A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  “I’m sorry for interrupting your time with... what was his name?” Captain Trego smirked.

  “Kalan.” Samiris shrugged. “But to be honest, I was sorrier to leave the soup.”

  He chuckled. “So I was right. It wasn’t a love match.”

  “It’s not my fault that the laws of this nation prevent the rightful inheritance of an unmarried female. Perhaps you should take that up with the Crown Prince. If the rumors are true, Captain Trego, you would be able to change his mind.”

  “Call me Artem. And perhaps you should bring it up to him yourself.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Heaven help him, then,” Artem said.

  Samiris chuckled, and looked back out to sea.

  There on the beach, Captain Artem Trego and Samiris Orellana enjoyed a brief truce.

  The truce ended the next morning when Samiris tripped over a leather trunk that had been left in her room. She flicked back the heavy brass clasps, lifted a lid, and felt her temper rise along with the heat in her face.

  Samiris grasped the bundle of lace and stays and took the stairs two at a time, down to the kitchen, where Artem was assisting the footmen with several more burdens being unloaded. Samiris threw the lacy undergarment at his head and it hit him full in the face, then puddled at his feet like a fallen silk spider web. With alarmed glances at each other, the footmen retreated out the kitchen door.

  “Lady Samiris,” Artem growled. “Always a pleasure.”

  “What is that?”

  He raked his gaze impudently over her form and said, “If you’ve never been introduced to undergarments, I’m more than a little curious about the state of affairs under the top layer of your clothing.”

  Samiris pointed at the offending garment. “I know what it is. What is it doing in my room?”

  Artem rolled his eyes. “As one of the Chosen, you are given clothing suitable for the events you will attend. You’ve been provided with a basic travelling wardrobe to see you through until you can see the dressmaker in Teymara.”

  Samiris had long given up on wearing skirts. There were dresses meant for her, velvet gowns the color of pine needles, silk chiffons the shade of a robin’s egg, lace as delicate as a spider’s web. They were left over from her mother, packed away carefully in hope of the day that Samiris’ curves would match those of a woman long dead.

  But rough, necessary work had made Samiris’ back broader and her biceps larger, and there was little hope that her breasts would ever become what her mother’s had been. That woman had been a product of leisure, of embroidery, of servants who milked heavy cream from willing cows. Samiris was the product of wielding a heavy axe, of plying a rusty plow and a dull scythe in a resentful field.

  Samiris crossed her arms. “I don’t wear dresses. I haven’t since I was a girl.”

  “I’m shocked,” Artem said, his voice weighed down with sarcasm. “But as one of the Chosen, your appearance reflects on the Crown Prince, and on his mother, the Empress Dowager. You will be expected to reflect a certain level of polish. The Crown Prince realizes that this will be more difficult for some than others, but every lady is required to try.”

  Samiris’ eyes narrowed. “I won’t wear them.”

  Artem stepped forward, into her space. “You will, or I will load this food back onto the carriage.”

  Samiris blanched. “Food?”

  “Yes, food,” Artem said, gesturing to the packages behind him. “Gifts for your family, to help ease the burden of your absence.”

  Samiris stepped deftly around Artem’s considerable bulk and inspected the parcels. There was a fifty pound sack of oats, another of flour, another of dried beans, one of potatoes, and who knows what else still waiting to be unwrapped. Her head felt light and liquid from the sight of the wealth in front of her. This would keep Tamrah and her father fed for months.

  She felt a thrill of freedom, and on its heels, an odd sense of loss. The necessity of her presence had been eliminated with a few sacks of dried goods. Artem was watching her expressions carefully, and by the smug look on his face, he knew her cooperation had been bought.

  “Fine,” she bit out. “I’ll wear the stupid dresses when we leave.”

  She whirled to leave the room, but turned back when Artem’s mocking voice called, “Lady Samiris.”

  A bundle of soft lace and hard stays hit her in the face. “You’ll be needing that. Let me know if you need help figuring it out. I have a lot of experience with those.”

