Bellica

by Katje van Loon

  "How many things did Jules and I destroy?" the bellica was saying.

  "Not many," the major lied to her. Miranda had to prevent herself from making a disgusted sound. Her father had better manners than this slovenly wreck of a human being--and that was saying something.

  "I'll have to pay Kasandra for the damages," Bellica Yarrow said blurrily.

  The major shook his head in reply. "No," he said. "I took care of it."

  "Ngh," she said, shaking her head. "You're always taking care of me."

  The man laughed softly. "Someone has to."

  The bellica made a 'hmph' sound and the two rode in silence for a while, Miranda scrambling to stay quiet and close. As they moved on the bellica straightened from her hunched position and reached back and started to do her hair in the thick braid she usually wore, but had abandoned tonight for whatever reason. When she was done she sighed and reined in her horse.

  "Caelum," she said, turning in her saddle a bit. The major stopped his own horse and turned to look at her, earnest expectation on his face. Miranda paused in a shadow, holding her breath. This was it--she could sense it. Something big was about to be said. Her mistress would be pleased. "I need to tell you something."

  "You can tell me anything, Yarrow. You know that." He smiled, but it seemed forced even to Miranda's young eye.

  The bellica sighed again. "You're not going to like this. I...I murdered Seigneur Timor, Caelum."

  The major gave her a patient look. "Those were your orders."

  "To use poison?" Yarrow shot back. Miranda nearly gasped with delight. This was exactly what her mistress sought! Something to undermine the Great Yarrow's reputation!

  Caelum didn't seem surprised. "You used poison?" he asked, as though it seemed only a matter of course.

  Yarrow let out an explosive breath and punched the horn of her saddle, making her stallion snort and do a dancing sidestep. Automatically she soothed the beast. "I must be mad, because I don't remember doing so. But there was terrabane on my sword." There was a pause; Miranda nearly jumped up and down with glee. "And Jules saw me."

  Dear God, this is solid copper!

  That was it. Having gathered all she needed, Miranda turned and fled down the nearest alleyway, heading back to where she'd tied the pony from the castle, just down the street from the tavern. There was no way she would be kept in the hospitalis after a copper piece like this! The empreena would have to re-assign her.

  She was moving up in the world. Her father would be proud. She knew it.

  Yarrow

  She could have cut the tension between them with her sword, if she'd still had it on her. She stared off down Perimeter Road, unable to bear looking Caelum in the face. Pyrrhus danced uncertainly on the cobblestones, and Yarrow could hear the scuttling of rats in the alleyways. The silence between them dragged on until she could take it no more, and looked back at him in exasperation.

  He sat alert in his saddle, looking behind them. A cold stone settled in her gut.

  "What is it?" she said out loud, fearing the worst.

  He hesitated before answering. "I think someone was listening to us. A spy."

  "Well I'm fecked then. Royally, even." She gave her small joke a small, slightly manic laugh.

  "You could run," he said simply. She knew he suggested it as a matter of course, for they both knew she never would.

  "And would you come with me? Be like Jared of myth, defending his bellica even in her madness?" She smiled sardonically at him, and he looked away, his face stricken. Her mouth hardened as her heart twisted. She looked away again. "No. Better: I just march into my sister's study on the morrow and profess my guilt."

  She heard him scoff. "And what good would that do?"

  At some point their horses had started moving again, she noticed. She did not stop them. "Why draw out the inevitable? We both know it will come, so why not sooner, instead of later?"

  "Because we both know you won't do that." She had no response. He was right, as usual. He knew her too well. She ground her teeth in frustration.

  "It's better than being completely helpless over my own fate," she growled, earning his small laugh. "What do you suggest I do, Caelum? I'll never run, I'll never throw myself upon the parsimonious mercy my sister may grant, and I'll never take my own life. I'm pretty much out of choices here." She raised her eyebrows at him.

  His shrug was infinitesimal. "You could give someone else up in your place."

  She almost laughed at his suggestion. "And what poor fool would I send to the gallows?"

