by E. Knight
My aunt tugged at a fur around her shoulders and wrapped it around mine. “You shall rest here for a time.”
I was too tired to argue, though I knew as soon as Mother could utter a word, we’d be on our way. She would not want to risk staying in one place until we got farther north. My eyes started to droop, and I was suddenly so heavy, so filled with exhaustion I could barely sit up straight. I set down the cup of mead, only half-drunk, and looked around the Great Hall. A crowd of people surrounded my mother, but Sorcha slipped into view, hurrying to join me at the fire.
“Keena, you should be resting.” Her own voice was filled with exhaustion. She looked and sounded more like Mother moment by moment. Whatever energy she’d been able to muster on our journey here was sapped. Now that we had found safe haven for a short time, her body must have realized it, even if her mind had not.
“You should rest. You did more than me today,” I said.
Sorcha turned her head toward Mother, fear etching her features. If Sorcha wouldn’t take care of herself, shouldn’t I be the one to do that? Our aunt was the younger sister of my mother, and that was what she was doing. Mayhap sometimes the younger did take care of the elder.
I picked up the half-filled cup and handed it to Sorcha. “Drink.” She took the cup and downed the contents. Then the corners of her mouth turned down. “That was filled with some concoction.”
I shrugged. “Herbs. It will calm you. Help you sleep.”
Sorcha nodded. “Then I should drink a vat.”
I smiled. “We have to be strong on the morrow for Mother. You know she will wake, and then again we will be running.”
“Perhaps they will lend us a cart.”
I nodded. “And a pony? We can lay Mother in the back of the cart while one of us drives and the other rides Andecarus’ mare.”
“Not as fashionable as when we used to travel . . .”
Sorcha trailed off, and I knew she spoke of the Roman games we once attended in Londinium, when we’d arrived in a gold-ornamented chariot behind Mother and Father’s own ornately carved one. “A cart won't be as celebrated as the chariot you rode into battle, either.”
Sorcha nodded, almost wistful despite of all the bloodshed that came with that chariot. I laid my head down upon the gathered furs and felt her sink beside me.
Just as I drifted off to sleep, I heard Sorcha speak, her voice far-off, as though a dream. “I am proud of you. You were brave, standing guard alone. Have courage, Keena. We may depend on you again one day.”
Depend on me? Until recently, I could barely depend on myself. I’d wished to die more than once. But Sorcha’s words . . . they gave me a spark, just the tiniest, dimly lit glow to heat my heart. Did my sister speak the truth? Did she know how very much I wanted to be like her? How much I’d admired her and despised her for all her strength?
Sorcha was the blessed one.
Sorcha was the strong one.
Sorcha was the warrior.
Not me. Not me.
I was the quiet one. I was the small one. I was the weak one. Wasn’t I? I saw myself on the dark moor, holding my mother's sword. Acting as protector. A strength I’d not known existed flowing through my veins. But that night I dreamed vividly of standing upon a hill. No one was with me. A hundred ravens circled overhead, and I glanced up to follow their path of flight only to see that I held in my hand a sword that dripped with blood.
And I didn’t scream or run in fear.
SORCHA
The man who taught me how to fight was not my father—though I know he wished he had been. My father was a proud warrior before he was king, but I was taught to fight by Duro, my mother’s right hand.
Duro hated the Romans with an all-encompassing fire, and I wondered if a part of him looked down on my father for honoring the Roman prohibition against our tribe carrying weapons. My father asked us to see the prosperity in what the Romans brought to us even as they took our swords and spears, for he believed we could find peace in partnering with the very men who sought our destruction.
For every injustice the Romans offered us year after year, I watched Mother’s face grow darker. The smiles that used to come easily lessened. Lines etched at the corners of her eyes and between her brows. She whispered in corners with her kinsmen. Father did not see it, but I knew she was planning something.
I was my father’s heir, along with Keena. One day, I would have to take care of my sister, in addition to our kingdom. Keena was weak. I knew that she would always depend on me, that I was meant to protect her.
Three years younger than me, she was shorter, much thinner, her coloring dark like our father. I took after Mother, tall, broad of shoulder, fiery locks, and blue eyes.
I’d heard it time and again. I was a protector. When the gods had gifted me with life on that moonlit winter night, they had spoken—I was blessed. I wanted to be more than blessed. I wanted to make my parents proud.
I also wanted to make Duro proud. I’d grown as close to him as I had my own father. When I was very young, I’d followed him into the woods where I heard rumors he trained the men in secret away from prying Roman eyes. I watched for a time behind a tree, flexing my fingers, eyes trained on every precise movement they made with their wooden swords.
When the men left, covered in sweat, dirt, bruises, and smiles, Duro called out. “I know you’re there.”
I bit my lip, wondering if I should run. I stepped from behind the tree and said, “I want to train to be a warrior.”
Duro raised his brow. “A warrior? You are a princess. Should you not concern yourself with more diplomatic affairs?”
I frowned. “But I want to learn how to fight. I want to be strong so that I can lead my tribe one day. Am I not the lucky princess?”
Duro grunted, his gray brows rising as he appraised me. “What do you think the principal duty of a warrior is?”
