“Why do you think I keep you around?”
Cameron grinned, kneading his temples with his fingers, “Come on. It’s too loud in here.”
Falen watched him walk away then frowned around at the room and the few quiet, whispered conversations taking place within it. After a visit to a High Priest, after a Sanctification, most Harvesters were exhausted, and Falen knew from experience that this was no normal exhaustion at all, not like that of a man that had just finished running ten miles or working in the fields all day. No, it was an exhaustion not just of the body, but of the spirit. The soul. Maybe that man had worked in the fields all day and night then come home to find his wife with another man. Then maybe he found out the man had killed his dog, not for any reason but just out of meanness, while his wife looked on laughing. Maybe that was about right, exhausted all the way around. A man like that could barely stand, couldn’t hardly find a reason worth standing for. That was how most Harvesters felt, after a visit to the priests. And by most, he meant, of course, all. All except for one, that was.
Cameron hadn’t seemed tired, he never had. And, after, he always talked about sounds being too loud, or lights being too bright, about how cold it was or how hot. Complaints Falen had never heard him voice at any other time. Every other Harvester he knew—himself included—didn’t do anything but make their way—often with assistance—to their homes and sleep for twelve to fourteen hours. What they never did was strike a man with such speed you could barely see it or volunteer to fight a Harvester who was known not just for his skill but for his brutality too, a man who some said, was better than Cameron himself.
“Divines look after him,” he said, starting after Cameron, “He’s the only friend I’ve got. The poor bastard.”
CHAPTER NINE
Cameron eased the door of his home shut, wincing as the sound of it closing thundered in his head as if he’d slammed it. He leaned against the door and took several deep breaths, forcing his hands to stop shaking. They always did, after. Most Harvesters complained about feeling exhausted, feeling as if part of them had been stripped away. Stripped away or died. For Cameron, it was always the opposite. He didn’t feel as if a part of him had died, but as if he was more alive than ever—too alive. So alive that his senses ran a riot, and his body felt as if it wanted, no needed to be doing something.
The trip to the city hadn’t helped. Too many sensations: bright lanterns, the cloying stench of whores’ perfume, the smell of woodsmoke, and what he was sure had been the hint of dead fish, a smell that would have had to travel over a mile from Dockside to reach him.
Falen had expected him to be tired, and so he had pretended to be, telling his friend that he was going to go home and sleep. A lie but a small one. He did intend to go into his room, to snuff out the light and spend the next several hours with a cold rag draped across his eyes. Cold and darkness, the only things that seemed to help. Tomorrow, they would go to Marek and discover their next assignment and that would be a good thing. His discussion with Falen in the bar, as well as with Amille and Tashel too, he was forced to admit, had left him rattled. Marek had a way of extinguishing any uncertainties, of making his path and his duty clear.
He waited until his hands had stopped shaking then he removed his cloak and sword and hung them in the coat closet in the entryway of his manor home. It was a large house—the truth was, it was much too large for only himself and Brunhilda, his Caretaker—but the Church was very particular about the accommodations it provided for the Harvesters who protected the city.
He headed toward the stairs to his room and had only made it a few steps before Brunhilda appeared from the dining area as if summoned by his thoughts. She held a broom in one hand, a dust rag in the other. Old age had turned the Caretaker’s once long dark hair—of which many young women had reportedly been jealous, or so he’d been told—into a slate gray, her once imperious, yet kind face was lined with wrinkles and there was the slightest of stoops to her proud shoulders. “Welcome home, my lord.”
Cameron sighed, “Again, Brunhilda, I’m no lord. Not now or ever, thank the Divines.”
“You are my lord.”
Cameron winced, “Not so loud please, Brunhilda. Besides, last I checked people don’t spank their lords when they get out of hand.”
The old woman smiled, the expression turning her time-ravaged face into a thing of beauty, “I’ve not done such in many years, my lord. Not since you were a child, and I’d dare say you deserved it.”
