"Aye."
"And some of the Loren troops had turned against their own—?"
"That was him?"
"Aye," he grinned wickedly. "I saw it. He was calling the shots."
"... So he's taken the credit for casting us out,” Andreas mused. “And they don’t even know what he’s done—he and his accomplices. They killed all the witnesses."
“Almost all the witnesses,” Rizaq corrected.
“… Well, I’ll be.” He laughed. “Should we tell Lady Loren her new general’s a fraud and a traitor? Think that’d buy us any good faith?”
"Why did we retreat?” Rizaq pressed. “I wanted this to be over … I'm kind of angry you know."
"I want it to be over as much as you do. Just not like that."
"Why? You know you're probably going to end up having to butcher more people in the long run, don’t you?"
"True. But it'd have been so easy to miss one. There are so many Lorens.”
It was a lousy excuse … and they both knew it. But what else could he say? He’d run the moment through again and again. He knew very well why he had turned away, what the driving moral principle had been, but why that moment, that woman, had made all the difference, he couldn’t say.
"I just didn't want to finish it not knowing why I was finishing it. Why I am compelled to be a part of it in the first place. I don't want to be compelled anymore."
"We're all compelled by something."
"Yes. But I can't see what compels me. Hell, I’m not sure anyone in this damn city can."
Rizaq didn’t say anything. He tapped the file again, his black eyes hard.
“What?”
"Well, there’s one other thing. I thought you might have noticed. Roselia Loren knows better.”
"About what?"
"About 'Lieutenant' Costellic. She knows he’s no war hero. She even knows what he did to his men. That’s why I said almost all the witnesses."
“… What?” he muttered, and then his mind drifted backward, and he found himself reliving the moment he’d galloped into the great hall and spotted Roselia Loren smack dab in its center, her eyes wide as she soaked in the horror.
"She does ...!”
"She saw everything. She may not be as simple as she appears."
"Did they know each other? Before—?"
"No indication of it. He was the son of a palace guard. They're the same age, but there are no reports of any familiarity. In such a classist society, any friendship between them would've been impossible beyond a certain age, if it was ever possible at all. His relations are divided evenly between military men and farmers, not a shred of nobility. His family owns an estate in the northwest of the province. They raise corn, wheat and barley. They're well enough to do, but hardly rich."
“He’s thirty? Why wasn’t he promoted? It should’ve happened years ago.”
“… Not sure. As far as I can tell, the army’s been his life, and he’s received a number of commendations. He switched career paths half a dozen times, but—”
“That doesn’t account for it.”
“We never promoted Gulthor.”
"That's because he asked us not to. Heh.”
“Perhaps he was simply unmotivated.”
“Looks pretty damn motivated to me.”
“Unmotivated by the chain of command,” Rizaq pointed out.
“True. He did break it.” He smirked. “… So, Roselia Loren is relying on us ... whether she realizes it or not ... to keep her secret for her."
"Do you think she was in on it? From the start …?"
"If she was ... her entire history is a clever, thorough front. I think it's more likely ... she's been seduced by the lieutenan—er, general."
"I always forgot how to spell that word."
"What word?" asked Andreas.
"Lieutenant. But now it has a whole new meaning. Lie-utenant." He sniggered. "So I can remember."
"Indeed. So, I suppose if we ever need cooperation from the new Lady Loren, blackmail would be the appropriate tactic—"
"I was going to say appeal to her humanity. Actually."
"Right, and she's renewing the war. After I spared her life. What a bitch. Blackmail is best."
“I thought she was hot."
"Not my type," Andreas grunted. "You did hit your head."
"What ...? Do we have to talk war and defence all the time? You have to admit she's more than a mite friendly on the eyes. If you have to have a nemesis, they might as well be a fair sight. Gods know you'll be seeing enough of them."
"Granted ..."
"Too old?"
