Walking on Water

by Matthew J. Metzger

  Held would not lose this.

  Not ever.

  HELD SLIPPED FREE in the night.

  He’d seen the river from the window, winding away from the palace like a great eel, and though his form was no longer of the sea, some part of his soul must still have been. He missed the water, the clutch of her comfort, and it called to him like home. Faced with losing his love and his life, Held so desperately yearned for home.

  He waited until there was no light but the cold disc of white in the sky—until Janez slept so deeply that he didn’t stir even for Held’s touch upon his curls—and then he slipped free. He flitted through the palace like a ghost, the water singing to his very mind. Though he didn’t know the way, he somehow found the gardens, and then the meadow, and then the shallow bank of a great yawning channel.

  It flowed, slow and sedate, nothing like the chattering stream he’d seen in the woods, but water was water, and Held was—had been—one of its people. Father may not have wanted him; the nest may have been repulsed by him; but they were not, had never been, the entire world under the waves.

  If only he’d known that then.

  Its bite was icy upon his bared legs, but Held sank to the thigh and sighed in contentment at the familiar touch. The sudden weightlessness of his body was a strange relief. The curl of life and air—his air, not theirs—about his skin was soothing. A caress, like a lover. And a hard slap, too, like a scolding mother. His chest ached in homesickness, that ever-present pain of being ripped out of his own world.

  Oh, he’d known—the Witch had said—he couldn’t come back. But the surface was not a death knell to the merfolk. He should have liked them to visit him. He should have liked a great many things.

  Any day now, he would burst into sea foam.

  The sudden weight of it—his impending death, home forever being out of reach, the possibility of Janez no longer loving him—bore down upon his shoulders with a great, physical weight, and Held bowed under the pressure with a choked cry. He was going to die. Oh, he was going to die. He was not some love-struck child. Losing Janez would destroy him—but he’d have lived. He’d have lived half of a life, yes, but he’d not have literally burst and died upon that moment, upon the moment of Janez’s affections turning for another.

  He would die for this princess and her damned crown.

  She would kill him.

  Even Janez would kill him—much as Held didn’t believe for a moment that he intended or knew he would do it. It was the prince’s fickle emotion that would condemn Held.

  “Help me,” Held whispered to the river.

  He touched his fingers to its flat surface. They rippled softly.

  “I do not wish to die. Help me keep him. Help me.”

  The ripples expanded outwards. And—glowed.

  Held caught his breath as a circle of bright blue light, cold and pale, formed on the surface of the water, shimmering, and then sank. It began to flow downriver—or maybe swim, for it travelled faster than the water kissing Held’s legs—and long after it was out of sight, Held stared after it in silent astonishment.

  Skymen could not do that, could they?

  He’d never seen Janez do it, or the skyling that had drowned before him. If they could, why had Janez not begged for help? Why had the skyling not cried out? They’d not known Held was there to save them, after all. And Held hadn’t done it at the little stream, that day Janez had touched him for the first time as a lover.

  What had it been?

  Was it—

  Witchcraft?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  WOULD-BE GROOM AND would-be bride breakfasted apart.

  And late—Janez didn’t rise until the sun was high above the mountaintops, and the foul aftertaste of smoky wine did little to improve his mood. Perhaps Mother felt the same, or perhaps she merely anticipated it, for when he dressed and descended, she met him to break bread alone.

  “I take it,” she said, “that by your tempers last night, you found no easy answer?”

  Janez paused over the meats and sighed. “It depends how selfish I wish to be,” he admitted, and Mother frowned.

  “How is that?”

  “The most sensible choice for my purposes is Carolina. But the best for the women in question is Alessandra.”

  Mother propped her chin on her hand and smiled at him. “Do explain.”

  “Why the look, Mother?”

  “Because you rather remind me of someone at this moment.”

  He frowned; she merely smiled again and gestured for him to explain himself.

