Three of Swords

by Michael Jason Brandt

  She was smiling at him, perhaps amusedly, apparently less awed than most others present. “Toby’s just a little shy around strangers.”

  “He seems a good sort, though.”

  “The best.”

  There was something familiar about her. She looked a year or two older than the boy about whom they were speaking, but her self-assured manner made her seem older yet. And unlike any servant he had known. “Do I know you?” Nico asked, feeling as though a piece of the puzzle was missing.

  She smirked, definitely amused now. “Your pardons, I forgot... I was rather masked the time we met.”

  “We…met?” He began to feel as though Tobias’ stuttering had rubbed off on him.

  “Yes, My Prince.” She began speaking in the formal tones of the court, although the glint of her eyes and the curl of her lips retained a hint of merriment. “You humbly asked to meet with my father to discuss matters of state. Somehow I suspect that discussion did not go the way you expected.”

  Comprehension dawned on him. This was Letitia herself, the girl whom he was to escort home for his brother to marry. Of course. A princess may dress however she chooses. Nico was catching up at last, and felt instinctively drawn to the etiquette that had been instilled in him with the same fervor as his swordfighting. He gave a slight bow. “My apologies, Princess. I am ashamed to admit I did not recognize you.”

  Her smile disappeared. “No apology necessary, Prince.”

  A new opportunity had replaced the old. He hurried to seize it, worried that it might slip away as had the last. “Princess, forgive my abruptness, but the circumstances require it. I humbly ask that you prepare yourself to depart at a moment’s notice, simply as a matter of prudence. I have every confidence in King Anton, but if the unthinkable happens and the hostilities do not go his way, your lives may be in danger. I would get you and your brother away, as a favor for allies and future family.”

  All trace of her earlier mirth was now completely gone, replaced by a growing scowl. “Prince Nicolas, may I remind you that neither I nor my father have agreed to this alliance, or this marriage proposal. What is more, if we should lose this battle, an alliance with Asturia provides little benefit to Akenberg.” Nico could see the contempt building within her until she was unable to restrain it. “And on a personal level, it is offensive that you speak to me of my father losing a battle just now. Do you think I am not aware of the implications, that I have not thought of little else morn and eve this last tenday?”

  Nico realized now how terribly clumsy his approach had been. Better that he had let the opportunity waste away completely. There was nothing now but to limit the damage. He bowed. “You are right, Princess. I meant only to offer what little help I could. I see now how inconsiderate—”

  “Oh, this is tiring,” she exclaimed. She looked away, then back again. “Until we speak again, Prince Nicolas. I hope it is under better circumstances.” She managed a curt bow before taking her leave.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. Renard.

  “She’s wrong, Boy.”

  “Is she?”

  “The girl speaks from fear. She’s just worried.”

  “She has a right to be.”

  “Aye. That she does.”

  From the corner of his eye, Nico saw a young man in official red and gold garb make his way through the crowd—back to practicing now that the spectacle of watching a Swordthane was over—and approach with a look of earnestness. “Prince Nicolas? King Anton wishes an audience.”

  Interesting timing. After more than a tenday of precious little progress, Nico was suddenly bestowed with one opportunity after another. He hoped that he did not fail this one as badly as the others.

  He looked at Renard. “Join me?” The retainer shrugged, but Nico knew that gesture well enough by now to understand that this was an affirmation, so he turned to the page and nodded. “Lead the way.” The youth bowed and set a brisk pace.

  “I have news of Akenberg that you should hear. I will ask you not to inquire how I came upon this information, but I assure you it is reliable.”

  Judging by the king’s tone, Nico steeled himself for something serious. Father was not in good health when last I saw him. Could the unthinkable have happened?

  “Hostilities have broken out between your home and Lorester. An army has departed Neublusten, with your brother Prince Markolac—my prospective son-in-law—at its head.” He spoke this last with a hint of scorn, and Nico immediately recognized the same curt tone as the princess’. “It seems both our people find themselves at war. You have my condolences, young prince. I have no love for your father, but I do not wish war upon anyone. It is a terrible thing.” The scorn had been replaced by sincerity; no doubt he had given these notions a great deal of thought in recent days.

  “I know how seriously you value your mission here. But I believe it may be in your best interest to return home immediately. Should you decide to do so, you may go with my blessings.”

  Nico considered how very far removed the Asturian king was now from the man who had blustered and threatened during their first meeting. Clearly the strain of events had had a softening effect on his temperament. It was difficult not to feel a kind of sympathy.

  The news, however surprising, was not entirely daunting. “On the contrary, King Anton, I believe this means that our kingdoms need each other more than ever. After your coming victory against Duke Iago, Akenberg can help you restore peace and stability to Asturia. In turn, Asturia may be in a position to aid Akenberg in its fight against Lorester.”

  Anton laughed. “Your optimism is refreshing, young prince. Not entirely realistic, but refreshing. What is it, now?” This last was directed at Captain Gornada, who had rushed into the throne room unannounced, breathing heavily.

  “Your pardon, My King. Our scouts have picked up Iago’s army, several miles west. The attack will assuredly come on the morn.”

