In The Darkest Midnight

by Grace Draven

  Jahna schooled her face into an expressionless mask and slowly turned to face Evaline. As she expected, the girl stood flanked by her ever-present sycophants. They had shed their cloaks and hoods to reveal colorful dresses trimmed with ribbon and beads.

  Evaline’s blue gown highlighted her blonde beauty, and she shimmered like a sapphire under the flickering light of the numerous torches and candles set in the walls and niches of the great hall. Nadel and Tefila likewise wore vivid gowns in shades of crimson and yellow. To Jahna, they looked like a cluster of jewels—beautifully faceted and hard through and through.

  By contrast, Jahna wore dove gray, the hem and cuffs of her long sleeves decorated in silver and black embroidery. The seamstress had sewn a hood to the frock at Jahna’s request, and she wore it pinned to her loose hair Evaline’s remark that the gown matched Jahna’s skin tone might have stung if it hadn’t been so predictable.

  Evaline raked her from head to toe with a withering gaze. “I hear your brother will learn the sword from an Ilinfan swordmaster. He’s handsome enough if you squint the right way, so why in the gods’ names is he talking to you?”

  Jahna sighed inwardly. Please let them grow bored with this quickly. “I don’t know.”

  Nadel’s toothy smile reminded Jahna of the mountain cats that stalked the forested cliffs surrounding her father’s estate. “Maybe he feels sorry for her.” She laughed at her own jibe and Tefila joined her.

  Evaline didn’t laugh, and her blue eyes were cold enough to skate across as she stared at Jahna. “Not sorry enough. He didn’t invite you to dance with him.”

  Jahna had observed Radimar Velus nearly the entire evening. He hadn’t asked anyone to dance with him. She knew she’d regret it, now or later, but she replied anyway. “He didn’t invite you either.”

  Evaline’s snide expression froze. Her nostrils flared, and Jahna braced herself to dodge a slap that didn’t come. Lord Lacramor’s “whelp” clenched her teeth and curled her hands into fists. She breathed in audible pants.

  Lord Uhlfrida was of higher status and greater importance than Lord Lacramor. Jahna knew it. So did Evaline. To outright physically attack Jahna where witnesses abounded carried repercussions on a grander scale than a juvenile spat between the young daughters of two powerful noblemen.

  Jahna didn’t look away as a seething Evaline stared daggers at her before visibly wrestling her fury under control. She raised her head, nose in the air and gave a disdainful sniff. “What good would it do me to spend my valuable time with a lowly baron’s son?”

  Was he a baron’s son? Jahna had never heard of the House of Wemerc and assumed it was one of the families awarded noble status for outstanding service in the Beladine army. Leave it to Evaline to waste no time in finding out where her object of interest stood in the hierarchy.

  She arched an eyebrow, committed now to the foolhardy venture of antagonizing the viper. “You’re spending time with me, and I don’t intend to offer for your hand.”

  “As I’m sure no one will offer for yours, though your father might be able to convince some desperate nobleman in need of coin.” Evaline almost spat the words at her.

  “Only the king is that wealthy,” Tefila added.

  The three laughed at her quip but finally moved on when Jahna’s deadpan expression didn’t alter. She watched them go, her stomach in knots, perspiration trickling down her back. She turned to look blindly at the crush of people filling the great hall, their bodies slowly blurring to watery outlines the longer she watched them. Jahna blinked hard and caught Sir Velus watching her from the other side of the room, his face grim. She forced a weak smile and gave a wave to signal all was well before fleeing the great hall in what she hoped was a dignified walk.

  Once in the corridor, she raised the hem of her gown and ran, gasping for breath as her chest and throat tightened with the threat of tears. Her father’s suite of rooms was blessedly empty save for two maids who offered to help her change and bring her tea or wine. Jahna refused both, pleading an upset stomach from the food. They left her alone while she settled in a narrow bed placed in the sitting room with a screen erected for some semblance of privacy.

  Beyond the screen, the fire in the hearth crackled, driving away some of the cold that managed to sneak under the tapestries hanging on the walls. Jahna huddled under her blankets, still clothed in her gown. She listened to the maids’ voices, their words soft and indistinct. Soothing.

