by Jane Merkley
The men finally noticed her, but said nothing. One of them smiled. “Lady Altarn.”
She curtly nodded back, realizing that this man had greeted her to inform the other men of her presence. The other men suddenly looked bashful but they didn’t try to dissuade her from helping.
Two men joined her at the rope and on their signal, they all pulled hard. The other two remained at one end of the pole to keep the bottom from sliding away as the top was lifted.
Kyree stood patiently by, cradling her baby swathed to her chest. When the pole was upright, one of the men with her produced a long stake that looked more like a pick ax. As Altarn held the rope taut, the two men pounded the stack into the mud with a sledge hammer. Altarn let go of the rope and the stake made grating noises as it slid partway out of the soft mud. The men looked disapproving at it.
“I’ll stay here and make sure it doesn’t come out while you get the other lines staked down,” Altarn offered.
The men nodded and departed.
Altarn’s arms got tired quickly so she sat in the mud with the rope wrapped once around her leg. The back of her pants were quickly soaked but it was a small bother compared to the rest of her.
“You don’t have to wait on me,” she said to Kyree.
“But I will. Haymiel is hunting and my other ghost already told me where he was going to be today so I’ve nothing else to wait on.”
Heavy stomps sounded behind Altarn and a chill rushed up and then back down her spine. It disturbed her that she already knew who it was.
“Mud looks good on you.”
“Thanks. I was thinking of wearing it to our next war breakfast.”
“It will go nicely if you accent it with a pig.”
“I think I’d name it Byrone. And it could sit next to you.”
“In your place? What a fitting replacement!” Byrone’s laugh was startled silent when a wet blob of mud splattered across his chest.
Altarn spun around. Kyree’s eyes were bright with simmering anger. Her right hand covered in mud hung at her side.
“Kyree,” Altarn cooed softly, so Byrone wouldn’t hear, barely even moving her lips. Altarn had already figured out how to tolerate the man despite what he had done to her. It was too much to hope that Kyree would do the same in silence now that she knew. “It’s okay.”
Byrone brushed the mud off him, leaving a dark smear across his sleeveless, leather vest.
“Fancy that.” Altarn cringed as Kyree spoke. “It looks good on you, too.” She said it to sound playful, but the edges were sharp enough that Altarn caught it. She hoped Byrone didn’t.
Byrone pinned her with a calculating stare. “I’d see if it looked good on you too, but I’m against such things when a child is in arms.” He looked down at Altarn and kicked mud at her so it splattered over her head, wet and cold. A heavy cold anger settled in her gut, but she remained silent.
Kyree made a tiny gasp.
“Be sure to thank her for wearing it for you,” he said to Kyree. “You have a cute baby, by the way.”
Kyree and Altarn watched Byrone leave until he turned left through some tents. Stunned, Kyree took three steps to Altarn who was wiping mud off her face.
“Altarn, I’m so sorry!”
“There was a good reason why I told you not to tell anyone,” Altarn said a little crisply. “Perhaps I should have warned you also to not do anything rash against Byrone himself.”
“I’m so sorry! I just… I just hate that man!”
“Hate him on your own time. He’s the reason why you have a dry place to sleep. I have to work with him to combine our forces to get Blindvar back. If he suspects that I told you what really happened to me –”
“I know! I know! He threatened to hang you! Oh, I’m so sorry! I just couldn’t stand there and listen to him insult you like that.”
“I was insulting him back. It’s sort of a battle of wits, I’ve found. The only way to win is to have the last say, not throw mud on him.”
“He kicked mud on you!”
“Because you threw mud at him!”
“You’re defending him again.”
“I really appreciate your concern, Kyree, but you have to keep it to yourself. Remember, I wouldn’t have told you anything but you found the chain in my room.”
“I know.” She hung her head in regret. “It’s just so hard to pretend you don’t deeply hate someone to their face.”
“If you’d go back to my room and get a hot bath ready, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course. Again, I’m sorry.”
