Some of the Best from Tor.com: 2014: A Tor.Com Original

by Various Authors

  You did so delightfully. You corrected my posture after each engagement, standing with your body behind mine as your warm, firm hands posed me like a mannequin, your breath fluttering in my ear. Again and again your sword swept through my guard. My back would meet the trunk of the great tree, the bark hard and knotted between my shoulder blades, and you would pin me there and kiss me. Then we would break apart and I would submit again to your manipulation of me: let you lift my hands higher, pull my arms out straighter. I spoke as little as you did. We had another language for that afternoon.

  I was glad that Garrick caught us sparring with our swords and not our lips when he came to fetch me for the evening meal.

  * * *

  It is strange—we spent almost every hour that we could between then and Winterfest together, and yet I hardly knew a thing about you. My lessons continued. You taught me how to use a bow, how to hunt, how to ride. How to love my body as much as I loved yours. We fell into each other’s patterns when we were together: either I would talk enough for both of us, telling you about my life before you came and my guesses as to yours, or we would spend hours in your silent world, talking only with a touch on the arm or a stone thrown in the lake.

  Every now and then, when the mystery of your past frustrated me, I turned my guesses into direct questions, hoping that if you could not speak then you could try at least to draw or mime. But you only smiled, and kissed me, and gave me other things to occupy my thoughts.

  When the leaves had turned entirely yellow, my father announced his intention to host a tournament. It would be held just after Winterfest, and half the knights in Southern Lucea would be invited to attend: the barons Crawdank, De Lyre, Cheal, and Faxsly had already expressed their warmest interest. Several had sons or daughters of marriageable age.

  I only half listened. You and I had gone out to the lake the night before, and my head was full of images of moonlight pooling over darkened water. We undressed beneath the stars. Hugging my nakedness, I curled a single toe and placed it in the water, then yelped and drew back from its icy bite. Had you not pushed me in I doubt I would have braved it.

  You were easy in the water, and I watched enviously as your limbs slid in and out of it, as you flicked your head with each broad stroke to keep your nose and mouth above the surface. You swam across to me and held me, hands wet and slippery on my arms. Your lips parted as you bent your mouth to mine …

  “Claire?” My mother was looking at me as though I was sick.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, putting down my knife and ignoring Garrick’s frown. “I was just trying to remember the name of Lord Faxsly’s eldest son—I’ve heard he’s quite the scholar.”

  My parents shared a smile.

  Winterfest drew nearer. Nights began to settle earlier, and what sun we did have hung in the corner of my eye and blinded me. Mist seeped into the mornings. The fires were fed perpetually. I began to swaddle myself in furs whenever I stepped outside and put sheep fat on my lips to keep them moist. When I passed you in the courtyard your hair was sugared with frost.

  Tragedy struck in the last week of October: Letia tripped on the stairs down from my chamber and struck her head upon the stone. Her funeral was short. I said some words over the pyre and made sure her family was given enough food and gold to see them through several winters. Ivarus, the god of death, watched unhearing from the shrine. Just as the justice goddess is blind, the god of death is without ears, and cannot be begged or reasoned with.

  We prepared for winter. You and I went hunting in the forest, where I managed, with a little luck, to bury an arrowhead in the warm neck of a deer. The blood had frozen by the time we hauled it to the castle, and my fingers were numb from the frost packed into the fur. We ate together for the first time. I watched, openly curious at first, then with acute embarrassment, as you swilled your stew around your mouth and trickled it gently down your throat to avoid choking on your shorn-off tongue.

  Later that month you gave me a gift, one which I could not decipher. It was a stone, chipped loose from the mews, I think, and carefully worked smooth and spherical. Into one hemisphere you’d carved a circle with a cross beneath it: I wondered if it was meant to depict a keyhole or an arrow loop, or perhaps the upper body of a stick figure. I thanked you with a kiss and slept that night with the stone held in my fist.

