by Jill M Beene
“Very good,” Lady Elise said, as if Samiris were four. “Now, another important thing to know is that your time with the Crown Prince, at least in the beginning, will be decided by Her Imperial and Royal Excellency, the Empress Dowager, and a panel of qualified Ladies, including myself.” This last statement was paired with a thin hand pressed to her chest and a rapid fluttering of eyelashes.
Samiris thought she might be waiting for applause, but, hearing none, Lady Elise opened her eyes and continued, “It is important that you make a good impression on this group of ladies, as they will determine how soon you get an audience with the Crown Prince, how long that audience is, and whether it is alone or with a group.”
Samiris had the sudden image in her mind of a group of women all clamoring forward to meet the Crown Prince at once, a stampede of silk bearing down on the overweight royal. She knew where she would be: standing back, trying not to laugh. She smiled.
“Now, study the etiquette lessons in your books. You should know everything well by the time we arrive. I’m going to try and get some sleep; there was a mosquito in my tent last night, and I didn’t sleep a wink.”
Cyra bent obediently over her book as Lady Elise settled herself in the bench. Sooner than Samiris would have believed, Lady Elise was snoring loudly, a wheeze on the way out, snorts on the way in. Samiris watched her, eyes wide, waiting for her to sit up and laugh like it was a joke.
“She does that,” Cyra whispered. “She’ll snore all night, then sleep half the day away in here, too.”
“It must take a lot of energy to talk that much,” Samiris whispered, still watching Lady Elise for signs that she was faking.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They stopped when the sun was almost directly overhead to water the horses and eat. Samiris took one look at the odd, chair-like contraption that was set behind a screen and ducked into the woods to take care of her private needs, privately. The thought of someone having to deal with that for her... her cheeks flushed just thinking about it. She didn’t know how she would avoid it once they got to the castle, but she wasn’t going to force some poor soldier or footman to empty a chamber pot for her now.
Samiris returned to camp, drying her stream-washed hands on the rose pink dress she wore, and was encouraged to see a fire going, and a large pot already steaming over the flames. She caught a hint of cooking meat and herbs on the wind, and in answer, her stomach lamented low and loud.
When she reached the plush divan upon which Lady Elise perched, she saw a silver tray had been set out, with three plates of cookies next to a steaming tea pot.
“What’s this?” Samiris asked.
“Our luncheon,” Lady Elise said. “Please sit.”
Samiris fervently hoped that this was just the appetizer, and not the main course. She could still smell the scent of meat and rosemary on the air.
“And what are we having for lunch?” Samiris asked cautiously, settling herself next to Cyra on the padded bench.
“Why, butter tarts, of course,” Lady Elise said, exasperated.
“Butter tarts?” Samiris repeated.
She looked down at the two small cookies with dismay. If someone had ever predicted that she would miss the lunch at home in Cattule, she would have laughed until tears streamed down her face. But now, staring down at the two bite-size squares that were to sustain her until that evening, she would have taken her half-cup of oatmeal, a radish and her squirrel jerky with gratefulness in her heart.
“What about the stew?” Samiris sounded desperate.
Lady Elise looked scandalized. Her eyebrows darted up behind her low-hanging coiffure like frightened birds seeking cover. “You are now a guest of the royal family of Leiria. As such, your actions reflect upon them. For ladies like yourselves, from the Southern regions, this will take... an adjustment period, I’m sure. Just follow the Northern ladies’ lead. To begin your education, there will be no more... peasant food. No more stew. No more porridge.”
“So no stew for lunch,” Samiris deadpanned.
“No,” Lady Elise said, her mouth tight, her spine stiff.
“Very well.” Samiris kept Lady Elise’s eye contact, stacked the cookies, shoved them in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
The afternoon wore on like a lingering illness. Samiris was suffering from hunger-induced irritability, and Lady Elise could not shut up to save her life. Now that she had a nap, Lady Elise believed that everything needed to be commented on, and Samiris was having a hard time restraining her temper. Like a large dog that wanted to fight, her temper kept lunging forward with every vapid sentence from Lady Elise’s mouth, and Samiris kept pulling it back by the leash with great effort.
“I’m so uncomfortable,” Lady Elise said for what must have been the thousandth time, shifting in her seat.
The leash snapped.
“The next time you go and fetch women out of their homes for the Crown Prince, against their will, you should bring a more luxurious carriage,” Samiris said.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but as Lady Elise turned to scowl out the window, Samiris could have sworn she saw Cyra smile. Samiris’ outburst only bought her a few minutes of silence before Lady Elise launched into a new invective about Samiris’ lack of manners.
“They will not put up with outbursts like that, mark my word right now, Lady Samiris. And heaven knows that I’m the most patient out of all the Ladies at court, and you will have to learn to at least pretend that you have manners, or you will be thrown out and headed back to your home sooner than you could ever realize.”
Samiris raised an eyebrow. Now that was a tempting thought.
“It would be the best case scenario for you to never speak to the Empress Dowager at all, lest you snap at her. She’d likely throw you in the dungeons for speaking in her presence like that, and I couldn’t blame her one tiny bit if she did. Someone has to teach you how to behave. You can’t be excused for your lacking education and upbringing forever.”
