by Jill M Beene
Samiris snickered. She had slept well after she and Cyra had dressed quickly and snuck back to camp. Her wet hair and nightgown kept her cool enough to fall asleep. The exhaustion from propping herself up to stay in her seat the day before was enough to hold her under until morning.
It was another two days of hot travel, days where the dust rose up in great swarms to blanket and choke them, making Samiris’ eyes feel like sandpaper. Then they were at the foot of mountains again, shadowed by the tall trees that grew on the hillside. This pass was the dangerous one, the one where they could not spend the night in the forest because of the Northern wolves. So though they had reached the edge of the mountains by early afternoon, they were forced to make camp and wait.
That night, Lady Elise claimed a headache. Samiris had no doubt she was telling the truth. The road had turned rocky toward the end of the day. It had jarred them to and fro, knocking their heads against the carriage in a random percussion. Samiris had felt like a pebble in a bottle upon the waves, never knowing when the next crest or dip would come. Her back and legs ached from bracing herself against the motion of the carriage. Her temper had worn thin from the jarring ride and Lady Elise’s melodramatic moaning.
But when Samiris saw the potion that Lady Elise took from the army physician who accompanied them, when Samiris heard his low, solemn voice carrying over the dinner chatter as he warned Lady Elise that she would be nonsensical to the world for many hours, when Samiris saw Lady Elise’s grateful expression and nod, Samiris couldn’t help but ducking her head and smiling.
One more night, she thought. One more night of freedom.
It seemed like ages since Samiris had slipped a secret bottle into her coat’s pocket, then bundled the whole thing up and stashed it in the bottom of her trunk. The knowledge of its presence made her feel giddy, heady, as if she had already started drinking the wine. She dared not touch it until a time came when Lady Elise had let down her guard enough to stop fluttering about the girls as though she were a moth and the girls a flame.
Samiris made sure that their tent was erected a ways from the soldiers, saying that their snoring was disturbing her sleep. When the camp had fallen silent, when the pops of the fire and the low snores of men the only sound, Samiris got up, lit a single candle, and rummaged through her trunk. The night was noisy. The wind whipped through the trees at the base of the mountains with a low whistling sound, setting their branches to groaning and their leaves to whispering in a chorus that was familiar and comforting to Samiris. It was perfect.
“What are you doing?” Cyra whispered, sitting up on her cot.
“I brought something for us,” Samiris said, her head half in her trunk, and slightly muffled. “If it survived the journey.” She emerged, triumphant, with the glass bottle.
“What is that?” Cyra hissed.
“Peg’s plum wine. A special parting gift, and a perfect way to end a day as rotten as this one.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea, after what happened the last time we drank something from Peg?”
Samiris smiled. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve had this whole trip.”
Samiris deftly uncorked the bottle and took a large swig. The wine was crisp and sweet, and warmth slid down her throat and nestled in her belly like a pet before a fire. She thrust the bottle to Cyra, and the girl took it.
After frowning down at it solemnly for several moments, her face cracked into a little grin, she took a swig, and passed it back down to Samiris. They drank in silence, each savoring the quiet that could not be found in the presence of Lady Elise.
“Do you know any jokes or limericks?” Cyra asked, a wicked tilt to her smile.
Samiris winked and replied, “There once was a man from Brizelle, whose wife, she looked like hell. So he sewed her a hat, which came down like that; it helped, though she couldn’t see well.”
Cyra laughed and quipped, “Don’t take a sausage from a woman fat, she’ll bite your finger and you won’t get it back.”
Samiris cackled and took another drink. She stood and recited another limerick with relish, one she had heard at midnight in Faro’s bar, one that she had never repeated until then: “A pirate, history relates, was sparring with some of his mates, when he fell on a cutlass, rendering himself nutless, and practically useless on dates!”
Cyra sputtered, blushed scarlet, then her eyes went wide and focused behind Samiris.
“Charming,” Artem said, the word soaked in sarcasm.