  * * *

  November came. I’d forgotten, by then, about the time I’d interrupted Garrick and the servant girl, but it seemed that their secret had somehow been discovered. Father was furious. The girl was dismissed, of course, and given herbs to flush her womb; Garrick, in turn, was immediately betrothed. Her name was Lila Argeatha, a young noble from the coastal territories whom we had known when we were children. All I could remember about her were her eggy, blinking eyes. Garrick stomped around the castle for days afterwards making his displeasure known, relenting only to work out his frustration in the forest, hunting. He spent every mealtime glaring at me. It was hard to keep my expression sombre: you and I were closer than ever, my love, and the deep, warm secret of our love threatened to well up and capsize me whenever we were together.

  Later that week you took me by the hand to the mews and planted me in front of a healthy, twitching falcon.

  “This is mine?” I held out an arm for her to hop onto, but she just twitched her head onto one side and clacked her beak. You stroked two fingers down the back of her skull to soothe her.

  “She’s healed beautifully,” I said. “I’m sure she’d like to stretch her wings.”

  Hugh was skulking in the background, sweeping. I’d seen the way he looked at you when he thought I couldn’t see him. Children made the sign to ward off witches as you led me through the courtyard.

  We left the castle, heading south. When we reached the forest you showed me how to use the bird to hunt, after which we fed her water from our mouths, as was the falconer’s way. You spat yours clumsily, slopping it from your lips and flicking your head up to give it lift. Red with embarrassment, I used the pink tip of my tongue to sprinkle a perfect jet into the bird’s open beak.

  We left the falcon tethered to a branch and made love beneath the trees. Afterwards we lay against the damp moss on a tree trunk, your arm around me. We stayed there, listening to the noises of the forest and the rhythms of each other’s hearts, for what might have been an hour. Eventually I leaned my lips to your ear.

  “Show me who you are,” I whispered. “Please.”

  You sat still for a moment, then slid your arm out from my waist. For a second I thought you were about to leave me, but you just stood and picked a twig up from the forest floor. You broke the end off and began to scratch at the moss covering the tree trunk.

  I still remember them, those strange pictograms you scored into the moss. Half a dozen stick figures in a line, then one inside a box. A set of rectangles that might have been a temple, or a staircase. A crescent moon. There were others. You drew until all that you could reach was covered, then stood in the middle of your strange creation and looked at me expectantly. Perhaps it was the fervour in your eyes, or the way your makeshift pen nestled potently in your hand, but I was afraid of you just then.

  It was dark when we returned. We led the horses to the stables as quietly as we could, patting their necks to keep them calm, and I offered to return the falcon. Hugh wouldn’t dare say anything to me as he might to you if he were awake. We parted with a kiss behind the stable doors. Crossing the mews I saw a shadow on the eastern wall.

  Hugh had retired by the time I got there. The mews was empty but for the birds, or so I thought—as I placed my falcon on her perch I heard the gravel crunch behind me.

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  Garrick’s lip was curled in disgust.

  “I’m returning my falcon,” I said. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that my hands had started shaking.

  “I should tell Father.” He came closer. “Tell him what you’ve been doing in the woods with that woman. Just like you told hi
m about me and Gwen.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone about—” I stopped. A sneer spread across his face.

  “That’s not the part that you should be denying,” he said, and left me with my heart kicking in my throat.

  * * *

  The next morning, the first families arrived for the great Winterfest tournament. Pennants snapped in the wintry air; the lords and ladies of each house were followed by processions of men, horses, handcarts, beasts, and banners. They filled the courtyard with their clamour. My father formally offered the hospitality of his hall for the evening feast, and I had my hand kissed more times than I could count.

  The great hall throbbed with heat and noise that evening. By no accident, I am sure—I could smell my mother all over it—I was shown to a seat next to Lord Faxsly’s eldest son. He was a slight, unassuming boy a year my junior who seemed unable to sit still for nerves when he discovered that he was to cut my meat.

  “Lady Claire,” he said, sliding his blond hair out of his eyes. “I see your beauty has not been exaggerated. I’d be grateful if you called me Cecil.”

