The Edict

by P. J. Keyworth

  “Not fair?” Anger flashed into Kiara’s eyes. This man didn’t know who he was dealing with. The anger gave her a burst of energy, her movements became even faster and before long she had dealt three successive blows upon Gorian, the final hitting his jaw. He stepped backwards, rubbing it.

  Kiara saw the warning light in the man’s eyes and picked up her feet in anticipation of his response. He came at her harder this time, his blows quicker, with real weight behind them. If he struck her it would hurt.

  “Tell me, how does a maiden come to learn to fight so effectively?” asked Gorian between pants.

  “Aren’t all Reluwyn women so trained?” Kiara danced to the left, keeping her arms up ready to block.

  “You aren’t Reluwyn.” He jabbed again, this time catching her upper arm. The pain was sharp where his knuckle connected with bone. Her arm went numb.

  As he became more confident, his stance slackened and his movements slowed. There was no sign of the Prince. Would Gorian stop before hurting her? A shot of fear ran through her, had she been relying on the Prince to save her? She had to change her tactics. She needed to swallow her pride.

  Her expression softened. “I may have underestimated you.”

  “And I you,” Gorian acknowledged the loss of her fighting stance, slowing his pace and circling her. “Perhaps I can see why the Prince is so enchanted with you, Little One.” He reached out to where he had struck her, and smoothed his fingers over her arm. Kiara felt sick in the pit of her stomach.

  They had both come to a halt and it was only now that Kiara noticed the deathly silence in the hall. She had thought it was on account of them, but when Gorian visibly paled on seeing someone behind her, she knew why.

  Kiara turned towards the focus of his surprise with a false smile painted across her rosy face.

  “My Lord Prince.” Even after planning this, Kiara was not prepared for the fury on her captor’s face. The burning eyes were not directed at her, however, but at Gorian.

  Before she knew what was happening, Trevisian strode forwards, all his weight behind his fist as it connected with Gorian. The courtier fell backwards, blood flying from his nose. The man’s hands groped across his face trying to quench the flow which was rapidly pouring down his chin and onto his chest. Johan, who had accompanied the Prince, picked up a towel and threw it at the injured man.

  Trevisian, whose shoulders were visibly shaking, turned upon his Favourite. She could see he had been lately riding, mud spattered his boots and leather trousers, his whole stance one of tense anger. He snatched at her wrist, his fingers closing around it remorselessly, dragging her from the room.

  He did not stop until they were out of the male wing of the palace entirely. He was still dragging Kiara when she suddenly yanked back.

  “You’re hurting me!” she cried, yanking her arm but unable to get freedom from Trevisian’s grip.

  He turned upon her then, his silence ending, “And what if I am? Why should I care over a street-brat like you?” he shouted, inches from her face.

  “Don’t act as though I have done something wrong,” she yelled in response, dealing back what she was being dealt.

  He laughed, the sound coming out as a strangled bark. Several courtiers rounded the corner, coming upon the couple in the alcove.

  “Leave!” Trevisian threw at them, sending them scampering quickly away. Johan, who had been with the couple until now, left with the courtiers.

  Trevisian then turned back to Kiara, pulling her closer to him. She yelped as burning laced through her shoulder socket.

  “Trying to dislocate my arm again? Taking back any good you have done me in payment for my sins against you?” she spat at him, her tone venomous.

  “I told you I would take payment for what you have done.”

  “Then kill me! I don’t care.”

  The Prince checked himself. Kiara’s eyes were as honest as her words.

  He pulled her again, trying to move forwards.

  “Don’t drag me, I am not some animal of yours to do with as you will.” She pulled away again. “Strike me if you intend to, hit me like you did Gorian.”

  “Gorian?” Trevisian’s face looked confused for a moment, then the look of malice was back. “You mean that courtier who called you Little One? The one who hit you and then dared to touch you again?” The questions were asked as if he was reliving the sight again his voice heating with every syllable.

  “Hit me! Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting to do since you met me?” Again, she saw a look of confusion cross the Prince’s face.

  “Why do you think I hit that man?” He came towards her and she backed away as far as she could. “You think I enjoyed it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He looked to the hand which had struck Gorian, it was already swelling and the skin had split over his middle knuckle. “You think I enjoy causing you physical pain?” A sigh escaped him. “Damn this all.”

  His hand loosened on her arm. She could have pulled away if she had wanted to. But she didn’t understand her own feelings in this moment, not when confronted by the conflict in the Prince’s face.

  “I don’t understand you,” she whispered.

  “Come with me.”

  Kiara realised that this was the closest he was going to come to asking. She nodded and they walked on in silence to his chambers. It was not until the door was closed that he released her arm and spoke again.

  “Take that off.” He didn’t even look at her, his hand gesture taking in Gorian’s tunic that still covered her frame. She did as she was bid, pulling the fabric over her head. She threw her hair back over her shoulders and laid the tunic down on one of the cushions surrounding the table. A breeze coming through the open doors of the balcony caused a shiver to run through her.

  She thought the Prince had not been looking at her, but she realised she was mistaken when he went into his bedchamber and returned with a black tunic of his own. He handed it to her without speaking.