  His look was direct, his eyes burning into hers. "Me."

  It caught her completely off guard. She swallowed convulsively in the raw emotion crackling the air. She grasped at her old, Umbra-may-care mood, but her jesting tone fell flat. "What, you'd sacrifice your life for me?"

  His look didn't waver, but a small smile, almost as infinitesimal as his earlier shrug, curved his lips. "I swore as much when I became your major."

  "That's different," she said immediately, and broke her gaze away from his, unable to stand the intensity of it anymore. "And no, I won't. You had nothing to do with this, Caelum."

  They fell into silence again, the matter over and done with. She railed at her helplessness, but there was literally nothing she could do. Except, perhaps, commit myself in madness to the care of the priestesses at the Temple...but I should think the gallows would be preferable to being closeted up with those religious wingnuts.

  When Caelum spoke again it was such a surprise her brain didn't register his words. She asked him to repeat himself, wondering what else there was to say.

  "But I did."

  She looked at him blankly for a moment before the import of his words settled around her like a dense fog. "What?" she asked, ice embracing the blood in her veins.

  "You always give me your sword for the blessing before the battle, remember?" He smiled, belied by tears in his eyes. "I did it then. terrabane grows in abundance outside Nucalif. I would have chosen something milder, but...." he trailed off.

  Yarrow was so far gone into anger, an anger so deep it was cold, that she didn't care if he wept. The breath had been sucked from her chest. Her heart skipped a few beats and then thudded dully in her ears, louder than breath. She couldn't think; couldn't speak. The only reality in that moment was that great and terrible anger that rose up from some hidden, unknown part of her, threatening to engulf everything in its path.

  This was not the fury of battle, no. This was something deeper. Colder. More primal. She could not name it. Could not speak to name it; her tongue was heavy in her mouth and a red haze cropped the edges of her vision, blurring out everything except him.

  Prey.

  Before she knew what she was doing she had lunged and knocked him from his horse to the ground below, her dagger already at his throat. He offered no resistance, did not try to throw her off, and it was his passive acceptance that gave her pause, made her hesitate before drawing her blade across his skin to slice the tender jugular.

  Somehow she found her voice back; somehow made her inhuman tongue work again. "What...what were you thinking?" she hissed, a low sound, animal in origin.

  He swallowed, his Lucian's Pomegranate bobbing against the blade and pressing it harder to his skin. "I did it to save your life, Yarrow."

  She nearly dropped the blade in shock. "A right fine job you did," she hissed, pressing the knife closer to him instead.

  It must have awakened some spark, some need in him to live, for now he flipped her over, pinning her to the cobblestones, hands above her head. "I know. I messed up. Beyond repair. But my intentions were pure." He looked at her, pleadingly, begging something they both knew she'd never yield.

  Not now. Not anymore.

  She kneed him in the stomach viciously and kicked him off her; getting up, she retrieved her knife and sheathed it at her belt again. "You know what they say about the road to Tyvian, Caelum," she said, her voice ragged. "Guess I'll see you there."

&n
bsp; She mounted Pyrrhus and kicked his sides, urging him to a canter, wanting to get away from Caelum as fast as possible.

  She did not look back, did not think back, did not open that door again.

  It was over. All of it. Whatever had existed between them--whatever feelings they had or might have had--no! All gone now. She was empty. Numb. Closed off from him forevermore.

  Only after she'd stabled her horse and staggered back to her room by the barracks, only when she looked in the mirror, did she see the tears running down her face. She nearly vomited in self-disgust.

  With grim determination, Yarrow lifted the hidden plank in her floor and brought out her Pyra's Breath. Pouring herself a glass of the whiskey, she proceeded to drink herself into a coma, and hoped against hope to die in her sleep.

  Ghia

  At first, she could not say what had awakened her.

  She lay on her back in the gloom, looking around the room for some clue, listening. All was silent and dark; it was still deep in the nighttime. Her body was not in any pressing need. She was about to turn over and go back to sleep when it came again.

