A Crown of Lilies

by Melissa Ragland

  Beyond that, other details were firmed in writing, though I couldn’t recall now what they were. To me, only the succession mattered. House Lazerin would endure, provided I could supply at least two heirs. Eyeing Adrian across the table, I could easily imagine us working toward a sizable brood of children. That, too, had returned, despite my worries that it was gone from me forever. My desire, twisted and shattered by one grimy hand, reignited in his presence.

  When the negotiations were concluded and the contract signed by all parties, the Van Dryns held a gala at their manor, a glamorous who’s who of noble society. For our part, Adrian and I smiled, raised glasses, and danced chastely for our attendant audience. When we had finally managed a moment alone, he leaned into my ear. “I feel quite like a pair of dancing monkeys.”

  “Monkeys?” I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

  He smiled and grabbed my hand. “Come, I’ll show you.” A few whispers followed us into the hall as some of the guests noticed our hasty departure, but it no longer mattered. We were betrothed before all of society. Let them whisper.

  Pulling me into one of the salons, he pointed out a painting of a long-limbed, hairy creature with a bald face. Beady eyes stared out at me, long tail curled in taunting. The next canvas over contained a great white feline, fierce fangs and claws bared to strike. “I’d much rather be one of these,” I remarked.

  He positioned himself behind me, wrapping arms around my waist. “Sand lions are deadly beasts. Difficult to kill, impossible to capture. Hasha had a cub when I knew her.”

  “Poor creature,” I said softly. “How did she manage to get one?”

  “A gift, she told me, from a religious delegation from Persica.” We stared at the painting a few moments longer. “We should return before we make a complete scandal out of the evening.”

  As it was, our absence was little noted thanks to its brevity, but a stern look from my mother convinced me that any more disappearances would be unacceptable. We resumed the mantle of grace and propriety until the final guest departed. It was an altogether exhausting evening, and sleep claimed me nearly the instant my head hit my pillow.

  The following morning, I made my way down the staircase in my breeches and tunic, ready for the day’s instruction. To my surprise, Quintin waited at the bottom step, my common wool cloak over one arm.

  “No drills this morning. We’ve an errand to run.”

  I followed him to the stables to find Valor already saddled, along with one of the household mounts. Seth opened the main gate for us, and we set out into the cool morning air. The first hints of spring took some of the bite from the chill, but it was still bitterly cold, and I was glad for my cloak.

  Venturing out into the city dressed as I was unnerved and thrilled me all at once. Unsure which was claiming precedence, I considered asking where we were bound but decided against it, following him east into a section of the city near Sadie’s shop. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Gabe had escorted my mother and I to her doorstep.

  Neatly appointed merchants’ homes and tidy shops lined the streets. Valor pranced beneath me, thrilled at the opportunity to stretch his legs. The smell of hot metal and the pounding of hammers rang out as we picked our way through the morning crowd. Quintin dismounted in front of one unremarkable shop, and I followed suit. An apprentice jumped up to take our mounts as we approached.

  The smithy was open to the air, as they all were, with a high roof and sturdy walls to keep out the worst of the elements. A large brick forge pit glowed in the center of the workspace, a few lengths of metal protruding from the coals. Benches of tools and various pieces of half-completed arms and armor filled the space. A second apprentice sat at a grindstone, honing a gleaming blade. A tall, burly man of middling years crossed the sand-covered floor to greet us, his thick, red-gold beard making his already imposing figure even more striking. Equally fiery hair had been carefully pulled back into a tidy club. He grinned and clasped Quintin’s forearm in a friendly greeting.

  “This is Miss Elivya fen Lazerin,” my companion introduced me solicitously. It surprised me somewhat that he did not try to pass me off as some house boy under a false name, dressed as I was. The glance I spared him was met with guarded expectation. Eat and sleep and breathe as you are - as you want to be.

  “Well met,” I extended my hand to the smith, molding my voice and stance to exude a confidence I did not feel.

