by Beth Brower
“Crispin said you’d already heard about the fighting in the pass,” he said. “I didn’t see it, but I did manage to come close to the Imirillian encampment. From what I could gather, this attack was not sanctioned by those leading the conquest,” he explained. “The Imirillians intend to keep their word, or so it seems.”
Eleanor made a dubious sound.
“How have things been here?” Wil asked.
“Awful.”
“And Edythe?”
Eleanor shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.
“Would that the Illuminating God should see me cast into the ocean and damn me forever for the events of these days,” Wil said.
At first, Eleanor thought his desperate words to be an Imirillian expression. But, the pain on his face was cast in such sincerity that she knew they were his own. “Are you faithful to the Imirillian God?” she asked. “I had not thought…”
Wil looked at Eleanor almost blankly, dark circles under his blue eyes. “I’m very devout,” he said. “It’s all the more reason why—” He shook his head once, but did not finish his thought. Turning his palms away from the fire, Wil stared at them. “I cannot remove the blood from these hands.”
Eleanor could see no blood, but his tone was layered, inaccessible. Eleanor lifted her fingers to the side of his face, relieved to ignore her own pain in favor of his. At her touch, he looked towards her, and Eleanor spoke aloud a line from the second scroll: “I am sorrow born, and my days sorrow bound, but I will rise with the Illuminating God and be made holy.”
Wil closed his eyes and covered her fingers with his. “But, can I ever be made holy?” he asked. “You don’t know, Eleanor. You know so little of my life.”
Eleanor did not have an answer. When Wil opened his eyes, all she could see was a mirror of her own grief.
“I had forgotten,” he said. “There was something that I’d determined to give you.” He released Eleanor’s fingers and pulled a small red cloth from his black tunic. “A gift, something I’ve carried with me and would like you to have.” It was with obvious effort that Wil shook past the sadness in his voice.
Eleanor accepted the small item wrapped in a bit of scarlet velvet. “It’s rare to receive a gift like this in Aemogen,” she said.
Wil forced a confused smile. “Are you never given presents?”
“Not often,” Eleanor said as she shook her head. “We offer songs, poems, and remembrances.” The corners of her mouth tugged downward, weighted by sadness. “Or, if you desire to give something very special, you offer a new dance, a bit of music, or, perhaps, the seeds of a flower to plant in a garden.”
“You and your people baffle me.” Wil actually laughed, tired and tight. “I’ve thought your customs odd and strange, but this—” He shrugged. “My people love gifts,” he said. “For every occasion there is something given, something exchanged.”
Eleanor’s fingers pulled at the string that held the folds of velvet together, and, as the knot came loose, she pulled the fabric back. There, set off by the scarlet, lay a golden pendant, a circle the size of a large coin with a beautiful bird of gold rising through a delicate pattern of red stones.
“It’s beautiful,” Eleanor said as she held it up before the firelight. “The intricacy is—” she began, then she realized that she recognized the design, and she raised her eyes to his. “It matches the mark on your arm.”
Wil did not answer.
“I don’t think this is mine to have,” Eleanor said, holding the pendant out to Wil.
He didn’t take it but leaned back against his hands and half shrugged. “It’s meant to be a symbol of my friendship to you, and your people,” he said. “This time in Aemogen has been important to me, and I hope, regardless of the future, to remain your friend.”
Eleanor moved her thumb over the pendant, the stones breaking the smoothness beneath her skin. She closed her hand around the pendant. “And so you shall always be.”
Her words seemed to add pain to his face, and Will appeared haunted as he turned to stare at the fire. The sound of rain had faded, and the room was still. He was sitting so close that she could feel each breath.
“I should go to Edythe now,” Eleanor said, touching her fingers to his arm. “She’ll be glad to know you’re safe.”