  Evaline’s insults were carefully crafted to cut, but it was Tefila’s that struck deepest. “Only a king is that wealthy.” Jahna closed her eyes and gave in to a bout of silent weeping until the bands squeezing her chest loosened, and her throat relaxed. She rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling with its intricately painted murals. The last of her tears slid down her temples to tickle her ears.

  A voice inside her assured her none of those vicious bitches was worth a single one of her tears, and there was far more to her than a disfiguring purple stain. Still, another voice refused to stay silent and wished she’d been born unmarked. She didn’t wish for beauty, just the acceptance that came with not being so noticeably different.

  Jahna turned her thoughts to more cheerful things—her brother laughing as he danced a lively jig with a pretty brown-haired girl, the upcoming Firehound story brought to life by the king’s sorcerers, Dame Stalt’s invitation to join the student body of the Archives and train as a king’s chronicler. These things mattered, gave her joy. She closed her eyes and spooled out memories that made her smile and dried her tears. She fell asleep to the image of the Ilinfan swordmaster with his sunrise hair and sea-glass eyes.

  She spent much of the following morning exploring the overgrown gardens that had once been the pride of the current king’s grandmother. When Rodan married, his queen had a new garden designed to her taste installed at the southern corner of the palace grounds. The old garden was left to run to seed and grow wild and unkempt. Jahna loved it, as much for its isolation as for the snow-encrusted climbing roses and ivy that grew in chaotic profusion, swallowing broken statues and choking stone walls in an intricate web of snaking vines.

  One of her father’s servants found her near midday sculpting sacred spirals made of snow next to a fountain garlanded in roses the color of blood sugared in snow. Jahna’s hands were frozen, and her breath steamed in front of her every time she exhaled, but she ignored the cold, happy to be outside and away from the stifling conditions in the overcrowded palace.

  “Lady Uhlfrida, your father is looking for you. He’s asked that you attend him.”

  Jahna sighed and followed the servant back to their rooms where her father held court with whomever chose to visit at the moment. Her mood lightened when she spotted Dame Stalt seated across from Marius in the antechamber he used as a receiving room. The dame skipped the usual round of polite greetings and went straight to the subject of their conversation.

  “Your father feels it best you remain at home at Hollowfell for now, Jahna.” Jahna’s heart plunged through the floor at the news, a ready plea on her lips in the hopes of convincing her father to change his mind.

  Her stricken thoughts must have reflected in her expression because the dame shook her head. “You mistake us, girl. When you’re eighteen, you may join the Archives and apprentice to become a king’s chronicler then.”

  The ringing in her ears warned Jahna she was in danger from fainting from the tide of relief that washed over her. She turned to her silent father who nodded.

  “Court life has its challenges, Jahna. You’ve had a taste of it. Give yourself three more years. You’ll better know how to cope with the vagaries of palace society. That is if you’re still interested in the position of chronicler by then.” He didn’t mention any of the usual platitudes such as the chance she might want to marry instead.

  “I will be, Father,” she assured him in her most adamant tone. She turned to the dame. “My thanks, Dame Stalt. I will work hard at not disappointing you.”

  Da
me Stalt rose. Marius followed suit and both he and Jahna bowed to her. “I bid you both farewell then. You’ll hear from me periodically.” She swept out of Marius’s receiving chamber, followed by a small entourage of women composed of both servants and lesser dames.

  Marius eyed his daughter for a long moment. When he spoke, it wasn’t to question her choice in pursuing such a profession—one populated by women from every level of the social strata. “Accompany her to the bailey, Jahna, so she may know I’ve raised you properly.”

  Jahna hurried to do his bidding and caught up with the dame just before she reached the doors that opened up to the royal palace’s outer courtyard and bailey. Across the grounds, the Archives stood between two temples, its portico facing the palace’s northern façade. Dame Stalt waited until Jahna drew abreast of her before speaking.”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid to see me home, Jahna, especially one young enough to be my granddaughter.” Her sharp regard was softened a little by the smile that played across her mouth. “I will, however, lay a task on you.”