  Samiris flushed at the implication of his words and yanked the garment from the floor. She hurried away, the sound of his laughter chasing her out of the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The official procession came four days later, with a swaying, gilded carriage, several loaded carts, a retinue of soldiers, and a girl so pale and lovely that Tamrah felt that gazing upon her was much like looking at the sun... tempting, but after awhile, it made her eyes hurt. Her name was Lady Cyra Mireenis. The guards muttered amongst themselves that apart from saying a formal farewell to her parents, she had not uttered a word.

  Samiris had come back from the forest that morning leading Mora, who was being exceptionally slow and stubborn at pulling a fully-loaded cart of wood. To Samiris’ dismay, the procession had beat her there, and Samiris grit her teeth when she saw the gold-encrusted seal of the Crown Prince on the side of the mammoth carriage.

  Muttering beneath her breath about wastefulness and stupidity, Samiris grabbed an armful of wood and strode into the kitchen, kicking the door open as she usually did.

  “Mercy!” a woman shrieked, jolting Samiris and causing her to fumble with the logs. “How you frightened me!”

  The speaker was a woman as thin and cranky as an underfed chicken. She was waving a lace handkerchief at her face in exaggerated motions and fluttering her other hand.

  Samiris looked dumbly around the room, at Tamrah, who was staring at the woman as if she were a rat with two heads, to the six soldiers who were holding their helmets at their sides with regimented precision, to the thin, ethereal girl in the corner staring out the window at nothing.

  “Who...” Samiris started.

  “Do take care not to do it again,” the woman snapped. “You took at least a year off my life, I do believe it’s true. I suppose you are Lady Samiris? Well, don’t just stand there, letting the heat out. Close the door, girl, and be quick. Wouldn’t want a rodent or something to come in behind you. Who knows what kind of vermin live in a place like this?”

  Samiris narrowed her eyes and went to stack the wood, leaving the door pointedly open behind her.

  The woman didn’t notice, just kept prattling on, “I’m Lady Elise Tolouche, and that’s Lady Cyra Mireenis. We’ll be dining here tonight and then setting off in the morning. Your sister Tamica says that you have no extra rooms made up for guests? I suppose there’s nothing to be helped for that, even though your house is quite large and could have accommodated us very easily if you had put in a little effort, but I suppose that hospitality and politeness are not as important in the Southern provinces as they are in the North. No matter, I’m sure that the time in the North will do you some good, and I hope to help your social education along as we travel. It is possible that you might learn some new manners by emulating the fine ladies that you are to meet, even though I’m sure we’re all aware that your stay might be very brief indeed.”

  Samiris opened her mouth, to correct, answer a question, argue, or just scream, but then thought better of it. She plunked down her logs and went back outside to get more of them. She saw the mischievous grin that Tamrah slipped her on the way out the door.

  And so it went, load after load, as if Lady Elise was perfectly unaware that Samiris couldn’t hear her when she stepped out the door, and didn’t care to hear her when in earshot.

  “...perfectly safe, I assure you, although we
had heard ghastly stories about Southerners rising up in revolt, and killing those with property, any property at all. And not just the men, either, though that would have been far more understandable. And cannibalism! Have you ever heard such a thing? That’s why I demanded a full company of soldiers on the journey, and not just the five that Captain Trego insisted would be plenty. As talented as he is, and believe me, I could tell some stories! Even he can’t make up for ten other men along, and make no mistake....”

  “....surely you can understand my concern, what with the carriage alone being worth as much as this house, well, by what I can see from this vantage point in the kitchens, which is quite unorthodox, I must say. I’m used to much better accommodations, but as it is the South, I must persevere. Just think of all the stories I’ll be able to tell when we’re safe in the capital once more. All this tent living and fresh air. I can’t wait to be rid of it and I’m sure my back will never be the same again, though I don’t like to complain...”