  All the humor drained from Anton’s demeanor. He nodded slowly, then stiffly stood from the royal seat. It seemed to Nico that he had aged a tenyear in the span of moments.

  “Well, young prince. I must join my army.”

  “Of course. I hope we speak again soon, King Anton.”

  “As do I, Prince Nicolas.”

  Nico wished he could say more, but etiquette did not allow it—and given earlier events, he would not have trusted himself anyway.

  Sleep would not come at all that night. Too many thoughts—replays of the past day’s events and anticipation of the morrow’s—raced through Nico’s mind in an endless, irrepressible cycle. At some abstract time between midnight and dawn, he decided to give up and get up.

  Wrapping a cloak about his shoulders, he wandered the streets of the city as if some surreal waking dream had, for one night, replaced the unconscious. The air had taken on a chill, unexpected but not unpleasant, and a thin mist hung over the cobblestones with ghostly effect.

  Understandably, he saw few people about. Many of them, he knew, were camped just outside the city walls in Anton’s bivouac. A thousand of the city’s youngest and strongest, and many would not be returning—at least not on their feet. He hoped the carnage would not be too damaging, for he had come to admire these Asturians with their delicious food and beautiful women and hard pride.

  In the silence, he heard more than absence; a pall of doubt and uncertainty lingered over everything. Perhaps that was what had brought the chill and the mist. Although at times he felt alone on the streets, Nico did not for a moment believe he was the only one awake.

  Confirmation came as he neared the merchant quarter. At first the sound was indistinct, indistinguishable from his spectral imagination. A tapping noise, prodding his mind, desperately trying to shake him awake.

  The sound of blacksmith hammers, he realized. Not dreamlike at all, but far too real; a reminder of war, unmistakably returning all thoughts to the battle. The beat rang out like bells tolling an impending death knell.

  The whole city was doing its par
t, even those who would not be fighting. And yet here he walked, amidst but not among.

  He had often noticed how his thoughts ran deeper and darker when the sun was down, as if the existence of daylight created an illogical mental barrier. Certainly, the world appeared different during the night, but whether the difference was in the observer or the observed, he did not know.

  Nico wandered through and beyond the hammering, alone in the night, steps guided by fate rather than thought. Perhaps it was fitting that he should encounter her again at this time.

  They happened upon one another just as the dawn was breaking, when the Cormonans began to be seen on the streets once more, though he would be willing to bet hard coin that she had been awake through the night just as he had. He was nearing the castle, reflecting on whether to watch the battle from the outer walls, as many others assuredly would, or to await news of the results with his company.

  This time there was no confusion of identities, although there was uncertainty who had seen the other first and taken that first step.

  “Good morn, Princess.” A bow.

  “Good morn, Prince.” A pause.

  “Please allow me to apologize for my careless behavior yesterday.”

  “I should say the same.”

  “Not at all. You caused no offense.”

  “Likewise.”

  The conversation was like a slow blur, and Nico was once more not altogether certain he was not dreaming. Mere words seemed a trifling matter, yet they both spewed the empty pleasantries as if incapable of doing otherwise, so long had these artificial affectations been a part of them. He sensed a sadness in her heart, and he wanted to make uplifting declarations that all would be well, while simultaneously wishing to avoid any mention of the battle at all. He did not know how to bring comfort without inflicting more pain. Perhaps he told her so, afterward he could not be certain. It felt that they had opened up, however briefly, but that connection may have been entirely unspoken.

  He did know that the thought of doing nothing while others risked their lives did not sit well with his conscience. He had to remind himself that this was not his fight.

  Nico thought of Letitia’s brother, Tobias. What would happen to the young prince in the case of defeat? Execution or imprisonment, most likely. Whatever the punishment, the boy had done nothing to deserve it. How difficult to imagine that within hours the royal family of Asturia might be destroyed.

  The two of them spent a moment contemplating the rising sun on the cloudless horizon. An everyday occurrence in this land, yet this morn’s seemed more radiant than those before. He felt compelled to say it aloud, knowing it was a surrogate for the things he could not say.

  “That is the prettiest sunrise I’ve seen yet, Princess.”

  “Leti.”

  “Your pardon?”

  “Call me Leti. I don’t like ‘Princess.’ And I will call you Nico, Nico.”

  He bowed. The suggestion was fine with him. After all, she was to be a sister of a sort.

  “I think it will be a fine day, Leti.”

  She said nothing, and they continued to watch the sun climb silently up the achingly blue sky. All trace of the mist was gone. An observer on the wall would be able to see for miles. Certainly, the battle would be visible. It was likely underway already. That was the direction she had been headed, while he was returning to the castle.

  As if reading his thoughts, she asked, “Join me, Nico?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot. I have my company to see to.”

  She nodded, showing no sign of disappointment, only acceptance. He understood that she had known what his answer would be—after all, he was not one of them. “Until next time, then.”

  “Until next time, Leti. Soon, I hope.”

  Bows and forced smiles, then separate paths.

  Renard found him on the way to the barracks. Nico’s dream state was all but gone, his mind now turning over problems as effectively as ever. He had significant decisions to make, and little time in which to make them. His companion and friend may not have been keen on advising, but it helped Nico to vocalize his thoughts and watch the twitchy mustache for signs of reaction.