  “Very well. Alessandra was very forward with me…and made her attraction known. She would be happy to be wed, I feel, and an…enthusiastic wife. But I fear she wouldn’t be satisfied by my unwillingness and would turn to other men. And you know what follows.”

  Scandal. She didn’t say it, but she nodded all the same.

  “With Carolina, there is no such concern—but also no such attraction. Men repulse her, as does her duty to bear children. She would be far more sensible for me, but quite miserable.”

  Mother nodded.

  “But in the end, Janez, you are the man in this marriage. It is your choice.”

  Janez shifted uncomfortably. “It shouldn’t be.”

  “No, but that is the way of the world.”

  “I wouldn’t condemn either to misery.”

  “They will be quite used to the idea, as are you.” That, Janez thought, was patently false. Used to an idea didn’t mean acceptance of it. “We women are excellent at making good of a bad thing. And if you are kind and loyal to whomever you chose, I doubt she would mind very much.”

  Janez thought of Carolina’s fan, and her disgusted expression, and thought Mother was not completely right about that.

  “Alessandra would be happier,” he said. But she, too, came with a price. Janez had always preferred the company of women with Alessandra’s lust for life and love, but the wider world was less patient. If she were prone to affairs, Janez’s heart cared not—so would he be, for this entire union, and to a man, no less—but rumour was a dangerous thing. If she were known to be unfaithful, then any children would be rumoured to be bastards. It would endanger the very lineage that Alarik and Sigurd wanted from this alliance. It would jeopardise the very point of the thing. If he were forced to marry, why marry a woman who would potentially risk the very thing the marriage sought to gain?

  But then—

  The ugly little word crept up in the back of his mind. In the end, he had to get his wife pregnant.

  And to get Carolina pregnant, he would have to rape her.

  A shudder rocked out from his shoulders, and Janez pursed his lips in disgust. No. There would be no such—such violence, such abomination, in his bed. Marriage bed or otherwise.

  “The choice is clear,” he said as he pushed back from the table. “Excuse me, Mother. I believe I must speak with King Sigurd.”

  THE KING AND his family had been granted the entirety of the south wing—the warmest place in the palace, and the most beautifully crafted. Even as a child, Janez had been forbidden to play games in the south wing, and he felt an appropriate sense of gravity weigh upon him as he was announced and shown into the great drawing room where Sigurd awaited him.

  And, to Janez’s surprise, awaited him alone.

  “I trust all is well with your wife and daughters, Your Majesty?”

  “Come now, Prince Janez, you haven’t come here to make idle chat about women,” Sigurd guffawed. But then his gaze sharpened, and he waved Janez to sit. “Or have you?”

  “Idle, no. About women, yes.”

  The gaze sharpened further.

  “You have taken a shine to one of my girls, then?”

  Janez raised his eyebrows. “They are all perfectly engaging—”

  “I watched you with them all, Your Highness. You spoke not a word to Brigitte.”

  Janez allowed himself a small smile as he sat. “I…felt that the good lady might break my nose i
f I tried.”

  Thankfully, Sigurd chuckled again.

  “Ah, yes. She is a fine woman. Would make a fine queen, if she could learn a queen’s place.”

  Janez chose to ignore that remark.

  “You quite turned Alessandra’s head. And young Carolina, for that matter. I’ve never seen the girl so enchanted by another being. Between you and I, young Janez—” The king leaned in close. “—her indifference has been quite the problem. If you were to… Well, dowries can be negotiated.”

  Janez fought to keep the frown off his face. He’d supposed Sigurd to be a proud and protective father, but perhaps he’d been wrong. Was the man honestly offering a higher dowry if Janez would take his problem child from his hands?

  Janez sat back. Let the cool rush of warfare, of diplomacy, roll over his soul, and cool his own sense of injustice. If the king wished to negotiate, then so be it.

  “Indeed, I would have thought an indifference to be a virtue,” he said. “Rumours follow flirts, Your Majesty. I’d like to think any rumours about my future wife entirely false, and not be forced to entertain them myself.”

  Sigurd raised a snowy eyebrow.