  “I should like nothing better,” I said distractedly, catching sight of Garrick glaring at me from across the table. I looked towards the kitchens in search of the servant who was to fill our cup. You can imagine my surprise, my love, when I saw you in her place. I suppose I should have guessed that Father’s kitchen staff would not have been sufficient to entertain so large a party unbolstered—yes, there was Hugh, bent over a knight’s wine cup—but the sight of you with your fine eyes lowered to the flagstones, your fingers wrapped around the handle of a wine jug, was enough to give me a jolt. Garrick followed the trail of my eyes.

  You came closer, oblivious to the danger, clearly intending to cross to my side of the table and serve us. I saw several ladies whispering behind their hands—Lady Cheal visibly shuddered as you poured for her. Garrick’s fist tightened around his knife. My stomach turned to water.

  “… wouldn’t you say so, Lady Claire?”

  I blinked and turned back to Cecil. “Forgive me,” I said, feeling panic climb my chest. “The heat…”

  “Of course.” He sucked nervously on his bottom lip and raised the wine cup to indicate that we needed serving. “I’m sure some wine will cool you. The fire is a little overpowering…”

  I felt you sidle in behind us—I swear your hair brushed my shoulder as you bent to pour. Wine lapped into the cup.

  “Thank you, Cecil,” I said loudly. I felt you straighten. I did not dare turn to look at you—I risked the smallest glance when you had crossed back towards the kitchens and saw your eyes flick in my direction. I tried to signal without moving that Garrick watched our every step.

  The wine seemed to settle Cecil’s nerves, and we soon fell to comparing libraries. Reading was something in which I had never managed to interest you, my love—you preferred the world beyond the page, I think—but he had grown up with the same poems and stories that had shaped my girlhood. His father’s castle, he told me, had an entire tower filled with volumes in every language. I made sure everyone at the table noticed how engrossed we were in conversation when you brought over the joint of meat we were to share.

  “You and my sister get on well,” Garrick said to Cecil as you laid the cooked flesh on the plate of day-old bread. “But I wouldn’t want to falsely raise your hopes—I think her eye has already fallen on another.”

  My mother’s food stopped halfway to her mouth. One of the other ladies coughed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lady Cheal glance up at you.

  “You must forgive my brother,” I said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “He is so enamoured of his newly betrothed, Lady Lila Argeatha, that he imagines love in everyone around him. My eye has not yet fallen anywhere.”

  I took a breath and laid my hand on Cecil’s arm. “I hope we can be friends.”

  * * *

  After that it became impossible to see you: I could barely venture as far as the courtyard without hearing the tread of Garrick’s boot behind me. Father called a Justice Circle, ostensibly to purify his halls before the tournament, but really to demonstrate his trust in lords Cheal and Faxsly. I sat next to Cecil. Neither of us paid full attention: I was too busy combing the crowd for a glimpse of you, and he seemed unable to stop his eyes from dropping guiltily to my neckline or following my fingers as I fiddled with my dress. It actually seemed an interesting hearing. A secret lover came forward to provide an alibi for the accused at the last minute, her voice trembling under the council’s gaze. You were not among the crowd.

  I resorted to asking Hugh for news of you. He ignored me as long as he was able, staring directly ahead and prodding food into a falcon’s grasping beak, but my ladylike coughs eventually broke him.

  “She’s in the stables, seeing to riding equipment for His Grace’s tournament. Much good may that knowledge bring you.”

  And he was hobbling away before I could rebuke him.

  * * *

  You were working by candlelight, the stable hands having long since turned in, wearing down a strip of leather with a stone—for what purpose, I could not guess. Flex, rub, scrape, bend. The motion was hypnotic.

  After you had put aside the leather and turned those hard, strong hands on me, I tried to read to you. The book was one that Cecil had lent me on the Yovali. You listened for a while, your face betraying nothing, then went back to your work. I looked up every now and then when I came to passages about Yovali customs and the role of slaves, hoping to spot a reaction.

  Flex, rub, scrape, bend. I wondered sometimes if you even understood our language.