He laughed, “I expect you’re right.” Since you were a child. He looked at her then, remembering the woman she’d been, thinking of all the time she’d spent looking after a child, and now a man, who was not hers. He’d been young when his mother died, didn’t really remember her at all, not except for the single frozen moment which accompanied the dream. When he’d been a child and some child’s terror had awoken him from sleep, it was Brunhilda who’d sung to him, who’d told him everything was okay. She had been hard sometimes, but not unnecessarily so, and much better than any orphan deserved to hope for. “Does it ever chafe, Brunhilda?”
“Not so long as I wear cotton, my lord. That’s the secret—cotton breathes.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean—”
“I know what you meant, my lord. And no, it doesn’t. You are my duty and one I’m pleased to have. Not all of us can be Harvesters—the Divines know the sight of blood sets me to gagging so bad I’ll throw up like as not—but we all must do what we can. This, looking after you, it’s something I can do, my lord.”
“So long,” he said, “and you still won’t call me by name.”
Brunhilda frowned and began sweeping at the hardwood floor that was already so clean he could see his reflection in it, “Wouldn’t be proper, my lord. Such familiarity’d shame us both.”
“Shame.” He found himself looking to the mantel above the fireplace, where his father’s sword still sat in the battered wooden scabbard he’d carried. It had been cleaned, proof of Brunhilda’s efforts—he knew she regularly oiled the fur that lined the inside so that the blade wouldn’t rust. “You’re right,” he said, “I suppose there’s enough shame in this house already.”
Brunhilda made a clucking sound, “You’re not your father, my lord. His failure isn’t yours.”
“Isn’t it? His blood is my blood, Brunhilda. The blood of a traitor. What does that make me?”
The Caretaker didn’t respond and that was no surprise. Brunhilda was many things but a shoulder to cry on was not one of them. “I’m sorry,” he said, not exactly sure what he was sorry about. He turned to leave but found himself speaking without meaning to, “Did you know him, Brunhilda?”
The woman sighed, stopping in her sweeping to look up at him, “My lord, you’ve asked me this question many times, and always I give you the same answer. His name, only that. The whole city knew of him. A Harvester of his stature, many believed the greatest ever to serve? Oh, such men don’t spend their time with the likes of me.”
“Of course,” he said. “Sorry I asked.” He turned and started back up the stairs.
“It’s a good sword, my lord,” she said, stopping him. “I know little of such things, but even I know that a blade of Astrian steel is every swordsman’s dream. I’ve heard tell that men will pay a fortune for such a weapon.”
Several fortunes. “In the past,” he said, studying the blade, “when the Astrians lived, you couldn’t buy them for any price. They only gave them to those they found worthy, those of supposedly impeccable moral character.”
“That’s interesting, my lord.”
He shrugged, “Ironic maybe. I don’t know about interesting. Good night, Brunhilda.”
“Good night, my lord.”
CHAPTER TEN
Shortly after midnight, Leandria stepped out of her room, easing the door closed behind her. She could feel the rapid beating of her heart beneath the long night robe she wore and thought that the two guards positioned at the end of the hall would s
urely hear it too, would know something was wrong. But although they turned at her approach, no concern showed on the faces of the two men, or, at least, no more concern than was warranted for a princess who stepped out of her rooms so late at night when all good royal children should be in bed asleep. “Good evening, princess.” The older of the two said with a bow that was echoed a moment later by his companion.
Leandria took a slow deep breath to steady her nerves and forced herself to assume the air of confidence that seemed to come so naturally to her father when dealing with others, “Good evening, Clause. I trust all is well?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the guard said. “Everything is well in order.”
“And with two fine men such as yourselves watching over me, I know I needn’t worry.” The younger guard—who couldn’t have been more than a few years Leandria’s senior—blushed at that, his chest visibly puffing up.
Clause glanced at the man and Leandria could see him barely suppress a sigh before turning back, “Your Highness is too kind,” he said, bobbing his head in respect but not bothering to hide the smile on his face. “It reminds me, if you’ll forgive my presumption, of when you were a child. Such words you sometimes spoke before asking after some treat or favorite toy.”
