by Jill M Beene
Samiris strode into the garden as the sun’s rays were just cresting the garden wall and jerked to a stop like a horse whose reins were yanked. Artem’s back was to her, and he was picking the summer squash row, a basket at his feet. Samiris watched mutely as he yanked the vegetables from the vine with brutal efficiency, then kicked the basket forward and started again on the next plant.
Artem drawled, “Are you planning on helping me, or are you enjoying the view too much?”
Samiris scowled even as a blush tinted her cheeks, and went to grab another basket from the pile. She started one row over from his, determined to catch up with him by the time they reached the end of the garden.
Samiris loved working in the garden. The earthy loam of the earth infiltrated her nostrils with its rich, damp scent. The rough skin and the weight of the squash felt good in her hands. The stretch down her back and legs after so much dancing the night before felt heavenly. Samiris caught up with Artem fifteen minutes later, but she wondered if he had slowed down so they would be working side by side. Her suspicion was confirmed when he easily held her pace once she caught up.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
Samiris’ head jerked up to find him watching her. “What?”
“I didn’t know they were being cruel when you first got here.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m a Southerner who fell over at dinner the first night, Artem. What do you think it was like?”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t... think.”
Samiris was touched by the obvious sincerity of his words and was confused by the expression on his face, so she bent down to harvest the next plant.
“That’s alright,” she said. “I’ve been through worse.”
“Tell me about it,” he suggested, working alongside her.
To her own surprise, she did. He was a very good listener, asking questions as they went. She told him about her father’s Wasting, the servants abandoning them in the night when she needed them most, about trying to protect her sister, about the arrangement with Kalan.
“And that is why you approached Lord Kinsley?” Artem asked.
“He approached me, thank you very much.” Samiris said, brushing a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead. “Why is it so shocking to you that a man might want to marry me?”
“It’s not the desire that perplexes me,” he said. “It’s the motivation that I’m concerned about.”
“He still loves another,” Samiris said. “But she is gone.”
“And you are alright with that?” Artem said, his eyes intent on her face once more. “Marrying someone who doesn’t love you?”
“If I loved him, I wouldn’t be alright with it,” Samiris said, brushing a sweaty tendril of hair back off her forehead. “But since I don’t love him, and never plan to, it would bother me if he did. Remember Kalan? That was... terrible. He loved me, or at least thought he did, and every time he would look at me like that.... It made me feel horrible. Because I was using him, and he loved me. This... this is better. At least this is equal.”
Artem studied her, then nodded and stooped to continue the work.
Gentle shafts of sun filtered down through the leaves and gilded the ladies’ afternoon tea in the south garden. The sunlight warmed Samiris’ right shoulder, set a halo upon Ladonna’s blonde head, and turned the silver tea set alight with flashes of blinding sheen. Samiris pressed a starched linen napkin to her lips.
Samiris was bored out of her mind, but at least she looked pretty. Gia had dressed her in a slim-fitting scarlet chiffon dress with slim sleeves to the elbow and enough fabric at the hem that Samiris could take as long a stride as she wanted. It was simple and lovely, and Samiris actually had twirled around in it in her chambers when no one was there to look. Her hair was done, her lips were glossed, and she had rubbed salve into her hands. She had made an effort, as promised.
Narcise narrowed her eyes at Samiris’ plate and pursed her pouty lips. Samiris had taken exactly one bite and then abandoned an eclair topped with a sugared flower. She took her tea without cream or sugar. Narcise had to scoop small landslides of sugar and splash a heavy dollop of cream into her cup before she would sip it. In the never-ending contest of who could eat less in public, today Samiris was winning.
It was poor amusement, indeed.
Ladonna was at Samiris’ elbow, Narcise across from them. Next to Narcise, Lady Elise was droning on about the problem in the Sands again, her voice as high-pitched and active as the flock of chattering birds in the trees above them, but far less pleasant. The supposed desecration of the Sands was a topic she held close to her heart, she reminded them incessantly, because that was the beach upon which her late husband had proposed. Further down the table, the Crown Prince was chatting with the pretty brunette Chosen next to him, Artem seated on his other side.
As Lady Elise went on and on, Samiris let a politely interested expression glaze her face, as sweet and stupid as the chocolate ganache on the uneaten eclairs before her. She couldn’t believe that she was missing out on canning tomatoes for this twaddle.
“I still think it’s a shame that Lady Cyra left before you could perform your play for us, Captain Trego.” Ladonna pouted. “I should have liked to see you as a dashing fae.”
Samiris grinned. The rumor of the play had flown through the castle on whispered wings.
“It is a shame, but the next time I decide to put on a play, I expect you to be in the front row of the audience,” he said, his features the picture of bland kindness.
Only Samiris could hear the sarcasm in his statement. Artem was the last individual on the planet, save for perhaps Matilda the giant sow, who Samiris would expect to perform in a play. Artem met Samiris’ eyes briefly, a hint of a smile on his lips. Samiris thought of all the tasks she could be accomplishing in the garden right now, and decided to make Artem pay. She smiled broadly.
