Gulthor curled his lip, narrowing his eyes. For a moment, Andreas expected a rare confrontation, but he turned and left without another word.
The fire burned merrily, and he wasn't so sopping wet anymore, nor half as cold. And perhaps Gulthor’s first theory was right. Malek Loren’s silence signified nothing but unconcern. Grabbing one of the neglected towels Julia had left him, he wrapped it over his shoulders, and strained down at the page. He had to continually wipe his watering eyes to see the words. The kitchen—or that dim-witted girl—had better hurry up, or he'd punch someone.
Eventually the door creaked open, and Julia shuffled in awkwardly balancing a wooden tray. Cottage pie—it smelled like pure vitality.
"Where do you want it?" she asked.
Amused, he smiled, but said nothing. Shrugging, she deposited it on the corner of his desk and scurried back to the window. Kneeling down, she picked up her rag. Within moments she was absorbed in her task, or appeared to be.
"Slave?" he interrupted quietly.
Julia looked up at him uncertainly.
"Is it all right?" she asked.
"The second portion was for you." Picking up the tray, he transferred it to the coffee table in front of the couch, gesturing to the floor opposite.
She sat, the table uncomfortably high for her, but painfully low for him. She couldn’t see it of course, but the old scar in his back was twinging from his bitter ride home. Funny he should suffer just to keep her in her place, and that she would never know or appreciate it.
He nodded toward the food. She didn’t make the slightest motion.
"Go ahead,” he said, pleased at her discretion.
He ate slowly, content to let her eat more than her share—yet another thankless benevolence. Colour flooded back into her cheeks, dispelling the unhealthy pallor. She ate with her eyes closed, deep in her concentration, as if eating were her whole world.
It shook him, despite his frame of mind, as it always did. Out of everything he had done—and continued to do—this was the most vile of it. He knew it was he who inflicted this misery on her, simply by not putting the kitchen staff in their place. He should have charged in there long ago and threatened each and every one of their jobs, if not their lives, if they dared deny her.
But now … it was far too late for that. She had so little true gratitude. If another had thrown her this feast, she'd have gorged as happily. It was the food, and not him, that gave her pleasure.
Damn her. And let her starve.
"You hardly ate!" she exclaimed a moment later, scraping the last of it from the platter with her knife.
… What a beautifully absurd thing to say.
Whether her concern was mere habit, affectation—or foolish blindness—he enjoyed it. Scraps of her sentiment in exchange for the crumbs from his table. It was all he’d ever get.
She closed her lips over the sharp edge of the knife. He looked away quickly.
"What do you want to do? If you don’t want to do anything, that’s fine.”
Slowly, she slid her lips off of the knife. "Don't you have work to do?"
"I don't want to work. I’ve had enough."
"Chess rematch?" she suggested, leaning on the table with her chin in her hands. “I owe you for the other night.”
He glanced from her mouth to her eyes and back. “You've ... some blood on your mouth. You cut yourself.”
Flinching, she raised her fingers to wipe it off, shifting backwards on the thin carpet.
“Didn’t you notice?”
Such a small pain, the tiniest pang in a cruel life.
With alluring carelessness, she shrugged.
He downed the rest of his wine, and remained silent.
"How was the kitchen?" he asked after a moment.
"The usual."
"They're just jealous," he remarked, with a smug little smile.
"Nobody’s jealous of the lord’s punching bag,” she answered with muted coldness.
"Would you prefer that pit of hell to the simplicity of my needs?—because that can be arranged."
She looked at him disparagingly, clutching at the brass collar around her neck. You’re not serious, her look seemed to say, so don’t even say it.
"If something happened to you, would I go back there? Who would inherit me?"
"No one, idiot."
"But who would run the castle? Who would own me? Don't you have a royal will or something?"
"The castle—” He broke off. "No one."
"It has to go to someone.”
"Not really ..." He wasn't sure if it could go to anyone.
“Malek Loren. He’d take over.”
"The property goes with the title, title goes with the circlet. It has to pass through blood."
“No it doesn’t. That thing does. Not the rest—not me.”
And then she was beside him, squirming around the table to the edge of the couch, her hand reaching up, touching the evil thing lightly with her fingertips.
For him, a curse—to her, an object of curiosity.
Tonight it seemed particularly malignant, an infection that could spread.
"Don't," he hissed, and pushed her hand away. "Don't touch it."
"You've let me bef—"
"I’ll kill you.”
"If you killed me I'd be free. Are you ever gonna let me go, if I please you?”
"The more you please me, the more resolutely I will possess you," he retorted, sneering.
"And if I displease you?"
He threw back his head and laughed mirthlessly, and abruptly silenced himself.
There was a time he could’ve told himself this kind of thing was a sport, a goad—that she wanted to feel the back of his hand.
But she was serious. It was at moments like this that she revealed herself completely, and he wanted to stamp out the last, dying embers between them with black finality. Once upon a time, she’d believed she could crawl through his heart to the door, that he’d pity her and hand her the keys. Tired of amusing him, she’d artlessly spoiled the game.
"Haven't you learned that lesson, or do you need me to teach it again? Why would you want to displease me?—You'll never be free, Julia."