  Had the circumstances been different she would have refused, but for some reason it felt like a peace offering. She took the soft fabric and pulled it over her head, happy for both the covering and the warmth.

  “Does your arm still hurt?” he raised a hand as if to touch it but stopped short.

  “No.” It did a little, but the look in his eyes made her want to reassure him. What was wrong with her? This morning she had been set on getting revenge for his actions last night, but now she didn’t want to. One moment he was angry and vengeful, the next he was defending her, giving her a tunic to keep her warm, asking if she was in pain.

  Satisfied with her answer, the Prince gestured for her to sit on the cushions surrounding the table. She did as she was bid, but rather than joining her the Prince continued to pace. When he finally sat opposite her he remained silent, staring into the middle distance and then at her. They sat like that for some time before he spoke.

  “Why do you think I hit Gorian?”

  Kiara shrugged, but seeing the intent look in his eyes she answered. “Because he touched your property.”

  He did not respond to her answer.

  “Why were you in the Fighting Hall?”

  “I was angry.”

  His head cocked to one side as he examined her. “I embarrassed you.”

  “You humiliated me,” she corrected, unable to hold his gaze. She pulled the neckline of the tunic closed and pulled the hem lower on her legs.

  “You are more comfortable in men’s clothes.”

  “I don’t like being stared at.”

  “I’ve noticed.” his mouth tilted upwards but his eyes remained unamused. “You’re very beautiful.”

  “Am I?” She wasn’t doing well under the scrutiny. She had never been so brazenly called beautiful, as if it was some fact. “Is that why you…” she faltered, breaking off her line of thought before she could finish. She didn’t want him to answer.

  “I don’t enjoy hurting people.”

 
The abrupt admission asked for no reply. He said it as though under pressure, as though the admission was essential. She stared back at him but he was already rising. He walked into his bedchamber again. This time he returned with her father’s blade.

  “This is yours?”

  “It was my father’s.” She didn’t need to admit anything, but something told her that what she was seeing of the Prince was the truth. She stood up before him, her hands remaining by her sides rather than trying to snatch at the blade as she would have done before.

  “Is your father dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “And mine. Do you miss him?”

  “I barely remember him.” She turned away, looking at the trinkets that were spread over his desk. It was easy to talk when she forgot he was the Prince. “I think I do, sometimes. Do you miss yours?” An odd truce lay between them.

  He turned the sheathed blade over in his hand and then held it out to her. “You may have it.”

  She hesitated.

  “It will not be allowed in the harem, but it’s yours.”

  Her fingers opened and he placed the weapon in them.

  “I could kill you,” she said, her tone surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You said that before.”

  She turned the blade absently until she could clasp the hilt and then let it hang by her side.

  “If you wish to fight so much, you can fight with me, I can teach you,” he held up a hand, as if to stop her protest at his assumption of precedence over her skill. “You’re quick, but your skill was lacking with the blade when we fought outside Grûl.”

  “And you’re willing to teach me?”

  Trevisian shrugged. “I am unwilling to share your company with others.”

  Kiara felt her heart beat faster at the words and the allusion to the Fighting Hall.

  The Prince’s hand came up again towards her injured arm but this time he did touch her. He traced his fingers down the length of it, ending on her fingers. “No one else can call you Little One.”

  She nodded automatically. His hand came up again, and this time it travelled lightly up her neck and onto her chin.

  “I kissed you last night.”

  Again, she nodded, barely realising what she was doing. She saw it again, the shadow of pain which showed when he allowed it. His touch was light, his eyes softer than they had ever been. This moment was so unlike last night. “I want to kiss you again.”

  Her breath became thick and shallow. In her anger she had buried the feelings he had stirred in her last night. Now they were back, filtering through every fibre of her being, bringing every part of her alive.

  He had waited, watching the response in her face, now he leant down, his fingers threading through her hair, drawing her to him. His lips were soft and warm against hers. They didn’t push immediately with passion as they had done last night, they asked and she responded. The sword hilt fell from her grasp, the weapon clattering on the tiled floor, her hand coming up and flitting shyly from his shoulder, to his neck, to his hair in unpractised but natural movements. The Prince pulled back gently for a few moments, studying her face briefly, and as if happy with what he saw there, bent to the task once more.

  His arms became stronger, wrapping themselves around her frame and drawing her against him. His hands raked their fingers through the long golden curls, and his mouth became more urgent.

  The moment was so distracting that neither of them heard the knock at the door. Neither did they hear it open, in fact, it wasn’t until the Radichi warrior had walked in, shut the doors behind him to preserve their privacy, and coughed loudly, that they noticed his presence. Trevisian pulled away and looked over to his friend whilst Kiara, caught in such a position, raised her hands to cover her burning cheeks and turned away.

  She escaped the Prince’s arms, shyness forcing her to walk away from the visitor and the man who had been kissing her. She allowed her hair to fall forward about her face to cover it and pretended to be looking at the trinkets on the desk again.

  “My Lord Prince, I am come with a summons from Garesh for your immediate presence.”