"No," he laughed. "Seriously, the things you pay attention to in a battle—"
"Who isn't your type in a battle? ... But we all know your proclivities run toward a blood-splattered ten year old. Dying, dead, completely irrelevant—I'm not the one skullfucking every corpse—you're one to talk."
"Ten years old! Rizaq—come on. Eleven, twelve, at least! And only the attractive ones."
"It's a wonder you don't have some kind of horrid disease eating away at you by now. The gods favour you. It's a shame you don't believe in them."
"I do," he muttered quietly, "... Have a disease. It's this." He tapped the circlet. "Dead corpses or soon-to-be-dead-corpses can't spawn future generations of Telyras to inherit this bloodshed and pass the horror of it on to future generations, leading to ... more dead children. Death is the surest form of birth control. I'm saving lives."
"You're a sick man, Andreas."
"You jest about it to avoid seeing it clearly, Rizaq."
"Granted." He smiled sedately. "That's what friends are for."
"I suggest you run along before my patience with your friendship wears thin. It's been a long week."
His countenance remained hard and expressionless, but his eyes narrowed just slightly, betraying his hurt. He jerked his head in a nod. "Later, my Lord.” Bowing curtly at the waist, he showed himself out, shutting the door just a little too hard behind him.
Wistfully, Andreas gazed out through the thin, inadequate window at the narrow strip of sky which was visible above the monotonous grey of the castle’s outer wall. The clouds had been breaking at intervals for the past half hour, admitting patches of clear, clean, robin-egg blue, as refreshing and unexpected as a glimpse of the sea.
"No fighting tonight," he predicted with a smile, his voice cutting the clear silence in the room.
It was all he’d get—a thin, starved break. Then the overcast gloom would seal him back inside the tired monotony, and it’d be time for another round. The bitch of a Loren had already promised it.
… Another fucking ungrateful woman.
There was a tap at the door.
"Oh Rizaq, go away—"
"—Master, it's me."
He started.
The option of pretending he wasn't here was obviously moot; it was too late for that.
I could simply ignore her …
She didn't knock again, but he thought he heard her slump down against the door. His fingers shaking, not from exhaustion this time, he threw open a drawer at random and shoved the files Rizaq had given him inside.
Searching for something to kick, he settled on the waste bin under his desk.
"What makes you think I'm prepared to speak to you—?" he managed as he jammed the toe of his boot into it. He barely kept the quaver out of his voice; he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
"Tea. You don't have to."
“Going to sit out there all day—?”
“Only if you don’t order me away.”
"Fine. Come in."
Her eyes downcast, she entered and placed the saucer on his desk. He kicked the waste bin again and caught her hand, nearly upsetting the cup. She looked up at him, startled.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, Andreas straining not to crush her fingers. Then she said, "He's a nice man. Nicer than Gulthor."
"... Who?" he spluttered, his grip loosening.
"General Rizaq."
> "What is this?" he rolled his eyes. "A bloody conspiracy?"
"Master?" she said bemusedly, biting her lip—rather as Rizaq had.
"I didn't ask you to talk. I thought I specifically made it clear I don't want you to talk." He directed his eyes at the teacup. "That's thoughtful of you, slave; but it's not going to make this better."
"I know," she said quietly.
"You shouldn't be here. I should beat you—but if I do, I think I may ..." he stopped, shaking his head, his voice trapped in his throat. He wasn't sure what he may. "Perhaps you want to try again," he suggested gently. "What binds you to me?"
Julia shifted restlessly, and he felt sure she would have backed away if he hadn't been holding her hand down. She gazed at the desk a moment, then at him.
He already knew what was coming.
"I need time," she stammered.
"Time—time—all you've had is TIME! How much damn time do you bloody well need? I want your answer and I want it now."
"I ... I can't," she declared with unexpected force. He released her hands; she clenched her fists.