Kyree left and Altarn remained in the mud. She hid her deep discontent well, but it would not stay hidden if Kyree continued to fuel and encourage the fire. Altarn just had to endure until she was safe back home, back home where she would then have to discover a way to stop Byrone from taking Blindvar.
Loneliness
Altarn returned to the clothier to finish working for her order of clothes, only to find the man in a jumbled mess of apologies.
“Lady Altarn, I did not know it was you!” he fumbled with the hem of his shirt. “You should have said something and I would not have made you get your hands dirty.”
“Sir.” Altarn was doing her best not to show her frustrations in front of this man, for she knew Byrone was to blame. “I did it on purpose. I didn’t want special treatment because of my position.”
“Nonsense! You cannot fathom my guilt when Lord Byrone came by and asked if a Blindvarn lady with long black hair was by my shop asking about clothes. When I described you, he said that you were the Lady Altarn! I looked like a fool. Why would you do that to me?”
Altarn watched this man a good moment as he attempted to drown himself in whatever self imposed guilt he was inflicting on his soul.
“It was not to make a fool of you,” she tried to offer, quickly losing her calm. “I seriously do not want special favors because of my title. You are already bending over backwards to service my people who are currently homeless. To ask anything more would be cruel. If my people work to earn their merchandise from you, I will do the same.”
The man shook his head furiously. “I would not even entertain thoughts of my Lord Byrone doing such a thing to me. That, my Lady, is what cruel is. Lord Byrone has paid for your clothes in full, with enough money for other clothing as well, since you are without payment yourself. You should have asked him for some money. He would have gladly given it. He is generous and holds nothing back for himself. Why, my shop had started on fire one year from a lightning strike and as soon as the tragedy bells started to ring, Lord Byrone himself arrived and helped load buckets of water up from the river, and then paid for the repairs himself!”
Did you also know that he kidnapped me, kept me drugged for four days, held me prisoner in his house for seven, and threatened to hang me publicly if I told anyone? Oh, and he’s going to try to take Blindvar from my people. Altarn smiled sweetly. “You are lucky to have such a good leader.”
“Yes we are. Now, your special order is not done yet, but I have put all others aside so yours will be done as soon as possible.”
“That is not –” But she stopped under his daggered stare, as if refusing even that would cause him unreasonable hardship to his pride.
“So please…” He waved to encompass his shop with racks and closets filled with pre-made clothes. “Take whatever my Lady needs. It is all paid for.” And he bustled outside to supervise the Blindvarn workers at his dye pots.
Altarn was going to murder Byrone. If she was livid at the shoe shop, she wasn’t even in sight of that now.
Byrone is generous because he is expecting Blindvar as payment. She ripped a woolen cloak off the hook. Generous my ass. Her skin was on fire and she was certain her eyes had turned a murder red.
She took two pairs of pants, a long sleeved blouse and a short sleeved one with the cloak and left, heading to the one place she knew Byrone would not know she meant to shop. He would not make her wholly beholden to him.
/> The chemist was easy to find. She had passed the shop when she came back in with Kyree with the sign outside showing a picture of an exploding red vial.
She entered the shop to the greeting of a tinkling bell, which was actually more of a work place than a shop, she realized. She dropped her bundle of clothing on the floor next to the only chair in the place and sat.
The room was a cluster of work tables with unidentifiable stains, some with peppered holes burned right through. Mazes of glass tubing twisted on top of each table and bubbled with liquids as bright as the dye pots.
The shop owner finally emerged. Large round goggles magnified his eyes and his black hair was blown back is if he had just walked through a tornado. The apron that covered him from chest to ankle looked a lot like his table tops.
“Hullo Blindvar! How can I assist you?”
Altarn stood. “First, I need to ask how I might pay for my request without money.”
The man grinned. “Could use a pump for my bellows. And you look young and spry and might have a more stable hand to pour some of my chemicals together. If you are not afraid of losing a finger or two, we can work the payment out.”
