“What would the family of Apple Valley think if they saw a woman defending my keep?” The baron snorted derisively. “They’d see a weak old man so desperate and confused he’d send out his own womenfolk in front of him as a shield! They’d attack tomorrow, and you wouldn’t know what to do. Imagine a woman fighting one of them. Huh.” He made a noise that reminded her of a barking dog. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about fighting.”
“I’m done.” Ripping through an absolutely unbreakable rule of etiquette, she dropped out of the dance and stormed across the Great Hall to an uninteresting corner in shadow.
The dance continued smoothly as an older woman who had not been dancing rose swiftly to the occasion and filled in the place Rivka had vacated.
Isaac appeared by her side. “Theatrics?”
“He’s insufferable,” she grumbled.
“Which one?”
“Yes.”
“We could spar after the ball.”
“Please. I don’t think I could sleep very easily after this.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll try not to cut off your hands.”
Making no comment about the strange things her frustration and rage were making her say, Isaac floated away into the crowd. Rivka’s mind was moving a mile a minute, and the ballroom had become an oppressive distraction as she struggled to keep up with her own thoughts. She needed to get someplace quiet, where she could think without being disturbed.
She slipped outside into the crisp night air. Without too much thought about how it would stain or rend her dress, she crawled into the little cavern made by the low-hanging branches of the tree where she had first read Isaac’s handwriting in the book.
The general’s disdain for her dreams had horrified her. What entrapment he offered her! What an infinitely tall tower of imprisonment! After spending several years naïvely assuming that a man with a sword would want a woman who matched him, she had discovered in one moment how very different that woman was who he expected -- the woman into whom he would have tried to change her.
Speaking with Isaac after such an insult had felt like eating the roast chicken after the stale bread. This was the way she wanted a man to talk to her -- to be concerned for her feelings, to invite her to spar, to be unafraid of her aggressive moods. Far from being a wet blanket upon her fiery nature -- instead, he was a sturdy hearth that nurtured that fire and gave it a safe place to flourish. She was happiest when she was around him and looked forward to their next meeting when they were apart. Often, she wished for his company in unlikely moments.
A frisson of fear rippled through her body. She forbade herself even to think the words. But the idea itself, wordless, bubbled forth from her heart and could not be contained. Try as she did, she couldn’t suppress a sudden thought of the thick solidness of his body -- tall, strong, and a little stout but sturdy -- and his impish, placid expression and pointed eyebrows that suddenly made her think of a cat smiling at you with its eyes closed. She saw them with new eyes and clenched her fists at her sides.
Feeling as if her very blood had been replaced by a substance both unfamiliar and intoxicating, she went to her room to collect her sword, ready to meet him at the battlefield of her heart.
Chapter 9: Press the Night, Collect the Sun
Rivka darted around within the stone walls, each stroke of her sword falling silently on one or two of Isaac’s spiraling whips of light. She hated the startling buzz they made if they touched her, and they made a strong but ultimately harmless incentive for her to be on her toes with her technique. After her heart had burst like a ripe grape, exposing unseen parts to her conscious mind, she had been filled with a relentless manic energy, and tonight, she fought off the whips with extra vigor.
The whips didn’t catch her at all, and she thought her technique was flawless. But in one swift moment, Isaac once again changed the game. Moving his hands down to his sides, he suddenly looked into her eyes. “You are distracted.”
In an echo of her courage in his room in the tower on the first day of their sparring, she faced him without flinching or denying anything. “It’s of no consequence,” she retorted. “It wouldn’t be a factor with any adversary I would meet in battle.”
She knew there was so much he was trying to say with his eyes, and with the rest of that impish face, but all he said was, “Ah, but what if you hate him as much as you...” He stopped.
Rivka knew why he was silent. The celibacy vow of the Wizard Order was held in place by a number of strange and terrifying spells, the price of each wizard’s entry into the secret magic they taught. If he touched a woman, if he spoke about love to a woman, or even moved his hands in the shape of the letters to write them -- she had known this from the beginning. Fool that her heart was, it didn’t care.
But she didn’t want to scare him away. “I ask nothing of you but the friendship you already give,” she blurted out. She could endure her feelings, but what if he found them threatening? Or even insulting?
“I’m not scared of you, Rivka,” he said quietly. Then, after a moment of consideration, he lifted his right hand and blasted light at a halved log in the corner. She stood in place, puzzled, until he motioned with his head for her to go look.
She had to bend down and bring the log close to her eyes to read the words that he had branded there in the most beautiful script she had ever seen,
I can give only my heart, but it is absolutely yours.
Her mind stopped, halted in that moment of discovery, and she might have even forgotten to breathe.
“Rivka, mind your sword!” And the next thing she knew she was fumbling to block his attacks again. He aimed one of his hands at the log as they continued to spar, and it burst into flames, destroying the evidence -- everywhere but within her breast.
They spoke no more that night of what Rivka now knew to be a mutual love, but now that the egg had been cracked there was no putting it back into the shell. Rivka tossed and turned in her bed, longing to be with him, exploring thoughts she had never before considered. She ran her hand down her body, imagining it was his touch she felt. At the very idea, she cried out into the night.