***
Edythe was lying on her bed. It was cold, for her window had been left ajar. The call of crickets, come out after the rain, filtered up into her room, and the sweet smell of the rose garden accompanied the sound. Instead of speaking—asking Edythe if she was all right, if she was well—Eleanor lay down behind her sister, putting her arm around Edythe and moving closer. Edythe responded, putting her hand on Eleanor’s. Sighing, Eleanor kissed Edythe’s hair.
It felt unwise to Eleanor, but she let her mind wander: thinking of the impending Imirillian army, waiting to attack, growing larger each day, and suffering the images of death from Common Field fen. Eleanor closed her eyes and pulled Edythe closer.
“Wil has come back,” Eleanor whispered. The words strung out in the darkness, but then Edythe swallowed.
“I am happy for you,” Edythe said.
Eleanor’s cheeks burned, and she didn’t answer.
“Have you found a way to save us?” Edythe said. “Crispin said that you had found a way to save us.”
“There is one way,” Eleanor said. “It’s not a certainty, but it might work.” Night hung close to Eleanor, and she felt tired. “I will tell you more come morning.” Several more minutes passed.
“Edythe,” Eleanor finally said, feeling hesitant to probe her sister’s emotions. “I wanted to tell you that the last time I saw Blaike, he was ever so happy. And, I know Wil spent some time with Blaike while on the battle run. Would you like—” she added, pausing briefly. “Would it do you well if I asked Wil to come and speak with you about him?”
It took a while for Edythe to answer. “I would like that very much,” she finally said.
“I’ll ask him,” Eleanor promised.
Edythe did not respond. Pulling away from her sister, Eleanor lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, wondering if a person could ever carry all they were called to bear in this life. Some pain was so acute that it would cut you, twist you from the inside, until you finally gave into it. And some aches were so overwhelming in nature, that you seemed doomed to drown.
Eleanor kissed her sister on the cheek and quietly left the dark room.
***
The fen lords had arrived in Ainsley to begin their meetings. Wil had not been invited. Left alone, tired of the small, restrictive walls of the travelers’ house, he took his thoughts to the streets of Ainsley. Paved in cobblestones, the streets ran and bent around one other, garnished with houses, tall and thin, intermingled with alleyways and gardens. As Wil studied the city, he thought of the people here and of the slaughter of Common Field, wishing the Aemogens would not choose to fight. But, his arguments for surrender had still gone unheeded, and Eleanor did not wish to discuss it with him.
“Hey, you! Traveler!”
Wil looked over his shoulder. Back where the cobble-covered road twisted up to the market square, a woman was walking with a bucket in hand, its water splashing onto the ground. She greeted him with a smile.
“Do you remember me? We met several months back?” she said, coming to a stop, breathless from her heavy load. Wil thought her face seemed familiar.
“My name’s Aurrey,” she said. “You helped my son, Haide, after his tumble in the market on one of your first days here—months ago now.” She waved her free hand in the air.
The memory crossed Wil’s mind, and he offered a polite smile. “I do remember. How are you?”
“I’ll be better once the little ones are fed, but all is well with us,” Aurrey said. “And you? Why are you wandering Ainsley instead of sitting at supper?”
“The fen lords are meeting into the evening,” he explained. “I will take a meal in my room later.”
“And the
battle run,” Aurrey said, stating the words as if he would know her full meaning behind them. “We’ve heard tales of you.”
“Have you now?”
Aurrey flushed. “You’ll have to straighten them out before us, so we know what’s true,” she said. “Come on then.”
“Pardon?”
She blew out of her lips impatiently. “Come on then. You must supper with us. My husband is home, and he enjoys good company.”
“I don’t—” Wil began.
“You do,” Aurrey interrupted. “They say that war is coming. Let’s get some food in you before it does.” She motioned down the street. “Come on then.”
Aurrey continued walking, and Wil followed obediently, offering to carry the water for her. Several streets down, they stopped at a drooping home made of stone with a strong thatch, tucked in between two taller houses.
Aurrey opened the door and welcomed Wil inside as a burst of wails assaulted his ears. Two children were poking and fighting each other, Haide and a girl who was older than he.
