I get up and go to my old war chest. I wipe down the carved top once a week, but when I open it dust wafts up from the inside. My weapons are all well put away, but the metal looks dull from dust sticking to the oil. I kneel. The scent reminds me of an attic, of things forgotten. I pull a sleeve over my hand and wipe the dust away. It leaves a shiny spot and a greasy stain on my cuff. It’s just a work shirt but the stain bothers me. It’ll always remind me of this argument.
Merald comes out of the kitchen and stands in the living room doorway. He’s wearing an apron, rubbing a plate with a stained checked cloth.
I lift my sword from the chest and pull it free of the scabbard. “I don’t want to fight. I just want to live.” There’s no rust on the blade, but time has made the dents, nicks and scratches on the metal more apparent.
“This is living.”
I’m surprised that he spoke. I want to talk to him, but I can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound ungrateful.
His eyes are sad and his mouth is drawn down. “I don’t know why you want to go to Edina. All those loyal to the council will try to embarrass you and our friends. Why do you want to see Seraf at any rate? He has no honor.”
“He has plenty.” I huff and sheath the sword.
“He was cast out of the knighthood well before—”
“Yes, well before you resigned the emperor’s army. Maybe Serif shouldn’t have left his post, but at least he knew something was wrong before people started starving.” That was too harsh, no matter how true, and I regretted saying it. “He saved your life,” I remind him.
“I don’t trust him with you.”
“But do you trust me with him?” I smile, but I realize I’ve put my foot in my mouth because he didn’t take that remark well. Has the village infected him with mistrust?
He retreats to the kitchen. I set my hands on my hips, determined to get us both out of here. “Let’s go the day after tomorrow, together. We don’t have to flaunt around as a couple if you think that’s going to irk the council. Even if we did I doubt anyone would notice us.” I wait, hoping, though honestly it’s unlikely we’ll go unnoticed and he knows it. Between the legend that is us, his height and my preference to go around armed like a man, people will gawk and talk even if I wear dresses, which I won’t, not on the road.
So we’ll stand out, so what? We won’t be invited to elegant dinners, but plenty of soldiers and knights will want to talk and remember the war as all of us fought it, not as council historians were told to rewrite it. All the council cares about anymore is legitimacy, in the eyes of the neighboring empire, in their own eyes.
I want to talk to my comrades in arms. I felt like I belonged among the soldiers, as much as I’ve ever felt I belong anywhere. Are they restless in peacetime like me?
Our lack of official welcome in Edina isn’t all my fault, though sometimes it’s easier to blame myself than to point at Merald’s own stubbornness. He could have sworn fealty to the council, but instead he turned his back on them. They didn’t like that. They shouldn’t have been surprised. He didn’t want to put himself in a position to have to break an oath again.
Dishes slosh and clink against each other in water. A rag makes squeaking noises on porcelain.
The dishes were a gift from his mother. They arrived with a formal letter of congratulations a full year after we’d settled in. They’re the only fine things in this stone house besides the weapons and horses, and none of them fit on a farm. I’m too aware that Merald and I don’t fit together either, by law or right. The reality of a commoner marrying a noble makes him appear cheap and me look like a thief.
I don’t want to, but I care about what Merald’s parents think of me. The fear makes me want to visit them, to poke at them, see if they’ll smile or spit. I’m pretty sure they’d spit, maybe just after I leave.
“I’ve fought hard all my life for everything.” I doubt he can hear me over the dishes. “Is that why I’m so restless?” I listen, but there’s no stop to the washing. I think about leaving without him, now, just take my sword and daggers and some money. It hurts. Maybe it’d be considered abandoning my post, so to speak. I don’t know if Merald would have me back if I did that to him. What would honor dictate? I’ve lived with him long enough to answer a lot of questions about his code of honor for myself, and even challenge the sense in some of it, but this one I can’t answer.
I’m chilled by the thought that he might call for my arrest if I left. Would he? He might consider it his duty. I don’t want to force him to it, or shame him.
Merald didn’t have to marry me. I smile, remembering how he put it. He wanted to do me the honor. The implied arrogance made me mad at the time, though thank goodness I held my tongue. It really was an honor.
He goes to bed and I stay up late. He’s not asleep when I join him, just quiet. I’m tired enough that I fall asleep right away.