  Almost a whisper, a mental noise from the room next to her.

  Stiffly Ghia got out of bed, slipped on her soft leather shoes and put on her housecoat; shuffling across the room, she left as quietly as possible, careful not to wake her aunt.

  The next room was her room, where Jules slept. She opened the door and saw with eyes adjusted to the dark that he still slept, but fitfully.

  She closed the door and made her way across her room to the bedside. Now she was closer she could mentally hear him more clearly. He was in the midst of a nightmare, close to waking.

  Not wanting him to ruin what little sleep he was finally getting, she placed her hand on his back and worked on sending calming energy through him, trying to soothe the nightmare. She did not try to glance at the contents of the dream, for she had no wish to give her own subconscious any images to use for possible night terrors when she did get back to sleep.

  She knelt by his side, hand on his bare back, for he'd kicked most of the blankets off, trying to calm him by presence and powers. Eventually he settled down, and she could sense his dreams taking a turn for the better. Satisfied, she removed her hand and tucked the covers around him again before crawling into the chair by the head of the bed, still exhausted, to curl up for a little more sleep.

  If she dreamed, she did not remember.

  Empreena Zardria

  "So..." the empreena purred, tapping a letter against her mouth as she paced behind her desk, "allow me to get this story completely clear." She cleared her throat delicately and smoothed her peplos before continuing. "Bellica Yarrow, of the first regiment and supposedly our best," and there was slight emphasis on the adjective, "in her effort to kill Seigneur Timor, used terrabane, the most lethal and illegal poison known to Atherians. Furthermore, she claims to not remember her actions, and thinks herself mad. Am I missing anything?" she asked, pausing for effect.

  Miranda, already unable to keep still with her news, fidgeted, silently pleading to be believed.

  Zardria ignored her. Tapping her lips with the letter again, she paced a bit, pretending to find her place in the story. "Oh, yes. The witness. Jules deTania, Chief Medical Officer in the first regiment, witnessed this crime and said nothing of it to his superiors--namely, the empress or myself." Finished, she turned to face the young girl who stood in front of her, still fidgeting.

  "A wild story, to be sure, Miranda," Zardria said. Her contempt stung the air. "Our great Yarrow is too honourable to use such a thing as poison--and even if she did, and had no knowledge of it, she would be so honest as to throw herself on the mercy of the court." Not that she would receive any.

  The heir-apparent placed the letter in a drawer in her desk, locking it with a thought. Its business would have to wait until later. Sniffing delicately, she continued. "How can I be sure that this...story you told me is indeed true and not...fantasy?" In one carefully spoken word, the empreena dismissed the girl for her youth--and stirred up an instantaneous fury.

  The girl lost her temper--and her wits, thought Zardria, if she had any to begin with.

  "It's no more fantasy than your ability as ruler!" Miranda near-shouted at her mistress, forgetting the danger. A second later her mouth dropped open in horror as she realised her mistake. Zardria snarled and grabbed the girl by the wrist, long nails digging into golden-toned skin similar to Zardria's own. She drew Miranda's face close so the girl could not escape the anger in her eyes.

  "And do you think you would do better, you petulant child?" The empreena bit off each word. She had no patience for stupid youngsters. Or stupid elders, for that matter. "I have worked for years--since I was younger than you--to gain what I have. To gain what was rightfully mine, though others should have liked to deny me." She half-turned her head and hissed, baring her teeth as she did so. She could hear the thoughts crossing Miranda's mind--the girl was projecting in her terror--about how feral she was. She turned back to the girl and smiled--not a pleasant sight, Miranda's shudder told her. "My mother, try as she might, was weak of heart--and unwilling to think that anyone except a copy of her exact self could do any better. A strong ruler, perhaps. But arrogant. It is better that she is gone."

  Her fingers tightened on the young spy's wrist, and Miranda whimpered in pain. Zardria glanced and saw she was drawing blood. Good. Make the girl realise it bodes ill to displease me.