  “Carolina is no such woman,” he said stiffly.

  “Her sister, however…”

  The wide mouth thinned.

  “Alessandra is—”

  He stopped.

  “Yes,” Janez said calmly. “Alessandra is. A very beautiful and charming young lady, most utterly engaging, yet…I rather get the impression that she is very engaging with a great many men.”

  “I assure you, sir, that her virtue remains!”

  “I make no slight upon her virtue,” Janez said, although he plainly did. He’d never been cupped like that by any virtuous soul—man or woman. “However, it cannot be denied that such a pretty and vivacious woman is like a candle to the moths that are men.”

  Sigurd harrumphed. The shrewd look was back, and the men weighed each other up in a brief silence.

  And then, finally, Sigurd said, “She is young. Foolish. She harbours romantic ideas.”

  She harboured more than that. But Janez sensed there’d be trouble if he mentioned her offer to him the night before, and demurred.

  “And if she should harbour more earthly ideas? A wife of indifference would be preferable to a wife covered in rumour.” Frowning, Sigurd opened his mouth, and Janez delivered the killing blow.

  “How are we to trust that my sons are my own?”

  Silence.

  And there lay the risk of it. For both of them. Janez cared little—he’d be a king in name only, should his wife become Sigurd’s heir, but Sigurd’s investment in this alliance was, of course, a male heir. A grandson to inherit his crown.

  And if that grandson were even supposed to be from another man’s loins…

  “However,” Janez relented, “she is perfectly charming company. If, perhaps, you were to exchange Carolina’s heightened incentive for Alessandra’s…”

  “You play a hard bargain, Janez.”

  The use of his name made Janez smile. A deal had been struck, then, even if Sigurd wanted to save face and not admit it.

  “I admit, you’re not what I supposed. The last I heard of you was a thin, meagre sort of man playing at war and whores. Certainly time has crafted a general, not a mere soldier.”

  Time, or Father’s harsh lessons. Janez allowed a thin smile.

  Sigurd seemed to read his mind. “Children are what their fathers make of them. I would not have any of my daughters married off to some fool, or birthing an idiot’s sons.”

  Janez inclined his head.

  “Tell me, why not my eldest?”

  “I have no designs upon your throne, Your Majesty. I do this for my country, not myself. If in my duty, I can obtain a good name for my sons and a pleasant wife with whom to spend my days, then I consider it a fine enough duty to have,” Janez lied. “And Alessandra made for pleasant company—an excellent dance partner.”

  Sigurd hummed.

  Then lifted a silver bell from the table at his elbow and rang for a servant. One of his own appeared, clad in the northern greens, and bowed deeply when told to summon the Princess Alessandra.

  She came so quickly it was apparent the girls had been listening at the door, and her face was bursting to smile around its polite facade. Sigurd said, “Prince Janez has petitioned me for your hand in marriage, my dear,” and the beam escaped.

  “Really, Father?” she gushed, and then composed herself before turning that wide smile upon Janez. It dimmed a little, into something older, slyer, more flirtatious, and her tone dropped accordingly. “I am flattered, Your Highness.”

  Janez rose and bowed to kiss her hand. She didn’t let go of his once he did—instead, she slid her fingers about his elbow and tucked herself against his side as though they were already lovers.

  “Now, then,” Sigurd said, the old king receding to show the father behind. “I believe an announcement is in order?”

  Janez smiled, playing the part, and led his—fiancée, so it seemed, from the drawing room to meet with Mother once more.

  And his chest constricted under his waistcoat, tight as if his ribs had been cracked.

  Held would not like it. Hell, Janez would not like it. But he could make Alessandra happy, and grant her children without the violence and hate it would require with Carolina, while they both did their duty.

  If she strayed, so be it. He wouldn’t demand her faithfulness, only her discretion.

  Janez would have to hope it would be enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  HELD WAS WOKEN in the night by Janez’s hand upon his shoulder and a soft voice in his ear.