  “Anything, madam,” Jahna said.

  The dame frowned. “Be careful you use that answer sparingly in the future, Jahna.” She pulled her heavy cloak more closely around her thin frame. “The Archives store all manner of things concerning Belawat’s history. You have a rare opportunity before you, one any chronicler at the Archives would envy. An Ilinfan swordsman will reside in your father’s house for four years. Talk to him. Learn of Ilinfan and its ways, the philosophy and practices of its teachers. Record it and send to me when you’re finished.”

  Excitement sang through Jahna’s veins. The dame laid a monumental task at her feet, but one Jahna wholeheartedly embraced. Ilinfan was ancient, built and abandoned by the Gullperi, inhabited by humans who created a famous school and mastered the art of sword form. All those things made it a jewel to research, the chance of learning more about Ilinfan directly from one of its swordsmen, a gift beyond price.

  She bowed. “I will, madam. It will be an honor.”

  She waited until the dame and her retinue disappeared in a veil of falling snow before literally skipping back to her father’s suite, eager to start her new assignment right away, eager to hear Radimar Velus recount the mysteries of Ilinfan in that magical voice.

  ~ 3 ~

  The Maiden despairing

  “Here again, mushroom? Don’t you have something better to do than bother us?” Sodrin bent an annoyed frown on Jahna as she set up her supplies of parchment and ink on a small table tucked into a corner of her mother’s solar.

  Her sunny smile made him frown even harder. “I can’t think of anything better than watching Sir Radimar knock you on your arse several times in an hour.” And fitting revenge for him calling her a fungus.

  Three weeks had passed since their return to Hollowfell from the Beladine capital of Timsiora, and the Ilinfan swordmaster hadn’t wasted a moment in putting his new student through his paces. The empty solar, once a place of dust, cobwebs and sad memories for Lord Uhlfrida was transformed into a training room, with a concentric pattern of diminishing circles painted on the floor. Hooks driven at various spot into the walls and ceiling provided anchor points to which lengths of rope were strung, creating an intricate net.

  “For exercises to increase agility and flexibility,” the swordmaster explained to the perplexed Uhlfrida family when they saw the contraption.

  A servant had set up the workspace where Jahna put down her supplies to record—a small table and a chair that hugged a corner and caught the best light from a high window. It offered her a good view of the entire room while still allowing her to stay out of the way.

  Radimar had readily agreed to Jahna’s request to observe the lessons and record how Ilinfan teachers passed on their knowledge to their students. Sodrin had been less than enthusiastic at the idea.

  “How can I fight if she’s lurking over there distracting me with all that quill scratching?”

  Radimar paused while measuring the floor for his painted circles and gave Sodrin a withering look. “If something as insignificant as a quill stops you from being able to fight, then I need to pack now and return to Ilinfan, as there is nothing I can teach you which will overcome that level of laziness.”

  Sodrin flushed pink at the rebuke, but said no more. He avoided Radimar’s eyes in favor of glaring at Jahna who shrugged and returned a triumphant smirk.

  Radimar hadn’t made an appearance yet this morning, and the siblings took advantage of that by bickering. Sodrin practiced a few leisurely swings with the wooden waster Radimar insisted he use. “Big talk from you. It isn’t like he hasn’t put you on your arse a few times.”

  That was true. Radimar’s willingness to allow her in for the lessons as an observer came with a price. Sometimes she had to participate and those days usually saw her sporting more than a few bruises for the effort.

  She shrugged. “But I don’t have anything to prove. Nor do I care if you see me fall. You have too much pride, brother.”

  “And you not enough,” he volleyed back. “Radimar is wasting his time teaching you things you’ll never use.”

  This morning it was she who glared at him. He had stopped just short of calling her a coward. She opened her mouth to retort but was stopped by Radimar’s arrival.

  He wore a high-collared tunic of bleached linen over dun colored trousers and soft-soled shoes strapped at the calves. His bright hair was combed back from his face and secured at his nape with a thong. The piercing gaze Jahna found both arresting and intimidating swept the room, touching first on Sodrin, then on her.