To Altarn’s paling expression, he laughed. “Jokes only. But then why did god give us ten fingers?” He chuckled. “What is it that you need, exactly?”
Altarn’s next couple of days were spent in the alchemist shop, greedily enjoying the labor that Byrone knew nothing about.
Jasper and her two court members reported to her how many weapons and armor they had in the refugee camp, and how many they would need to have made (gratefully it was few) and how many members of her military were actually in the camp. Word was also sent out that volunteers would be appreciated. Altarn didn't have the heart to forcefully draft anyone. She couldn’t bear the guilt that would come if she forced someone to fight and they died, leaving a spouse and children behind.
She knew how pathetic that was and knew it was her greatest downfall as a leader; lacking the conviction to sway people to die under her good name. She would look at the final numbers of active, passive, and volunteers and go from there.
Hopefully then she could summon the strength to do what had to be done.
She didn’t see much of Byrone, if by accidently passing him in the hall twice to which they both pretended the other was not there. She had much she wanted to say to him, but she might end up knifing him by mistake, and she needed his army to drive the enemy out of Blindvar.
His strategists found her toward the end of the week and inquired about what the final count was for her army, arms, and armor.
Their expressions were grim when she reassured them that more were arriving everyday and she would draft more if numbers could not be satisfied soon.
Of course she told them that, but she didn’t convince herself that she could draft a dog to run cattle.
Needless to say, she was exhausted by the time she trudged into her room around evening time every day looking like the walking dead. She tolerated Kyree’s motherly worries because she was glad she had a friend to motherly worry her, a friend that she needed desperately to remind her she was not alone in a world that was attacking her. Or so she felt.
Unbidden, she found herself laying awake at night, listening to Kyree’s baby fuss and her gentle cooing to coax it to sleep, and wondered again if she should not have marched off on Jessom like she did. He was decent enough. A little one sided most times but she felt as if there was a genuine like of the other… who was she kidding. She wasn’t going to get anywhere describing her relationship with words like “decent”, “felt”, and “like”. He basically called her a horse that he needed to ride before he bought it. What manner of man does that? She knew exactly what manner of man did that. She had dated a couple of them, finding them at the bottom of the political sea that were willing to tolerate her position, her kisses and embraces to satisfy her apparent need to have somebody want her, in exchange for their claim that they were dating the most politically powerful position in Blindvar.
She realized that she had never been so long without a man, and she hated how lonely it left her.
She laughed at her silliness. She was so desperate to show the world that she needed and wanted no man to tell her what do to, but yet in the dark hours of the night, her want to be wanted by a man assaulted her. To be held, to be needed, to be comforted by a man, so that maybe she didn’t have to journey through life alone. The crying of the baby in the next room magnified her emptiness.
These thoughts bombarded her and she finally realized it was because she didn’t have Lotus. That was it. She just wanted something to occupy the space between her arms. Without Lotus, she could have sworn that space was as wide as the void within her, and Lotus was able to fill it most nights. That purple horse. She was twenty nine and she still wanted that stupid purple horse.
But was that really it? What exactly did she want and need… really? She imagined herself standing in the middle of a road swinging a sword about in wild abandon with a bucket of white paint at her feet. The image suited her. She was going to stab someone because she didn’t know to what target she was aiming, just that she was angry and lonely and something needed to pay for it all, though she was afraid the target was inside herself. “We can’t get away from it,” someone said. Then a person shaped wooden target conjured in front of her, with her name in white paint across its chest. She understood that she needed to sheath the sword, but she didn’t have a sheath to put it in. So she drove the sword into the chest of the target, through the center of her name –
Altarn jerked awake with a startled gasp, her heart pounding even though she reassured herself it was a dream.
I have to sheath it. I have to sheath it until I can figure out what my enemy really is.
