Talystasia: A Faerytale

by Haadiyah Cardinalis

  Beside him, there was a sharp click followed by the swish of wood on carpet.

  He snapped to attention. She was awake.

  She strode out through the door in a rustle of cotton. Her ivory nightgown fell to sweep the carpet at her feet, the long, loose sleeves and neckline flounced with ruffles. Pushing pale, slender fingers through dark streams of curls—not a wig—she passed by without noticing him.

  He cleared his throat in appreciative embarrassment.

  Lady Loren backed up without bothering to turn around. When she did, her eyes rounded with alarm. "How long have you been here?"

  "About eight hours," he replied, yawning widely.

  "... I didn't assign you to guard my door," she spluttered, still combing her fingers through her hair. When they grazed the famous Loren circlet, she snatched them back as if she’d been burned.

  "—The guard you assigned ended his shift at four. I replaced him. It's around noon. You do sleep at lot for a dictator—other people have to sleep too you know."

  "But who picked you?" The ringlets settled around her face, a feral storm cloud framing wide, insecure, deep mahogany eyes accented by long, sensuous lashes. At times she looked ten years younger than she was.

  "I did, my Lady. Being captain of the guard, I picked myself."

  "Who made you that—?"

  "I did. I am the general, so I assigned myself a second post. You are free to reassign me if you wish, but I will always be the de facto captain of the guard, even if not in name."

  "... Oh? And how does that work? Mind explaining to me how you get to have all of this power?"

  Corin breathed deeply, trying to hustle some oxygen into his stale, sleep-deprived brain. He glanced out the window in the hopes that the noon light would invigorate him, but all it did was make his eyes water.

  "Lieutenant ...?" Her eyes had narrowed, the illusion of youthfulness passing. She waved a hand in front of his face, her brow both consternated and concerned. "Are you awake in there?"

  "Well ... being the biggest threat to your life, I must be ever vigilant of myself, and clearly, I am best disposed to practice such vigilance. Rumour has it I'm a traitor ..." He broke off again and stifled another yawn, closing his eyes to shut out her ridicule. "... That was a joke, my Lady."

  Idiot, idiot ... Worst joke ever.

  "Did you get enough sleep last night, Lieutenant?" she asked piercingly, her russet eyes as flinty as her voice. “And for your information, there is no such rumour. Unless you’re the one spreading it yourself through your folly. I do not know if you are the biggest threat to my life or not, but you are certainly the greatest threat to your own. Perhaps you should be more vigilant of yourself and get some rest.”

  He jerked his head to stare at her, guilt and gratitude pooling together, impressed as much by her incisiveness as the mordant wit underpinning her reproach. Clearly her beauty was matched by her intelligence—a fact he was pretty certain her power-hungry relatives were entirely incognizant of. And thank God for that.

  "My uncle was found dead this morning. Very early this morning. So early, in fact, that it seems peculiar that it was discovered at all at that time of day—much less reported to me at such an hour as I was sleeping. Did you say you came on shift at four …?"

  "Yes, Milady," he answered carefully. "My condolences on your loss—I thought you'd want to know straight away. Otherwise I would have asked the page to wait until a more reasonable hour."

  "And how did you come to know—? Did you find out at five, when the page came by the door? Or did you find out at four? Early breakfast indeed! Of course, you have an alibi."

  Deliberately, he turned his face away. "Reports, my Lady ... you should know that I know everything that goes on in this city. Usually before you. But—" he swallowed. "Is it really so bad—?"

  "—No," she admitted, a trifle too sharply.

  "How did he die ...?" he asked carelessly and then almost slapped himself in the forehead.

  Damn I’m tired! Tell her I know everything, then ask a question like that? A question any gossiping moron would know the answer to?

  Lady Loren leaned back against the oak door and turned her eyes up to the ceiling. For a moment, he thought she’d missed the slip.

  "... His heart stopped," she whispered, her voice barely a sigh, blank, listless and burned out. And then his heart seized up: “But you know everything—or don’t you.”