“No supper for noise makers!” Aurrey said, rushing to a small hearth, pulling a pot of boiling soup off the flame. The children quieted down, but not before Haide had jabbed his elbow at his sister then looked away, innocently, when she began to cry. The children, bored with their petty fights, turned their eyes on Wil, who stood in the center of the small room, still holding the bucket of water, feeling out of place in this domestic scene. The girl stared, wide-eyed, at Wil’s sword.
“Where’s your father?” Aurrey asked the child.
“In the shop.” The girl pointed towards an open door in the back.
“I’m here,” a man said as he passed through, wiping his hands clean on a rag. He was a solid man, neither short nor tall, with a wave of light brown hair and an intelligent face that had not been shaved in several days. He looked from Wil to Aurrey and back again.
“This is Wil,” Aurrey said, nodding towards Wil as she added a dried herb to the soup. “He’s the one I told you about, who helped on the battle run. Wil, this is my husband, Haide.”
Haide stepped forward and extended a hand. “Pleasure,” he said.
“Your wife found me wandering Ainsley and kindly invited me to have your meal with you.”
“She’s always bringing in the strays,” Haide said and gave a half smile. “Sit then, and make yourself well in my house. The day is long, and good company will be pleasant.”
Wil sat. There was only a small table in the corner, where Aurrey worked as she finished her preparations, but there were chairs enough for all. The girl, after being chided several times by Aurrey, gathered a stack of clean bowls and spoons from a cupboard, carrying them precariously to the table.
The simple meal was served, and the conversation remained light. The young girl, whose name Wil discovered was Anna, sat next to him and stared at his face while he ate. Wil swallowed a bite of soup and smiled in return. Instead of looking away shyly, she was encouraged by his attention.
“Why is your skin almost burned?” she asked.
“Anna!” Aurrey chided.
But Wil laughed, lifting his olive-skinned arm. “Burned?” he asked. “My brothers mock me for how fair my skin is.”
This did not appear to satisfy Anna.
“I am from the North,” Wil answered. “Where little girls like you have sun-filled skin and black eyes, bright as the night sky. I might ask you why your skin is so pale. Are you a ghost?”
Anna shook her head.
“Strange,” Wil said. “I could almost see right through you.”
“Your eyes are blue, not black,” she informed Wil, as if worried that he may not know.
“Yes, as were my mother’s.”
“Leave the poor man to eat,” Haide said, leaning back in his chair with an empty bowl in his hand. “Take your brother, and you can play in the street until dark.”
The children scurried outside, and Aurrey began to clean up.
“What news of the meetings between the queen and the fen lords? Is it war we’re marching for?” Haide asked, as if the question had been waiting only for him to finish eating his meal.
“I don’t know,” Wil said, thanking Aurrey as she refilled his empty bowl. “They are still in discussion, and I am not privy.”
“I’ve heard tell of your role on the battle run: the man experienced with combat, the Imirillian soldier who pledged himself to help the queen.” Haide paused over these words before continuing. “What are your thoughts?”
“Surrender is your only option,” Wil said.
Haide harrumphed. “It would have to be desperate indeed for Aemogen to surrender its sovereignty.”
“It is,” Wil replied. “The odds are impossible.”
A hard look settled in Haide’s face.
“What?” Wil asked between spoonfuls of soup.
“I would be interested to know how the queen feels, is all,” Haide said. “Despite the impossible odds.”
“I don’t know her mind for certain,” Wil said. “But, she seems bent on fighting. She most certainly will not listen to my advice that she surrender.”
Haide smiled and scratched his chin. “I’m ready to fight,” he said. “And, I would follow my queen to war.”
Wil waited for Haide to say more.
“A foreign invasion would destroy Aemogen,” Haide explained. “We are a unique country, tucked away, quiet and all. But, we fight hard to live such a life in such a place, and our heritage is deep. I would rather die, trying to save Aemogen for my children, than live and see it change. But, I can see by your face that you don’t agree.”