“My apologies, Lady Elise,” Samiris said, sighing.
Lady Elise continued on as if she hadn’t heard her. “And you should be grateful, you should, for this wonderful opportunity.”
“Grateful?” Samiris exclaimed. “For having a one in twenty chance at being burned alive?!”
The carriage lurched to a stop and the door was opened.
“Hello, ladies,” Artem said, sticking his head in to take in all of their faces. “We’re stopping here for the evening.”
They camped in a grove of trees, in tents the soldiers set up for them. Samiris had never done so much nothing in all her life, but when she offered to help, they just raised their eyebrows, mumbled a polite refusal, and kept working.
Sick of the unvaried company, Samiris found herself beside Artem’s as he ate dinner before the fire. She plopped down on the log beside him and sighed.
“Getting along with Lady Elise that well, are you?”
Samiris looked across the campsite, where Lady Elise and Cyra were sitting on the sofa that some poor soldiers had unloaded from a cart. Cyra was working on needlepoint, and Lady Elise was droning on about something, probably complaining.
“She’s a useless twit,” Samiris grumbled, keeping her voice low. “And she cannot stay silent for more than a moment.”
“True and true, but you should try and find some way to endure her company, or this trip will be very long for you.”
“It’s already been a very long trip, and it’s only been a day.”
Artem chuckled. “It’ll help build your patience.”
“Or I’ll go absolutely mad.”
Artem smiled. “You’ve survived worse than a long carriage ride with the likes of her.”
“True.” Samiris studied his profile from the corner of her eye. The flickering firelight cast dancing light and shadows over his strong jaw, his chest.
&
nbsp; Samiris leaned forward, and flicked a gold tassel hanging from his jacket. There were three of them, all in a row, hanging below the four lines of medals that cluttered the left breast of his coat.
“What’re these?” she said.
“Honors,” Artem said, shoveling another bite of stew into his mouth.
Samiris leaned back, eyes wide. She had heard of Honors, but had never known what they looked like. They were symbols of incredible deeds and worth more than treasure, for each one represented a request that the owner could make of the Emperor. They were extremely rare, signifying the pride and pleasure of the Emperor who bestowed them. Honors were hoarded fiercely, often passed down from generation to generation, but they could only be worn by the one to whom they were bestowed.
Artem had three pinned casually to his rumpled coat.
“How did you get them?” She tried not to sound impressed, but she failed.
“Oh, you know. Battles. Things like that.” His jaw clenched.
Samiris smiled, cast around for a way to lighten his mood, change the subject. “If that’s the case, you should let Behemoth wear them.”
He turned his serious green eyes on her. “Is that so?”
“Everyone knows you wouldn’t be half the warrior you are without him. And yet you get all the credit. Where are his fancy tassels, huh? Poor Bemee does all that work, and doesn’t even get a pretty decoration to hang on his saddle.”
“Pretty,” Artem repeated dully, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, pretty,” Samiris said, pretending she didn’t realize how irritated he was. “Pretty like a bow, or the decorations on a birthday cake.”
Artem dropped his spoon in his bowl with a clatter.
“The only reason I ask how you got them is because I’m thinking about getting a set, wearing them as earrings.” Samiris fluttered her fingers beneath her ears for emphasis.
Artem shook his head to try and hide his smile, but Samiris knew her needling had worked. She was all for annoying Artem, had no problem with his frowns or scowls, but she knew better than most how long difficult memories could linger, and she never wanted to be the source of anyone’s pain.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It took two more days to travel through Cattule, and they camped on top of the mountains on the third night. The next morning, the road sloped downward at a steep grade. For an entire day, the horses and the men upon them leaned back as if perpetually startled by something in the road. Lady Elise had her back against the downward angle, so she was cradled in her seat as if by a giant, benevolent hand. Cyra and Samiris braced their feet against the floor and pushed back to keep their bottoms on the padded bench, legs trembling like reeds in the ocean wind, sweat beading at their temples.
Late that afternoon, the steep hill that was wooly with squat, bristly trees dumped them into a flat valley of waving grasses whose motion reminded Samiris of the sea. An arrow of homesickness pierced her, shocking her in its intensity. They were in the province of Chaikine now, and everything was strange.
They did not see a single person. Every house was an abandoned carcass, caved in and rotting. The few trees standing looked as if the slightest wind would topple them. The sun-baked earth was cracked and gray and shimmered with heat. The vegetation had died long ago, the brown grasses whispering against each other in the wind, the crisp, leafless bushes rattling like a warning as their procession passed.
Even the light was different here. At home, the light filtered through the shifting trees and reflected off the playful waves of the ocean. Here, the light was still and stagnant. It was hot, too, the winds oppressive. Beads of sweat adorned their noses and their brows, plastered strands of hair to their necks, collected in the cloth under their arms, and trickled down their spines to land in a more uncomfortable spot that made them shift awkwardly in response. Samiris felt like the coach was a cast iron pot and they were roasts baking and basting in their own juices.
