A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  “Have you been riding Behemoth?” Artem asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “No,” she stammered. “Why?” That wasn’t a lie, either. She had been walking beside him, teaching him tricks, but not really riding him.

  “I’m worried about him. Hasn’t been eating lately.” Artem patted Behemoth’s neck affectionately. “Hope he isn’t coming down with something.”

  “He doesn’t look ill to me,” Samiris said.

  Samiris worked hard to keep a straight face. Behemoth now had a feed box right beneath the apple tree in the garden. The horse was eating just fine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Samiris cried shamelessly when two Faro men, Greer and Tomas, showed up at the back gate driving Samiris’ old cart, which was pulled by Mora and two other donkeys. It had taken them eight days to get there once they had received the letter. They handed off a packet of letters and a parcel from Tamrah. Samiris had hugged the packet to her chest, then hugged Greer and Tomas in turn, soaking the shoulders of their tunics with her tears and snot. Samiris scratched behind Mora’s ears, crooning praise and feeding the donkey apples until Behemoth bumped Samiris’ shoulder and gave a great snort of jealousy.

  Samiris had helped load the cart to overflowing with every kind of food they had, a few leather-bound books for her father, and a bundle of silks and satins for Tamrah. Samiris had missed Tamrah’s birthday and hoped this would make up for it. She had been prepared for someone from Faro to show up, but it was so good to see familiar faces that it was hard to send them away again. Samiris watched the cart trundle off into the darkness and smiled through her tears. They had been the last name on the list. Samiris scratched it off proudly.

  “Tomorrow, we celebrate,” Marla said, slinging an arm around Samiris’ waist. “Deems and I have brewed some special cider.”

  That night, Samiris unwrapped the parcel from Tamrah. There was a note: Since you have not come home yet, I am sending some home to you. Inside the bag were hundreds upon hundreds of small, iridescent shells from the beach they loved so much. Samiris felt a pang of homesickness keenly. Samiris dumped the shells unceremoniously on her dresser and let them slide through her fingers as she read the rest of the letters from home.

  Marla wasn’t lying when she said she wanted to celebrate. The garden was hung with paper streamers and dozens of tiny candles in jars. Samiris was glad for the high hedge that shielded the garden from view of the castle. They ate at the same long wooden table that they had spent hours hunched over, working. There was green salad in a tangy citrus vinaigrette, warm fragrant round loaves of brown bread, rabbit stew, roasted chickens, and a baked egg dish full of vegetables and cheese. The food was homey, unpretentious, and unabashedly delicious. It was all from the garden, Marla told them, her cheeks already pink from testing every batch of the hard apple cider she and Deems proudly sloshed into their cups.

  Samiris watched Refus help himself to yet another drumstick, listened to Westcott and Deems debate horse breeds, saw Marcus trying hard not to stare at Gia and failing, heard Aster and Ramsey’s comfortable laughter at one of Marla’s jokes, and she sighed. Even more important than her stomach, Samiris’ heart was full. It felt like she was finally at home here.

  After dinner there was music. The proper, grey-haired Westcott surprised them all when he pulled a worn leather violin case out from beneath his bench. Deems beat out quick time on a pair of leather-stretched drums, and Ramsey’s fingers plucked his guitar strings with quick accuracy. The rest of them danced, for hours. Samiris danced mostly alone, but sometimes one of the men would leave their pursuit of Gia or Aster to pull Samiris into a dance. Marla thought that if someone didn’t have a partner in hand, they should at least have some cider. Marla took to dancing with a jug of it, and thrust it into other’s hands whenever she found them empty.

  Marcus swung Samiris round and round until she was dizzy with the rotations and the heady buzz of all the hard apple cider. When Marcus released Samiris to claim Gia for another dance, Samiris kept twirling and spinning, her hair flying free of her long braid, her arms reaching for the starlit sky as a babe reaches toward her mother, her face upturned and eyes closed. All she felt was the crisp, apple-scented air as it cooled the glow of sweat on her face and neck, the soft grass acting as a carpet over the sun-warmed earth beneath her bare feet. All she heard was laughter and the beat of the music and under that, the thump of her happy heart.