Folding her knees up against her chest, she looked down at the floor. Andreas stared past her, out the window. The pattering of rain was the only sound in the room.
“What happened to you today?” she entreated. “—You’re in a foul mood.”
That’s right … put this all on me. You always do.
He answered her anyway. “The Elders sent an emissary to see me. A dryad.”
"You saw a dryad! What was she like?"
Her juvenile curiosity was so inappropriate given the gravity of the situation. Then again—her ignorance was on him. There was no way he was going to tell her what they’d talked about in the twilight forest shadows. Just as he was never going to tell her everything he suspected about the fetter of metal clenched around his head.
"… Her skin was green, like the flesh inside a tree,” he said, settling for a physical description. “And her eyes." He looked down into her brown ones. "She looked a bit like you, actually."
"Really?" she asked excitedly.
"She was also naked."
Julia’s face flushed, and she turned her head toward the window.
Andreas roared with laughter. Why turn away if she felt nothing—?
Grazing her neck, he brushed her hair aside, wrapping his fingers around her collar. She breathed slowly and shallowly, her pulse racing.
In times past it seemed like he’d been able to balance things. He could have shaken the weight off, pushed the apprehension to the back of his mind, and closed the door on it.
The tension hung over them like a hammer—but all he could feel was sadness.
Her eyes closed, and she leaned on his knee.
"… Is this affection?” he asked, warmth leaking into his voice. “Or have you forgotten? You’re my punching bag.”
"Read to me
?" she asked amiably. Sitting up, her hands pressed on his knees, she gazed up at him with demur adulation. This too was an act, but there was no malice in it.
Once upon a time … I could balance my anger.
"Pick something," he smiled down at her, running his hand through her hair, but his voice was bleak.
Rising, she strolled over to the bookshelf. Andreas watched her vacantly as she thumbed through the volumes.
A cracking sound tore through the air.
He caught his breath, and Julia turned, a slender hardback trembling in her hands. The sound wasn’t thunder; it was a knock at the door. It was late—far too late.
“Did I send for something? Did you—?” he asked, his voice hushed.
“No,” she whispered.
The knocker pounded again.
"Who is it?"
"Messenger, Milord!" came the muffled shout.
"Tell it to go away,” he snarled back. “I'm busy."
"No."
For a moment, he almost didn’t comprehend.
No …? A direct contradiction?
"Let him in,” he called, his stomach sinking.
The door banged open, and Thomas rushed in, visibly perspiring.
The man who followed was sopping wet, dressed in Loren regimentals, a suit of scale mail beneath his scarlet surcoat. His helmet was nestled under one arm, and he was panting like he'd covered the entire distance from Loren’s gaudy palace at a dead run. In his other hand, he extended an envelope, fastened with Malek Loren’s own seal.
His words brought all the premonitions of the day crashing down.
"Warrant Officer Danson was betrothed to Lord Loren’s first cousin twice removed, Augusta. His death is on your heads. This is a breach of truce. Consider yourselves at war."
Andreas leapt to his feet, grabbed his sword from the couch, and left the room.
IV: Like the Rain
"—Father, father, please don't go.”
The morning sun bathed the palace in intermingling shades of gold, orange, and pink, bedecking the walls with the warm, ephemeral beauty of dawn, the shadows between the colonnades a soft, fading lavender. Overhead, the last dim star of night was melting into a pale blue pocket of sky. Malek Loren's red-plumed helm, cradled in his arms, glittered like the rising sun, which crowned the Loren estate in an aureate blaze as it ascended against the dome of the southeast tower.
"Now, Roselia ..." He leaned down and kissed her forehead, his lips cold. Even his irises were practically white in his bloodshot eyes—the sickness had sapped them of colour. She’d noticed it in the candle-glow of the sickroom, but not like this. It was a stun to see him so, every macabre detail of his illness exposed by the bright, clear, morning light. He seemed so small, more skin and bones than man, dwarfed inside his armour. Still he sat intransigent astride his stallion, awaiting his glorious death.
… The fool. The dear old fool.
A chilly gust of wind whipped at her bare arms. He placed his helmet over his head, concealing his face, cutting off the last strand of humanity between them. It was like watching the lid of a coffin closing. Inside the metal cage, his hoarse cough reverberated painfully.
"Go say goodbye to your brother now, daughter. He needs your courage; he loves you dearly. He fights for you, you know. Stay in the palace, and await our return."
Rose stumbled away wordlessly. A night of steady protests had fallen on deaf ears, as insubstantial as rainwater washing down a storm drain.
They fight for me.
Was it ungrateful for her not to appreciate it?
But as she made her way past the ranks of waiting cavalry, she was certain they were all going to die, cruelly and needlessly, and certainly not for her.
He isn’t just committing suicide. He’s bringing the rest of these men down with him …
And they didn’t care—not today, at least. There was only the noise of excitement on the brisk dawn air: the clank of armour, shouts, ribald jokes, and guffaws breaking above the silence like the sun through the clouds.
