water. It hissed as steam poured into the air. "It's natural to feel nervous before a campaign,” he soothed, swiping an arm across his brow. “But I will be there, Bree. I will fight to keep Camelot safe."
"That's what I mean, Darrick," Gabriella said, slipping off the worktable and approaching him. "It feels all wrong because you are going to be there. You should not go. I need you here." She glanced out the front of the shop towards the guards that waited in the gathering dark and then lowered her voice. "We need you here," she whispered, taking his hand and pressing it to her belly. "I fear for you not only as my husband, but as the father of your baby. What if something goes wrong?"
"It won't go wrong," Darrick began, reaching to embrace her, but she pushed him away.
"What if it does?" she demanded hoarsely, peering up into his face. "You cannot know! How can you be so certain?"
Darrick looked at her, his face sweaty and tense in the furnace's red glow but his eyes softening. He smiled at her. "I know because of this, Bree," he said, moving his hand from her belly to the swell of her breast, covering her heart. The confidence in his voice both relieved and maddened her. "I know because of what we have right here, dear one. You feel it, do you not? Death has no power over that which we share. Wars are fought with brute instruments," he nodded towards the sword that still steamed in the water barrel. "Metal and blade, shields and armour, none of those things can stand against the world-changing weight of true love. What we have, wife, no sword can pierce."
Gabriella shook her head again slowly. "Poppycock and codswallop," she whispered.
His smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled. "That's your father talking," he chided. "Not you. You know the truth of my words."
She studied his face intently for a long moment and then broke away from his gaze. "No," she declared quietly. "No. I do not know what you know. I only know that I do love you. I do need you. And that if you go on this journey and some villain puts a sword between your ribs—"
"Rhyss was unarmed," Darrick interrupted, raising his chin. The mention of Rhyss's name was like a dark shiver in the air. "The beast struck her down in cold blood. She was defenceless. I shall not be. I shall be prepared to meet the enemy on my terms. And when I do, I shall visit my vengeance upon him. For both of us."
"Goethe is dead!" Gabriella cried, turning on her husband. "Whatever vengeance there was to be had, it is already satisfied! Rhyss is still gone! And so might you be!" Her voice splintered
on the last words. Darrick moved to her and caught her into his arms. She resisted, but only for a moment. He held her in the hot darkness of the shop, one hand clutched to the back of her head, pressing her to him. Finally, she shuddered and relaxed against him, annoyed to feel tears wetting her cheeks and soaking into his tunic.
"Gabriella," he said softly, "I must go on this journey. I must do my part, not only for the Kingdom, but for myself. You know this. I cannot allow Rhyss's death to go unpunished. The powers that caused it must pay, blood for blood."
He released her but gripped her shoulders gently. She looked up at him so that their noses touched. He drew a breath and went on. "Tomorrow morning, I shall take my leave and go to perform this duty of high honour. But Bree, I promise you this with all that I am… this is where my heart is. With you and with the baby in your womb. No matter what, I will return to you."
Gabriella looked up at him, her brow still knitted with worry. As she looked, however, her brow smoothed. The future was inevitable. He would go. And then, if his promise was true, he would return to her. There was nothing more she could do.
Nothing more except believe him.
The army marched at dawn. It was a pearly grey morning, mostly obscured by a caul of low clouds. There was rain, but it was misty and sparse, beading greasily on the soldiers' helmets. Sir Ulric led the march on his black horse. Darrick followed in the rear, riding his own mount. He turned back to Gabriella as the last of the soldiers rounded the bend of the thoroughfare, some half mile distant. Darrick was barely a silhouette against the fog, but she could easily recognise him by his stance in the saddle and the lift of his chin. He raised his arm once, palm out, bidding a silent farewell. She did the same in response, hoping he could see her where she stood by the city gates under the gloom of a canvas awning.
He lowered his arm slowly and seemed to watch her through the misty distance. Finally, as the tips of the armies' pikes and the dull gleam of their helmets disappeared around the bend and over the hill, Darrick turned. He urged his mount forwards. A moment later, he was gone as well.
Gabriella stood under the awning and watched the empty thoroughfare. Puddles made dull mirrors of the sky. All around was the drab patter of rain dripping from the trees. Eventually, Sigrid stepped forwards and peered up at the sky, squinting.
"You'll catch your death out here, Princess," she said stoically. "Your guards will stand here with you all the day long, but I for one suggest we head back to the warmth of the castle. I expect some hot tea is in order, would you not agree?"
Gabriella didn't move. She stared at the distant place where the thoroughfare bent around a thick stand of trees. It was hard to imagine that the Army had ever been there at all.
"Come, love," Sigrid said, putting an arm around Gabriella's waist. "They are gone now, but they will return. For now, your baby needs you to eat. Come."
Gabriella drew a deep breath and nodded. She turned away from the thoroughfare.
As she climbed into the waiting carriage with Sigrid right behind her, she unconsciously reached up and wrapped her hand around the falcon sigil where it hung beneath her cloak. It was warm.
Please, she prayed, silently and solemnly, not even sure who she was praying to anymore, watch over him. Let him be all right.
The carriage jerked as it began its return to the castle. Gabriella stared unseeingly through the rain-streaked windows. Let him keep his promise to me, she prayed fiercely, challengingly. Don't you dare… don't you dare… make him a liar.