  He hesitated a moment, then grabbed my forearm in the same fashion. “Viktor, my lady. Quintin has told me a lot about you,” he grinned. “Here for your fitting, I take it?”

  My companion replied for me. “We are. Ivan had said it would be ready today.”

  “It is, it is,” he reassured, turning away from us to retrieve the piece in question from a nearby bench. Somewhere between a gauntlet and a vambrace, lobstered metal plates covered the top side from elbow to knuckle. The underside offered less protection, a simple panel of boiled leather with some straps and buckles. “Give me your arm, lass,” he grumbled, and I held out my right obediently.

  “Your left,” Quintin corrected, and I tried to suppress a flush of embarrassment.

  Thick hands, rough from a lifetime at the anvil, wrestled the piece into place. As he adjusted it and secured the buckles, I examined it in awe. The gauntlet was bulky, and beneath the metal, I guessed there lay several layers of leather padding. The interior was lined with soft kidskin, adding a minor level of comfort to the weighty piece of armor.

  When the piece was securely fastened, the smith stepped back to examine his handiwork.

  Quintin pointed to my elbow. “Another plate here, I think.”

  “Mm,” the burly man agreed, nodding. “Well go on, lass! Give it a try!” he waved at me impatiently. I moved my arm about, testing the mobility and flexibility.

  “I’m not entirely sure what you expect me to do with it,” I confessed.

  “It’s a Freyjan shield,” Quintin explained. “Well-known back home, but… difficult to find, especially here.”

  “Designed and worn by the Daughters of Freyja,” the smith swelled proudly. “The fiercest women fighters in the world.”

  “It’s lighter and more versatile than a shield,” Quintin added. “Not as much protection, but it will save your life if a blade slips past your guard.”

  “Why is it so hard to find?” I asked as I admired the craftsmanship with a renewed appreciation. “Surely, there are plenty of Tuvrian and Euzrosi smiths in Litheria.”

  The two men exchanged a glance, and I heard the apprentice behind me shift uncomfortably. My wheat-haired guardian leaned back against a workbench beside Viktor, arms crossed. “They refuse to craft such a thing,” he said carefully.

  “Why? Our coin is as good as any other’s.”

  “It’s a matter of pride, miss,” the smith said gently. “It’s not their way.”

  “A woman’s place is at the hearth, not on the battlefield,” Quintin stated bluntly, guarded blue eyes watching me. Before, it would have stung my pride. Now, my ego having been well-checked, it merely hurt my feelings.

  “Such is tradition, in Tuvre’s country,” Viktor added, one callused hand rubbing his bearded jaw.

  I jutted my chin at him in his leather apron. “And why are you any different?”

  “Viktor is from Frii,” Quintin supplied helpfully, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “A bastard of Freyja!” he proclaimed with pride, thumping his chest with one fist.

  My companion chuckled, the first time I’d ever seen him laugh. “And as such, had no qualms about fabricating one for you. Now take that off.” He nodded to my gauntleted arm. “Your mother will have my hide if you miss breakfast.”

  Two days later, the finished piece was waiting for me in the garden when I appeared for my morning training. Quintin was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the Freyjan shield rested on the edge of the fountain, gleaming in the early morning light. I donned it reverently, struggling with the buckles, but eventually managing with the
aid of my teeth. I was admiring the additional plate that extended protection just beyond my elbow when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A taunting whistle rang out close behind me. I spun to my left, raising the shield in defense. A deafening clang accompanied a jarring blast to my arm. Quintin lowered his sword.

  “The hells is wrong with you?!” I exclaimed angrily, shaking out my tingling hand.

  “At least you’re starting with decent instincts. You should do well with it,” he nodded casually to the shield.

  “You could have taken my head off!” I spat at him.

  “Not with a casual swing like that,” he dismissed. “Now draw your sword. We’re starting some new drills today.”