  Contentment, that’s what the feeling in her gut was, she realized. Finally, she was able to do something. No longer was she a drowning swimmer, gasping as each fresh new wave of life broke over her. No, she was the captain of a lifeboat, sailing confidently forward and plucking shipwrecked survivors from the clutches of the stormy sea. And there was more room in her lifeboat. There was room for everyone.

  She laughed aloud, eyes still closed, bare feet still darting nimbly through the maze of the music. Strong hands found her waist, and someone was moving with her, pulling her close and spinning her body into a different response to the music that she suddenly realized was created for two. Her hands floated down from the sky like feathers to land on hard shoulders that were too wide and too high to belong to Marcus.

  “Found you,” Artem murmured in her ear.

  Samiris’ eyes flew open as the music died, the last quavering note stretching out into silence slowly, like a guest reluctant to leave a party. Artem was staring down at her, his mouth curled into a triumphant grin, his eyes snapping with predatory enjoyment. Samiris thought he looked like a wolf bending his head over a fresh kill.

  The party was a tableau of surprise. Marcus was frozen, his eyes and mouth round, his hands still clasping Gia’s tiny waist. Refus was trying to duck behind Marla, and doing a very poor job of hiding his enormous bulk from view. Westcott had stood, his bow in one trembling hand, violin in the other. Ramsey was still seated on the bench, his guitar clasped to his chest as if it were a shield. Deems’ hands were limp on his drum. Aster stood still as a surprised deer who has not decided whether to bolt.

  It was the sight of her maid’s obvious fear that tempered Samiris’ will, caused her back to stiffen, her chin to lift. She looked Artem in the eye.

  “I made them come here. I forced them to,” she said.

  “Well, obviously they are here under duress,” he drawled, one eyebrow lifting as his eyes rested on the jugs of hard cider and the remnants of their dinner feast on the picnic table.

  “How did you ...” Her words trailed off into the darkness.

  “My traitorous horse.”

  Oblivious to the tension, Behemoth shouldered his way stubbornly through the crowd until he reached his feed box under the apple tree. He shoved his head in and snuffled, coming up with a bunch of carrots that he munched in several enthusiastic bites. Against her will, the corners of Samiris’ mouth rose fractionally. She was surprised to find that Artem was smiling, too.

  “I wondered how the great lump was gaining weight when he was hardly touching his grain.”

  “He prefers apples,” Samiris said, barely suppressed laughter quavering her voice.

  Artem smiled down at her, and Samiris become aware that his hands were still at her waist, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin cloth of her tunic like water. She also remembered that they were not alone, that they were being watched. Her eyes darted away from his like a fox chased by a hound, and she swallowed with difficulty. His eyes tracked the movement of her throat, and his hands fell away, leaving Samiris suddenly cold.

  “Westcott, I didn’t know you played,” Artem said.

  “For many years, Your Grace.” Westcott’s face was white, but his shoulders were squared.

  “Do you know ‘Down in the Dale’?” Artem said. “It’s my favorite.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Westcott still stood by the bench.

  Artem raised an eyebrow. “Would you play it, please?�
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  “Yes, Your Grace,” Westcott said, but he did not sit.

  Artem waited another moment. “Perhaps now would be a good time, Westcott?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course, Your Grace.” Westcott sat, and pulled his bow across his violin strings. After a second, Ramsey joined in with the guitar, and Deems banged his drum in time.

  “Would you give me the great honor of a dance, my lady?” Artem said, offering her his hand and bowing low as if they were at a court ball.