“It’ll get better in a couple of days, when we crest those mountains,” Artem said when they made camp that evening, gesturing toward the hills in front of them that were mere outlines in the dwindling light. “This valley doesn’t get any ocean breezes, which is why it stays so hot.”
“Who would ever want to live here?” Samiris said, swiping sweat-drenched strings of hair from her forehead.
“Before the curse, this was some of the best farmland available,” Artem said, looking out with a frown. It was impossible to see much in the gloom, but Samiris knew what he was thinking of: the skeletal rows of dead orchards, crisp and begging for a fire, the plots of abandoned farmland, the vacant, falling-down houses they had passed. “Now, it’s worthless.”
“And hot,” Samiris added, swiping her forehead again with a limp handkerchief.
“That it is.”
There was still a fire that night, built by a dutiful soldier to keep any large animals at bay, but no one drew near to it. The sun-baked earth released its stored heat like a kiln beneath them; the moon brought no temperature change above. Samiris could hear Cyra tossing in her pallet just as she was doing. Lady Elise had provided them with several rags and a bucket of water to help them stay cool, then had retreated to her own tent. Samiris was jealous of the soldiers who slept outside. Even a hot breeze was better than still, feverish air trapped within a canvas tent.
Hours after Lady Elise had begun her nightly symphony of snores, Samiris heard it: a distant splash. She and Cyra bolted upright.
“You heard that, too?” Samiris hissed.
“I thought maybe I had wished that sound into existence.”
Samiris rolled out of bed and felt her feet around for her slippers. “Let’s go.”
Cyra needed no further encouragement. Soundlessly, they pulled back the tent flap and ducked out into the humid night. The fire still crackled in the center of camp, but at least half of the soldiers’ sleeping rolls were empty. The soldiers who remained all slept soundly with wet hair.
“Those bastards are holding out on us,” Samiris whispered, sneaking toward the direction of the splash.
There was no cover to hide behind, but it was a dark night, only a fingernail clipping of moon visible above them. They followed the hard-packed dirt road, their nightgowns looking like white flags of surrender against the darkness. Samiris and Cyra jogged until they heard the sounds of splashing water and playful male voices, then they ducked low and approached slowly.
About a quarter mile from the road, there was a large pond. It was nearly the size of the small bay where Samiris and Tamrah swam at home. Bulrushes crowded each other at the pond’s edges, and a single oak tree stood guard over the small, muddy beach where the soldiers gathered. The smell of water was a heady perfume in the heat.
Samiris and Cyra slunk in from the far side, dropping to their bellies in the dust to spy. Five soldiers swam in lazy circles while another swung from a rope tied to the oak tree. Samiris was grateful that the light was dim, because judging by the outline of the male soaring through the air before splashing down, the soldiers didn’t even wear under-breeches.
“Can you swim?” Samiris whispered.
“Yes,” Cyra said. “There was a cave with hot springs and a pool where I lived.”
“I want in that water. Let’s wait until they leave. Are you with me?” Samiris’ hungry eyes were on the pond. She didn’t notice Cyra regarding her seriously for several moments.
“Yes, I think I am,” Cyra said.
They didn’t have that long to wait. The soldiers emerged from the water, shaking like dogs to get the excess water off. They pulled on their trousers and slogged back toward camp in squelching boots, holding their bundles of clothing. Samiris and Cyra waited several minutes. Perhaps a soldier would come back for a forgotten stocking or a lost belt. But the night remained still and quiet, and they pushed off the ground, dusted themselves off, and jogged over toward the b
each.
Samiris did not dither, pulling her cotton nightgown up over her head, hanging it on a tree and wading into the water immediately. The water was pure, liquid relief. The pond was warmer toward the surface, but beneath the water was cool. It felt glorious on her hot skin, and she dove under, resurfacing with a satisfied splutter. Cyra was still standing on the bank, looking at Samiris uncertainly.
“What?” Samiris said.
“Nothing,” Cyra said quickly, pulling the hem of her shift over her head.
But when she turned to hang it on the tree, Samiris got a faint glimpse of her back in the dim moonlight. Four long scars ran from Cyra’s shoulders to the small of her back. They were evenly spaced at the top and came to a point in the indentation above her buttocks. The left one was silvery-white and completely healed, but the far right one was still puckered and pink. Samiris felt fury rising in her like a tide. Who had done that? Who had so carefully maimed Cyra’s skin?
When Cyra waded into the water, she saw Samiris’ expression. She simply said, “Don’t.”
So Samiris set her jaw and dove beneath the surface again. She tried to focus on the feel of the crisp water swirling about her limbs, but her mind went back to Cyra’s back again and again. No wonder the girl was grimly determined to fit in at the palace. Samiris would be determined to do anything to escape whatever kind of life Cyra had been living, too.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Samiris said, carefully. “But if you ever need anything, I will help you.”
Cyra just dove under and came up smiling, as if the water had the power to wash away more than just the dust on their faces.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I’ve never spent such a wretched night in all my life,” Lady Elise announced by way of greeting the next morning.
“I think she says that about every night of travelling,” Cyra murmured to Samiris under her breath.