“To protect.”
“And the second?” His fingers flexed around the wooden hilt of his sword.
I raised my chin. I knew this one. “To honor his king and queen.”
“I think you have it backward.” Before I could ask what he meant, I saw a glimpse behind another tree of a dark, curly head.
Ria. My half sister, the get of my father upon a slave girl. Everyone knew of her kinship to me, but no one would speak it aloud, and I never did, either. My father was fond of her, insisting that she be a part of our household. A mistake, I thought, for Ria’s age alone spoke of my father’s indiscretions. And no woman, much less my mother, wanted a constant reminder that for a few brief moments her husband shared his passion with someone other than her.
The sight of Ria ducking back behind her tree had distracted me, but not Duro. “You will always be expected to honor your king and queen,” he said. “That oath always comes first.”
I rose to my full height. “For most warriors, perhaps. But when I am queen, there will be no one above me, and so I must honor my duty to protect first.”
“What about your husband?” Duro asked. “He will be your consort.”
“But not my king,” I snarled. “I would be the queen.”
“Even so, your husband will likely be chosen for you, whether negotiated for you by your parents, elected by the tribe, or appointed by Rome.”
I jutted my chin out in defiance. “Then I will not marry.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong. You are the lucky princess. You must marry in order to carry on your legacy through the birth of your children.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Perhaps it is Andraste’s wish that I fulfill my destiny in some other way.”
Duro smirked, baiting me on purpose. “Nonsense. Andraste may have already chosen a husband for you.” He waved away my cry of outrage the same way he batted away a fly. “Now take this stick; we’ve wasted enough breath on talking. Time to show you a thing or two about fighting. Weapons instead of words.”
Years passed, and by the tim
e I was almost thirteen, my training had intensified, and I had a few scars to prove it. Duro let me lunge, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes with grace, slapping at my ribs with the flat side of his wooden sword. I was tall, growing toward my mother's height, but all that growing meant I’d not yet become accustomed to my own body.
We continued the dance every afternoon, the only sound our grunts and the loud reverberating sound of our wooden shafts slamming into one another until Ria again dipped her head from behind a tree. Always hiding. Always sneaking about.
“What is it?” I called out to her, annoyed that she should break my concentration and earn me a slap from Duro’s stick.
Ria bowed her head, hands folded before her, and spoke softly to Duro. “Your son Andecarus has returned.”
I glanced at Duro, watching him blanch. “Your son?”
Duro pursed his lips and nodded grimly. Andecarus had been given to the Romans as a hostage years before. Forced to fight in their auxiliary. Another reason Duro detested the Romans.
Duro cleared his throat and returned his attention to me. “Let us continue.”
“Do you not want to see your son? He’s been away for a very long time.”
“He can wait.”
I jabbed the floor of our makeshift training ground in the woods with the tip of my wooden sword. “He can. But you should not have to. I am Princess of the Iceni, blessed one of Andraste, and I command you to bring your son before me.”
I was truly only playing with my newfound power as a young royal woman when I said it, and I fully expected Duro to punish me for my arrogance. I expected him to say no, that he’d not bring his son, gone so long with the Romans, to our secret training ground. But Duro surprised me. He turned to Ria and gave her a curt nod, then launched into a full attack, knocking my sword to the ground.
“Your tongue is sharp, your mind impulsive. Be quicker with your hands if you wish to lead the strong.”
I nodded, biting my tongue and forcing myself not to react.
“Don't you trust your son?”
Duro hesitated. “I don't even know my son.”
“So let us meet him.”
A moment later, Andecarus strolled into view. I’d been too young to remember him leaving—somehow I'd imagined him a boy, but he was a man fully grown. He was shorter than his father and leaner. Handsome, too. Long dark hair was pulled back in a flattened braid, an unusual look for an Iceni, for our men wore their hair either limed stiff or in undisciplined chaos. He had eyes the color of the woodlands in autumn, and they met mine with a fire that matched my own. We could be friends, this young man and I. I did not want him to dismiss me as a mere child.
I held up my wooden practice sword, pointing the tip toward him. “You’ve been away with the Romans. Show me what you’ve learned.”
A direct challenge from a woman, likely to anger any man, but Andecarus was not any man. And I was not any woman. He was Duro’s son, and I was his princess.
He glanced at his father, who gave his approval with a warning that no blood be shed. The two of us agreed. I balanced on nimble feet, rocking back and forth, the weight of the wooden sword starting to strain the muscles of my forearm and shoulder.
“Give me everything you’ve got,” I challenged.
Andecarus laughed. “Silly girl,” he said.
Duro made a half-strangled sound; I couldn't tell if it was outrage or amusement. “That is no way to address your princess.”
Rebellion flared in Andecarus’ eyes. He remained rigid; then, with an audible sigh of annoyance and an irritated flash at his father, Andecarus begrudgingly begged my forgiveness.
“Warriors do not beg,” I said. “That is a value the Iceni and the Romans both hold. Raise your sword and fight me.”
The next moment, our blades clashed, and I thought—just what did Duro mean when he said, Andraste may have already chosen a husband for you?
