My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "No, it is only me for the day. Though I will pass on all we say and decide to him," Rosamund's smile was as phony as the sense of leadership she could command, but she trudged on through it. Would they call her on it? Make her go and fetch the proper King, or walk out and refuse to have the meeting? Her damn heart beat twice as fast as it had while she ran to get here.

  "Well," the Arlessa chuckled, "we should get through this a lot faster."

  "No terrible jokes," the city steward agreed, laughing at the idea of no humor.

  "Or having to explain things five times over," the Arl of Denerim added.

  Right. Rosie shut her eyes, letting a moment of calm chip away at her anxiety. This may go well. No, this will go well. She situated her shoulders and moved to begin the proceedings when she caught Tess still standing in the doorway. Rosie moved to tell her she could go, when she noticed the horrified look in Tess' eyes. The lady in waiting lifted up her hand and pointed at Rosie's right shoulder.

  As if aiming for a scratch, the princess reached up to find a dagger's hilt still strapped to her back under the dress.

  Damn it.

  * * *

  She'd been sent for officially by the King. He never did that, her father of the mind that if he wanted to talk to someone he'd wander around until he found them. Didn't matter if the person was busy with a meeting, certainly didn't matter if the King himself was supposed to be in one. He seemed to float through all the pomp of royalty never letting it touch him. And now he wanted to talk to his daughter, in private.

  As private as one could get on the archery field. When the servant bearing the message found Rosamund trying to cool off by the fountain and wick away all the embarrassment from her hot cheeks, she shook it away as her father being silly. The meeting ended a few hours ago, leaving Rosie with a pile of information she had to condense down into a report for her father and the candle of shame burning bright in her gut. Surely he didn't already know about her rather small mistake of fully forgetting about the meeting.

  Watching the man stand at the line and lift a bow up with his left arm, Rosamund realized she was in ten kinds of trouble. Normally, the yard was teeming with soldiers. Knights, the guard, just people rushing from one end to the other to move equipment, and always training. It was why she preferred the meadow where the horses ran to the official yard. Also because people were less likely to gawk at their future Queen attacking a scarecrow head on.

  Despite being near his 60s her father remained trim, and also kept his simple and efficient wardrobe. The armor softened over the years, wool padding being a favorite, but he preferred wearing the assuring splint mail about like a bathrobe. It was as much a part of the King as the crown was. As he tugged out an arrow and moved to nock it, a massive burst of smile lines crinkled at the side of his eye. Even when his face was neutral, he looked as if he was about to break into laughter or song. Rosie had more than a few memories of her father serenading diplomats or politicians who pissed him off.

  Alistair released his notched arrow, the shaft bobbing as it struck the second outer ring of the target. "Ooh, I hit it that time," he cackled, his fingers reaching back for another.

  "Father," Rosamund called to him.

  The King didn't stop from grabbing up the arrow, but as he turned, he used the arrowhead to scratch his scalp. "Rosie," he called out, a full smile raising his cheeks high, "get on over here. Show me how it's done."

  Unable to shake her own lightness at her father's joy, even while her soul weighed in regrets, Rosamund tugged up a bow from the rack and slung a quiver upon her back. She fell into the lane beside him, her hand plucking on the bowstring to get a feel for it. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched an arrow go flying. This one stuck a bit closer to the target, but nowhere near the bullseye.

  "I thought you hated archery," Rosie said. Nocking her first arrow, she let her fingers ruffle up the fletching. Her arm remained slack, watching as her father rolled back and forth on his feet.

  "I wouldn't say I hate it so much as archery hates me." He launched his second to last arrow, this one digging into the dirt as his arm fell too low. "See! Pretty sure all the arrows get together at night to talk about that dreadful King Alistair. Let's mess him up tomorrow, they laugh to themselves, all plummet to the ground or veer wildly over the top. Arrows don't have much of a life."

  Laughing at his incompetence with a bow, he shrugged, "Give me a sword and a shield and I'm good, but this...there's aiming, and precision, and being able to see all the way down there."

