by Jill M Beene
Two guards were leaning against the wood table, eating and chatting with a pretty maid when Samiris walked in. Then they caught a glimpse of Artem frowning behind Samiris, and snapped into a crisp salute that was somewhat marred by their mouths, which were full of sandwiches. Artem nodded, and they dispersed like frightened mice. Even the maid scurried after them.
“You scared them away,” Samiris chided, helping herself to a sandwich from the covered platter on the sideboard. “Mmm, turkey and cheese, my favorite.”
“How did you know about the night sandwiches?” Artem, said, snagging a sandwich. “How did you even know where the kitchen is?”
Samiris hopped up onto the marble-topped counter and sat, legs swinging, as she ate. “Marla and I became fast friends. I come down here every morning for the porridge.”
“You prefer porridge to pastries?”
“I like pastries well enough, but the only fun I have around here is making Narcise crazy by how little I eat in public. She doesn’t have the kitchen connections I do,” Samiris said, shoving the last of her sandwich in her mouth and reaching for another.
“So you come down here and eat porridge, then go to the formal breakfast and eat...”
“One bite,” Samiris said. “But Marla’s in on it. She always has a plate of pastries sent up afterwards.”
“You’re diabolical,” Artem said with a smile.
“Narcise started it, started calling me piggy behind my back the first time I ate in front of her.”
“There’s no excuse for what she said but you do have an appetite.”
Samiris was polishing off her second sandwich and eyeing a third. “You would, too, if you had spent the last fifteen years with not enough to eat.”
Artem frowned. “True.”
“Besides, the women in this city are crazy. They starve themselves skinny, then wear dresses that make them look as broad as a house in the hips. What is that?”
Artem laughed. “Far be it from me to try and understand women’s fashion.”
Samiris hopped down and brushed crumbs off her tunic. “Want a cookie?”
“There aren’t any cookies.”
Samiris smirked. “You’d be surprised by how much you don’t know.”
She drug a chair over the tiles and stood on it, opened a high cupboard and moved a couple things aside until she had found the covered bowl.
“Chocolate hazelnut and toffee,” she said. “Do you want one, or not?”
She grabbed three of the cookies and handed one to Artem when he nodded.
“How come you get two, and I only get one?”
“You should consider yourself lucky,” she said. “Without me, you wouldn’t have known there were cookies at all.”
To her dismay, Artem followed her out of the kitchen and back toward her room. Samiris hoped that Cyra had enough time to get back to her bedroom, that they wouldn’t meet the girl in the hallway. They were talking about the secret cookie stash, and Samiris tried to elevate the volume of her voice as they grew nearer her room, to try and give Cyra some warning.
Artem stopped suddenly, as they neared Samiris’ chamber. “Why are you talking so loud?”
“I’m not,” Samiris said, her eyes flicking nervously toward Cyra’s door.
His eyes flickered down to the two cookies in her hand, then up to Samiris’ door. His face hardened, and he clenched his jaw. “There’s someone in your rooms, isn’t there?”
Samiris was genuinely shocked, her eyes wide. “No.”
But Artem was reaching for her door, and he threw it open and stepped inside.
“What is wrong with you?” Samiris hissed, following him in and shutting the door behind them.
Artem didn’t answer, just started stalking from room to room with assessing eyes. In the bedroom, he actually paused to look under the bed. When he didn’t find anyone, he turned to Samiris with a slightly bewildered expression.
“Why did you take two cookies?”
“Massive appetite, remember?” she said, waving the cookies. “If I knew this was going to be your reaction, I would have given you two as well. Lesson learned, believe me.”
At that moment, there was a quiet knock on the outside chamber door. Samiris’ face blanched. Cyra, she thought. She needs my help, and Artem will see her bleeding.
Artem took one look at Samiris’ face, and his expression darkened like the sky before a storm. Before she could say anything, Artem was heading to the door, Samiris trailing behind like a nervous terrier.