  In her pain and terror, Miranda tried making excuses. "Please, mistress, forgive me--I spoke without thinking. The night has been long and I am tired--but I swear to you on the life of my family that I speak the truth."

  Zardria grunted, only slightly mollified. She would not forget this insult. Miranda fidgeted again, and she realised the girl would be of little use to her if her wrist was broken. She loosened her hold but did not let go. Her smile turned sympathetic as she quickly wove her words to inflict the most amount of hurt. "Forgive my anger, my dear, but you understand how hard it is to find good spies nowadays. I merely had to check to make sure you were completely honest. Now, I think, is the time for you to be assigned somewhere else."

  Miranda visibly brightened at this prospect. Knowing how much the youngling hated being in the hospitalis, Zardria let her smile grow with genuine pleasure--a pleasure that bespoke ill for the girl. Using her unoccupied hand, she carefully traced a sharpened fingernail down Miranda's cheek--not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a red line where blood rushed to the skin. Comprehension slowly dawned on Miranda's face as the empreena spoke, nearly purring the words in her fun. "I think it time for you to be assigned to the stables. The manager has needed a new stall-mucker for some time now."

  Miranda's scream of rage echoed through Zardria's study and the rest of the Spire. It inspired fear, but not shock, in the servants.

  Anala

  The smells of banquet food drifted from the castle kitchen to Anala's nose, and she inhaled deeply. As was her habit, she was headed to the kitchens to make small talk with the head cook, a person who would not think less of her for her Western accent, which had never seemed to dissipate in all her long years away from Harbourtown.

  Nobles and courtiers found the Western accent uncouth and barbarous, the shortened slang of sailors and harbour folk. They regarded her with a barely veiled contempt, saying nothing to her face, only to gossip about it around the next corner or behind the nearest curtain. Within weeks of her first appearance at court, when she'd become a bellica, all the castle knew, and most laughed. She'd done the only thing she could--she'd stopped speaking in public, except carefully rehearsed sentences. She had her major, Aro, do all public speaking for her, and quickly her reputation had changed from "barbarian Anala" to "taciturn Anala". This suited the bellica of the second regiment just fine. 'Taciturn' suggested level-headedness, and as she was far more rational than foolhardy in battle, better the court see her as the former.

  Her steps quickened as she drew n
earer to the kitchen. The smells were mouthwatering. That was the one thing Anala liked about court--the food was splendid. Decidedly different from the fare she'd endured in childhood, save for the meals at her aunt's, but those had been few and far between, ending when she was fifteen. Entering the kitchen, she saw all the cooks abustle, hastily readying tonight's Midwinter Day feast. It was only 1250 hours, about half an hour to noon, but Midwinter Day was one of the biggest feast days of the year at the castle, and anyone who was anyone in Atherton would be present. A lot of mouths to feed. Anala did not envy the head cook on this day, although, at another time, she might.

  Anala stood unobtrusively in the doorway, waiting patiently. She would be noticed in due course. A few minutes passed, and a young cook of about eighteen years looked up and saw the bellica. She nodded at Anala and headed to the back of the kitchen, towards the icebox. The icebox in the castle kitchen was the envy of every tavern and hostel in the city--and of a few of the better charnel houses as well. It stood taller than Yarrow at two and a half metres, was four metres wide and fifteen metres deep. It kept meat edible for most of the year, except in high summer when the cooling technology couldn't compete with the heat of the day. Along with the grain silos in the southwest of the castle grounds, it could store enough food to outlast a siege, providing everyone in the castle rationed reasonably. Which'n they wouldnae, thought Anala uncharitably. She'd seen the eating habits of courtiers. They ate till they were stuffed, drank till they made fools of themselves, and left little for the servants--and that was on a good night. Such gluttony was not permitted in the army, and especially not in Anala's regiment.

  Rousing herself from her thoughts, she saw Tenea, the head cook, walking in her direction. There was a smile on the ample woman's face, and Anala realised that she hadn't been down in the kitchens since before the East Campaign. Hastily she returned the smile, just in time to be brought into a huge embrace from Tenea.