  Samiris searched his words and his tone for mockery and when she found none, took his hand and curtseyed perfectly.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  A flicker of surprise darted in Artem’s gaze, there and gone faster than a hummingbird. When he rose and put his arms around her, it was not in the stoic tradition of the ornamental swirling that nobility called dancing, rather, it was in the spirit of a Southern festival dance... a free, fast-paced spinning, rollicking dance that Artem controlled with easy grace. The rest of the group started dancing again, and Samiris laughed.

  “You’ve done this before,” she said, breathless.

  “You’re not the only one who enjoys varied social interaction.”

  They whirled and stepped together. With every note, Samiris became more aware of the solid presence next to her, of how one of Artem’s large hands gripped her waist, of how the other cradled her much smaller hand in his. She could feel the scratch of his callouses against her own; she could feel the pressure of his thumb just below her navel and his other four fingers along her back.

  There was nowhere safe for her to look. There was too much of him in front of her, too large an expanse of crisp white cotton shirt that did nothing to hide his powerful chest. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing tanned forearms corded with muscle, so it was no use looking there.

  His exposed throat was distracting, as was the strong line of his jaw frosted over with a thick coating of evening stubble. His lips were curved into a soft full smile, and his nose, forehead, and cheeks seemed all too close to his eyes. One glance into those dark green depths, and Samiris knew it was no good for her to focus her attention there. They did a dangerous thing to her stomach, and made her coordination falter.

  Samiris found herself wishing that Artem was someone, anyone else. Why did such a haughty, privileged man look the way he did? It wasn’t fair, like a child receiving twice as many gifts on Winter’s Eve as any of their siblings. Samiris struggled to remember his insufferable arrogance, his condescension, his shock at her dress and manners, his controlling insistence that she follow the rules.

  Samiris found that she was failing, failing as her eyes trailed up the side of his cheek and met his insistent gaze. Artem was smiling down at her, not unkindly, but she did not trust the ruthless intelligence she saw in his eyes. They were the color of an algaed pool in the shade, the color of the deepest parts of the forest where only she dared tread, the color of mossy earth and dripping trees. The color of home. Samiris shook the thought from her mind as the song came to an end.

  Artem bowed low over her hand, pressing his lips far too gently to her knuckles.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Walk with me to have a glass of ale.”

  He did not wait for her reply, but tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her over to the far picnic table. Behind her, Samiris heard the musicians strike up again, and she knew they were out of earshot of the others.

  “I know what you’re doing here,” he said, pouring himself a cup of the frothy apple cider.

  “Eating and dancing with friends?” Samiris forced her features into what she hoped was an expression of innocence.

  “These are servants, not your friends,” he said.

  “Why can’t they be both?”

  “Regardless, I’m talking about the huge storage shed filled to the brim with palace-grown foodstuffs, and the midnight ‘deliveries’ that keep occurring at the back gate.” Artem’s gaze was heavy on Samiris.

  Samiris blanched at his words. “How...”

  “I’m the Captain of the Crown Prince’s guard, and his most trusted advisor. I knew what was happening; I just didn’t know who was all involved.”

  Samiris glanced over to the party happening behind them. Despite what Artem might think, these people were her friends. She would fight like a cornered badger before she saw them punished for her idea. He was watching her, waiting for her to speak.

  “This was all my fault,” she said again. “Like you said, they are servants. They should not be held responsible for any of my ideas or actions.”

  “Oh, I completely agree,” he said, his finger snaking forward to stroke the length of her braid.

  The look on his face confused Samiris. His eyes were intense, his gaze focused on her hair like it was a puzzle he was trying to solve. She tried once more.

  “They should not suffer any consequences.”

  His hand dropped from her braid and hung loosely at his side. His gaze met hers. “There won’t be any consequences. I see no problem with feeding starving people as long as it doesn’t interfere with your duties as one of the Chosen.”

  Samiris saw his intention immediately and clenched her jaw. “This is more important than that farce of a pageant.”

  “Alleviating the symptoms of the curse is more important than breaking it?”