When I wake I’m rested and happy until yesterday returns behind my eyes. I clean up, weighed down. I can’t do it to him, never mind the legal absurdities. I can live without our friends. I could never live with hurting him. Yesterday frustration drove me to the edge, but in a quiet house with the late morning light reminding me that I’ve shirked my early chores, I refuse to ride away while he works alone in the barley fields. We belong together. He wants to stay, so we’ll stay.
I pull on my shirt and skirt from yesterday, don’t bother to tuck anything in, and go out to the living room. And I stop.
My bags are packed.
My stomach lurches and I think I’m going to be sick. I rush out the back door into the barley field. There’s Merald knee-deep in green, pulling thistles. He sees me and starts wading toward me.
I nearly run him down. “Merald—”
“What’s wrong?” He looks past me. His face is smooth and his eyes make winter look warm, like he’s expecting an army to charge us two alone.
I’m gasping, confused now. “My—you—are we all right? Or are you throwing me out?”
His gaze falls to my face. His brows rumple up, and then he crushes me close. I’m tight and afraid but he’s warm and holding me. I relax though my heart is still tripping fast. He smells like home and safety and love and I can’t lose him.
“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”
“Forever,” I swear.
“Come back to me.” He kisses my hair. “Just three weeks, Erylis?”
I smile, though I’m not glad. I’m scared as badly as I was during the worst parts of the war.
As hard as it’s going to be for me to ride on alone, I know it’ll be harder for him to watch me ride away. He hasn’t packed his bags, which means he isn’t ready to ride with me. I don’t know if he’ll ever be ready again.
He looks so fragile. It’s not just the trust he’s giving me. I think he’s afraid that I don’t need him anymore.
“You’ll be safe while I’m gone?” I smile at him, teasing, but I’m serious. “It seems I need you to hold my retreat point, once again.”
“I’ll hold.” Merald kisses my hair again. “Give my regards to our friends. Even Seraf.”
Joy at the thought of seeing Seraf again makes me laugh. “I’ll invite him to come visit us.” He pulls away and I hastily add, “if that’s all right with you.”
His hesitation is so brief anyone but me would have missed it. “Invite them all. I do miss them.”
I feel so awful and selfish, but I can’t wait to ride into Edina. I pull him along by the hand toward the house. “Will you send me off with a reminder of the warmth of our bed?”
He turns pink. It makes me laugh and love him all the more. He’s so shy about that, even after all this time.
As we walk out of the barley I can tell that his mind is too full to indulge in simple pleasures, and honestly, so is mine. He’s quiet, his head bowed, but when he looks my way he smiles. “You look so happy to leave,” he says.
I halt and hold him close. “I’ll be even happier when I come back home
to you.” I hope he believes me.
Merald takes my hand and we walk to the stables. He helps me saddle Longfellow. I rub the scar on Longfellow’s flank, remembering hard fights and nights wondering if I’d live through the next day. Longfellow looks at me, curious, maybe even knowing. Does he remember too?
Merald and I load the saddlebags, make certain they’re balanced, and he helps me into the saddle even though I don’t need it. I bend down and we kiss, the kind of kiss where the warmth leaves too quickly but the memory lingers. I’m drawn back in time as I ride away, looking over my shoulder at him as I always used to. There are no words, have never been words between us in moments like this. I raise my open hand. He raises a fist, and we turn away, one toward home, and one toward the unknown.
Copyright © 2009 Kamila Zeman Miller
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Kamila Zeman Miller lives with her family on small acreage in the Columbia River Gorge, where she paints and writes speculative fiction. She has the obligatory large number of rescued cats, as well as dogs, goats, rabbits and a very raccoon-savvy but consequently lonely chicken. “Thistles and Barley” is her first published story.
http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/
COVER ART
“Endless Skies,” by Rick Sardinha
Rick Sardinha is a professional illustrator/fine artist living and working on the outskirts of Providence, Rhode Island. His passion is to create in traditional oil media, however, he is just as comfortable in front of a computer and often uses multiple disciplines in the image creation process. More of his work can be seen at http://www.battleduck.com.
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Table of Contents
“Wolf’s Clothing,” by Renee Stern
“Thistles and Barley,” by Kamila Zeman Miller
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #18 Page 4