  Nothing was getting past this woman. He should scarcely be surprised, considering the world she lived in. But there was no way to tell from her angry expression whether she knew the reason the duke's heart had stopped or only guessed.

  To his surprise, he found himself rather hoping some part of her had closed itself against the truth, not for his own sake … but for hers. Politics necessarily made a killer out of everyone in the end—or killed them.

  He didn’t want her to become either. He preferred her the way she was, alive and uninitiated into such things, even by proxy.

  My Lady ... don't ask, don't ask, please don't ask ...

  …But she already had, hadn’t she?

  “I … don’t know,” he answered lamely, racking his somnolent brain.

  “Don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know. What’d you ask?”

  “I didn’t ask anything.” She rolled her eyes, raising her hand to her temple, her brow pinched sharply. He wondered if she had a headache.

  “We’re both tired. My Lady ... don't you think you should get some clothes on?"

  "Did you hear about my speech this afternoon—?" She raised the corners of her mouth a little. Her gloomy gaze was directed sightlessly at the hardwood floor just past her slippered feet.

  Despite her imposing height, he was reminded of something fragile. Perhaps it was her hourglass figure, so like the vases he’d recently smashed to pieces. Her cold white porcelain skin really was like glass—and glass could shatter.

  "Yes I did. Are you insane my Lady?"

  "No. Do you have to ask me that all the time? You can be incredibly obnoxious at times."

  "... Yes. You do realize Harmony is the poorest district in Talystasia ..."

  "Yes."

  "... and by far the most dangerous—?"

  "Yes. The square is well situated though. It borders Lacsimilia."

  "... That makes it all the worse, my Lady!" he insisted. "The outrage there is greatest; those people have the sharpest view of the disparity, reflected in the opulence of their neighbours' estates, while they and their children starve ... there's a robbery or a killing a day there, and that's with a quarter of the city guard stationed there round the clock. Why do you want to speak there ...? It’s—"

  "Exactly. The outrage there is greatest, because the need for help is most severe. Lieutenant ... if I am to do what you said last night ... to try and make amends for the damage done by of my family, it must start there. Besides, today is a good day for people to be receptive. We gave everyone a paid day off. We even paid the unemployed. Remember? Your suggestion."

  Corin opened his mouth to protest again, but she held up a hand to forestall him, an infinitesimal smile forcing its way through the perpetual numbness that enshrouded her face.

  "No, this is right, Costellic. Those people need to hear me. And the wealthy will hear me too. It won't be too ... out of their way. Are not most of Lacsimilia’s residents members of the Loren elite—? … Drawing from the city coffers at a whim to finance their lavish appetites, fattened by generations of excessive taxes on our most destitute ...?"

  "You’re the Loren elite ... I don't like it, Lady."

  "I didn't ask you if you did."

  "Well I don't. The odds of someone attacking you, rich or poor, particularly after your weakness—" he flinched, but to his pleasure, she didn't. "... The weakness you displayed yesterday afternoon ... well …"

  "That's precisely why the captain of my guard will be with me. Besides, I don't really care all that much at this point if I live or die anywa
y."

  "—Great attitude!"

  "Or rather, what I mean is, if I'm to live at all ... I may as well risk death in order to live right, or it'll all be for naught. Don't you see? It's what you said last night. I'll only die inside if I don't try. Plus, my life’s already a target. So I’ve got nothing to lose."

  Growling he said, "I suppose so—"

  "Corin ..." she interrupted, her voice as soft as roses.

  Corin raised his head in surprise.

  "... When I came down from the summit, the night of the battle, I fell. Quite a long ways. The fall should've killed me. It scarcely injured me."

  "What, so now you think you're invulnerable?" he spat angrily.

  She sighed and looked down. He waited impatiently.

  She said, "Support me as you said you would … This is a second chance."

  For both of us …? he wondered.

  "I do—"

  "Would you support me if you thought I was mad?"