Samiris laid a hand on his arm to stop him. “W-wait...” she stuttered.
Artem yanked open the door, his teeth bared in anger. The maid who was standing there jumped back and quailed under his feral gaze. Artem stepped back in surprise, Samiris’ hand still on his arm.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the small mouse of a woman said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt...”
“You didn’t,” Artem said in a clipped tone.
The maid’s eyes travelled up to where Samiris was still holding Artem’s arm, and Samiris dropped her hand as if she had been burned. The maid blushed and looked down.
“What is it?” Samiris said, rolling her eyes.
“My mistress is not feeling well, and asked if you would come tend to her,” the maid said, looking steadfastly at the ground. “I can tell her that you are...engaged, if you would like me to.”
“For heaven’s sakes, there’s no engagement, here,” Samiris said. “Just a big blowhard and a misunderstanding about cookies. Of course I’ll go to her.”
“Who?” Artem said. “Who is your mistress?”
“Cyra, of course,” Samiris said, rolling her eyes. “Who else would come asking for my help in the middle of the night?”
Artem ignored her. “Who is your mistress?” he asked the maid.
“It is Lady Cyra, as she says.” The girl looked like she wanted to bolt from Artem’s sharp gaze.
Samiris shouldered past Artem into the hall, leaving him standing in her doorway.
“Well,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “Are you done, or are you going to wait in my chambers until I get back?”
Artem’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward and shut Samiris’ door behind him. He raised his finger and opened his mouth.
“Ah, no time for that, I’m afraid,” Samiris said, cutting him off. “I’m not going to stand here and get lectured while Cyra’s waiting. Run along now, and don’t tell all the other soldiers about the treat I gave you, or I’ll never give you another. It’s our little secret, you hear?”
Samiris didn’t wait for Artem’s reply; she crossed the hall and opened Cyra’s chamber door, the maid close on her heels. It wasn’t until she was shutting the door behind them that she noticed the maid’s wide, questioning eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Samiris said.
“N-nothing, my lady,” the maid said, quickly looking at her feet.
Samiris shrugged. “Where is she?”
“The bathing room. She will not let me see her.”
Samiris nodded. “I will take care of her. You may go.”
The servant nodded and departed, casting one more contemplative gaze at Samiris as she went.
Samiris knocked on the bathroom door. “It’s me,” Samiris said.
The smooth click of the lock, then Cyra was standing before her in the crack of the ajar door. Cyra clasped a white nightshirt loosely to her front with one arm, and a bloodied towel to her lower back with the other.
“I fell in the bathroom and cut myself,” Cyra said, barely meeting Samiris’ gaze. “I didn’t want Calluna to see my scars. She is a terrible gossip.”
Samiris pulled the towel away from Cyra’s back gently, but even still, the girl gasped in pain. Samiris’ jaw clenched when she saw the wound. Cyra had cut herself at slight upward angle
at the base of her other marks, as if she was underlining the cuts that had already been made. But she had cut herself too deep in her haste. The edges of the injury gaped, looking like a deep red ‘v’ across the milky white skin, and it was still bleeding. This scar would not be as perfect as the others.
Samiris would not join whatever game of silence and secrecy Cyra wanted to play. “I saw you,” Samiris gritted, ignoring Cyra’s involuntary hiss when she pressed a fresh towel to Cyra’s back. “I saw you in the gardens.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cyra said, her voice strained.
“I saw you,” Samiris said again. “So you might as well tell me the truth.”
There was a long, tense silence. Then Cyra said, “The truth would be far more difficult for you than you could imagine. Please believe me when I say that you’re better off not knowing anything about it.”
“Try me,” Samiris said.
Cyra was silent for long moments, then said, “I can only tell you that it has to do with the beliefs of my people, and that what I’ve done will help me accomplish what I came to do.”
“Oh, and what’s that?” Samiris said, taking another swift peek at the wound.