The summer months crept past with infuriating slowness. It was an unbearably hot year, reducing the valley brook to a mere muddy trickle and leaving the air still and dense even at midnight. Gabriella busied herself as well as she could with learning the intricacies of imperial government as well as managing the constant business of being pregnant. She found herself unaccountably weary by most afternoons, but retiring to her chambers was rarely any help. The upper rooms of the castle were the hottest of all, with barely a breath of breeze to disturb the bed curtains. Most days, she lay awake during these respites, stripped to her dressing gown and lying with one hand on the increasing swell of her belly, the other behind her head. She would stare through the linens at the afternoon sunlight and think of Darrick.
Sometimes, she would pray for him. Other times, she was afraid to, as if the very act of mentioning him might remind God of him with fearful results. After all, awful things happened to people every day, apparently with divine permission. According to the scriptures, God had seen fit to sacrifice His own perfect son for the good of fallen mankind, had He not? What would one small soldier mean to Him for the sake of Camelot? She knew her fear was not precisely pious—Bishop Tremaine would surely rebuke her for doubting God the Father's will—but this realisation did not change her fears. Battle Master Barth had been as stout a believer as anyone, and he had still seen his wife and child taken from him, sacrificed to the plague some years earlier. If anything or anyone could be blamed for the death of Rhyss, it might as well be the deadly plague that eventually led Barth to his traitorous enmity. Or even the God that allowed such plagues to happen.
"Do not make him a liar," she would pray on those hot afternoons, muttering quietly on her bed. It was as much a threat as a request. "He's mine. You gave him to me. He promised he would return to me. And I believed him… I believed…"
There was never any answer on those quiet, hot afternoons, but that was all right. In the stillness of her own heart, she feared any answer that might come. Silence was better. She stroked the bulge of her belly, felt the baby growing there. Darrick's baby.
"A boy, methinks," Sigrid said one evening in the castle rose gardens as Gabriella and she walked. The roses were small and listless. Drifts of wilted petals lined the path. "You should choose a name from the royal lineage."
"I shall upon Darrick's returning."
"The baby will be born before the Army's scheduled return, Princess," Sigrid insisted mildly. "Do you wish for the poor boy to go nameless during the intervening days?"
"I will not name him without Darrick," Gabriella repeated stubbornly. "The baby may even wait until his father's return. Sometimes, births are later than what the doctors say."
Sigrid nodded equably. "It is possible, love. If it were me, I would not count on such things."
"It is not you, Sigrid," Gabriella stated flatly. "Your childbearing days are past you. This one is mine, and I will choose to wait."
She instantly regretted her words. She was worried and angry, tired and uncomfortable, but that did not give her permission to speak harshly to the woman who had practically raised her.
"I'm sorry, Sigrid," she said, stopping and turning to the older woman. "That was callous of me. Please forgive me."
Sigrid merely nodded. After a moment, she smiled, and Gabriella thought that there was a hint of sadness in it. Sigrid had no children of her own, after all. They resumed their walk.
There were no more words on the subject that evening.
As the summer months unwound and began their descent into fall, the swell of Gabriella's belly became hard and pronounced. The baby inside moved sometimes, both delighting and endearing himself to his mother. She read stories to him when he was most active, stroked the shape of him beneath her skin when he was still. She was not surprised that she had come to think of him as a boy based solely on Sigrid's assurance. Sigrid was rarely wrong about such things. Gabriella had long wondered if there was some faint witchiness hidden in the woman's blood. Such things happened of course. Witches and wizards were sometimes born spontaneously in the non-magical kingdoms. Toph had said so himself. Often, such people spent their whole lives ignorant of their abilities, experiencing only the vaguest magical expressions—an ability to divine the tea leaves, or to find water under barren land, or to predict sudden storms and spring floods. It was exceedingly rare, of course, and even more mysteriously subjective, but if anyone had the hint of witchiness in her, it was Sigrid.
Thus, Ga
briella believed her when she proclaimed the unborn baby a boy. She had even, despite her stubborn refusal to do so, begun to consider names for him. She was helpless not to. There were plenty of royal names to choose from, and she systematically tried them on her baby, testing them to see how they might fit him. None of them felt precisely right, not even in her mind, but she knew that she would find the perfect one when the time came.
Darrick would help her.
As autumn began to creep over the land and the time of the Army's scheduled return grew nearer, Gabriella tried to stay away from the academy cathedral. It was difficult. She allowed herself one visit per week, and she always pretended to herself that she was there on some unrelated errand—carrying a message to Professor Toph or inspecting the new students—but no one doubted her real reasons for visiting.
The candle gallery was eternally quiet, filled with the busy flicker of the thousands of tiny flames. Her own candle burnt brightly, its fire leaping up nearly twice as high as those around it. It was the baby inside her of course, adding his own heat to the flame of her candle. Soon enough, he would be born, and his glow would separate from hers, awaiting the day when he would light his own candle. It was a solemn thrill to see her own flame burning with that strange double light, but this was not the real reason she visited the candle gallery. After observing her own flame and that of her family (including the cold, dark candle of her long dead mother), she would walk along the aisle until she came to Darrick's family vault.
His candle was there, flickering brightly every time, and each time she saw it, she exhaled a pent breath, flush with relief. Of course, Bree, his voice would seem to say in her head, full of smiling confidence. Like I told you, this is where my heart is. With you and with the baby in your womb…
A week before her baby was born, as the heat of summer finally broke over the land and leaves dropped from the trees, as if exhausted, Gabriella left the academy cathedral via the rear entrance and found herself drawn to the cemetery.
Ruins of Camelot Page 8