Leandria smiled, hoping her face didn’t show the anxiety she felt, “No treat just now, I’m afraid, Clause,” or at least not that kind of treat, she thought, her heart galloping ever faster in her chest, “Only that I think I would like to go for a walk.”
Clause motioned to the younger man who stepped forward eagerly, “Of course, princess. We’ll accompany you.”
Leandria felt her body go rigid, and it was all she could do to wave her hand in what she hoped was a nonchalant way, “That won’t be necessary, Clause. It will be a short walk—I am having trouble sleeping and Matron Jacqueline has often lectured me on the importance of exercise for a good night’s rest.”
“Forgive me, princess,” Clause said, rubbing at his thick, steel gray moustache—an affectation he’d had since Leandria had been a child—” but we must. It is our duty and, his Majesty, may the Divines bless his name, would think ill of us should we—”
“But,” Leandria interrupted, her mind racing nearly as fast as her heart, “you need not worry, Clause, for it is my father to whom I go. I’ve something to speak to him about and …” she let her gaze drop in what she hoped was an innocent way, “Well, say only that I would not have an audience, could it be helped.”
“Princess?” The older man asked, concern etching his rugged features now, “Is everything alright?”
“Oh of course, Clause,” she said, “call it only a young woman’s foolishness. It is only … I wished to speak to him about my mother. She died giving birth to me, did you know?”
The guardsman hesitated, his face uncertain, and Leandria forced herself to remain calm, composed. Finally, he nodded, though his reluctance was obvious, “Yes, princess, and if you don’t mind my saying, she was a truly wonderful woman, the queen. A gift from the Divines themselves.”
And do the Divines so often take back their gifts so quickly? Leandria thought, nearly said, in fact, before she forced the bitterness back down. “I thank you for your words,” she said instead, wiping at the all-too real tears in her eyes.
“Princess, of course we’ll leave you alone,” the younger of the two blurted. Clause glanced at him, his face expressionless, but the young man’s eyes went wide just the same, and he studied the floor as if trying to divine some puzzle woven inside the carpet.
“Forgive me for asking, princess,” Clause said, turning back to her, “but how long do you intend to be?”
Leandria pretended to consider, “Oh, no more than an hour, surely.”
“As you say,” the older man said, “We will be here, should you need us.” He did not say that he would wait an hour exactly before searching for her but, then, he had no need to. Leandria had known the guardsman since she was a child and knew well his degree of faithfulness to his duties. It had been him, after all, who’d saved her father from an assassin’s blade when she’d been a child. Normally, Leandria blessed the man’s sense of duty but, just now, she could have wished him a bit more lax in his adherence to it.
Before he could rethink his decision, Leandria nodded to the guards and hurried past down the castle’s hallway. As she turned a corner and the men disappeared beyond sight, she felt a stab of guilt at the lie she’d told. Clause had served her family for many years and deserved better. What’s more, she’d dishonored her own mother’s memory in support of the falsehood.
Still, shame or not, the excitement which she had felt upon exiting her rooms began to resurface before she was halfway to her destination and each step came a little quicker than the last. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she found herself at the door to the castle gardens. Then, glancing behind her to ensure herself that she was indeed alone, she walked through the door.
Outside, the night was quiet, the only sounds those of distant crickets and their somehow expectant—or so it seemed to her—buzzing. In the silence and the darkness, Leandria found herself growing anxious. The weak light of the crescent moon cast her father’s gardens in shadow and although she had visited the gardens often since she was a child, it felt to her as if she were seeing them for the first time.
Clumps of shadow hunkered along the hedge rows, as if lying in wait, listing to and fro as a night breeze rocked them, and she found that her hands were sweating. Foolishness, she scolded herself. You’re no child to be scared by phantoms. Would you have him risk so much and let nothing more than fear of the dark stay you?