Wil looked down into his soup then up again, tilting his head and considering Haide. “Surely, it is better that you live and provide for your children,” Wil began, “than that you die for a battle that cannot be won?”
“Here, here,” Aurrey said from the table, her back to the conversation.
“Like I said,” Haide replied. “I would know the queen’s mind before deciding what is impossible and what isn’t.” Haide settled back in his chair and remained quiet for some time before speaking. “Have you heard of the heart of Ainorra Breagha?”
Aurrey took Wil’s empty bowl, and he thanked her. “Queen Eleanor told me one legend at the Barrows of Ainse,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, towards the fire. The evening air tasted strangely cool for late summer.
Haide nodded. “The stories say that her heart knew things,” he explained. “A few years after she had come to New Ainsley, our Ainsley, Ainorra Breagha felt a warning against the spring and asked all of Ainsley not to plant their crops. Now,” Haide said, scratching his arm and looking Wil in the eyes, “to tell an Aemogen man not to plant is to tell him not to breathe. We come from this earth, and we will go into it—it’s our nature. The planting season was ripe and ready, and you must plant on time,” he explained. “For, when winter comes, it comes sharp. We’ve no time for an extended harvest. But, Ainorra Breagha asked the men not to plant.”
“Did they listen?” Wil asked.
“Most did, but some did not. Time passed,” Haide continued. “And, after a month, the rumors flew that the queen was crazy. Never had a fairer season been seen, and the few planted crops did well. Weeks passed, but then, a storm came in from the southern sea. It was a vile thing, hard and cold. Blossoms froze right on the trees as it beat upon the land: all snow and hail,” he explained. “The crops planted were lost, every one. After the storm passed, Ainorra Breagha told her people to plant.”
“And those who lost their crops learned their lesson and went without,” Wil guessed.
“Their neighbors shared, of course, but learn a lesson they did.” Haide shrugged. “It may be only a story to you, but we Aemogen’s know better. And Queen Eleanor reminds us all of Ainorra Breagha. They are the only reigning queens in the history of Aemogen, which is why Eleanor is named after her.”
The evening was settling around them. Aurrey had gone to the door to speak with some
women in the street, leaving the men to their conversation.
“I hadn’t realized that she was,” Wil said.
“A daughter, born first, after seven hundred years?” Haide said. “You better believe she was.”
“And so if Eleanor felt, despite all the impossibility, that Aemogen’s best interests were to fight, you should follow—”
“I would, proudly,” Haide insisted. “She is a good monarch, and I love her for it.”
Wil creased his forehead. “You almost speak as if she were your daughter.”
“She is,” Haide said. “The queen is daughter, mother, and sister to us all. We honor her, and she us. I remember the morning of her coronation—she was a young start,” Haide laughed. “They all were. Councillor Aedon, too, was just barely a man: intelligent, but young. The king had intended to train him up a good ten, fifteen years, if not more. But, when he died unexpected—” Haide said, lifting his hands.
“So, there we were,” he continued. “With a slip of a queen and the head councillor just more than a boy himself—children, really. After the ceremony, Queen Eleanor stood and said, in a small voice, ‘I will give all my heart to you. Will you do the same for me?’ That crowd cheered longer than any I’d ever heard. She was smart and good and had spent her life preparing. The queen was ready.”
“Surely, she has made mistakes in her youth,” Wil said.
“And I make mistakes as a man,” Haide answered practically. “The people do not hold her mistakes against her, and she does not hold ours against us. It’s a contract, you see. She reigns by contract: we give our best to her, and she gives her best to us,” he explained. “That is what we speak of. If one party falls short today, well, we know to rise up and better ourselves for tomorrow.”
Wil rubbed his hand across his face and leaned back in his chair. “So, you do not believe that she reigns with divine right?” he asked.
Haide laughed and shrugged. “I, personally, don’t think God cares,” Haide said. “If I were a king, I might think differently though. Be it gods or ghosts who put her there, if she stays true to us, I will follow her, for I have seen what other countries are.”