With great effort, she went back to sleep with the grim discovery of why females were not wanted in positions of vital need.
They don’t want a princess. They want a war queen.
King of Endendre
Darkness hovered above Greatmar like a thick cloak. Fire erupted in giant bowls and lanterns so the whole courtyard could have replaced the light of the sun. Blindvarns and Ruids mingled in conversations and drink; food would be brought out later.
To be fair, Byrone knew he should have given his cooks more notice, but he had so many that a week’s notice to cook for thousands of people was only a minor rush.
The people clustered the courtyard and down the main street to include some roof tops as well. Ruids had come from as far as Manceen for such a major event… well, at least for the free food.
Byrone watched from his window. Below, the drums began to pound, signaling the start of the ceremony. He left his room and walked with steady purpose through his halls to the front doors which would open to the crowded courtyard on his signal.
Torren was already waiting. He was wearing his ceremonial best of a chrome breastplate polished to a high shine. His black hair was slicked back into a crisp, short ponytail at the nap of his neck. He had abandoned the sling so as not to distract from his glam appearance but he held his broken arm across his chest that was half concealed by a green cloak over that shoulder.
With Torren were Byrone’s two strategists, mirroring his same uniform to exactness. Altarn’s two court members stood by also. Byrone couldn’t remember their names. Their clothing attire were worn but washed and it was clear they had done their best to look presentable despite their near-destitute living accommodations in the camp.
Jasper stood patiently next to Torren, waiting with his hands clasped in front of him in an equally polished black breastplate and blue cloak.
Byrone cast his eyes about. “Where is she?”
“On her way as we speak,” Jasper answered. “She will be ready when you introduce her.”
“Let us hope so. I don’t take kindly to looking like a fool waiting on a princess. You look sharp, by the way.” In truth, Byrone was still hoping that Jasper might fall into position to lead Blindvar.
He hoped that these small compliments might feed the captain enough to realize how much better he would be than the current one.
“Thank you. And same, Lord.”
Byrone’s breastplate was polished copper that complimented his coppery brown hair and goatee. His green cloak also covered his right arm but was hemmed in gold at the bottom. Useless in combat, but served a purpose for such profound ceremonies.
Byrone faced the doors. “Open.”
The two servants standing by each grabbed a door and pulled inward. The drummers were watching and hastened their rhythm to an aggressive crescendo as Byrone and his strategists exited.
The mass before them hushed, eagerness shining in Blindvarn and Ruid eyes alike. Fear did not exist here tonight, only an overwhelming hope that they would be able to conquer this approaching army and reclaim Blindvar. Casting his eyes about the mass before him, Byrone noted many Blindvarns and Ruids cuddled up close and holding hands. He raised an eyebrow, and curiously wondered to what state they would decide to finalize their romance.
Byrone lifted his arms to encompass the company before him. “Ruidenthall… our friendly state of Blindvar has been attacked by a foreign army and is heading this way!” There was a moment of subtle unrest at the news. Not that the people didn’t know this already, but that it was finally made public. “We have graciously accepted our friends into our home to give them aid and assist in defeating this army which has taken over their land. May I introduce Altarn Shadheing, Lady of the State of Blindvar.” Byrone arched his arm toward the doors and turned his head just as Altarn walked through.
The sharp click of her boots against the stone resonated firmly throughout the night air. A long black shirt cut away in the front left a dark tail of fabric to whisper behind her. Flashes of red on the underside of the shirt glared through in aggressive contrast to the black, matching tall black boots over dark red leggings. Her breastplate was the typical Blindvarn black and attached to the armor on her back were a pair of bladed silver wings. They reached beyond the width of her shoulders, above her head and to her belt. They caught the surrounding firelight in a wicked gleam that bled from the bladed edges so sharp there was no distinct line. From her hasty drawing, Byrone recognized them as the weapons she called shorns. A red cloak was fixed to the tops of her shoulders, but stooped low enough in the back to give the shorns clearance.