  “You’re both wasting your time talking when you could be practicing your footwork or sparring with each other,” he said.

  Sodrin flexed his shoulders and stretched his arms in preparation for the lesson. “Remind me again why I’m sparring with her?”

  The swordmaster walked the room’s perimeter, testing the tautness of the ropes Sodrin had strung earlier by swinging on each one. Jahna tried not to gape at the impressive sight of Radimar’s shoulder muscles flexing under his shirt or the way his thighs tightened as he stretched from one rope to another, pulling himself along like a spider on a web. Nimble, quick, deadly.

  Satisfied with his student’s work, he dropped to his feet and dusted his hands before answering Sodrin’s question. “Because sometimes an untrained adversary is the most dangerous one. They don’t follow a memorized rule, don’t employ a familiar tactic or strategy. Every once in awhile they get in a lucky hit that can be very unlucky for you. Even fatal.”

  “His luck holds this morning, Sir Radimar,” she chimed in. “Today is my day only to observe and record the lesson.”

  Radimar’s thin-lipped mouth turned down at the corners. “It will serve you best if you participate as often as possible, my lady. Doing so will anchor it more solidly in your memory.”

  “Afraid?”

  Sodrin’s taunt made Jahna bristle. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Hardly.” She waved a hand down her front. “I’m not dressed for a lesson.”

  Radimar shrugged. “Then dress for it. We’ll be here when you return.”

  She raced back to her room to change into a tunic and a pair of Sodrin’s trousers she’d cut and altered to fit her frame, and returned to the solar. The two men had already begun training, with a regimen of tumbling and swinging on and among the ropes. At Radimar’s gesture, she joined Sodrin on the webbing.

  The exercise itself seemed like child’s play when Radimar first described it, but brother and sister soon learned it was anything but play. Jahna lost count of the number of times her tumbles landed her in a tangle of limbs and rope or sent her careening into her brother. Radimar’s repeated advice for how to avoid such bodily crashes even invaded her dreams.

  “You move like you’re invisible to each other. Always be aware of your opponent. Where they are in relation to you, to the furniture in the room, to the doors and windows. Learn their size, their reach and how to stay ou
t of their way until you choose to bridge the distance between you.”

  He often backed up his instructions with demonstrations, allowing Jahna to see how he moved through the ropes around and over Sodrin, quick and agile, sometimes coming close enough to her brother to flutter his hair but never quite touching. He did the same for Sodrin, leaving Jahna winded and a little dizzy as she staggered away from the webbing to catch her breath. It was an exercise in control, in strength, and as he said, a supreme awareness of the space another person occupied on the ropes at any given time.

  Lessons always began with the ropes, then moved to footwork—Jahna’s favorite part of the training. Footwork was precise and offered insight into how her body balanced best, moved quickest. Unlike her, Sodrin hated it and complained at first over Radimar’s relentless drills regarding stance, passing steps and shoulder position.

  “Nothing about this involves sword fighting,” he complained one morning.

  It seemed as if Radimar ignored the complaint as he circled Jahna, motioning for her to widen her stance a little more and turn her shoulder a hair. He raised a hand to signal she stay as she was and with one quick motion, reached out and lightly shoved Sodrin.

  The move sent Sodrin flailing backward, and he landed on his backside with a grunt. Jahna watched askance and pressed her lips together to hold back a giggle.

  Radimar stretched out an arm to help a flustered Sodrin up from the floor. “Jahna could have easily done what I just did. You’re resting your weight on your heels instead of the balls of your feet, and your center is too high. Knocking someone over with a feather is possible when they stand like that.”

  He returned to Jahna and motioned for Sodrin to join him. “Watch.” He shoved Jahna with the same force he used on Sodrin. Her torso rocked back a little, but her feet stayed planted. Radimar pushed again, this time a little harder, with the same results. The third time he did it hard enough that his bicep flexed, and Jahna’s lead foot lost its grip on the floor, slipping sideways.