It was still running with fresh blood. Samiris winced.
“I’ve come to get close to the Crown Prince,” Cyra said from between teeth gritted with pain.
Samiris sighed. How a new scar would help Cyra fall in love with the Crown Prince, Samiris would never know. But Samiris recognized the steel beneath Cyra’s words. She herself sounded the same when she was absolutely determined.
“Very well. But this wound needs stitching. Let me get my kit from my chambers.”
Samiris rose to go, but Cyra grabbed her hand. “No. No stitches.” She gasped in pain as she shifted. “If you stitch it, it has no power. It would mean nothing. Just bind the wound tightly.”
Samiris looked at the pain and determination on Cyra’s face. She nodded, silent, and bent to tie the wound as Cyra asked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Samiris found herself atop a horse the next day, lumbering slowly toward the Crown Prince’s picnic tent. She was a last minute addition to the grouping, a replacement for Cyra. To Samiris’ surprise, she rode between Artem and the Crown Prince at the head of the procession, followed at a jealous distance by Narcise and Ladonna.
“We heard Lady Cyra slipped and injured herself getting out of the bath,” Artem said.
“That is what she tells me,” Samiris said, not meeting the eye contact directed her way.
Samiris saw Artem frown in her periphery.
Fitzhumphrey said, “Artem says that you offered her assistance. Perhaps you will join me later this evening when I visit her to offer my regards. I certainly hope the injury is not too serious.”
“She is recovering,” Samiris said, looking out over the hillside. “But she was not feeling well enough for a horseback ride today.”
“Certainly not,” Fitzhumphrey said. “I myself have long been concerned with the combination of water and smooth stone or tile. It’s quite a dangerous surface, that. I think I’m very close to a solution, a mixture of high performance glue of my own invention, paired with a great quantity of sand. It provides just the right amount of traction for someone to step out of a tub and not slip. Still, there are small issues to tweak.”
Artem smirked. “If I remember correctly, Your Excellency, you had to be pried off the floor because the glue adhered not only to the ground, but to your feet as well.”
Samiris couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Like I said, there are still some small adjustments to be made.” Fitzhumphrey grinned. “Once I have perfected my current project, I will move back to that one. Now Lady Samiris, Captain Trego tells me that you are of above-average intelligence. Perhaps I could consult with you on some of my ideas?”
“Of course, Your Excellency,” Samiris said, stealing a surprised glance at Artem. It was hard to imagine him saying anything positive about her behind her back.
Like before, they paused in the clearing atop the first hill and looked down upon the city.
“I’ll say,” Fitzhumphrey said from atop his horse, “they’re making improvements down there. Look at that road. It’s been gravelled. How very industrious of them.”
“Yes,” Narcise simpered, clucking her horse forward and squeezing in between Samiris and the Crown Prince. “It seems they no longer wish to wallow in muck like pigs.”
Samiris rolled her eyes at Narcise’s back.
“Very good,” Fitzhumphrey said, beaming. “That’s my people, rising up to meet their challenges. I think it looks nice. Tidy-like.”
He flicked his reins and continued up the trail, Narcise and Ladonna now at his side.
Samiris stretched her neck to look. Fitzhumphrey was right. The Sands was bustling with activity. The seawall was partially completed, and even now Samiris could see the small figures of Bernard and his sons working on the unfinished end. The road, once little more than a slick of muck between the buildings, was covered in an even layer of grey gravel.
Samiris sharp eye saw more improvements that were needed...a stable for the animals, a hen hut that would lift any chickens out of the muck, new huts with wood floors instead of wet dirt... her mind formed a list even as she turned her horse to follow. Samiris found her way blocked by Behemoth and Artem. Again. She sighed.
“Did you have something to do with that?” Artem asked her, quietly, nodding toward the camp below.
Samiris couldn’t read his expression.
“And what if I did?” she asked, tossing her head to flip her braid over her shoulder. “Are you going to run to the Crown Prince and tattle?”