  “...wasn’t quite sure that it wasn’t your sister who should be coming along with us. After all, she is so lovely, and perhaps a little bit better prepared to come to court, judging from both your appearances. Her hairstyle is quite fetching, if still very basic, and her eyes are just beautiful. But she assured me that you are Samiris, and I checked with Captain Trego and he said that you are the one who is to come, even though, so sorry to tell you, my dear, your physical appearance is not the fashionable norm in the North, and you may face some challenges catching the Crown Prince’s eye...”

  At that, Samiris was finished unloading the wood, and slammed the kitchen door behind her on her way out. She unhooked Mora and led her out to her little pasture. Once the donkey was safely inside her pen, Samiris took a deep breath.

  She muttered to herself, “Hot buckets of piss, that woman talks too much.”

  “I take it you’ve met Lady Elise, then?” Artem mimicked her stance, leaning on the fence.

  “How am I supposed to spend a week in a carriage with that woman? She’s... beyond words, which is ironic.”

  “The only reason she’s made it through life so far is because she is a lady. She wouldn’t have lasted a day in the army if she were a man.”

  “Even still, it’s a wonder no one’s smothered her in her sleep.”

  Artem chuckled. “I have to say, I’ve never been so grateful that I have to ride up front on my horse.”

  Samiris narrowed her eyes at him, and he laughed.

  Dinner was as formal as any Samiris could remember. Tamrah had scrounged up some clean linens and had washed the china and polished the silver that Samiris wasn’t aware they still owned. She frowned down at her reflection in a silver knife, determined to ask her father where he’d been squirreling away these valuables.

  Tamrah had made a simple but delicious supper of stew, fresh bread, greens and roasted vegetables. Her father had come down for the occasion, and sat at the head of the table in a freshly ironed shirt.

  Tamrah had badgered Samiris into wearing one of the dresses and letting Tamrah do her hair, so Samiris had conceded, pulling the first dress she saw over those stupid, constricting undergarments that Tamrah had laced for her.

  “You look so beautiful,” Tamrah had said, peering around Samiris to look at her reflection in the mirror.

  Samiris thought she looked different, but not beautiful. She would never be considered that; Lady Elise had made that very clear.

  “Anything for you, Magpie,” Samiris had said, giving Tamrah a kiss on the cheek.

  But now, as Lady Elise droned on and on, somehow managing to clean her bowl without letting anyone else speak nary a word, Samiris was beginning to think that her love for her sister had its limits.

  “Lady Cyra,” Samiris cried in desperation, when she could no longer handle the incessant prattling. “Do you like gardens? I have been neglectful in not showing you ours.”

  The pale girl looked up at Samiris and tilted her head as if listening to a question from an invisible person seated next to her.

  “Or chickens? Horses? The Captain’s horse is a fine specimen,” Samiris added, the words tumbling forth like water from a spring in her panic to be gone from the table.

  Artem dropped his spoon into his soup bowl with a clatter and narrowed his eyes at Samiris as Cyra gave a single, regal nod. Artem swiped his napkin across his lips and dropped it on the table.

  Sensing danger, Samiris thought quickly and landed upon an issue that Lady Elise had been ranting about earlier in the day. “Lady Elise, I heard Captain Trego mention that he was very interested in your views on the peasant situation in the Sands.”

  With a smirk, Tamrah added, “He thinks that the refugees are camping there lawfully, and should be left in peace.”

  Samiris thought she had never loved her sister more than in that moment.

  “Certainly not, Captain Trego!” Lady Elise squawked, clasping a bony hand over Artem’s wrist to keep him in place, as he had been rising from his chair. “Sit back down and let me tell you what those ruffians have done to the once very scenic riverbed!”

  Artem’s eyes tracked Samiris sullenly, as a hunter tracks a deer who has escaped effective shooting range. Samiris hurried Cyra outside, her pace not slowing until she had yanked a bunch of carrots from the garden and reached the dark confines of the stable. Samiris was breathing heavily.

  “Do you ride?” she asked Cyra.