  The new drills consisted of repetitive circuits of simple strikes and counters, gradually increasing in speed until I faltered. One of said circuits involved me blocking his sword with my gauntleted arm. I discovered, then, that I had never been in any real danger. When my focus slipped and I failed to raise my shield in time, Quintin’s blade halted inches from my neck. His control was absolute. The drills battered my forearm inside the gauntlet, and by the end of the morning’s practice, I was wincing at every strike.

  “What do you think of the shield?” my father asked later at the table. I wrestled one-handed with my breakfast, sweaty and sore in my training gear. At Quintin’s insistence, it had become my typical state at our morning meal. My parents tolerated it with mild amusement.

  “Very finely crafted, thank you, Father,” I worded diplomatically, conscious of what must have been a significant expense on my behalf.

  He eyed me kindly. “I was referring more to function than aesthetics, but you are welcome.”

  I shifted my aching arm on my lap, unable to find a comfortable position. “I will grow more familiar with it, I just need practice.”

  Practice, as it turned out, was agonizing. I made every attempt to put a brave face on it, hoping that, like my time in the garrison, regular pain would dull my susceptibility to it. Alas, that was not the case. By the fourth day, I was fighting tears with every strike. Quintin noticed, and called a halt to our exercise. He held out one hand, staking his sword in the ground with the other. “Take it off.”

  I obeyed, teeth and fingers wrestling the buckles. I swallowed a whimper as I slid it off my arm and passed the gauntlet to him.

  “Seven hells,” he breathed, eyes fixed on my black-and-blue skin. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze, tugging the sleeve of my tunic down to cover the bruises. “I didn’t want you to think me weak.”

  “There’s weak, and there’s foolish,” he scolded half-heartedly, examining the layers of leather. “That’s enough for today. Rest that arm a bit, and then we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  Cold fingers of panic slithered down my spine. In the few short days I’d had it, the shield had become my hand-hold. Despite the agony it caused me, I couldn’t help but cling to it in my mind as a tool to reclaim my confidence, a path back to feeling like I had some control over my person.

  Beyond that, Quintin was giving up on me, and the cruel voice in my head didn’t blame him. I couldn’t even handle this, an armament designed specifically for the weaker sex.

  “Please don’t take it.” I tried to keep my voice calm, steady. “I’ll get better. I just have to get used to it.”

  He looked up at me, evaluating. “You’ll get it back,” he said gently. “It merely needs some adjustment.”

  The adjustments turned out to be an exchange of a few layers of hardened leather for dense wool padding. Quintin had drawn out my convalescence, checking my arm daily. It took over a week for the bruises to subside. When the color had faded to an off-putting yellow hue, and it was no longer painful to the touch, he had declared me ready to return to training.

  I poked at the new material packed between the hardened outer leather pads and the soft kidskin liner.

  “Just put it on,” he grumbled impatiently from across the garden.

  The wool lining gave it a level of flex and comfort that made it almost pleasant to wear. I twisted it around every which way, glad to have it back.

  “The padding will allow you to use it more readily in combat, but it also means you won’t be able to block a heavy weapon like a two-hander or an axe.”

  “What am I supposed to do against those, then?” I asked pragmatically.

  He fixed me with his stoic gaze. “Run.”

  I balked. “Not very honorable.”

  “Someone of your stature and skill should not be facing a heavy weapon.”

  “Lazerins do not run.”

  “You will if you want to live.” When I refused to back down, he sighed and shook his head. “We can work on some deflection drills. In the absurdly unlikely event that you find yourself in such a situation, the shield should hold up if you can use it more like a traditional buckler.”

  “Show me.”

  He did. We spent the last weeks of winter drilling relentlessly each morning. The padding saved my arm, as did the shift in style. Instead of bracing against the full force of a strike, I practiced knocking my opponent’s weapon aside using the lobstered plate shield. It was a more fluid method, allowing for continuous movement and requiring significantly less strength. I was able to take advantage of my talent for good timing, a skill I’d developed quickly when learning to shoot from the saddle. Quintin seemed pleased with my improvement, and I felt more and more in control each day.