“It is very unfortunate that Lady Cyra had to leave before the performance,” Samiris said to Artem. “But perhaps you could give us a little taste of what we missed? You could just perform your soliloquy. You know, the one from the third act.”
Artem’s face went as rigid as stone. Samiris gave him a cheeky grin. All the other ladies were rapt with attention on Artem.
“Oh, please, Captain Trego!” Ladonna cried, breathlessly. “We would so love to hear it!”
A huge snort rent the air.
Ladonna turned to Samiris. “Did you say something?”
Samiris looked at her like the moron she was, but Ladonna’s attention had moved to the source of the noise, which was lumbering through the garden directly toward the table. It was Matilda, the giant sow. How she had escaped the kitchen garden was beyond Samiris’ understanding, but there she was, in all her two hundred pounds of fleshy glory.
Artem glanced over and met Samiris’ eyes. She gave him a wicked wink and he looked back at her with confusion plain on his face.
Then Samiris bolted upright, knocked over the teapot in front of her, and screamed, “Pig!”
The panicked cry was soon echoed up and down the table from women who loved theatrics and were unwilling to be outdone in any situation that might garner attention.
“Pig!” They screamed, over and over.
Samiris stood on her chair and flapped her hands. Others scrambled up to join her elevated position, some on chairs, some on the table itself. China was knocked over, silver utensils tinkled to the ground, and above all the chaos, Matilda lumbered steadily forward. Samiris thought the pig had her eye on the nearest platter of eclairs.
“Save us, Captain Trego,” Samiris shrieked. “Save us from the pig!”
Samiris got a small glimpse of the furious glance that Artem was shooting her way before Ladonna launched herself on top of him in a flurry of tulle. Artem caught her, but just barely. Awkwardly draped over his shoulders, Ladonna clung to his hea
d as he staggered, her frothy skirt piled over his face. It looked as if he were piss drunk and had donned a massive pastel hat.
Up and down the table came sounds of breaking china, screams for the palace guard, and many hysterics of a creative nature. Tansy fell over onto the tea sandwiches in a faint, real or affected, Samiris couldn’t tell. Narcise was shrieking and standing in the center of the table, pushing other ladies down if they got too close. Lady Elise fled toward the castle, screaming with all her very capable might.
“Throw the food at it!” someone down the table cried, and soon Matilda was being pelted with sugared pastilles, mini eclairs, and even a full pot of tea. That projectile didn’t make it far enough to be a danger to the beast. Indeed, the pig seemed blissfully oblivious to the ruckus it was causing, but was happy to clean up the rainstorm of pastries all the same.
A contingent of castle guards arrived, swords drawn, to see what danger had entered the garden. One by one, they were forced to drop their swords and accept flailing burdens of silk and tulle. Samiris saw one guard beset by three ladies at once. He heroically caught the one who jumped into his arms, but was unable to support the one who tried to climb onto his back and the third lady who was attempting to mount his shoulders. Like a tree with wet roots in a high wind, he tottered and then fell over slowly, taking the three ladies with him in a heap of lace and silk.
More guards arrived, and very efficiently the hysterical ladies were borne away, back toward the castle. It looked like a procession of waiters carrying unruly, rejected confections back to the kitchen. Very soon, Samiris and Matilda were left alone. Samiris had stopped shrieking the instant the guards had arrived, and very politely declined help from the handsome officer who had offered it, pointing him instead toward the fallen Tansy who either had really fainted or possessed incredible acting commitment.
Artem was nowhere to be seen. Samiris guessed that it would take a set of pry tools to get Ladonna off him. She dusted herself off, stepped down from her chair, and grabbed an unscathed platter of eclairs.
“Come on, old girl,” Samiris said, tempting Matilda with one of the pastries.
The pig waddled after her obediently with an obliging snort. Matilda was no fool-- she knew who fed her. Samiris tossed an eclair to Matilda for every one she ate and they made excellent time back toward the kitchen garden. Artem met them on the path. His shirt was untucked and his dark hair was disheveled. His eyes promised murder of a creative nature.
“Hallo,” Samiris called, her mouth full. “Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”
Artem shook his head. “You are something else, you know that?”
“Something other than what?”
“Something other than everything,” he said, hands on his hips.
“How’s Ladonna?” Samiris said with a coy smile.
“Heavier than she looks.”
Samiris laughed.
CHAPTER FORTY
It was an easy day. Samiris had attended the Chosen breakfast and there was a dinner that evening, but she was going to relax before then. They had enough food stocked in the shed in the garden to load six carts if they showed up tonight, so there was no need to do more at the moment. Samiris was sharpening and oiling her hatchets in nothing but an old linen shift when Gia came in.
“My lady,” Gia said mockingly, giving her an exaggerated bow. “If only the royal court could see you now, I have no doubt you would pick up additional suitors immediately.”
Samiris laughed. “I learned long ago that oil gets everywhere when I clean and sharpen my tools. It’s better to sacrifice one undergarment than a whole outfit.”
“How very practical of you,” Gia said. “Speaking of outfits, I have something I need you to try on so I can alter it.”