No, of course she wouldn’t. Still, as she ventured into one of the corridors made up of hedges taller than she was, she found that she was hugging her arms tightly about her. She stepped onto the cobbled path—wincing at the rasp her slippers made upon that hard stone, intruding on the silence of the night. Then—scolding herself for her foolishness—she started down the path.
The shadows seemed to shift and sway around her as she walked and before long she was sure that she heard not one but two sets of footsteps, yet every time she turned to look behind her there was nothing but the shadows and the darkness. Something rustled in one of the nearby hedges, and she let out a cry of surprise, spinning. Nothing. Only … was that clump of shadows closer than it had been?
She found that she wasn’t anxious, not now, but well and truly frightened. Before she knew it she was running down the path, her robe held in one hand, each of her rapid breaths so loud that she thought surely something must be behind her now, and should she stop for a moment she would hear it. But she did not stop, would not, pushing herself harder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Whatever it might be, she could feel it getting closer, concealed among the hedge rows. How long? How long before it pounced and—she rounded a corner and screamed when she saw a figure standing in the shadow of the fountain at the center of the hedgerow.
She stumbled, nearly fell, before the figure shot forward and suddenly strong, yet gentle hands were holding her up while she gathered her feet beneath her. “Princess,” a familiar voice, etched with concern, “What’s wrong?”
She pressed her face against the figure’s chest, “I … I thought something was after me.” She glanced back and saw nothing but the empty corridor between the hedges, poorly illuminated by the moon’s light. “I’m sorry—you must think I’m a fool.”
The figure stepped back from her and, in the moonlight, his face was young and handsome, concern and something like anger showing in his features. “Stay here,” he said, drawing a sword from the scabbard at his waist, “I will return.”
She opened her mouth to tell him it had only been her own foolishness, nothing more, but before she could speak, he was gone. Feeling like a child who imagines monsters under her bed, she sat on one of the stone benches, angry with herself. In a few minutes he returned, and she stood, walking toward him. “I saw no one.” He said, sliding his sword
back into its scabbard.
She felt her face heat with embarrassment, “I’m sorry. It was just … the darkness and the quiet. You must think me a fool. I am a fool.”
He stepped closer to her then, lifting her chin gently with a finger. Normally, such a gesture would have struck her as impossibly forward but, just now, with her heart still fluttering in her chest, she found it a comfort. “I think nothing of the kind, princess,” he said, “and you shouldn’t say such things. You are the most intelligent person I know.”
She realized with a mixture of anxiety and excitement that their faces were only inches apart. She took a step back, laughing at herself, “Oh? And do all intelligent men and women run from shadows? Besides, Quintin, you have only met me once. You’d be amazed how foolish I can be.”
His face was mostly in shadow, but the moonlight twisted it into an expression that looked very much like anger, but in another moment it was gone, and he was smiling his easy, confident smile, “It is said often enough, you know, in the town. Princess Leandria the Wise, they call you.”
She frowned, “Now you’re teasing me.”
He grinned, his teeth impossibly white in the light of the moon, “A little, maybe, still it is true enough. Your people know you as a very intelligent and capable woman—a beautiful one, too.”
She felt her face heat and was suddenly thankful for the darkness, “Running through the gardens like some child. I’ve most likely ruined my robe. Matron Jacqueline wouldn’t hesitate to bring her brush to bear for such a thing, whether I’m of age or not.”
He frowned and anger flashed in his eyes, “She wouldn’t dare. I’d kill the old bitch if she did.”
“Quintin,” Leandria said, shocked, “you mustn’t say such things. Matron Jacqueline can be … difficult, perhaps, but it is only because she cares for me. Please, say you don’t mean it.”
He hesitated then nodded, stepping closer, “Very well, I retract my words.” He ran a hand gently down the side of her face and a shiver of heat ran up her spine, “But truly, princess, you must know you need not suffer such treatment from that old woman. If you were mine, I wouldn’t allow it. Divines, you may very well be this city’s next ruler. Your father, after all, is not a young man, and should he fail to produce an heir—”
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