Sleep would not come. She could think only of him. And so she arose, wrapped her dressing gown around her body, and crept into the passageways.
There was a knock at the wizard’s locked door.
“Who disturbs my sleep?” growled a familiar bass voice, the low tones resonating more powerfully and more harshly than usual through the door.
“Please let me in.”
“What happened to not asking more of me?”
“I’m sorry -- I’m weak--” She pressed herself against his door, yearning for the impossible, wanting him to hold her and turn whatever felt like a heart beating between her legs into an oasis of sweet relief.
“No, you’re strong because you know what you want and you’re not afraid to ask for it.”
“Open the door, I beg of you.”
“You know my vows.”
“I promise not to shame you. I won’t even look at you. I just want to be near you.” She banged on the door once with both fists. “I’ll stay out here if I have to.”
“Heed, Rivka.” He was close to the door now, and even this intimacy shot ribbons of feeling through her body. “Go back to your room and close your door, and if you promise not to open it during the night, I promise that I will follow you and stay with you on the outside as you sleep.”
“Why my door, and not yours?”
“Because I would rather the risk of being caught in the passageway fall to me. Let this be something I can give you.”
Breaking, Rivka whispered, “I promise!” and made for her room as quickly as she could.
Shutting the door behind her, she remained right beside it, eventually sitting on the floor with her back against the door as she waited. Finally, she heard his voice. “Rivka.”
“Isaac,” she replied, her face spreading into a grin. “I’m sorry--”
“You have no reason to apologize,” he said. “My vows are mine alone to keep -- my burden and my responsibility -- not yours. Cherish your feelings, and don’t be ashamed of them. Enjoy them as I cannot.”
“Then I love you, and in my mind you’re holding me.”
He began to sing in another language. It was the speech of Perach, to the south, just as in their prayers, but the text was one she’d never heard before.
Jeweled stars, pearl stars
Silver coins in olive jars
Glittering deep within the dark
See them flicker, see them spark
Press the olives, pool the oil
Golden sunlight, golden royal
Press so olive oil will run
Press the night, collect the sun...
She leaned into the door and let his deep voice resonate through her body, caressing her with sound. As he sang, delight flooded her brain and drove out all thought.
For several hours they shared hearts, talking of their childhoods and of his adventures out on the battlefield. As sleep finally overtook the frustrated but soothed maiden, she said to him, “I hope that I dream that we’re fighting side by side.” It wasn’t all she was hoping to dream, but what she’d said out loud had a reasonable chance of coming true -- at least, in the alternate reality where the baron would let her fight and would respect Isaac enough to take his advice. And she didn’t want to make him feel guilty for holding true to his vows, which he couldn’t break even if he wanted to without serious wizard consequences.
“I hope your dreams bring you comfort,” was his heavy-laden reply.
She hugged herself and felt his love in it. He sang again until she slept.
***
Two days later, the maid was sick. Somebody else cleaned Rivka’s room and came at a different time, and before Rivka knew anything about it, the alternate maid had found her sword and shown it to enough people that it was too late to try to bribe anyone to be silent. She rushed toward the Great Hall, hoping to intercept her uncle before someone else told him about the sword. She knew he’d take the secrecy just as badly as the disregard of his wishes.
“Uncle!” She dashed into the room in a hot flurry of skirts. Then she clapped her hands to her face and shrieked.
Isaac was standing in the center of the room, grimacing, with Rivka’s sword pointed fixedly at his throat -- courtesy of the baron.
Chapter 10: The Blood-Streaked Flower
“Deceit. Deceit, and shame, and insult.” With each percussive word, the hand that held the sword twitched slightly, as if the baron were trying very hard not to simply kill the wizard there and then. “You invade my castle with your useless ideas and two-faced words of peace, and then embarrass me before my enemies. Was that your game all along, wizard? Show them that our forces are so pathetic that a bastard wench must raise a sword in our defense? Whose side are you on?”
“She has talent.” Isaac’s voice was quiet, grim, and resolute.
“A woman cannot wield a sword!” the baron bellowed. “You defile my house with your insolent ideas. Hersch!” He gestured to an attendant page. “Fetch a messenger. Then go to my private weapons room and bring me the black box that sits in the southeast corner.”
Rivka studied him, looking for an opening, but he had been a lifelong warrior and the hand that held her blade showed no sign of weakness. Instead, she said simply, “Uncle, I can fight for you. You and I both know it’s useless for me to add that I wish it wasn’t true, but the Apple Valley troops are always a danger. I promise that I can help you repel the next attack.”
“Useless -- your promise is useless!” screamed the baron, close enough to Isaac’s face to cause the stoic, stony mask of anger to momentarily flinch. “You would collapse at what I’ve seen in one half-minute of ordinary battle.”
“Uncle--”
He put up his other hand. “Save your breath. Guards, hold my niece.”
Before Rivka could dart out of the way, four strong men appeared from the shadowed corners and grabbed her arms and legs. She wriggled with all her might, but none of her heavy, muscled pushes could break her free. There were simply too many guards.