Samiris sighed, wiped her hands, and let Gia dress her.
The gown was heavier than the last one, a brocade of red flowers tossed upon a black background. The off-the shoulder neckline met in a slight point at the center of her chest, while an elegant, draping cape began at the shoulders and flowed behind her. Samiris fingered the luxurious material at her waist and stared at her reflection with wide eyes.
“This dress is...” she began.
“Amazing? Stunning? Ravishing?” Gia prompted. “Yes, you’re absolutely right. So wonderful of you to say so. I’m blushing.”
The door to the chamber banged open and Aster sprinted in. “My lady! There was a runner from Lord Kinsley. He says that the next event in the Championship, a horse race, is happening.”
“When?”
“Right now,” she gasped.
“Why wasn’t it on my schedule?” Samiris snapped, lifting her heavy skirts to cross the room.
“I can only guess that perhaps someone in the royal court thought it best you didn’t know, seeing as what happened last time.”
“Chief Arsehole of Teymara indeed,” Samiris muttered, then sprang into action.
“Wait! Let me get you out of the dress!” Gia said, desperately.
“No time,” Samiris gasped, grabbing her hatchet and running for the door.
“Samiris, so help me if you ruin that outfit!” Gia yelled after her. “I’ll put you in pale, ruffly pink for the rest of eternity, you just see if I wont!”
Aster ran alongside Samiris, gasping out the details. “The track behind the stables. Fifteen riders. Lord Kinsley said he would have given you more notice, but he just learned of it himself.”
They sprinted down the stairs and out into the cool sunlight, startling a milkmaid. Samiris trilled a whistle, hoping that Behemoth was near enough to hear and unencumbered enough to respond. After a moment, the loud, rhythmic percussion of Behemoth’s gallop came from the direction of the stables.
Samiris ran forward to meet him. Behemoth was being pursued by a confused looking groom still holding a brush who backed off immediately when the horse knelt his large frame before Samiris. Samiris hiked up her skirts, threw a leg over Behemoth’s warm frame, and dug her heel into his side, steering him with her knees out toward the track.
When Samiris galloped around the hedge and saw the scene before her, she gritted her teeth in anger. All of the Chosen were there, sitting upon velvet-padded bleachers a safe distance from the track. A white tent full of refreshments sat next to them, and servants waited in the wings, ready to solve any problem, real or perceived. Samiris saw the Crown Prince and Artem sitting in the row closest to the starting line.
The signal had already been given; the riders were off around the track, engulfed in a cloud of dust. Samiris pushed Behemoth to his limit and he found his pace. His thundering hoofbeats ate up the distance that separated them from the other riders. Her dress skirts billowed out and in behind her like ship sails in an unruly wind. The crowd of riders was well ahead of her when she passed the grandstands and the starting line. As she urged the massive black steed onward, she heard a voice cry out from the bleachers.
“Would you please stop stealing my horse?” Artem bellowed, his words tossed like pieces of confetti on the air.
Samiris just grinned into the howling wind, tears streaming out of her eyes from the speed of the current past her face. Like every time she had ridden him, Behemoth seemed to pick up on her emotions and take them on as his own. He was straining with every thundering step, the cords of his neck standing out, his eyes wide.
But Samiris had a trained eye and a mind that had been sharpened on the whetstone of experience. She could see that even though Behemoth was nearly flying, he could not overtake the other riders before the finish line. They would fall just short. She gripped Behemoth harder with her thighs, then released his mane. He knew what the goal was, and seemed to take it as a personal insult that other horses were running in front of him.
With the sharp edge of her hatchet, Samiris slit her brocade gown from neckline to skirt. The fine threads gave way before the weapon like
strands of silken hair under a razor. As soon as she pulled her arms free, the heavy gown was lost to the wind, flying away like a kite released from a string. Without the added weight and confusion of her flapping dress skirts, they were sleeker, faster.
Behemoth was close now. Samiris breathed in the dust of the other riders, dirt coating her teeth, tacky and gritty as if she had eaten a spoonful of flour. Samiris smelled the heat of the animals, heard the rough encouragement of the men on horseback as they spoke over the heavy breathing of the laboring beasts. They were nearing the third turn.
Behemoth drew abreast of one of the riders, then another. Behemoth shouldered his way through the crowd, not seeming to care if he received a hoof to the chest in the process. Samiris saw Lord Kinsley atop a caramel-colored mare from the corner of her eye; heard him call out something in a laughing voice as she passed his grouping. There were three riders ahead of her as they reached the final turn; two when they flew beneath the unfurled banner of the finish line.
Third, Samiris thought, sitting up, breathing heavily, and letting Behemoth slow himself naturally. It could have been much worse, but it could have been much better. They made another pass of the track before stopping again at the finish line. Behemoth was still amped up, snapping his teeth at another rider who got too close. The man shrieked and looked at Samiris with wide eyes. She just raised her eyebrows at him and shrugged.
Lord Kinsley approached but kept a safe distance when he saw Behemoth toss his mane in warning.
“I see you got my message,” he said. “Well done.”
“I could have won, if I had known beforehand.”