  Samiris rolled her eyes. “You and I both know that the Crown Prince and I aren’t going to fall in love.”

  “I don’t see any reason why not, except for maybe your stubbornness not to try.”

  “He has the face of a potato, and the personality of a plate!”

  Artem’s green eyes flashed and his mouth curled into a snarl. “He is a good man. And he is my friend. You haven’t given him a chance. From the way you were received in the castle, I would have thought that you of all people wouldn’t judge based on appearances.”

  Samiris felt a pang of deep regret reverberate through her, like her conscience was an internal gong that someone had just hit with a hammer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was wrong of me to say.”

  He nodded. “It was.”

  “But surely you can see that I am most effective here. I am needed here. We won’t be able to produce as much food if I am spending my days at color-themed teas and sewing parties instead of working in the garden.”

  “Find someone else to help.”

  “We’ve already pulled in every trustworthy person we know,” Samiris said, gesturing at the group of dancers behind her. “The other servants are too busy and there isn’t anyone else we trust to keep this secret safe.”

  Artem propped his fists and looked over at the apple tree, where Behemoth had his head buried in the lower branches, rummaging for fruit. Crisp crunching could be heard whenever the large beast was successful. Samiris could tell that Artem was thinking, considering her words, and for one incandescent moment, she thought she’d won. Then he smiled, the smile of a fisherman with a heavy trout on the line.

  “There is one more person you can trust,” he said.

  “Who?” Samiris frowned, crossing her arms.

  “Me.”

  Samiris jerked in surprise. “You?”

  “Yes. I’ll help with the garden when I’m not busy with my duties, just like you’ll help when you’re not busy with yours.”

  Samiris opened and closed her mouth, much like a trout that had just been hauled into a boat.

  “Why would you do that?” she finally asked.

  Artem crossed his muscular arms over his chest and stepped closer to her. “Contrary to what you may believe, you’re not the only one who cares about the people in this country.”

  “Then why hasn’t anything been done about how things are?” Samiris demanded, meeting his gaze squarely, her voice vibrating with anger like a plucked harp string.

 
He looked away, toward the darkness-draped garden. “There are some in the capital who do not wish for things to change. They have profited from the plight of the commoner.”

  “The Marquess of Brizelle.”

  Artem turned back to meet her eyes. “Among others, yes.”

  “Then why hasn’t the Crown Prince done anything about it? Why hasn’t anyone?”

  “While Fitzhumphrey has many positive attributes, a strong spine isn’t one of them.”

  Samiris nodded. “So you’re really going to help in the garden?”

  “As long as you keep up your end of the bargain and show up to Chosen events. Starting with the Opening Ball tomorrow. You have to make an effort, too. No more pants. No more sullen silences and sarcastic comments.”

  Samiris turned her eyes heavenward. “Fine.”

  “No more rolling your eyes, either.”

  “Fine,” Samiris said, a thought alighting in her brain that was delicious as candy on the tongue. “I will follow all your direction there, if you follow all my direction here.”

  Artem’s eyes went wide and he stepped back. “What?”

  She stepped forward, advancing on him like a prowling wolf. “You heard me. I’ll get dressed in frills and bows and whatnot. I’ll have stupid conversations and titter like a moron. I’ll prance and preen and pretend to swoon at the slightest hint of excitement, just like all those empty-headed ninnies in there. I’ll do all that and more if you do everything I say out here without complaint.”

  He stood his ground and grinned at her. “You think I’m afraid of a little hard work?”

  “I don’t think you know the meaning of the phrase.”

  He smirked and gave a little snort of a laugh. “We’ll see who works harder. You’ve got a deal.”

  “One more condition,” she said.

  “Oh, and what’s that?” he snapped, his muscular arms crossing over his chest.

  “Porridge, at breakfast,” she demanded.

  “What?” Artem looked like she had just demanded diamond-embellished underwear.