Samiris started violently, whirling around and knocking into the center support pole to the tent. She had just enough time to see Artem’s stony expression, his crossed arms, then his eyes jerked upwards and his mouth gaped as the whole tent swayed. Artem bit out a harsh curse and lunged for the naked flame of the candle, just as the tent collapsed on all three of them.
They were plunged into darkness, the heavy canvas of the tent draping over them and weighing Samiris down like she was neck-deep in mud. She collapsed along with the tent, barking her shin on the edge of her cot. She could hear the sounds of Artem wrestling with the cloth, his muttered curses and indignant sighs. She could also hear Cyra... was she giggling?
It wasn’t a sound Samiris had ever heard before, but she chuckled too, and once she started, she couldn’t stop. She guessed that Cyra was too weighed down by the heavy tent to move, either. They had no choice but to lay there until they were rescued, and the sound of Artem floundering in the yards of canvas made Samiris laugh even harder.
Finally, he must have made it to the center pole and lifted it, because the canvas came away from her gasping face. There was a scuffling, and then a match was lit. Samiris stood and began laughing anew when she caught sight of Artem, his hair ruffled from his fight with the tent, his shirt askew. Cyra had regained her footing, too, but was hiding her amusement poorly behind a snow-white hand.
“You two should be separated,” he growled. “You two shouldn’t be allowed within fifteen feet of...ow!”
With a bitten curse, he shook out the match that had burned to his fingertips. Taking advantage of the anonymity and element of surprise that the darkness allowed, Samiris quickly groped for her pillow and then swung it hard in the general direction of where Artem’s head had disappeared into inky blackness a moment before.
Her effort was rewarded with a muffled, “Oof!”
So she swung again. The pillow connected but was yanked from her hands. And returned the way she had sent it. The impact sent her toppling back on her cot, and she laughed.
“What’s going on?” Cyra asked, her tone clearly confused.
Samiris just managed to cackle, “Pillow fight,” before the fluffy projectile connected with her face again.
“Really?” Cyra said. “Alright.”
And Cyra swung and connected, hard, with the center pole of the tent. Samiris heard the rustling of the tent collapsing again.
“Mercy,” Artem said, strain in his voice as he caught the pole and righted it once more. “You two could tear up an anvil.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next day, Samiris was still laughing every time she remembered it. A couple of times she caught Cyra chuckling, too.
“Well, I’m glad you two are happy,” Lady Elise sniped. “But I for one, am not.”
As if that needed clarification, Samiris thought.
“I cannot believe what a trial this journey has been. And for all the discomfort you two have suffered, just imagine how it’s been for me. Double the distance! Double the miles! At my age, too. It’s been unbearable. I don’t know how I’ve been getting by without any sleep. And I’m sure that the Empress Dowager and my lady friends have been at loose ends without me.”
More likely they are enjoying the glorious silence. Samiris smirked and looked out the window, trying to drown Lady Elise out with her own thoughts.
The window coverings of the c
arriage had been drawn back to invite a breeze. They were traveling through a lush, green forest, so much like her home that she felt a pang of longing. The breeze was gentle, and the birds were chattering over one another, each competing to be heard. It was hard to imagine, looking out at the tall, waving trees, the dappled shade beneath them, that this was the home of the Northern wolves. While the wolves typically only hunted at night, every soldier was alert, their hands often straying to the swords at their sides as if to reassure themselves that they were still there.
Late in the afternoon, the carriage crested a large hill and halted.
“Thank heavens,” Lady Elise said, pulling back the curtain. “Finally. We will be in the castle by nightfall. This trip has taken forever.” Her sullen eyes lingered on Cyra and Samiris in turn.
Samiris leaned forward and swallowed deeply. From their perch on the hill, she had nearly a bird’s-eye view of the city. Teymara was sprawled out below them like an unfurled, multi-colored cloak. No description could have prepared her for it.
