by Nicole Field
“What was that?” Aram croaked.
Pidge swallowed, still staring at the space the rotted man had just occupied. “The priests say the gods cursed this land long ago. Creatures long since wiped out in kingdoms like yours will never leave Tamren. All those who dwell here must live alongside the likes of them.”
“I… that was… I thought that was just how your people explained the dragons.”
So had Pidge. Once. Before the start of her adventures. “Dragons aren't the only extinct creature thriving in Tamren.”
*~*~*
The rain that pummeled the town of Gurd stung like ice on Pidge's arms. It was just a breath away from turning to hail. In the two hours since they'd seen the creature, the whole of the village had abandoned the streets. Those who caroused at the inn would remain there. All errands could wait until morning. Fear of the supernatural cast a stronger spell over the heart than any creature could.
Aram huddled under the eave of a smithy, shivering under his heavy blanket as Pidge dug through a reeking pile of refuse spilled out onto the cobblestones.
"I don't understand," he called over the quiet roar of the rain. "If we want to stop a ghost, then why not chase it? What good will rotten meat do?"
Pidge's fingers met something soft and foul. Half-eaten mutton tossed perhaps a day ago. Perfect! She held her breath as she pulled it free and tossed it onto the cobblestones.
"We're not trying to catch a ghost. We're trying to catch whatever raised it." She hurried back to his side and crouched down, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “Ghosts don't behave like this, they move in loops in places familiar to them. And they don't look like that. They look the way they did when they died. They only look like their corpses when they've been raised with sloppy magic."
Aram knelt beside her, his eyes wide and shining in the poor light. "A necromancer?" he breathed with just a touch of excitement. Well, at least he could never be called a coward.
Pidge shook her head. "I think a necromancer would be more direct. They wouldn't go to the trouble of summoning a spirit and then have it just wander about like that. Whatever raised it might have done so without even realizing it."
"What could raise a spirit without meaning to?"
"A lich." Pidge scowled. "My guess is some fool of a necromancer took a stab at immortality and got it. Just not the way they imagined."
Aram fell silent at that. In the dim light from the puttering street lanterns, his expression was unreadable. Pidge's gut squirmed.
"Aram, if this is too much for you, it's all right. I can handle this on my own.” She licked her lips. She ought to take him back. He didn't belong out here. But… “I just can't leave the people of Gurd to deal with this sort of trouble on their own. They don't even know what it is they're dealing with."
"No, that's not it." Aram frowned up at her. "You're not much of a mercenary, Pidge. Do you know that?"
Pidge's hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Aram glanced her way. "You're not making any money off of this. Based on the public opinion, you likely won't receive any praise."
Pidge bristled. "There might be a reward."
"And there might not," Aram sighed. "Pidge, you don't have to pursue this life. The king took you in as his ward. You grew up as the companion to the princess of Tamren. Perhaps they don't give you an allowance, but as the wife of the queen you'll be offered anything your heart desires. The only motivation I can conceive of is altruism."
It sounded like a compliment, but Aram's words made her skin crawl.
"It's easy to think like that when you grew up belonging in a palace. Yes, I lived there. But I never belonged there. So I need to do this. I always have."
"But it isn't about money," Aram pressed. "When you fought the sea dragon for its treasure horde, I don't think you knew for sure that it would really win you the princess's hand. You did it to save Trina from a bad engagement."
"Are you trying to make a study of me, highness?" Pidge asked stiffly.
"I am trying to hold up a mirror," Aram murmured. "Your reputation is one of a great mercenary. Every kingdom that's heard of you thinks of you as clever and conniving enough to buy your way into a royal bed but that isn't true at all. You're not really a mercenary. You're a knight."
Pidge's heart lurched in her chest. How many days had she spent as a child crouched on the roof of the armory, watching the Tamren knights sparring in the rings, tilting in the jousts, angling for the favor of the princess? What a pretty dream it had been to a teenaged girl, longing to forge herself into something greater than a royal pet. What a foolish dream to a woman who knew perfectly well what to expect from life.
A lump formed in her throat. Pidge swallowed. "Tamren has no lady knights."
"I think Tamren has one."
It was a stupid, silly dream woven together by a naïve girl. It was a stupid, silly assumption made by a foreign man who didn't know their ways.