"Why? Why is it so damned difficult? You already know your answer. Only I don't. Why can't you bloody well say it? I don't know the reasons for your hesitation, but consider for a moment the cruelty of prolonging my suspense—"
"Cruelty!" she cried out. "You talk to me of cruelty? You, who've been nothing but—"
"—But what? Cruel? I've been anything but! All I've ever showed you is kindness and mercy. Even when you falter in this mindless, childish bullshit—oh to hell with it. Don't you have chores to do? Go and do them."
She gaped at him incredulously.
"What?" he snapped.
"Nothing," she said. "It's just ..."
That I saved your life, he thought. That's what she's thinking.
"The hell it's nothing. Go and clean out the closet by my room. There's mildew growing on the upper shelves."
"Fine."
"And ... when are you going to feed your horse ...?"
"My—er—sorry, what did you ask, Master? I believe you hit my head rather hard yesterday."
What a thing to joke about …! He laughed chillily. Sometimes her daring amazed him.
"I'm giving you your Freedom."
She gawped at him expressionlessly.
"… ?"
"Well, not really. That's the horse's name, no shit. I checked over the stall this morning; I should almost think the stable boy was making a tasteless joke when he loaned him to you … or a suggestion; maybe the joke was on me. He’s not your horse naturally ... but he’s yours to use and yours alone. Of course, you have to take care of him yourself. He’s worth more than you are. It's the least I can do. If you hadn't ridden out last night, I wouldn't ..."
"What do you mean, mine to use—?"
"I've decided you can go riding from time to time. You do not need my permission to ride on the grounds, but if you want to go into the city, you'll need a signed note from me. Obviously."
"You're letting me out into the city—?” Her face brightened. “Sorry ... am I hearing this right?"
"Well, it's not like you're going to run away," he sneered. "Even if you won't say why."
"Can I go out into the forest?"
"No. It's too dangerous. Also, you may have the rest of the day off. The sky’s clearing up. Make for a pleasant evening." Taking out a piece of parchment, he scribbled a note, signed it, and stamped it with his seal. Then he reached into the desk drawer for loose change.
"Here. Be back by ten. Buy yourself supper. Do not go near the Wall. Try and keep out of the back alleys. Also, avoid a pub called The Hammer. The food is overpriced, the ale sucks and the clientele is unsavoury."
Julia took it gingerly, her mouth half open. "What ... you mean like you?"
"Come on. Have some grace. You should be safe with my letter, but if anyone touches you, I’ll kill him. Feel free to convey that if you run into trouble. I’m not remotely kidding."
"Thank you ..."
"You're welcome. There's a much better pub called—oh, nevermind. Find your own way around. That’s half the fun, isn’t it."
"You don't want to see me tonight, Master?"
"Do you want to see me—?"
Her gaze flickered uncertainly toward the window.
"I thought so—" he started, but before he'd finished, she had answered him.
"Yeah ..." she said.
Surprised, he caught his breath, reaching instinctively toward her hand, and remembered only then that she'd withdrawn it. Some—but not all—of the anger unclenched from him. "Maybe I'll see you in town then ... You're dismissed."
"I'll look for you then," she said over her shoulder, giving him the slightest of smiles before she disappeared.
Her smile seemed to linger like the robin-egg blue outside. It wrenched at his heart, as warm as the sunlight streaming in the window, and he despised himself for that, because it was every bit as fleeting; the wall of hate would soon come crashing down, and it’d be time for another round with her as well.
The room dimmed, the sun stealing back its warmth, and the shadows darkened in the corners.
XI: Stars
Surrounded by soldiers, Rose marched up Victory Way.
Mica in the cobbles glittered in the light of the sun, a cool breeze brushing through the black gauze of her veil. To her left, the carefully cultivated gardens of Lacsimilia screened gated, opulent estates, the sun painting dappled golden shadows on white marble walls just visible through the tall, sculpted forms of graceful trees. A growing number of onlookers had appeared in the ornately trimmed windows and on the balconies. A few had trickled into the street and were following at a safe distance, cowering beneath the slender trees.