Today they thought of plunder, rape, and revenge; only a few pairs of careworn of eyes stared dully into the distance, thinking of what tomorrow would bring. Tomorrow, when the battlefield was cleared of the wreckage and the dead were counted, the bodies brought home to the wailing mothers and wives, the fatherless children.
"Sister ..."
A shadow eclipsed her, and there was black-haired Alix, perched like a raven on his mount, a bird of war with dark, intense eyes and strong, slender limbs, the sun a halo at his back. He reached down, sweeping her up in a fierce hug, lifting her halfway off the ground. His plated arms nearly crushed the life out of her.
He released her, and her feet squelched back down into the muddy earth. He grasped her shoulders with hands still human; his gauntlets waited in his saddle-bag.
"Take care of the palace for me, will you sis?" He grinned.
… He actually grinned.
"Don't you know you're going to die?" she burst out acerbically. “There is no way you are going to win this fight in a day. Haven’t centuries of recorded history taught you anything? And what about our entire lives? Nothing changes. All you’re going to accomplish is death—death for all these men. And if you find him in the field, he’ll kill you too. After he murders Father. You think Father can still swing that battleaxe? He can hardly lift a fork!”
Tomorrow … Telyra would still be here. She knew that with sickening certainty. Why didn’t they get it? There were two circlets. The circlets chose their wearers, not the other way around, which was exactly why they meant so much in the first place. Two circlets weren’t about to select one man. Talystasia could never have a king. How come nobody could get the message?
Alix cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "… Nonsense, Rose. This is a great day for us. You should tell everyone." He bit his lip, staring her up and down critically. “You shouldn’t have worn that.” He paused. “… Whose corner are you in?”
Her skirts fluttered feebly in the wind. Any other day, and they’d only have been slate blue, the colour of a stormy sky—but today they were Telyra’s colour. What had she been thinking when she put this on …? She should have worn scarlet, the colour of blood spilled and victory won, the mark of House Loren. What encouragement was she to these men?
“How can you ask me that? It was just a stupid fashion choice, hardly tantamount to high treason. I’ve had rather more important things on my mind.”
“Like what? Your place is here in court. You’re here to be seen.”
“Why are you reading into it? Uncle Palin’s wearing blue today too, or didn’t you notice?”
“Not that blue.”
“I’m not the one going on a suicide mission—”
"You disturb me," he said. "We’re all under stress, but you have to stay focused. Sister, I—"
The golden blast of a horn from the front of the line cancelled out his words. Rose looked up, the morning light blinding. The third division of the cavalry was disappearing through the gate in a muddle of crimson and silver.
"We ride, sis.”
The mane of his mount swished past her as he raced to catch up with the end of the line. Her father was already gone.
At the bejewelled gates, he turned and gave her one last passing glance, his face a white speck framed by his helm—was he trying to shout something to her?
He turned forward again, and a splash of cold and wet on her hem and the clanging, pounding roar of hooves and steel heralded the last of the cavalry behind her. They made for the gate, following Alix out of the yard, and they too were gone.
~~~
Through the window, the clouds were deepening and darkening over the rooftops, cold seeming to emanate from the gathering mass, driving the warmth from the dressing room and snuffing out the sun like a candle. Shuttering the glass, Rose listened to the vibratory hum of the panes rattling beneath her fingertips. They sounded like a predator growling.
As a child, she’d fle
d to the nursery during combat, though the enemy rarely breached the gates. The luxuriously cushioned walls and forests of antiquated toys made it seem like an inviting nest of safety. It wasn’t the guards on the doors that gave her comfort. It was the windowless walls with no world outside.
In one hidden corner, two tiny names had been etched on the wall, worn and faded with time. The names had called to her like ghostly visitations, and she’d stared at them long and often, trying to make them out, convinced that beyond the veil of time, they belonged to kindred spirits. Like all Lorens though, her long-dead playmates would have grown up to the harshness of steel and the charming guile of diplomacy.
And then a day had come when the nursery had been given over to a younger cousin. Banished from her sanctuary, she’d hidden in here or in her bedroom—and years later, after the arid stretch in the Senate—in her books.
What else had there been to do? In the Senate, she could talk all she wanted, but she was effectively speechless because her voice accomplished nothing. Always, she was the child in the nursery, playing at grownup games. The city’s dual plagues, hostility and poverty, were like the rain; they’d saturated the city long before she was born, so perpetual that they’d become mundane, as primordial and entrenched as the climate, timeless even to the dead children whose names had faded from the nursery room walls. Suffering, in Talystasia, was nothing more than ambiance.
Why had she summoned Rachel? It was hard to say … but all she could think of was her father’s final command:
“Stay in the palace, and await our return.”
Only he wasn’t coming back. Alix probably would, at least, she prayed he would—but Father? He had no intention of returning. He’d gone to seek death on the battlefield. That … had been goodbye. His last words to her … an order.
And it was unacceptable. She could not just sit here, waiting. Neither could she save him, but still—
They don’t ride for me. My opinion means as little to them as it did in the Senate. They really think I care about a suicidal crack at victory against an unbeatable rival? Why is that what they care about?
They didn’t even say they love me.
They didn’t need to. Why was she being so shallow …?
Talystasia: A Faerytale Page 5