Moth and Spark

by Anne Leonard

  She closed her eyes. He was right about the difficulty that would pose. “I can help the doctors,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “At least at first. But when the urgent times are over, your education will be more important.”

  “And when I have it, what am I to do with it? Besides giving you redundant advice? Your mother does not hold court or sit in council.”

  “That’s by her choice,” Corin said. “She sat beside my father whenever she could until I was fourteen or fifteen. If he had died she would have had to rule for me. Now she prefers to speak with him in private. As, I confess, do I. But when we have a child you will need to be able to sit in my place.”

  It was not quite overwhelming. She had never imagined she would be a queen. When he asked her to marry him, all she could think of was how much she loved him. She said, trying to keep her voice light so he would not take her too seriously, “No wonder you weren’t supposed to marry a commoner.”

  He put his arm around her. “Tam, name me three unmarried women of rank who are more prepared than you.”

  She thought about it. Jenet, Elyn, they were certainly not prepared. “I can’t,” she conceded. “But I don’t know very many such women at all.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I know them. And I can’t think of three. And you’ve seen more of the world than they have.”

  “Not really.” She had been to Argondy and Illyria to see the famous sights, the Illyrian mosaics and the Grand Avenue in the Argondian capital, but wealthy women all did such visiting. Or had, before the war. “I’ve never even been to Mycene.”

  “You’ve been to warehouses and hovels and apothecary’s shops. You know what a bill of lading is and how to tell a bookkeeper is cheating. That’s much more useful to me than sitting in the Mycenean capital drinking juices and playing with a pet monkey.”

  “All right,” she said. It did not make her feel any more ready, but there was no point in arguing it further. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Good.” He slid the edge of his hand under the hem of her shirt but left it low and warm on her back.

  “What about the other women? Are they going to hate me for leaping over them into the matrimonial bed?”

  “No doubt some of them will,” he said. “But they would hate anyone I married. It won’t be about you. I suspect most of the women will be pragmatic about the whole thing. And you’ll have my mother and sisters as your allies. If I had married a woman they despised, it would be much harder for her to win the court than it will be for you.”

  “There are still going to be people who think you married beneath you.” There would be flattery to her face and sneers and insults behind her back.

  “They can take that up with my father,” he said forcefully. “Tam, don’t forget that quite a number of lords and their heirs have died. It’s going to be a different court. People who were fourth or fifth in line for a title will suddenly find themselves in possession of it. They will be so busy scrambling to establish themselves that they won’t care much about you.”

  “A different court.”

  “A different court and a different kingdom. Caithen will change, my love. Our marriage is only a small part. You can tell that to your parents.”

  His voice dropped a little near the end of the sentence. Tam shifted so she could see his face. It was full of exhaustion. He needed to rest. It was not just the wound, it was everything else that had happened as well. She would never forget how he had looked standing in front of the riders while they raised their hands. He didn’t need a crown to make himself a leader.

  She said, “I wish your father could have seen you today, Corin. He would have been proud.”

  “I’m glad I’m not the king.”

  “So am I. But when it’s time, you’ll be ready.” She kissed his cheek. “Would you have killed Hadon?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so, not unless something pushed me into fighting him again. It felt wrong the entire time. Even though I hated him. He hadn’t chosen to go mad.” He was definitely sounding weaker.

  She counted hours. “How is your leg?” she asked.

  “It hurts,” he admitted.

  “I think you need some more medicine,” she said. “Let me get it for you.”

  “It will put me to sleep.”

  “It’s supposed to. You’ll heal faster that way. Wine or water?”

  “That’s an evil choice. Water.”

  The healer had provided a powder with ingredients that Tam knew worked quite well. After some consideration, she mixed it a little stronger and brought it back to Corin.

  He made a face and drank it quickly. She gave him more water to wash it down with. She settled him on the pallet despite his protests. He would be asleep in minutes. Softly, she kissed his lips.

  He mumbled something. She leaned closer to hear. He pulled her down onto him. “Caught you,” he said. Then he fell asleep.

  Tam rolled off and adjusted the blankets over him once more. Already some of the lines of pain were softening. He was very beautiful, the dark eyebrows and the flop of mussed hair, the shape of his lips. The light on his face was the comfortable glow of a tame fire. “Sleep well, my love,” she said. “Heal fast.”

  She went into her room with the lit candle and carried it to the window. She pulled the shutter closed. A black moth fluttered in. She looked at it and was not frightened. You too have come in from the dark, she thought. She blew out the flame.

  EPILOGUE

  Corin shifted again but kept himself from making any nervous adjustments to his clothing. If he had been allowed any choice in the matter he would have worn a soldier’s uniform, which had the virtue of being both plain and comfortable. But when he said something about the weight and heat of ceremonial clothing in late summer, Tam said, No one is going to lace you so tight you can hardly breathe, which put him in his proper place. As it happened, the day was perfect, borrowed from fall, crisp blue and gold.