  "You're not."

  "If you thought what I was doing was mad ...?"

  He pursed his lips and considered. "I would talk you out of it," he said carefully.

  "And if you couldn't ...?"

  "Then it would be your pride and judgment that is called into question, not mine. Don't confuse unconditional loyalty with blindness, my Lady. I am loyal to you, unconditionally—but I am not loyal to madness. This isn't mad—it's close. But it's not mad. It's merely stupid."

  He expected her eyes to narrow again, but they didn’t. Rigid, unreadable expressions, it seemed, were one political talent she was more than adequately schooled in. "Thank you, Lieutenant. That'll be sufficient," she said coolly. “… I think I’ll go and take your suggestion regarding my attire now.”

  ~~~

  Pressing the door closed behind her, Rose leaned against it, her pulse shallow and irritated, before becoming uncomfortably conscious that the lieutenant might sense her standing there. She had a feeling there wasn't much Costellic wasn't cognizant of, reports or no. Darting away, she stood in the middle of the floor, gazing out at the palace grounds and the city beyond.

  Today she would face the responsibility of entering for the first time in her life one of her father's ghettos. So why then was she struggling with her conscience regarding the man outside her door ...? Surely there were matters of greater import to deliberate on.

  The death of her uncle seemed a godsend. She’d accepted that much, because by doing so, she could tell herself against her better feelings that it was that which had allowed her to sleep at last—that and nothing more. Relief at her uncle’s death would only make her callous and unsympathetic, but there were far greater perils in court than cold indifference—like poor judgment.

  But it had been more than that, and she knew it. It had also been that voice through the door … Lieutenant Costellic’s voice. She’d felt safe knowing he was there, and she did still.

  And that, far more than his slight, made her feel stupid.

  ~~~

  Andreas’ fingers shook as he sought to catch up on unending paperwork. It’d been multiplied tenfold by events, and he’d been at it since mid-morning; he’d be lucky if it was done by midnight. The wound in his back ached steadily, the only distraction from his hangover, but he didn’t have a fever, and that at least was something. Still though, if he kept it up like this, he was bound to work himself into an early grave.

  Maybe that’d be for the best.

  A loud rap. It felt like a battering ram. Freezing, he stared at the door as if it were on fire.

  "Andreas. It's me."

  "Oh ... oh." He mopped his brow. "Do come in Rizaq. Why are you bringing me my reports?” he asked as the door opened. “Where is Gulthor?"

  Rizaq stepped inside, closing it quietly.

  "Gulthor's got ... a sprained ankle,” he answered evasively, turning his head to look out the window. The room brightened momentarily, the monochromatic light inside the study swelling with warmth as the sun painted the walls. Rizaq closed his eyes, smiling as the uncommon light washed over his face.

  "Look at me when you talk to me, man.”

  At his rebuke, his friend snapped to attention, but the distracted daze still lingered over his face like smoke on a stagnant breeze. Andreas tried to remember anything of their conversation the night before, but it had slipped away down the same black hole of unconsciousness that had swallowed up the rest of the night.

  “A sprained ankle …? And you came? Don't you have better things to be doing? Surely the man can manage. What, has he got gangrene or something—? It's called crutches. He should use them."

  "Yes ... I mean no, he hasn't. Got gangrene, I mean. I wanted to talk them over. The reports."

  "Well then. Let's hear it?"

  Rizaq slapped the folders down on the desk and took a deep breath. He seemed to be drawing himself up for something. When he spoke, he chewed his lip.

  "She's a nice girl, Andreas."

  Andreas gaped at him quizzically.

  "... Julia," he answered to the unasked question, spreading his hands apologetically.

  "And—?"

  "No 'and'."

  "There's never no and. Is it ... 'Andreas, she's a nice girl and I think you ought to go easier on her', or is it … 'Andreas, she's a nice girl and I would like your permission to court her'? or—?" He cut off. "… Though I don't know why you'd want to court a piece of property. She’s not for sale. Forget I said that."