  He waved his aging hand towards the targets that weren't even at regulation range. Rosamund bit her lip at the reminder that time didn't stop for any of them. She hated having to accept that her father was getting old. Even when all his hair went from straw to snow, he never stopped seeming young -- even more childish than the royal progeny running after him. Tipping her chin up, she drew the arrow back. The feathers skirted against her cheek before she anchored her thumb, got her sights, and then released.

  "See," her dad cupped her shoulder while looking at her shot. "That's a bullseye."

  "No, that's in the circle beside it. Not bad, but..."

  "So modest, my Rosie. No idea where in the void you get it from."

  "Mother," Rosamund said, plucking up another arrow, "and the dozen or so finishing schools she made me attend."

  When the arrow whizzed past, her father chuckled. "I never could figure out what you were finishing there. Furniture? A good soufflé recipe? A relay race?"

  "Finding long lost treasure of the ancient Imperium," Rosie said, her voice certain.

  Alistair blinked madly a moment, "Really?"

  "No. It was all about knowing when one should sit, when one should stand, when one should speak, and when one should hold her tongue." Rosie fired again, this time striking close to a true bullseye. "The last was apparently meant to happen all the time."

  Her father shook his head, the white scraggles of his scruff seeming to fascinate his bored fingers as he roughed up his chin. "Sounds like the chantry. Sit down, be quiet, do as you're told, and answer us when spoken to. The mothers didn't like it when I pointed out we couldn't talk and stay quiet at the same time." Rosie chuckled at the idea of her father anywhere near the chantry. He'd tell them about it on occasion, as a lark, but the way he described the templars was confusing for their modern world. They were an order that felt as ancient as something from the Imperium in Andraste's time.

  A few more of Rosie's arrows sunk into the target, all circling the bullseye like a dog hunting for the perfect spot to lay down. "So," Alistair said, rising up and down on his toes, "how'd it go?"

  "Fine," she sneered. Placing all her power into her upper shoulder, Rosie yanked the bowstring so far back when the arrow hit the target it sunk down almost to the quivering fletching.

  "That fine, huh?" her father laughed, a finger rubbing the stubble on his upper lip.

  Rosamund's head tipped down, the shame she couldn't flee from no matter how hard she tried circling her. She was to be Queen, she'd been told as such since she could understand what a queen and king were. This was what she was born to do, but...

  "Did they come to you?" she whispered, her fingers strangling the leather guide for the bow.

  "Yeah," Alistair scratched the back of his ear, "but they always do that." Rosie glanced over in surprise. "The meeting's just for show. Stomp around, read the same words everyone does, adjourn at the same time with the same promises to do nothing useful. After, that's when they tell you the real important stuff."

  "But that," she shook her head, "that makes no sense. Why not inform me then, when we can all handle the situation?"

  "Because then everyone else at the table knows their shit stinks same as the rest. The Denerim folks ain't too bad about it, just if something big's bugging 'em, but those diplomats." Alistair whistled, "Granted, nothing can touch the Orlesian problem. Pick a successor, Celene. It'll be for the best your giant dressness. Might want to do it before yo
u die. Well," he shrugged at the mess of Orlesian politics, "west of the frostback's problem, now."

  He wandered off to the rack and selected a single arrow with blue jay feathers on the end. Slowly, Alistair picked up his abandoned bow and tried to aim. He always kept his elbow up too high, all the power in his arm. She'd tried to tell him that, but awhile back Rosie figured out her father didn't want to do it right, he just wanted to do it.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, barely peering through her thick eyelashes up at him. Alistair stopped aiming and turned his puppy eyes upon her. Even with age crinkling his lids that grew heavier each year, nothing could dampen the excitement always lurking in his eyes. "I was in the meadow, attending to my own frivolities, and misplaced the time. It will not happen again. I swear to prioritize Ferelden's needs before my own."

  "Ah," her father reached over, his spotted hand cupping hers inside a pair of calfskin gloves. "Don't say that, Rosie. Don't think that either." He patted her once more before returning back to his final shot. Alistair took longer with this one, the tip of the arrow bobbing as he struggled for an aim. Sucking in a breath, he let his eye sight down the shaft and let go. It wasn't a bullseye but this one struck closer to the center at least.