Three years into training together, Andecarus finally let me have it.
The sun shone, though beneath the blanket of leaves from the tallest oaks, we were shaded, and a good thing because both of us were covered in a thick layer of sweat.
We were alone, as we were most of the time. Duro didn’t like it when I trained with the other warriors. They eyed me sideways now that I was a woman grown, which made Duro glare protectively. He was as fussy and protective as a hen sometimes. Andecarus' sword arced in the air, muscles beneath his tunic bunching as he brought it down toward my own wooden blade. We’d been sparring partners for more than three years, and in all that time, his height had remained the same, whereas mine had grown considerably.
I was a good hand taller than him, a fact that irked him considerably given that I had sixteen summers to his twenty-seven, and I’d finally grown used to my own height. My movements were fluid, practiced, and deadly. I ducked, sweeping my sword toward his ankles, and he leapt into the air, twisting. He brought his sword down in a sideswiping move that would have dislocated my shoulder had I not also twisted out of the way, hand glancing off the ground to balance me.
Whenever we fought this way, I imagined what it would be like next summer, when my father and his father would make an agreement that we should marry. When Mother would pray to Andraste, sacrificing a hare to bring the gods’ blessings upon us. I did not know if Duro had raised the matter with his son, but Father had raised it to me. Andecarus, my husband and consort. I would walk to him next year in a wreath of summer flowers, as my mother had walked to my father, and one day we, too, would be Queen and King of the Iceni—if the tribesmen willed it and if Rome allowed it, but why shouldn’t they?
Andecarus was like my father, and I like my mother. We were well matched.
The moment's dreaming was enough to make me falter in my steps, and Andecarus immediately dropped his sword, reaching forward to catch me. His arms encircled me in a warm embrace, my breath caught, heart pounded. I bent my knees a little so we were closer to eye to eye, and not at all because my legs felt wobbly.
I’d never been this close unless we were battling. But right now I was the only one holding a weapon. At least a tangible weapon. For I feared Andecarus’ true strength when it came to me was his quiet, unwavering eyes. Eyes that made my heart ache and yearn when they rested on me.
Was this love? After three years, I thought it must be, for I had never felt this ache with anyone else.
His hand slid over my arm to where my fingers clutched the hilt of my practice sword, and he held tight to it.
“Do not ever let go of this, Sorcha.” He had always used my name, casually, because we were friends. It had never felt intimate before . . . well, before this moment, where something sparked and the air felt literally filled with heat.
“I will not let go,” I said and gave the hilt a squeeze under his hand.
“You’re better with the sword than some men.” His voice had grown low and gravelly.
I leaned closer, and I told myself it wasn’t because I needed his strength to stand up. My knees were not weak, I swear it. Me, the blessed one, the princess born for greatness—I couldn't go weak at the gentle touch of a man. But I was, and I knew it.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“You do not need to thank me. I speak not to praise you, but out of truth.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I have seen and learned much of the world. Both here and in my time with the Romans. I could teach you a few things.”
“And?”
“We live in a changing time.”
“What do you see?” I felt he knew something, as though the gods had visited him in a dream and shared with him some secret that I’d yet to learn.
He shook his head. “Its not so much what I see, but what I’ve learned.”
“Tell me.”
“The Romans are not all bad. There are some bad apples in the barrel, but generally, they want good things for this land. For the people who inhabit it—both Roman and tribesmen. Growth. T
hey are willing to work with us.”
I smiled. “That is why my father agreed to be a client king.”
Andecarus laughed, the sound scratchy. “Yes.”
“But what of the fact that we still train with wood instead of iron?”
“Someday we will prove to them we are their allies and they have nothing to fear from us.”
A rush of excitement filled me. Perhaps this would happen when Andecarus and I were officially matched. I couldn’t think of it. Felt the heat rising to my cheeks.
“Shall we finish our training?” I asked, feeling flustered.
He didn’t answer, only studied my face with an increasing intensity that set my blood on fire.
“I—” He abruptly cut himself off.
I cocked my head. “What?”
“I find you . . . thought provoking.”
“Thought provoking?” I raised a brow. That was not exactly the praise a woman wanted from a man.
“And fierce. And beautiful.” He whispered those last precious words as he pressed his forehead to mine.
Our eyes remained locked on one another. Would he kiss me? The thought had my heart leaping into my throat and my stomach dropping to my feet. My fingers trembled around the hilt of my sword; his own trembling on top of mine.
Andecarus leaned a little closer, his lips only an inch from mine. I kept my eyes open, not one to shield myself from what was happening right before me. If this was to be my first kiss, then I wanted to remember every detail from the crease in the center of his forehead to the golden-brown flecks in his eyes and the droplet of sweat that traced the length of his brow.
Warm breath fanned my face, and I gulped, couldn’t swallow around the dryness in my throat. I arched my neck so that our lips might meet should he dare to press just a little closer.
“Princess.”
Our moment was broken by Ria’s voice.
I jerked away from Andecarus. Had she been hiding behind the tree again? Spying on us?
“What is it?” I asked tersely, letting her know just how much I did not appreciate her intrusion.
“The queen wishes to speak with you.”