“Wizard, you have interfered with the supervision of my valley, you have interfered with the peace of my home, and now you have interfered with my family -- especially this fatherless girl whose upbringing has been my burden these many years.” The baron sounded like a judge passing down a verdict. “Of course her weak woman’s mind would believe whatever twaddle you told her about dead kings and theoretical battle plans based on dreams.”
“You would dig in a gold mine and see only potatoes,” Isaac growled. “And you would swallow them whole, bitterly regretting your misfortune while filling your stomach with countless riches.”
“Why, you--”
“I hope you choke on them.”
“I have a sword to your throat! Your words mean nothing.”
But to Rivka, bound and struggling, they meant everything, especially as one who had been called Daughter of Beet-greens. She knew in her heart, with a certainty as real as the air in her lungs, that Isaac valued her as nobody else had. Beets and potatoes come up from the earth and taste of earth. Gold comes out of the dirt but shines like sunlight.
The messenger entered, followed by the page and his cargo. “Sire, you sent for me?”
“Yes. Report this message to the Wizard Order in the mountains,” said the baron officiously. “I’ve found their wizard representative completely unacceptable and demand his removal immediately. If they insist on replacing him -- if they must nursemaid me -- tell them to send me someone who isn’t so insufferably smug”-- he glared at Isaac -- “and who doesn’t constantly quote ancient histories, and who won’t disobey my rules in my own castle! You never should have even spoken to the girl, fool wizard.”
The messenger cleared his throat. “Sire, was that all?”
“What? Oh, yes. Yes. Just tell them to get here as soon as possible to collect him.”
“Collect him?” Rivka’s heart pounded in her ears.
The baron’s response was to gesture at his page for the black box.
Rivka’s glance met Isaac’s. In that moment of terror she memorized his eyes. For a moment, she was able to forget the room, the sword, the baron, the four strong men holding her, and the nightmare she was sure would follow.
The baron’s free hand emerged from the black box holding a small vial of liquid. “Wizard, I don’t believe for a moment you would actually leave if I banished you awake. You’re a sneaky, slithering, treacherous, interfering--”
“What is that?” Rivka demanded.
“Shut up, girl! It’s sleep... sleep in a bottle.” He held it up for her. “He’s going to drink it, and then he won’t be able to cause any more trouble until the other wizards come to get him and take him far away.”
Isaac pursed his lips and glanced up at the baron defiantly. He lifted one of his pointed eyebrows and closed his lips tightly.
Rivka noticed his hands at his side, slowly tensing into action. She silently prayed that his magical whips of light would be swift and effective. Could he use them to free himself and get out of the room before the baron could swing his sword?
“Guards, knives,” said the baron, unexpectedly.
In one confusing moment, light flared from Isaac’s fingers, and the guards holding Rivka suddenly held daggers to her flesh. “You would harm your own blood?” he growled at the baron in horror.
“Of course I wouldn’t kill her,” explained the baron. “But there are things those men can do with their daggers that I know you don’t want them to do to her.” He grabbed the wizard’s right arm and pulled back his sleeve roughly to expose the scar across his wrist and forearm.
“You monster,” Isaac growled. Rivka had never seen him so bitterly angry, almost as if he were buried under an avalanche of his own rage.
“Drink the cordial like a good little irritating meddler,” said the baron, �
�and Rivka won’t be harmed.”
“No!” Her voice was like a hawk’s scream.
“Shut up, girl!”
“Get those things away from me!” Rivka hissed at the guards. They were trying to be extra threatening by showing her how sharp the daggers were, shaving off bits of hair on her arms. Her fists clenched, and she longed for an army.
“Isaac--”
The wizard looked at her straight on, ignoring the baron completely for a moment. “I believe in you.”
Then he tilted his head slightly and opened his lips.
Without taking his eyes off Rivka, he let the baron’s rough hands tip the contents of the vial into his mouth.
“No!” Rivka’s jaw shook. Everything shook. “I’ll find you.”
The wizard’s blue eyes closed, beholding last an image of tall, blonde Rivka, trembling pridefully in the grasp of her captors. He fell limp into the arms of more guards who had turned up at the baron’s gesture.
“No, you won’t,” said the baron calmly. “Guards, get her into her room and lock the door from the outside. Make sure she gets regular meals.”
Stuffing the frantic, fighting Rivka into her room was like trying to bail out a boat that was leaking in fourteen places, but the guards managed it somehow and then bundled themselves off to dinner. She wore herself out banging on the door and then collapsed onto the floor with her hands once again clenched into fists.
She rushed to her window. It was too high to make a practical escape, despite the deep pond just beneath. Studying the landscape just outside the castle, her eye caught movement on the ground. What was that, if not the guards carrying the unconscious wizard into one of the wooden towers that had been built as storage for last year’s exceptionally bountiful crops? She stared at the strange, horrifying procession, torturing herself with every moment of beholding Isaac in such a state. He was beautiful in repose -- that repose should be with her, not as punishment for her friendship!
The guards disappeared with their prisoner into the tower, and before long she saw them in the topmost window, two or three stories up, fussing around in the room. Probably making room for him amid the sacks of beets.
The Second Mango (The Mangoverse Book 1) Page 7