  His eldest daughter was about to congratulate him on it, when Alistair turned an almost heartbroken gaze upon her. "This life, it's...it'll eat you up. People come by like ducks that spotted bread, each bill jabbing deeper and deeper as they take a piece. Gobble here. Gobble there. Peck peck peck. If you don't set demands, insist on your own time, your own hobbies, they'll pluck you to death. Every day there's a new problem, a new crisis, that only the King can solve."

  Alistair shifted the bow down, using it again to keep himself upright, "Some of 'em don't even have that. They just want to feel important by being seen talking to the King. Keep yourself you, okay. It may have to go into a box sometimes, but don't lose it to that Maker damn crown."

  "Okay, father," Rosie felt her cheeks burning at the sincerity off of him. They'd been so close when she was younger, but when the lessons on her becoming a full queen began in earnest it felt as if a wedge slotted in between them. He'd still take her on wild horse rides, or visits to hot springs but the playful dad she knew cooled to a more gentle father.

  "Your brother, sweet Maker is he a handful and a half," Alistair sighed, tipping his head back. "He left some sheet of vellum that was nothing but numbers on my desk. No idea what it meant but it's got the astrologers and the tax collectors all in a tizzy. I keep waiting for the day that kid either gives us an oopsie grandchild or unravels the veil itself on accident."

  That was a fair assessment of Cailan -- the spare who didn't have to concern himself with politics, at least not officially. Sure, people who wanted to curry favor with the princess would turn to the prince, but they quickly learned he cared for only two things: numbers and women. Everything else in his world were just distractions. He was the only one in the family to flat out refuse to attend tourneys. Even their mother would sit in the Queen's box happily waving flags and cheering people on. She was more of the 'I hope everyone has a good time' variety, but still. If Cailan had no interest in it, he saw no point in bothering to even feign attention.

  "He's got it pretty easy, being of the no ambition aside from how many bed notches he can make type," her father surmised. "But you, sometimes I'm sorry that all of this landed on your head."

  Rosamund smiled at his plea, "Don't worry, father. I'm not afraid of this, and, besides, you'll still be around to suffer the wrath of impressed upon Arls."

  "Thanks for the reminder. That damn Denerim bastard kept on and on about how it was all a blight upon his family name that he was dared to be inconvenienced. I shoulda shot him in the ass with this," Alistair lifted up his bow.

  "But you probably would have missed and taken out the person behind him instead."

  Her father didn't rage the way a king was supposed to, didn't grow pompous or insist everyone admit he was great at all he tried. No, he cracked up and slapped his knee as if his first born told the best joke in thedas. "My damn kids, you all know me too well. I'm sure you'll be a great queen, the kind of leader Ferelden was hoping for when they got saddled with me. Just, maybe make sure to show up on time for the next few meetings. It keeps them on their toes, otherwise they start slacking off too. Nothing scarier to a pile of politicians than making their sovereign wait for them."

  Rosamund smiled at the idea. Her father played the idiot, but his advice always proved far more productive than what she'd been taught in all those finishing schools across thedas. Her mother wanted her well rounded, charming, and indomitable; her father wanted her to be happy. Running her finger up and down the taut bowstring, Rosie thought of the other child in their complicated family.

  "What of Myra?"

  "Hm?" the king turned at mention of his youngest, his eyebrows meeting in the middle.

  "I am to be Queen, Cailan is already on the fast track of being a Chancellor with mother picking out his to-be bride."

  "So that's why Bea's been eyeing up all the marrying age girls across thedas. I was worried she was about to go all bathing in the blood of beauties to stay young forever."

  Rosie barely blinked at her father's joke. "What do you have planned for Myra?"

  She was the bastard daughter, which could be useful for those in power. Any link to royal blood was one that was exploitable, but Alistair was against using any of his children for leverage. Shrugging, he walked towards the rack to return the borrowed bow. "Myra's got her own will that can't be shaken no matter how hard you try. Gets that from her mother. She'll come up with something eventually."