  * * *

  Tournament day came at last. Pavilions had been erected in the village, where hooves and boots had already squelched the fields to seas of mud. Stallions reared and snorted; children shrieked; squires buckled knights into their armour. The smell of cooked meat drifted on the wind. Cecil led me to my seat, managing to look vaguely handsome in a turquoise tunic trimmed with gold.

  “You are not competing?” I said as he helped me up into the stalls. My hair had been an undertaking for the maid that morning.

  “Not today,” he said. “I find my talents lie elsewhere. How did you find the book?”

  I must admit, my love, I found his conversation pleasant. He told me he had actually been to the Yovali lands, and I tried to probe for information that might help me know you. He was vague in some places and verbose in others: he had heard a lot about the slaves, he said, but never seen one; he had studied the construction of the temples, though, with their thick grey blocks of stone and carvings across every wall. His father had a haraad-kité, the ceremonial blade they used to cut out tongues, displayed above the hearth in his great hall.

  “That’s her over there, isn’t it?” he said, after a while. “The tongueless slave.”

  I followed the line of his finger. You were down near the front of the crowd, standing up and facing backwards, looking for someone. Our eyes met. A hot, dirty blush ran up my face.

  “She makes my skin crawl,” Cecil said, apparently not noticing my distress. “How do you bear having her around the castle every day?”

  I looked away and mumbled a reply.

  The tournament got underway. I had never derived much pleasure from jousting, or the mock battles and mêlées that were to follow, but with Cecil’s whispered commentary in my ear and a bright sky overhead I found I was enjoying myself. My mother sat a few places down the row, smiling indulgently in our direction every now and then, and there was no Garrick in the crowd to make me uneasy—he was in a tent somewhere, being packed into a suit of mail. I avoided looking at you entirely.

  Garrick’s turn came: our house fanfare struck up at the far end of the field and he emerged, a mountain of plate mail on a soot-black horse. Even I had to admit he looked impressive. The De Rouchefort crest, an eagle with its wings held wide, blazed upon his shield. His horse cantered round the grass while his opponent weighed his lance.

  “I
would not like to be the one to face your brother,” Cecil muttered. Garrick bounded to the middle of the field and raised his visor, ready to salute my father. His horse reared, his fist came up, he tugged the reins with his free hand—

  The leather snapped. His hand flew upwards and he fell out of the saddle, his foot caught in a stirrup. His helmet smacked into the mud. A lady screamed. The horse panicked, spluttered, and started running down the field, dragging Garrick behind it by his ankle.

  Pandemonium.

  Father sprang from his seat and roared for assistance. Lord Crawdank’s son clambered from the stands and began to chase Garrick’s horse around the field. There was only one head not turned towards the chaos that followed: you were standing facing backwards again, your eyes threatening to swallow me. It was not until much later that I considered that the leather strap you had been working on the night before might have been a bridle.

  * * *

  Garrick would recover, the physician told us, although several bones were broken and it took him two days to regain consciousness. I had never seen him so diminished. I didn’t have sympathy to spare for long, however: not three hours passed between my seeing him awake and my having an accident of my own. I tripped on the staircase to my chamber, on the same little malformed snag of stone that had tumbled Letia to her death that autumn. Thankfully I was ascending rather than descending. My shin crunched against the apex of a step and I felt something give within the bone. I was ordered to keep to my bed until it healed.

  Maybe that was when things changed. I felt the turn of winter into spring not in the taste of the air or the changing colours of the trees, as you must have, but in the minute variations in the breakfasts that the maids prepared for me. I saw nothing of you. What excuse could I have found, after all, for the falconer’s apprentice to visit the duke’s daughter in her chamber? I had already heard the maids whispering outside my door.

  The families who had attended the tournament left one by one, after each lord was satisfied that no blame was placed on him for Garrick’s injury. Cecil stayed behind. He came blushing to my chamber every afternoon, a different book under his arm, and he would read to me for hours, or we would play chess, or talk. The carved stone you had given me before Winterfest, which I had until then kept with me when I slept, began to dig into my flesh whichever way I lay. I put it on my dressing table, where it was soon hidden by gifts of books and fresh-cut flowers.