  There was scant pageantry, though. A wartime wedding was necessarily subdued. And it was still wartime, even though the Sarians had been driven out of Caithen and the Mycenean troops had returned to Mycene. In Argondy the battles continued, and in Mycene violence raged as the princes battled for their father’s throne. Caithen was an island of quietness. Its safety for the present was assured—the Sarians had been routed not only by arms but also by a deep fear of the city that had taken their god Tyrekh’s life. The Mycenean princes had no interest right now in reclaiming a small northern country across the sea. But the wars that went on around it cast their shadows. Joce, who had made it safely out after killing Tyrekh, guarded Tam no less closely than he ever had.

  Corin looked at the guests. There were many gone who should have been there: the marshal, three dukes, a score or so of minor lords and ladies, his father’s clerk. The occupation of Caithenor had been brief but deadly. There were places in the palace and city where Tam could not go because she stumbled into visions of atrocity. The list of the known dead was long; the list of the missing much longer. Among the guests, many still bore scars or signs of captivity or flight. Faces were thin, clothing hung loose, women wore scarves to conceal hair they had been forced to crop short to rid it of mats and lice. Bron had a persistent cough from breathing smoke. Seana was there, a widow now and looking ten years older. They had made their peace.

  His mother and sisters were in the front row on one side, Tam’s family on the other. He liked her brother. The dreaded introduction had gone smoothly. He stayed back while she embraced and was embraced by her startled, grateful parents. Then she drew him forward and said, blushing, This is Corin. My husband. Her mother said, Tam! Her father, who was taller than he was, looked him up and down very carefully several times, then said, Would I be correct in supposing that upon a different occasion rather more titles and formality would be called for? He said, Yes, but
not now. Tam told him later that each had remarked separately to her on how polite he was.

  A sparrow fluttered down and began rustling about in the grass between the flagstones. “You’re early,” he said to it. “Come back after the meal.” He pretended not to notice the look his father gave him. Aram was amused by his anxiousness and not trying too hard to hide it. He supposed that in six months or a year he would be amused too.

  He heard a dragon. No one else seemed to have noticed. He looked up and saw only a high silver spark. They did not speak to him anymore, not directly, but he still had that acuity of hearing and vision. They were gone, free, most with their riders, some without. No one knew yet how it would shift the balance of power.

  The musicians started playing. He straightened. The crowd went silent. In the front row Cina most improperly took her husband’s hand. It had been hard for her too. Soldiers had managed to bring her out of the palace, but then there had been weeks of hiding. Tam’s parents twisted to look down the aisle.

  Then she came. He had not seen her since yesterday. She had refused to spend the night with him, and his mother and sisters had weighed in on her side. The fact that they were already married and had spent the last two months sharing a bed was apparently irrelevant. But as she walked closer, he understood why she had done it. He saw her new, and she was more beautiful than ever.

  He noticed vaguely that the dress was a shimmering sapphire and that her hair was wound around her head in a braid. His attention was all for her face, though. She looked up and caught his eye and smiled. When they joined hands before his father he repeated the words he was to say without hearing them. He managed not to drop the ring as he slid it on her finger.

  Aram said in a low voice, “Kiss her, Corin,” and he realized he had missed hearing it the first time. He drew her to him and kissed her for a very long time.

  They did not have to go through the ritual of formally ennobling her; that had been done weeks ago. As soon as the kiss ended he drew her arm through his and walked back toward the palace. There was cheering, and they were showered with flower petals and even a few coins. He saw white petals, for purity, and red, for fertility. She was laughing.

  When they passed through the arch of greenery at the end of the aisle, he broke a rule and kissed her one more time before they stepped apart and waited to greet the guests.

  The remainder of the day seemed to take decades. After the receiving, there was a meal, for which he was not hungry, and then the dancing. He danced with her, then gratefully retreated to the side while she danced with her father, his father, and her brother. Aram said something to her that made her embrace him. Then it was Corin’s turn again. And again. When she was not dancing she was moving about the room, talking to people he did not even know she knew, although he recognized some of the women. He had not realized how much work it was to be a bride, especially a royal one. Her friend Jenet, who had been captured by Myceneans but survived and was herself now newly wed, seemed to be giving her hints.

  He said to Bron, who was standing next to him, “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

  Bron looked at him as though deciding whether the question was even worth answering. He said, “Without you to keep me in line, I suppose I’ll just drink and wench, sir.”

  Corin snorted in a manner most unbecoming to a prince and bridegroom. Then Tai came to his side. She was very pretty in green and silver, and looked happier than he had seen her since Ader died. “I’m going to give you your present now,” she said, and went to the musicians. When the dance stopped she sat at the piano.

  She played the drinking song—the cheerful version—through once, and got enthusiastic applause. Corin wondered how long it would be before someone else figured out what it was. When she came back, he kissed her and said, “Thank you,” grinning. It made him think of the dragons. That was a small sadness.