  Rizaq’s eyes strayed guiltily to the desk, and for a moment, he appeared to teeter dangerously on the brink of laughter. "Andreas, she's a nice girl," he repeated with a small snort.

  "You're as stubborn as I am," Andreas scowled.

  "And she's as stubborn as you are."

  "What's your point—?"

  "It's just my opinion. I give it to you on everything important."

  "You give it to me on tactics. How is the person who cleans my room important as that?"

  "It's more important."

  "Fine ... you've given me your damn opinion. Shall we get on to these files, or was that just an excuse for you to barge in here and give me your strategic analysis of my household staff—? Did you hit your head on a low-slung tree branch last night? Or have you simply been spending too much time at the Modest Barrel ...?"

  Rizaq’s dark cheeks tinged and his voice hardened. "She is, aside from that doctor, the only member of your household staff of any value to you. The rest are a nightmare. They should be rotting in the same cell block as the guards I’ve fired.”

  “I noticed. Good riddance.”

  “You need to do something different with the new men. I hand-picked them, you know. These are all men you’ve made a positive impact on at some point or other. So you’re starting out on the right foot.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. I greeted them this morning. Rizaq, if you want to replace my entire household staff … fuck. Do it. I don’t give a damn. I’m starting to think I’d feel safer if I moved in with you and your girlfriend. Have an open spare room?”

  “Why haven’t you gotten rid of these people?”

  “… You can’t fix just one thing, damnit. My life is broken.” A broken heirloom. “What’s the point?”

  “Is that why you have to break anything that isn’t? So it fits with the rest?”

  Damnit. This is why I never introduced them.

  “I told you there was never no and. It’s not your fucking business. She wants me to hit her.”

  “… Abusing a masochist isn’t abuse? You’re way over the line. She knows it. You know it.”

  “She hasn’t stopped me. Could’ve done last night.”

  “By letting you die? Talk about pushing things to extremes … Are you completely senseless of the definition of abuse? That’s what it is. She doesn’t stop you. You keep doing it. The next time you want a sparring partner, ask somebody else. How do I know you’re not going to lose your respect for me next, and excuse yourself because I asked you to hit me ...?
”

  “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

  “I did ... in fact, want to review the key points with you. Open the files."

  Flipping open the top folder, he examined the heading. "Lady Roselia Loren, age thirty—" he started impatiently.

  "She has scarcely any experience with politics. You'll see there that she's an overgrown child. She's a spinster, never married, like her brother. Malek thought he would 'indulge' them, despite the valuable alliances their marriages could have bought—" He broke off. “You never married either.”

  “What …? This isn’t relevant,” Andreas spat.

  “No, but it’s interesting.”

  “One more interruption like this and I’ll cut you.”

  “—No romantic attachments in a decade and a half, at least none which were public. Roselia Loren's spent most of her life with her nose buried in a book. I’m told she has a fondness for faerytales. Head in the clouds."

  He grunted. “Sounds like—" Julia.

  "You'll see that her brief foray into politics started when she was twenty and ended when she was twenty-two. While she was a member of the general assembly, she cast her votes on largely humanitarian matters ranging from public education to taxation of the poor."

  "What about warfare, foreign policy—? What about us?"

  "She sat those issues out. She did, however, make her feelings amply clear yesterday. I’ve enclosed a transcript of her speech. We’re still at war.”

  "Damn."

  "The other matter of interest ..."

  "Yes?"

  Reaching down, he tapped the second file; it was very thin. "This man. Corin Costellic. Sworn in as general yesterday morning, in control of their entire armed forces, in thanks apparently for saving their collective arses. He wasn't in line for promotion ... he was a lieutenant. A nobody. He’s graciously accepted the position, but doggedly calls himself ‘Lieutenant’ ... one can only assume it's out of guilt."

  "Guilt for what?"

  Rizaq smiled darkly, his black eyes glittering. "Do you remember when we left the other night—?"