  “Komm,” Janez murmured—come, one in Held’s collection of sky words—and then he put a finger to Held’s lips and added, “Still jetzt,” in a whisper.

  Held scowled, kissed the offending finger, and threw back the blankets. Janez was already dressed in heavy winter clothes, and Held felt oddly offended. Even that thick, soft hair had been brushed and tied back. The moment Held had pulled on his own clothes and greatcoat, he shoved Janez down into a chair and took the ribbon out. He’d done it wrong anyway.

  “Held—”

  Held rapped Janez’s knuckles when he attempted to take the brush, and began to rearrange his hair. What, did he think his wife was going to do this?

  Janez submitted quietly enough, and Held dared hope the offence had been understood, for when a new ribbon was in place, Janez turned on him, taking his face in both hands, and kissed him firmly upon the mouth.

  Then he said, “Komm,” again and headed for the door.

  It was dark and cold, the air icy, yet the palace was busy in a hushed, frenetic sort of way. Servants rushed about with lamps; as Held was led into the great courtyard, he saw one of the four-legged beasts snorting and shifting in the ropes a skyling had wound about its face and neck. The skyling glanced at Held and called out, only for Janez to bark an order.

  “Er kann nicht reiten,” he shouted and swung himself upon the seat that had been tied to the animal’s back. “Held! Komm.”

  The skyling heaved, Janez pulled, and then Held was seated, too, behind Janez and so terribly far from the ground. He clutched about Janez’s chest and greatcoat with both hands, petrified, and the beast shifted uneasily below them.

  “Was?” Held asked tentatively in Janez’s tongue, pointing at the animal. It was so much bigger than the one from their trip to the river, and Held couldn’t imagine it was the same sort of thing. If the previous one had been a fish, this was a shark.

  “Ein Pferd,” Janez said.

  Ironford? Was that the animal’s name, or its type? Or—

  The thought was cut off when it reared. Held yelped, burying his face between Janez’s shoulders, and then—oh, then, it galloped. Galloped! It set off at a full run across the courtyard, and Held clung in terror, with Janez the only thing to keep him from falling. Ironford thundered out of the courtyard and through the gr
eat gates—and they were swallowed by darkness. All Held knew was this terrible cold, the surge of Ironford beneath him like an angry sea, and the rough rasp of Janez’s greatcoat about his face.

  And yet—

  The longer the terrible charge continued, the more Held’s body was forced to relax. The more he caught Janez’s rhythm urging the beast onwards, the less it felt he were was about to fall.

  Slowly, he turned his face to the side and peered at the darkness flashing past.

  To find that it was not as dark as he’d thought. The great white eye was open above the mountains, perfectly round and sending silvery light pouring over the land. And that land was gleaming a bluish-white in the gloom. When Held dared to look down, Ironford’s legs were churning up white foam from the ground. He grew sick from the height again and looked up to Janez’s hair for distraction, white flecks clung to the dark ribbon and were turning to water amongst the red.

  One floated down out of the air and kissed Held upon the cheek.

  Cold.

  He flinched at its icy touch and rubbed it away hastily on Janez’s coat. It felt like a soft iceberg, and Held didn’t like it. Why were they out on Ironford in the middle of the night with this foam all around them? They could have been in bed. They ought to have been in bed.

  But they just kept going, and the foam kept falling. The echoes of other beasts and the occasional shout from other skymen said they led a charge—but where was the enemy? Why were they charging? And in the dark, too.

  But over the thunder of the beasts, and too afraid to loosen his grip, Held couldn’t have voiced the questions or understood the answers. So he clung on and waited, trusting. He might have dozed a little. As the sky began to lighten, and a chilly air rushed at them, he even managed to burrow his fingers into the front of Janez’s coat and earned himself a quiet laugh.

  The sky was a bright sword-grey when they stopped at a little inn on the road, but it wasn’t for long. New beasts were waiting, a servant blue-faced in the cold holding their ropes. Held, to his quiet disgust, was heaved up behind Kapitän, and Janez only laughed at his imploring face.