  Eyeing up her groupings and mentally chastising herself for her waning training, Rosie turned to find her father, the King of Ferelden, leaning against the equipment shed. He fiddled with a single brass button on his armor. "Promise me, Rosie, that when I'm gone." His daughter groaned at that. "I know, no one wants to do the will talk, but...keep an eye on your brother and sister. Don't, don't go all royal family and start wars with each other. No daggers to the back and poisoned frogs slipped under bedsheets. Please? I don't think Ferelden could take it."

  Rosamund tipped her head to her king, and then hugged her father. "Of course I will," she whispered, trying to shake off the tears from the thought of losing him.

  "Good," Alistair rubbed a hand over her back in comfort before breaking away, "now, let's go get some cake to celebrate you taking over all the Denerim meetings from me."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  No Way!

  Crowds gathered on the edge of the street to wave at the Arl's cavalcade rolling into town. It was less that they were all super excited to see the Arl of Redcliffe and more stepping out gave them something interesting to do aside from the doldrums of work. Also, a few of the vendors were working the sides pilfering off food about to go from 'it smells a bit funny' to 'kill off a quarter of the population.'

  Perched upon a brick wall sat Myra staring a few stories down at the procession. She had a spyglass to her eye, sometimes switching if she used the left or right depending on how exhausted it was getting.

  "Seen him yet?" the girl beside her asked. Bryn managed to weasel someone else into taking her shift at the palace giving her a chance to sit with Myra while they searched for this mythical Squire Gavin. Myra was glad to have her old friend beside her to cut down on the boredom, but she didn't really need much help with a stakeout. It wasn't even raining to obscure the view, easy peasy.

  "Nope," Myra waved the glass around a bit, "got a lovely view of a horse's anus though."

  "Huh," Bryn stuck a hand to her chin in thought, "what's Mrs. Mellinger doing there?" Both girls put their heads together and giggled at the mention of their harridan of a neighbor who'd mercifully moved on around the time Myra got shipped off to the Rutherford farm.

  Shifting in her seat, Bryn grabbed onto Myra's shoulder for leverage and tried to look closer at the street below. She was a year and a half older
than Myra, a girl dumped on their doorstep by a mother who ditched her in the dead of the night and ran for it. For a time Reiss tried to find the woman, but even the fabled Solver couldn't solve every case. Rather than leave the girl without any other family in a crumbling orphanage, Reiss took the elven Bryn in. She'd been living in Myra's room, the two getting up to terrible things together ever since.

  While Myra was all gaunt cheeks, sharp lines, and a pointed chin to use as a chisel, Bryn was round and sweet. Her entire face was wide, her head almost oval shaped, with great big blue eyes and a tiny nose. Even her ears were wider than most elves, which she decorated with five earring studs that Reiss at first tried to stop, then gave up on. Myra was the one to pierce Bryn's second hole but never grew up the nerves to let her friend do it to her.

  "What about him?" she pointed at a stand of young men. A rash of blonde and red hair filtered past and Myra shook her head.

  "Nah."

  "This is hopeless. There are tons of guys wandering around in that thing. We'll never spot him," she lifted up her apron and tried to dot a bit of the summer heat off her forehead.

  "Trust me," Myra smiled, "he'll stand out."

  Bryn's eyes shifted from bored to shrewd in an instant. "So, when are you going to tell me about him?"

  "I, I did," she felt her cheeks beginning to burn. "He's someone I met during mage training."

  "And kissed!" Bryn shouted at the top of her lungs. It was so loud the spectators who were hanging out their windows below and across the street from them looked over.

  "Not so..." Myra tried to wave her friend down. "Yes, we kissed. A bunch of times." In fact, he was her first kiss. All of her friends practically melted into goo when she told them about this skinny farm boy who took her to a magical pond, told her she was pretty, and then kissed her. It was a story that got Myra a lot of clout in the 'thirteen to fifteen year old girl romance' department. As the rest of her friends grew up and all found beaus or even proper courtships, they didn't much care about her childish fumbling.