  Tam touched his arm and drew him away from his sister and Bron, who were now blocking them from view. “Should we go?”

  “My God, yes,” he said, relieved. “I wish we could do it unobserved.” He was taking her away from Caithenor for a week, but it would probably take another hour to get out of the palace with all the farewells they would have to make. He envied Joce and the guards who had gone ahead.

  “Be patient, my love,” she said.

  The wine steward was opening another cask, the Illyrian red. He poured a glass for the king, who had appeared from somewhere. Corin thought he had left long ago. Aram sampled the wine. Someone rang a bell. The room quieted and the king began to speak.

  “Now,” Tam whispered.

  “We can’t—” Corin began, but Tam was already pulling him toward the door. His mother would skin him alive for walking out on his father like that, but he gave in and followed her.

  The corridors between the ballroom and the bedroom were strangely empty. The guards they passed all seemed to be standing down side corridors with their backs turned. In the bedroom Tam began to rapidly undress. She pointed toward his wardrobe. “Change,” she said.

  When he opened the wardrobe and saw the unprincely clothing he had worn to the fair hanging in front, he began to understand. He changed quickly. He was not very surprised when she led him to the private entrance. A plain coach was standing ready. He looked up the drive and saw the royal carriage and its team of six at the main entrance.

  She almost pushed him in. The coachman helped her up nearly as inelegantly and shut the door hard and fast. He heard the whip snap in the air, then the coach began to roll.

  “There,” she said, sitting back and reaching for his hand.

  “How on earth did you arrange that?” he asked her.

  “It was your father. It was his wedding present to us.”

  “Long live the king,” he said.

  They kept the curtains of the coach closed while riding through the city, but when the road beneath them turned to dirt, Corin slid them open. He almost wished he hadn’t. He looked over a field with fire-blackened earth and nothing growing but weeds. In the distance, a farmhouse chimney stood by itself among a pile of rubble. The only leaves remaining on the trees were withered from heat.

  When he had come to Caithenor dragonback two weeks after the war ended, it was the first time he had seen the city and surrounding land. The ruin had made his stomach hurt. Outside the city mass graves were raised in mounds of bare earth, while villages were reduced to charred timber and streams were clogged with decaying bodies. Fields that should have been green and lush with young grain were bare. Slaughtered animals lay bloated and stinking in the pastures. In the city itself swaths of burn and destruction cut across every neighborhood and shopping district. The river wound blithely through with far too few boats upon it. When he went horseback through Caithenor, he saw everywhere the same things: thin, hopeless faces, ragged blankets in haphazard lean-tos constructed among the ruins, small cairns to mark a place of death, newly made shrines crowded with god-offerings.

  There was money; there would be no tribute paid to Mycene this year. But timber and medicine and food were scarce. Some things could not be purchased at all. The blacksmiths forged, the carpenters nailed, and the masons troweled, but it was not enough. When winter came, too many people would still be homeless and hungry.

  Corin left the curtain open. It would not do to block things out, not even on a wedding journey.

  Tam said his name. He looked at her and said, “We have a lot of work to do.” At night he dreamed sometimes of white-faced Sarians gleefully putting houses to the torch. Those dreams would not be banished until much more of the country was restored.

  “We do. But you of all people deserve some rest. The task that only you could do is done. Give things over to everyone else for a few days.” Her voice was soft. She knew how he felt.

  They had had this conversation before. He said, I can’t possibly do enough, and she said, You freed
the dragons, no one could do more. It felt a hollow victory.

  But he owed her what joy there was. “I’ll try. You too.”

  “I’m hoping to try quite a few things,” she said devilishly.

  That was an interesting thought. He put his hand on her leg. “Should I close the curtain again?” he asked just as the coach tilted precariously to one side and she slid away from him.

  “Not on this road,” she said.

  “Then find some other way to distract me.”

  She pretended to consider it. “I could tell you about your sister, but that won’t take very long. Let me think of something else. Perhaps you could answer some questions about the laws of taxation.”

  “Never. What about my sister? Which one?”

  “Tai.” She came back closer to him and gave him a kiss. “She’s pregnant.”

  “That’s why she looked happy,” he said, happy for her.

  “She looked happy because she can keep her food down again,” said Tam tartly, nipping any comments about the blessed state of pregnancy in the bud. “And she’s not going to try to find someone to marry right away, so don’t even think about looking.”

  “I wouldn’t,” he said honestly. Tai was a princess and did not need a father to provide for the child. She should at least be given her time of grief. “Am I allowed to know?”

  “Yes, now. I’ve known for a month.”

  That meant Tai must be further along than she looked. Or had there been a slight swell to her belly that he had not noticed? He said, “When is the babe to be born?”

  “A few weeks after Midwinter.”

  He counted. That made her four months along. “Good. There will be no doubt it’s her husband’s child.”