  “Yes,” Cyra said. “But in this dress I’m going to need a side-saddle.”

  “We don’t have any,” Samiris said, reaching back to loosen the stays on her gown.

  Cyra stared. “You’re going riding in your underwear?”

  “I just got a preview of what the next few months are going to be like. Boring dinners, stiff manners, listening to the strong opinions of pampered ladies whose worst adversity in life has been getting a paper-cut from an invitation to a ball.” Samiris pulled her gown over her head, balled it up and threw it on a pile of straw. “This might be our last night of freedom.”

  The pale girl quirked an eyebrow. “Freedom,” she repeated, wonder coloring her voice. “What does that feel like?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll show you,” Samiris said, making her way to Behemoth’s stall.

  She jerked to a stop in front of his stall door and gave a short exhale of contempt when she saw the heavy padlock on the door.

  “I’m insulted,” Samiris said, striding over to the wall where various tools were hung. She quickly selected a heavy iron awl and a hammer. “Artem must think I’m a special kind of moron.”

  Samiris set to work on the hinges of Behemoth’s stall, tapping the pin from each one with deft, quick strikes. Cyra appeared at Samiris’ side silently, wearing nothing but her lace corset and starched cotton bloomers. Samiris grinned and kept working.

  “I have noticed that you and the Captain are on familiar terms with one another,” Cyra said. “He seems to have taken a special interest in you.”

  Samiris chuckled. “His only interest in me is adversarial. He finds it challenging to try and best me, and where he fails at that, he makes do with making my life as miserable as possible.”

  Samiris heaved the thick wooden door open, the padlock acting as the hinge. Behemoth stomped and snorted, tossing his head. The huge black beast seemed as anxious to go as she was. Samiris wondered if like her, he delighted in breaking the rules, and got too few opportunities to do so.

  Samiris slipped a bridle over his head quickly. Who knew how long Lady Elise could hold Artem captive with her narrow viewpoints on the poor? Cyra surprised Samiris by mounting fluidly without help.

  “Impressive,” Samiris said, eyebrows raised, as she scrambled up behind Cyra far less gracefully.

  “My father has a horse several hands higher than this one,” Cyra said, taking the reins and guiding them out of the stables.

 
“I hope you can ride as well as you can mount,” Samiris said, taking in the sight before them.

  Artem was running across the yard, and two of his guards approached Behemoth. The guards’ arms were outstretched as if they could block the mammoth horse by creating a human net.

  “Better,” Cyra said, giving Behemoth a kick in the flank.

  The horse seemed to have just been waiting for his riders to give him permission, for he was charging at the men in an instant, knocking over one of the guards with his swinging head as they passed. They were well past the men before Samiris could take another breath. Behemoth was beyond anything she had experienced before. He was magnificent.

  “Catch us if you can, Captain Arsehole!” Samiris called over her shoulder. She cackled at the look of infuriated determination that flared on Artem’s face.

  The last glimpse she had of him, he was sprinting to the stables.

  “Do you think it’s wise to goad him?” Cyra called over the wind whipping past them, once they had cleared the gate.

  “It seems to be up to me to take him down a notch. We all have our roles to play.”

  “So true,” Cyra said, her tone dark.

  They were flying down the lane. Behemoth was in the spirit of things instantly. He ran as if a pack of Northern wolves were behind him. Instead of heading to shell beach, Samiris directed Cyra down to the village, where they slowed into a trot.

  “Stop him there,” Samiris said, pointing to the back door of the tavern. “I’ll be right back.”

  When Peg answered Samiris’ quick knocking on the back door of the tavern, her eyes went wide, then she smiled. Samiris wondered what she looked like, her arms and neck bared by the corset which cinched her middle, her white cotton bloomers puffing and deflating in the ocean breeze like the windsock tied to Peg’s roof. She had left her hair half-down at Tamrah’s prodding, and she could feel how the frantic ride down the hill had teased it into a thick, curling mess.