  The Prince was not looking at Johan, his eyes were captivated by the woman whose back was to him, her head bent as though in concentration. His eyes slipped over her frame, the black material which ended at her lower thigh revealed smooth legs below.

  “I am busy, Johan.”

  “Yes, my Lord Prince, but the High Councillor said it is of the highest urgency.”

  The Prince sighed in frustration.

  “I will not be left in peace unless I respond?”

  “I fear not.”

  “Very well.” The Prince withdrew his eyes from Kiara reluctantly. “Can you take my Favourite back to the harem?”

  “Yes, my Lord Prince.”

  Just before he left, the Prince came alongside Kiara, his fingers touching her own in light movements. “I will see you again soon, my Little One,” he whispered, and then he left her.

  Chapter 17

  “I don’t know, Fidel.” Ikara twitched, her words like the swish of a tail trying to shoo away the prying questions.

  He said nothing in return but kept riding alongside her. They had made it to Ishtalia a few days ago. Today they were patrolling the city ramparts, watching members of their race who poured in daily to escape persecution. The Resistance was becoming simply the Laowyn people gathering together for protection.

  Ikara’s white mount shied at a group of travellers who held great bundles hung on their backs. The horse’s hooves clattered, swinging sideways and its flank hit Fidel’s horse. As one of the biggest men among the Resistance, the Captain was on one of the biggest mounts that they had. The horse was solid and didn’t pay much heed to the jostling of Ikara’s more sensitive mount. Pushing his horse forwards prevented Fidel from asking her again how she felt.

  He had been doing so every morning, and every morning she failed to reply. Today she was reaching the end of her patience. Through the cracks of her temper came truth - she had no idea how she felt. How should she feel when her race was under an extinction threat from the reigning powers? When their fate lay in her hands? One moment she was angry, the feeling burning so brightly within her she felt it might consume her. Then, just as if someone dashed water over it, she would feel a wave of grief over their circumstances. When the grief came so did a feeling of weakness, of powerlessness. The cruelty of this life seemed insurmountable, why bother to attempt the climb? Those feelings, in the nights since they had been here, had almost destroyed what she had left. Her reserves, the last parts of her which were left, were eroding away. Now as she rode with her Captain, she really did have no answer for him. She did not know how she was feeling. How could she? There was nothing keeping her going. A faint hope in the Great Spirit which had lingered at the beginning of her leadership had been extinguished with the death of Teo and the other Laowyn scouts whose lives had been forfeit.

  Ikara was reluctantly drawn out of her maudlin reverie with the arrival of Hendra. The older Captain came alongside Fidel on a large hairy beast that was not quite the rival of Fidel’s own.

  “A thousand more have poured into the city walls just today. We must make a decision, Commander, the city is indefensible after the Reluwyn armies slighted the walls. We cannot stay here.”

  “What are our options? We will be a slow cavalcade now we have so many Laowyn in tow, wherever we go we must measure the decision carefully,” replied Fidel thoughtfully.

  “The Elders are meeting as we speak, that’s why I have come to fetch you both.” Hendra scratched his short grey beard. “They are meeting in the ancient hall, I had a hard time making sure the civilians stayed out, our race is so damned respectful they are forever clamouring at the Elders. I have taken the liberty of stationing some of my troops around the building to keep their privacy.”

  “Privately deciding their fates. It’s no wonder they are scram
bling at the walls,” Ikara replied grimly.

  “We will come shortly,” said Fidel, inclining his head to the older Captain.

  Hendra nodded happily enough. He had re-joined them six months ago when the threat from the Reluwyn government had strengthened. His mission to the provinces to find support for the Resistance had been useful but a time of war was coming and he had been reassigned to gather all Resistance supporters to the shell of their old capital.

  Fidel had seen the knowing look Hendra gave him and the Commander when he was around them, and it was the same one that was on his face now as he rode away.

  Hendra turned his mount, peeling off from the other two, returning to the patrolling of the Elder’s meeting. Behind him, Ikara and Fidel continued on their perimeter walk around the city. Ikara’s horse picked its way nimbly between the rubble and fallen masonry which was scattered across the white paved path. Either side of them were derelict buildings which had once housed shops, meeting places and homes, their doors hanging slack and ajar, while creeping vines anchored themselves in the crevices of the white plaster.

  In stark contrast, the bright sun was giving the white stone city a feeling of life even after its tragic death more than twenty years ago. This was only emphasised by the myriad of incomers who were commandeering old buildings for shelter while swelling the Resistance’s ranks.

  “I can’t see a way out of this.” Ikara watched a small girl and boy build their own miniature city out of rubble in the street.

  “Nor I,” Fidel had his reins in one hand, the other resting lightly on his thigh as they rode. “The Great Spirit can, Ikara.”

  She didn’t speak for a few moments, not until they had turned off the main street and picked their way through one of the city’s broken walls. Now they were outside the settlement, the rising white wall with the city and sea behind it to their left, the open hill country of eastern Emrilion to their right.

  “Commander.”

  Fidel felt a rising frustration at the correction.

  “You never know, Commander,” he said, forcing himself to use the title. “Zeb, Djeck, Zephenesh and the twins may yet be successful.”