  “Should we leave immediately, Renard?” The shrug indicated indecision, but the mustache said no. Nico agreed. There was unfinished business here.

  “If they lose, should I save the prince and princess? Would Father shelter them?”

  Renard snorted. “More like he’ll keep them as hostages.”

  “I considered that, but for what purpose, if Anton no longer rules Asturia? Besides, even being hostages in Neublusten is better than what Duke Iago will do to them.” A grunt of agreement, so Nico continued. “Could be Marko marries Leti anyway, Akenberg defeats Iago, and they rule both kingdoms together.”

  The mustache curled downward, and Nico realized a lot would have to go right for that plan to work.

  “Should we help them, Renard?” This was the question he had been building up to all along, he simply had not wanted to start with it.

  This time Renard looked at Nico. The mustache did not twitch at all, and Nico found himself completely at a loss for what the man was thinking.

  The uncertainty remained even when Renard spoke. “You would embroil Akenberg in war.” It was a statement, but not a rejection.

  “Akenberg is already at war.”

  “True, but if Iago wins we have two enemies.”

  “And if Anton wins we have an ally.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Not at all.”

  Renard guffawed, perhaps the most normal-sounding laugh the man had ever emitted. “No one can say you lack steel, Boy.”

  The gravity of the situation was still present, but the mood had indelibly shifted. Although the objections continued, they seemed mere quibbles.

  “This is not our fight, Nico.”

  “What would you do in my place, Renard?”

  “I would obey my father.”

  “Would you?” The thought of Renard acting meekly obedient was amusing in absurdity.

  “Your father will want the Threeshields in the north soon, fighting Loresters.”

  “That war seems so strange, doesn’t it? We’ve had our issues with them before, but it never came to war.”

  “That’s because we had an emperor that everyone respected. We need another.”

  “You’re right about that.” It was now common knowledge that Eberhart had stepped off his throne, although the reasons were a matter of great debate and speculation. Nico had been disappointed to learn of the abdication through repeated rumors, the same as everyone else. He wished his father had trusted him with the news, but had long since learned that many matters of state were best confined to an inner circle that did not include second sons. “You really should think twice about being an adviser, Renard.”

  The retainer chuckled again, his usual harsh croaking. They walked on in silence then, until Nico saw the roof of the barracks come into view.

  “Would they follow me, Renard?”

  Another chuckle. “Of course they would. They’re quite fond of you.”

  Well, Nicolas? Pretend you are a real prince and make a decision. What will it be? These Asturians have treated us with suspicion ever since our arrival. We owe them nothing.

  But what of ourselves?

  *

  Leti had watched her father’s army march out of the city the eve before. The image had replayed in her mind a hundred times since.

  She could claim no more than a rudimentary understanding of the military, but the deployment seemed simple enough. The brave defenders of her home walked out in columns narrow enough to pass through the open gates, then spread out into wider lines once they were on the open plain. Whether in columns or lines, the men and women of each regiment moved together, step in step. She knew that they would fight together in those groups, as well. This tactic—moving and fighting as units rather than individuals—had been the focus of those long hours of drill sh
e had watched so much of in recent days.

  As the troops passed through the gates, their numbers seemed countless, a flood of soldiers that went on and on. Never before had she witnessed such a spectacle. And yet she had heard rumors that Duke Iago’s forces greatly exceeded her father’s. A terrible thought, and one she put back out of her mind each time it popped in.

  She had watched as the city’s regiments fanned out side-by-side about a half-mile away, vermilion standards carried high for all to see. The units were still moving as the sun had set, so she did not get to see their final disposition. But Captain Gornada had told her how they would be arrayed, with the most professional troops in the center, the recent levies to either side, and a sprinkling of cavalry on the far left and right. Confusingly, the regiments were unevenly sized. The levies were by far the largest portion of the army, numbering nearly a thousand, each carrying a spear and little else. The professionals were next with a few hundred. Most were armed with swords, along with a sprinkling of crossbows. The cavalry wings were by far the smallest portion—she guessed less than a hundred total, divided between the two flanks.

  In direct contrast to how they had looked marching out of the city, the army appeared so much smaller and less impressive from a distance. It was easy to imagine its being overwhelmed, so she did her best to keep her imagination at bay.

  At first, Leti had not planned on watching the battle at all. But she had been able to think of nothing else all night, and had known long before sunrise that it would be impossible not to watch. She had set out in time to reach a watchtower along the perimeter by first light, but had been sidetracked by the encounter with the Akenberg prince. She was glad for the opportunity to apologize to him for her harsh words yesterday, but now found herself hurrying, knowing the battle had started without her. Leti had convinced herself that merely by watching, a princess could will her father’s standard to remain upright. Now she simply hoped it would not fall before her arrival.

  How difficult to believe that life hung in the balance, that in mere hours every aspect of her very existence might be utterly ruined. And there was nothing tangible she could do to affect events. She was a fragile leaf floating atop a raging river, and could only drift where the whimsical current carried her.