“Why would you do that? What is your gain?” he asked, his brow creased.
Samiris bristled. “You hand out twelve gold hektes a week and ask me not to alleviate the suffering that I see? Maybe Northerners are used to turning a blind eye to the hunger that surrounds them, but I am not, and I will not allow you to change me, to turn me into a heartless brute who is content to ride past this camp every week and dine on honey-soaked peaches while these people starve.”
Her voice had become louder and shriller than she would have liked, and she clamped her lips against the rest of her diatribe. She could have kept going for quite some time.
Artem stared at her, an intense but unreadable look on his face. It was as if he was trying to gauge her, to figure her out.
“Well? Say something,” Samiris finally snapped, her nerves fraying further under his inspection. “Feel free to tell me how foolish this is, that these people were born to poverty, and do not know or deserve anything better.”
“There are many in Teymara who would not be happy to know what you are doing with your allowance. Tread carefully, for you do not want dangerous enemies.” Then he turned his horse up the hill, toward the velvet tent and the honey-soaked peaches.
It was well past dark when the knock came at Samiris’ door. Samiris had been ready for hours, having eaten dinner in front of the fire with Aster, then propping herself in the wide window ledge and watching the sun’s rays fade and the moon rise in its place. It was a full moon again tonight. The great silver orb was high and heavy in the sky, painting the courtyard garden in silvers and grey.
Samiris had expected the Crown Prince to bring a full retinue of servants and nobles, as this was how he usually travelled in the castle. But it was just him and Artem.
Fitzhumphrey saw Samiris’ slight glance behind him and said, “I thought that Lady Cyra would prefer a smaller group tonight, as she has been kind enough to allow us to visit her in her private chambers.”
Samiris nodded, hiding her surprise that Fitzhumphrey had picked up on her thoughts that easily. Perhaps he was intelligent, as Artem had said. But at least Samiris’ own presence was explained. She would be ac
ting as chaperone, then, another female so no rumors about the Crown Prince and Cyra could be started. Artem knocked on Cyra’s door, while Fitzhumphrey tried unsuccessfully to hide the large bouquet of flowers he had brought behind his back.
Cyra opened the door herself, and Samiris wondered where her maid was. Samiris wanted to throttle the girl; Aster had told Samiris that Cyra’s maid, Calluna, had been telling everyone how she had caught Artem and Samiris in a compromising position in Samiris’ chambers the night before.
“A compromising position?” Samiris had said, her eyes wide with shock. “He was trying to steal my cookies!”
Aster shook her head. “Why was he in your chambers to begin with, Samiris?”
“He caught me going down to the kitchens for a night snack! He followed me back and searched my rooms for...well, I don’t what he thought he’d find, exactly.”
“Calluna also said that you weren’t...dressed properly.”
“I was wearing what I’m wearing now,” Samiris argued, her chin jutted forward.
Aster sighed. “So technically, Calluna was correct. You weren’t dressed properly. But that’s not the extent of what she’s implying, I can tell you that.”
“What exactly is she implying?” Samiris demanded.
Aster’s cheeks went a rosy pink. “Well, that he and you were...you know...” And Aster made a little motion with her hands to illustrate.
Samiris doubled over, laughing. She laughed until her cheeks hurt, until she was gasping for breath, until tears were running down her face. Aster joined her.
“I don’t know what’s funnier,” Samiris gasped, “the idea of Artem and I that way, or making you explain what the gossip was about.”
Aster looked indignant, even though her cheeks were flushed with her own laughter. “You knew what I was talking about?”
Samiris rolled her eyes. “Small-minded gossips are the same everywhere. And when it comes to spreading rumors about ladies, there is one classic standby.”
Aster twisted her fingers together. “Then you aren’t shocked, my lady?”
“Well, I’m not happy,” she said. “But shocked? No. I’m not the least bit shocked.”