by Beth Brower
When the seed bringer came forth, he fell to pledge immediately, which brought a cheer from the crowd. Wil looked at Aedon, who had his arms crossed, a hand covering the smile on his face. They exchanged a triumphant nod.
After the final man had given his pledge to the queen and walked the distance back to the crowd, all eyes turned towards Thistle Black. He stood silent, an expression part resentment, part fear, in his eyes. Eleanor waited—the outline of her black dress disappearing in the deepening shadows behind her, the Battle Crown glinting in the firelight.
Thistle Black lifted his head and crossed his arms, rocking back on his feet obstinately. Wil watched the struggle of the two wills, his own emotions taut. The crowd grew quiet again. For several minutes, they faced each other: Eleanor staring directly at Thistle Black, unwavering, unmoving, emotionless.
Black cleared his throat and looked down, placing his hands on his hips. He toed the earth with his boot then looked back up towards the queen, beneath his heavy brows. His lips moved as if he were about to speak. Finally, the large man dropped his arms and lifted his head up. He took a step towards the queen. The entire fen erupted in a loud cheer as Thistle Black made his way across the field.
“Stay where you are. Stay where you are,” Wil whispered to himself. He was worried that Eleanor, in a show of solidarity, would walk to meet Thistle Black and weaken her position as this man’s sovereign. But she did not move. Eleanor waited firmly in her place.
When Thistle Black arrived before the queen, he said something to which she responded, and then he dropped to one knee, his head bent in submission. After he pledged, Eleanor offered her hand and helped Black to his feet. She smiled.
The crowd cheered again, and music began to play as the people gathered around the bonfires. Crispin clapped his hand on Wil’s shoulder, a smile of relief on his face. When Wil looked back towards the fen lord and the queen, Thistle Black was coming towards the celebration, but Eleanor had disappeared.
***
After the company left South Mountain fen, Eleanor did not speak to anyone for two days. She had changed back into her usual clothing, replaced the earrings with a smaller, unobtrusive set of green stones, and she reclaimed Thrift. Wil did think it interesting, however, that Eleanor did not remove the Battle Crown. She now wore it every day. Wil was satisfied with the victory at South Mountain, and when he had a chance to come upon Eleanor alone, he said so. Had she, he had asked, gained a better sense of what she could become?
Eleanor gave him a veiled smile, responding that she had understood a clearer picture of what she hoped never to become.
Chapter Sixteen
Eleanor could not quite remember how it had begun—perhaps she and Crispin had just finished a game, and Wil had joined in—but, for the last several weeks of the battle run, Eleanor and Wil had sat together in the evenings, playing chess.
Having already been familiar with the Imirillian variation of the game, Wil was astute in picking up the Aemogen rules. He, in turn, tutored Eleanor in the Imirillian style. Crispin, who Eleanor knew had played only to charm her from her somber mood, happily relinquished his position to Wil, leaving them to work at besting each other in the late evenings, after the traveling or training had ended.
“Check,” Wil said as he moved his rook. Eleanor repositioned her king, and Wil moved a pawn.
“Check,” he said again.
Eleanor studied the board and sighed. Aedon looked up from where he sat reading by the fire of the Irgead fen hall. He watched the pair then turned back towards his letters.
“You might as well surrender now,” Wil said, interrupting her thoughts.
Barely acknowledging his words, Eleanor scrutinized each piece on the board. They looked heavy in their place, as if resigned to their failure. Frowning, Eleanor looked harder, her eyes moving from piece to piece. Then, a possibility revealed itself in an instant, the glimmer of hope she had been looking for. With the ghost of a smile on her lips, she moved her queen to protect her king.
“Sacrificing your most valuable piece?” Wil asked, leaning back, putting his hands behind his head on the chair. “Desperate, Eleanor.”
Wil had now taken to comfortably calling her Eleanor. She hadn’t objected, although her feelings towards Wil had grown more complex since Old Ainsley fen. There were certain views he had, ways of seeing the world, which she could not condone, let alone reconcile.