  When the weather began to turn, and the garden started to green, an invitation arrived from the palace. The King and Queen invited us, along with every other noble in Litheria, to celebrate the spring equinox with a hunt and subsequent feast. The event was two weeks away. As I’d predicted, my father had already arranged for his return to Laezon. Missives had come and gone between the city and our country home, and there was some disagreement on studding rights that required his intervention. My mother and I would stay to represent the family at the festivities and then follow shortly after.

  A note from Adrian arrived the same day, inviting me to the Greyshor. After an involuntary spike of fear, I penned my acceptance and set the date for the following evening.

  “You’re not seriously going back there,” Aubrey protested after our lesson that afternoon.

  “I can’t be afraid forever,” I pointed out.

  “You could have been killed!”

  “I’ll have a proper escort this time,” I countered, and immediately regretted the words. They suggested Quintin was less than sufficient, and he’d done the job capably.

  “See that you do. And for my sake, watch your consumption!” he scolded. “Your betrothed is a terrible influence.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the mention of my future marriage. The idea was growing on me quite a bit. “I’ll behave myself, I promise.”

  He collapsed into a plush chair near me. “Now, on to more pressing matters.” Leaning forward in his seat, he set his sly gaze on me. “Atenas.”

  I rolled my eyes, head lolling back in feigned exasperation. “Not this again.”

  “Do you truly not yearn for one last gasp of freedom before you sell yourself into servitude for the rest of your days?”

  I laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to it if that was what I expected from this marriage.”

  “Still, soon you’ll be ordering your own household about with toddling children clinging to your skirts. Don’t you want something more for yourself first?”

  “Like what?” I challenged.

  “Adventure!” He gestured excitedly, eyes glittering.

  “I’ve had adventure in my life, Aubrey.”

  He waved his hand dismissively at me. “Crawling in the mud at the garrison for a few months hardly counts. Besides, that was years ago. You’re overdue for another scandalous escapade.” Eyeing his wine glass, he changed tactics. “I’m going with or without you. I’d much rather the former. Who knows what trouble I
may find myself in without your worldly guidance?” I glared at him, and he pouted back. “Who will help me pick the lice from my hair? Teach me to re-stuff my mattress with straw? Show me the most efficient way to empty a chamber pot?”

  I threw a nearby pillow at him as we laughed.

  “Will you truly not let this go?” I begged.

  He lifted his chin obstinately. “Not a chance.”

  When I was sure he wouldn’t budge, I sighed my resignation. “Fine, I’ll ask. But I highly doubt they’ll agree.”

  Since my father was departing the next morning, my hand was forced and I had to broach the topic with them at dinner that evening.

  “To Elas?” my mother exclaimed in disbelief.

  “To Atenas, to the university,” I clarified. “It would only be for a year, and Aubrey so desperately wants my company.” Perhaps if I shifted it more onto his shoulders, they might more readily agree. Or so I hoped.

  “You are betrothed to another man, Elivya. It would be unseemly.” My father was clearly not in favor of the idea.

  “I will talk to Adrian,” I attempted to reassure him. “He’ll understand. He knows Aubrey holds no designs on me.”

  “This is all very last-minute,” my mother commented unhappily.

  “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think he would actually go, I figured it was a passing fancy. It was only today that he pressed.” I threw my last card onto the table. If this didn’t work, at least I could tell Aubrey I’d tried my best. “I think he’s afraid to go alone.”

  “Surely he has other friends that could accompany him,” Father protested. “What about that Therus boy? Leon? Or that stripling Caerus lad? He seems the type to enjoy a year of study.”

  “Leon is apprenticing at an apothecary and Mateo is too young to attend the university.”

  “Surely there are others,” he insisted.

  “I am his best and closest friend, and he has asked for my help.” I kept my voice as diplomatic as possible. “I’m the only one in his world with any real experience of the one outside it.”