It was massive. Samiris thought there must be thousands of buildings standing shoulder to shoulder in regimented lines along the cobblestone streets that cut through the city like veins in a body. The stone buildings rose toward the sky in multiple stories and glowed firefly golden in the afternoon light. She could see small patches of lush green that were certainly gardens, small groupings of red, yellow and orange were most likely market tents.
The largest and most beautiful buildings clustered at the foot of the palace, serfs bowing before their monarch. If the city was a brightly woven cloak, then the palace was the diamond brooch pinned onto its folds. The structure rose high above the far edge of Teymara, hemmed in on three sides by the city. Setting proudly on a rise, it faced the sea, allowing for stunning vistas of the crashing waves far in the distance. The massive white limestone blocks of the castle reflected the sun. They were white midday, but at sunset they would blush pink, a maiden’s cheek.
The carriage lurched gently forward again, and they began the descent to the city gates. Samiris let the sights wash over her like a foaming ocean wave. They passed farmers with old carts loaded to the top and covered in burlap, a grouping of sour-faced soldiers who saluted Artem and Behemoth with such exaggeration that Samiris rolled her eyes, and small groups of straggling, barefoot refugees.
There was a line at the open city gates, a large arched portcullis in the four-stories tall wall that wreathed the city. As their carriage approached, the line of people and animals slunk to the sides of the road, eyes downcast as if someone had cracked a whip. Samiris did not know if they were making way for the royal seal on the carriage, or for Captain Trego and his famous horse. A few words from Artem to the city guard at the gate, and their procession was passing through with nary a pause.
There was even more to see inside. The carriage skimmed along smooth streets, the cobblestones so well fitted and worn that Samiris felt barely a jostle. The crests upon the soldiers’ crimson cloaks were more effective than a tolling bell; everywhere they went, a receding wave of people, animals, and wooden carts swept out of their path.
They passed markets where Samiris heard bartering that sounded like arguments and caught the briny scent of fish and the heady smell of fresh-baked bread. Rows of manor houses towered up toward the sky since there was no room to spread out. The houses made up for their small footprints with excessive decoration. Each was a tall, narrow jewel box of different colored lacquers, with gold-mullioned windows and striped brocade awnings over small but profuse flower gardens.
And the people...Samiris had never seen so many different kinds of people. There were broad-faced, sturdy looking women in plain cotton clothes carrying baskets and buckets, their rapid footsteps plainly saying that they had many tasks and not enough time to do them. There were groups of sauntering men dressed in sunset-colored velvets, smoking blue-smoke cigars and laughing together in a self-congratulatory way.
Every now and then, a fine, delicate carriage, much smaller than the one they rode in, would pass. Samiris caught brief glimpses of beautiful faces and small white hands at the curtains like hummingbirds, darting there and then gone in an instant. There were beggars in rags, sitting in the dry gutters, servants in crisp white head wraps with wary eyes, meat merchants in bloodied aprons, two large men pushing a cart of fish... it made Samiris’ head feel like it had been cast upon the waves, sloshing and dipping with the onslaught of unfamiliar sights, smells and sounds.
The journey had felt long until now. As the castle loomed closer and closer, larger than Samiris could have ever dreamed, her spine stiffened, her nails dug into the burgundy velvet over her knees until her knuckles blanched white. Because of its sheer size, the castle could have appeared bulky, inelegant. But the massive structure was symmetrical and decorated with turrets, dark slate roofing, large mullioned windows, arches and carved frescoes. It was an architectural work of art.
Samiris dared a sidelong glance at Cyra, and saw only grim resolve marking the girl’s face. For the very first time, Samiris felt small, uneducated. It occurred to her that she was about to meet eighteen other girls who had grown up in the cultured shadow of this palace. They would not wear the impressed, doe-eyed expression of a country girl come to the city. They would not be intimidated by new surroundings and people. This was their home. Samiris felt like an imposter. Though she didn’t care what people thought about her, she didn’t want to embarass her family. Her mouth tightened into a pressed line.
As if she could sense Samiris’ feelings, Cyra reached out a hand and rested it on top of Samiris’ fingers. It was just a second, a reassuring pat as light as a feather landing on skin, one that still held the uncertainty of a freshly-formed friendship. Samiris smiled shakily in response.