Wil captured her queen.
Eleanor put her plan into motion; it was only three moves away. Back and forth they moved and she thought she had lost her chance, but then he placed his rook exactly where she needed him to, and she moved her pawn into place.
“Checkmate,” she said.
“What?” Wil scrutinized the board. When he saw the game had, indeed, ended, he hit the table. Aedon looked up again.
“How did that happen?” he asked.
Feeling pleasure with her victory, Eleanor met his eyes. “It was a queen’s gambit.”
Wil shook his head, leaning forward across the board. “A what?”
“A queen’s gambit,” Eleanor answered. “You sacrifice your queen to win the game.”
“A queen’s gambit,” Wil repeated as he moved the pieces back into place. “I wasn’t expecting that. You win.” He rapped his fingers on the table, looking resolved to not be outmaneuvered again. “Another game?”
Eleanor shook her head and leaned forward on her elbows. “I should sleep,” she said. “We’ll be riding all day tomorrow.”
But she did not leave.
The imminence of the invasion had hung around Eleanor’s neck like a stone ever since leaving South Mountain fen. She felt that if she put the weight down, even for a moment, picking it back up would be impossible. And so, a pressing soberness stayed close, just as the threat did.
Eleanor lifted her fingers to the crown on her head. “Do you think—” she began quietly. Wil pulled himself out of his own thoughts and lifted his head towards hers.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Is war ever worth it?” Her question was quiet off her lips. “And, Wil, I’m not asking you in terms of logistics or practicality. I’m asking about the principle, the soul of the thing.”
Time passed, their heads bent close over the chessboard.
Eleanor gave him space, for she could almost feel his thoughts, moving through her question, sorting out a response.
“I think—” he said, sounding distant. “I think that the principle of what you are fighting for, the soul of it, is right. But, I cannot answer if it’s ever worth it.”
***
They continued north, now with only two fens remaining before they would return to Ainsley for the final vote and for whatever preparations they must then make. The fen lords and most of the men expressed their desires to fight rather than become a servant class in their own country. Wil still voiced his opinion that they should work with the Imirillians, arguing, as often as anyone would listen, that they simply did not have the men for such a fight. Nobody ever responded, and he suspected that there was something happening of which he was not privy.
Wil watched the landscape change and alter. The grasses were now studded with protruding stones, and the forests surrounding the narrow valleys were thick. They also passed several lakes. Wil could not claim that the company became more jovial the closer they were to Ainsley, but he had noticed a change in temperament, a fresh calmness beneath their final push to finish the battle run and return home. It had been a long summer, and Will found that he was also thinking more of home.
Doughlas came and went almost daily, and Eleanor became more excited each time he brought her a new message.
“How is Ainsley?” Wil asked him one evening, after Doughlas had just returned.
The fen rider shrugged. “I haven’t been to Ainsley in almost a month,” he said as he pushed past Wil and entered the fen hall, where Wil could then hear Eleanor’s anxious greeting. Her hope in Aemogen’s possible victory seemed to be rising, a
mystery to Wil, who only saw its impossibility. After a dismal afternoon of training with the men of Quickly fen, Wil had no such optimism. He felt the entire council had become delusional regarding the abilities of their people, for he knew that they couldn’t win.
“I would say we have two hundred good men here,” Aedon remarked to Wil as they stood under the shade of an outbuilding in the late afternoon.
“I say fifty,” Wil answered.
“Is that all the faith that you have in the men of Quickly?” Aedon asked, looking surprised. “And I thought I was the overcautious mathematician in the council.”
“Put your two hundred down on the charts,” Wil responded, irritated. “Heaven knows you need every last man. But, don’t count on more than one of every ten returning from this war.” A soft look entered Aedon’s eyes, and Wil balked. “Oh no,” he said, “I’ve seen that expression on your face before: it’s Councillor Aedon, determined to fix the disgruntled masses.”