To her right, a roaring river of humanity raged. She had long ago blocked out their shouts and screams and curses. But she forced herself to stare into their gaunt, livid faces and hollow, dejected eyes as their emaciated bodies surged against the dike of scarlet soldiers, threatening to overflow their ranks. Soaring high overhead, the hulking, diseased forms of Harmony’s tenements held court, crumbling in a narrative of decay. The multi-tiered monsters glared down at them through hundreds of eye sockets, paint peeling like sores to expose degenerating stonework. If it hadn't been for the solid, sharp presence marching beside her, she’d have lost her nerve blocks ago.
“Did you have a good nap?” she asked, for lack of anything else to talk about, as much to distract herself as anything.
Costellic nodded briefly.
"Why did you leave me at the end of that hall the other night? During the raid?"
“What?”
“That closet. I was trapped. I had nowhere to go.”
Lieutenant Costellic's wary eyes were fixed on the scarlet-clad backs ahead of them. The sun drew clarity from their depths, as if summoning light to the surface of murky waters.
"It wasn't a mistake, but it wasn't what it looked like either,” he answered, clearing his throat. “I just wanted to know where you were.”
"I almost died."
"Yes, but you see, you have to look at it from my perspective. I thought at least I’d have had some chance of coming to your aid. If you'd gone wandering off through the palace, and some imbecile soldier from Telyra's inebriated, blood-crazed army had found you, I'd have had no chance of rescuing you. You'd have been raped and killed, and not necessarily in that order."
"That almost happened anyway.”
“I got … sidetracked. I’m sorry. I didn’t say it was the right decision. I’ve been known to make poor judgment calls. We’ll have to talk about this later. We're here.”
The leading guards flanked off to form a protective path through the thunderous masses. It was fluid, as if it’d been planned and practiced, as she supposed it had been. Costellic accompanied her across the trash-littered square to a pile of wooden crates which had been erected at its center. Hitching up her black silk gown, the hem now slick with mud and pollution, she moun
ted to the highest carton, fleetingly catching the lieutenant's hand as she did. His palm was dry, his grip sure. Quickly, she snatched hers away. The last thing either of them needed was impertinent remarks.
Or my own delicate emotions …
She looked down, studying the stoic man at her side. He was surveying the crowd silently, waiting for the shouting and chattering to cease, his hands held rigidly at his sides. A cloud passed over the square, darkening his countenance. It was as if the shadow was trying to draw expression there, the way the sun had.
She tried to think what it was that was floating insubstantially on the air between them. Real connection, in court, was softer than a whisper. It was often unspoken, a subtle, indefinable sense of safety underneath whatever passed on the surface. The crowd was now silent, or close to it, but the hatred she felt coming off of them was a cold, frightening contrast to the reassurance she was seeking. She wanted to hide behind the shroud over her face, but the time for that was over … forever.
No more running away to the nursery.
"Hello everyone," she called out nervously. Her heart was drumming so loudly she was sure those closest could hear it. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the veil back over her hair.
Dim, gold sunbeams materialized between the apartments, a latticework of light, but the towering structures blocked out most of the late afternoon glow. She was grateful for the deepening cobalt gloom, obscuring the mass of faces. It seemed the crates and the tiny circle of clear space around them were a solitary, bleak outcropping in a black, restless sea.
"First off,” she began, clenching her fist to keep the tremble from her voice, “I am extending the paid time off for a week, not just for today ... none of us can regroup in a week. Much less a day. But it's something. It’ll be paid for out of the treasury.
“Secondly ..." she took another gulp of air. "I'm sorry. I said things I didn't mean yesterday, and I think that's obvious to most of you. I know that taking them back today will call my reliability into question. But unreliability …”
The gaping windows above were crowded with wasted, vacant faces.
"… is all my family has given you. I’m so sorry … for your destitution.”
Many were clothed in little better than rags and potato sacks. Bones protruded clearly under sallow skin, eyes sunken like the windows in the tenements. How could anyone live like this—? Angrily, she tried to hold back the rush of tears.
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