I am not alone, she reminded herself sternly.
They paused at an iron portcullis, not the crude cross hatching of the city gate, but a huge delicate metal tapestry depicting a spreading oak tree’s roots and branches. Finely worked metal birds peeked out from behind leaves, seemed to cock their heads at the approaching carriage and examine Samiris with shrewd iron eyes. Then the gate was up, and all too quickly, they were sweeping into a round cobblestoned courtyard.
“I thought it would be bigger,” Samiris said, relief evident in her voice.
“This isn’t the front, obviously,” Lady Elise snipped, her patience tapped long ago. “This is one of the servants’ entrances. We need to get you two cleaned up before anyone important sees you.”
The carriage halted, the steps pulled out, the door opened, the male hand of the footman offered, and Samiris emerged from the coach and stood blinking in the sudden sunlight. The courtyard bustled with activity and she took it all in with cautious eyes.
Samiris had thought that the dress she had been given was of fine quality. Though it had rankled her, another, secret part of her had preened at wearing it. That same part of her was now wilting. The dress she was wearing was identical to that of a servant girl walking by. The girl was carrying a rough wooden bucket of milk in each hand, and didn’t even pause as she sloshed some down her front. Samiris’ mouth watered at the sight of the fresh milk spotting the worn cobblestones.
Samiris stepped forward toward the servant girl as if to follow those two buckets of milk on instinct, and her foot squelched down squarely in a pile of horse dung. Samiris was vaguely aware of Cyra alighting from the coach behind her, but she was too deep in her mortification to pay her any attention. Her visions of a respectable entrance were dashed. This couldn’t get worse.
“Look, new toys to play with,” a jeering voice to her left said.
Four ladies stood in the courtyard, the gauze of their gowns billowing gently in the breeze, as diaphanous and light as a butterfly’s wings. Samiris was struck by their perfect beauty. They looked like a spray of roses, each one individual, but somehow all the same. Their skirts were made of tiers upon tiers o
f silk, padded at the hips, and brought back to form elaborate bustles. Their hair was swept up into a column of intricate curls and braids, each one slightly different, and adorned with flowers, gems, trailing ribbons, or feathers.
The ladies had lifted their skirts slightly with tiny gloved hands, and were holding them up to spare them from grazing the cobblestones. Samiris wondered why ladies dressed so finely would be lingering in this courtyard, but the ladies were watching the coach with predatory eyes. This wasn’t a chance meeting; they had been waiting for Samiris and Cyra.
Three of the young ladies were arranged in a semi-circle around a brunette. She was the one who had spoken; she was the one wearing the most elaborate dress and a sneer that uglied her angelic features.
Cyra returned their attention with a polite curtsy. Samiris just stared. From the corner of her eye, Samiris saw Artem lead Behemoth forward, almost as if to shield Samiris and Cyra.
Lady Elise smiled as she was assisted from the carriage. “Lady Narcise, how kind of you to receive us. I assume that the Crown Prince sent you down to welcome our last guests?”
“Oh, yes. We were up late last night betting on whether these two would even speak the same, civilized language that we do here. I bet that they wouldn’t.” Narcise stepped forward with a languid, elegant pace, stopping far too close to Samiris for comfort. “So how about it, girl? Do. You. Speak. Our. Language?”
Samiris wrinkled her forehead in apparent puzzlement, then turned to glance at Cyra. “Jimba-jawanga?” she said.
Cyra shook her head. Artem tipped his head back and laughed. Narcise frowned at him with full, pouting lips. Lady Elise sighed.
“Of course they speak the language, Lady Narcise. And please don’t encourage them. It’s been such a long trip already.”
Samiris slipped Cyra a mischievous smile.
“Captain Trego,” Narcise purred, sidling up to his horse and blinking upwards at him through her lashes.
“Lady Narcise.” Artem gave a curt nod and scanned the courtyard.