Aedon did not smile, but neither did his expression harden at Wil’s jab. “You appear very upset,” he said, “for someone who, on multiple occasions, has insisted that he is only here for a limited time and limited investment.”
Wil shook his head, walking a few steps away from Aedon. It had been a dismal day of training, and Wil wanted to believe that the men had been asleep rather than actually trying.
“You still think we have no chance then?” Aedon persisted.
“I think that Eleanor actually believes that you do!” Wil replied in frustration. He kicked a nearby swill bucket, and it clanged against an outcropping of rocks as it rolled down the hill by the outbuilding. Turning to face Aedon, Wil struggled to control his emotions. “She actually thinks that you can win and that you can defend Aemogen against the largest empire on the continent with shovels and rakes held by farmers!”
“And you do not think it is possible,” Aedon said, his tone steady and pragmatic.
“We have been through almost all the fens of Aemogen, Aedon,” Wil said. “And, unless your High Forest fen is full of professional soldiers waiting for a fight, this will only end in misery.” Wil’s voice quavered in frustration. “And, she is going to be racked with guilt for having sent all of her country’s men to their deaths,” he added. “What an ugly scene that will be.”
“Do you care how she will feel?” Aedon asked.
“Do you not?” Wil replied instantly. “Does not every man here follow her leadership gladly? Eleanor is good all through.” Wil spat these words from his mouth as if he hated them. “I have never seen a ruler so good and pure and determined. She has claimed the allegiance of all of us through her own strength of character. Yes, I care how she will feel. And I can’t bear the thought of her destroying herself when she sees that this war has doomed her people.”
Aedon looked at Wil regretfully.
“What?” Wil demanded. His anger was subsiding, but his sharpness of temper was not. “Don’t look at me with that expression.” He stooped and picked up a few rocks from the ground, tossing them into the heavy fields beyond, bracing for Aedon’s response.
“I have misjudged you, Wil,” Aedon said, and he moved as if to leave, but Wil laughed, causing him to pause. It was an ugly laugh, heavy with irony.
“Perhaps, Aedon,” he said. “But not in the way you suppose.”
***
Aedon knew the woods well, and his satisfaction from being in them was evident. Wil followed, tired yet relieved to escape the fen. Things at High Forest fen had gone well, better than Wil’s own expectations, but he was at an end. When Aedon suggested that he and Wil should leave the training early to hike his favorite trail, Wil accepted gladly. A brotherhood had formed between them: Aedon appeared far more willing now to listen when Wil made a comment about a technique or strategy, and Wil, in turn, began to seek out Aedon’s company in between obligations, allowing that the councillor did have a scope and knowledge that would appeal to him in a friend.
Aedon seemed at home in the woods, content and introspective.
“I’d have never thought you much of a woodsman, or a poet,” Wil said when they had stopped to rest. “If you truly want to know a man, see him in his home.”
“Is that an old Imirillian saying?” Aedon asked, being used to Eleanor and Wil sending them back and forth between each other. Wil reclined against a large stone, accepting the bread and cheese Aedon offered.
“No,” Wil said, “simply my own observation.”
Northwest Aemogen rolled out before them, fresh and vast. Wil searched for the landmarks he knew they’d passed down in the valleys. As his eyes wandered the forests and fields, he almost believed what Eleanor had told him several nights back: that Aemogen had been part of heaven before it fell to the earth, crashing against Marion and forming the impassable Arimel mountains on the west and the north. High Forest fen itself was a sight that leaned towards the picturesque, with a wide river easing between the houses.
“Do you miss spending your days here?” Wil asked.
Aedon stretched his arms behind his neck and did not answer for a long while. “High Forest fen will always have my heart,” he said. “But, my work is in Ainsley. I’m not content with the smallness of my home fen. I desire to do something in this world while I have time in it,” he explained. “I’m the youngest head councillor ever in the history of Aemogen, you know.”
He looked towards Wil. “I try to be fair, engaged, meticulous, and conscientious. I value my service to the queen and would not have it any other way. That being said,” Aedon’s speech drifted, yielding to the air around them, “there are days when my heart pushes on my mind to settle in this forest, along the river—keeping a garden, breeding horses—have a family with whatever woman would have me.”
Tempted as Wil was to make sport of Aedon’s humility, he let the moment pass for the sincerity of this exchange.
“Does a man leave his home or return unto it?” Wil posited.
“Have you made your decision?” Aedon asked in response, seeming curious. “Will you return home?”
“I do have some obligations that must be met,” Wil replied. “After that, it’s difficult to say.”
***
Ainsley. Eleanor could just see Ainsley rising above the plains. Men of the company began to call out to one another, pleased to be on the threshold of home. The day was early yet, and a few wagered that they could arrive by nightfall if they kept good speed.
“Not likely,” Aedon told Crispin. “It’s a deceiving view, and our animals are tired. It wouldn’t be wise to push them.”
Eleanor’s stockpile of strength was dwindling quickly. She needed to return home. She needed some quiet days to prepare for what was ahead. She needed positive reports from Doughlas, who had been working tirelessly with the miners of High Forest fen. Most of all, she needed her plan, known only to a few, to work without injury.
The wind had picked up, blowing north, and Eleanor brushed the loose strands of her hair away from her face. Then, a call caught Eleanor’s attention, and she followed the motions of a soldier that was riding the flank. Smoke was rising from the direction of Common Field fen.
“Burning a field,” Sean replied to Wil’s inquiry. “It’s a bit early for that yet, except they may need to utilize the space.”
Two riders were coming across the plain from the north, heading east towards Ainsley. Then, one of them changed his course, turning instead towards the Queen’s company.
“He must have seen our banner,” Gaulter Alden said to no one in particular.
Eleanor felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and she motioned the company to a halt as the rider drew near. He began yelling, but they could not hear his words over the wind.
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” the rider said as he reined up, dismounted, and ran toward Eleanor.
“Your Majesty,” he repeated, fighting for breath. “Common Field has been attacked.”
***
They heard the sounds first: women c
alling to one another, children crying. When Eleanor came into full view of Common Field, her lungs caught in pain, not from the smoke but from the sight. It was burned to the ground. A line of bodies, bloodied and run through, had been gathered onto the road.
The people were scared, scattered. Eleanor searched their faces as she dismounted. The men of her company were soon around her, flooding into the scene of misery to see what they might do. Eleanor couldn’t block out the sounds of crying, and she needed to find Adams. The smell of charred wood rose with the smell of charred flesh. Danth, Adam’s son, found Eleanor after the initial confusion of her arrival.
“What happened?” Eleanor asked, grabbing his arm.
“They came at dawn,” he said. “Before any of us knew what was where, buildings were on fire, and people were shouting. We tried to fight,” Danth said, looking away and wiping his forehead with an ash-ridden arm. “Tried to fight as we’ve been training all summer. They just killed us, right through, no stopping.” He was dazed, as he pointed towards the bodies on the road. “They’re all over the fen.”
“How many?” Wil asked. He had come up behind Eleanor, reaching for Danth’s other arm. “How many were killed?”
“There’s no way to tell yet.” Danth shook his head numbly. “We’ve not found all the dead, let alone counted them. The children—” he added, his chin shaking. “We’ve begun taking the bodies of the children down the hill to the burial grounds. They’re easier to carry, and our horses were almost all killed.”
“Damn them!” Wil shouted, covering his face and disappearing through the crowd. A murmur rippled through the stunned villagers, and someone began to cry. Eleanor pressed her palms against her eyes, took a breath, and dropped her hands, shaking herself awake.
“Danth, where can I find your father?”
Danth looked away for a moment then motioned towards the bodies in the road.
“No,” Eleanor said as she shook her head. The stink rose in her nostrils, and everything was moving too fast and too slow around her. Then Crispin was beside her, saying something.