So why did her eyes burn?
Pidge shook her head, trying to dismiss the thought before it took hold. "You'd have to convince the knights of that."
"As consorts to the queen, I think the two of us could manage that."
"I don't understand you," she murmured, her eyes dropping to the cobblestones. "Why do you show me such kindness? I'm the common woman marrying your bride-to-be."
A thin hand caught hers.
"I'm marrying you, too, Pidge. Why do you think I'm here?"
"What?" Pidge's head shot up.
Aram stared back at her with wide, bright eyes. And, huddled under the eave of the smithy in the freezing rain, Pidge was suddenly, painfully aware of just how close he was. How gentle his hand was on hers. How, in spite of all her better judgment, she didn't want him to let go.
"I don't know how to court a knight. I thought, perhaps, joining you on an adventure was the best way to go about it."
Pidge's heart slammed like a hammer in her chest. Her mouth went dry as Aram leaned forward, easing up onto his toes.
His lips felt different than Trina's. Thinner, and the skin around his mouth had just a hint of stubbly itch. But it wasn't altogether unpleasant. Her stomach flipped. This was her first kiss with Trina's husband.
No. Not that. With her own husband.
Aram pulled away and, perhaps for the first time since she'd met him, uncertainty flickered across his face.
Pidge opened her mouth, but the words didn't come. What did someone say at a time like this?
"Hey!" a slurred voice called out. "H-Hey, you! Y'punched out Raddin an' Hob!"
"Quiet, you," a shrill voice giggled. "Don't you know there's a ghost about these parts?"
Seven hells. As one, Pidge and Aram turned to face a pair of drunken idiots as they staggered across the street, hanging on to each other.
"Get on home, both of you," Pidge hissed.
The taller of the two blinked owlishly at her before straightening. "Hey, I know you. You're that mercenary from out of the capital. Is it true you're about to marry—?"
The words died in his throat as the temperature once again plummeted. Icy fog rolled over the street, icing the cobblestones.
From the shadows emerged a creature, its sallow skin desiccated, its bony fingers outstretched. But unlike the spectre, this creature was as solid as stone. The thing should have been dead long ago. Whatever sorcery had kept it living seeped off of it like ink in water, dragging the dead from their rest.
"Conal Doney's ghost," squeaked one of the drunks. But there was nothing spectral about this creature.
"The lich," Aram whispered.
Pidge pushed him against the side of the smithy. "Stay here. I'll take care of this."
She whipped her sword out of its sheath and leapt out into the rain. At the sight of the iron, the lich shuddered and scrambled back. The rain hardened into hail pelting her cloak. It bounced off the lich's rotting skin, making every flap of flesh jiggle. Its glassy eyes widened as it l
et out a low, snakelike hiss.
Pidge took another small step forward, testing its response. The lich's head fell to the side, its neck cracking loudly.
"Run!" screamed one of the drunks.
"Wait, no!"
Pidge whirled around, but it was too late. The man was already running, right as a spectre materialized in the air. A farmhand. Young. Recently dead, by the looks of it, confused and angry. Raised that very moment by reckless magic. The ghost wrapped its arms around the man, right as he let out a horrified cry.
After that, everything slowed. The lich retreated in the corner of her vision, mist rising to cover his escape. She could have gone after him. She probably could have caught him, but it felt like every move was made from underwater.
Aram darted forward from the safety of the smithy, reaching for the other drunk man even as he tried to run toward his friend.
"Come on!" Aram cried, but the man shoved him back.
The spirit's head shot up. It released its victim, allowing him to crumple to the ground in a heap.
Pidge's foot pounded down onto the street and met only ice.
The spirit reached toward the man.
Another footstep. There was no traction. Pain shot up her ankle as the world tilted.
The spectre reached for the other man. Aram pushed him out of the way, and it was Aram's neck the spirit's fingers wrapped around, even as its form began to flicker and fade.
And in that moment the world sped up again. Pidge crashed to the ground as the ice turned to slush, but she didn't feel it. All she could see was his limp willowy form in a heap on the ground.
"Aram!" she screamed, scrambling forward.
Aram lay as still as death, his breath weak and shallow. Pidge dragged him into her lap. "You fool, what were you thinking?"
Aram's chin jerked, his eyes flickering under his lids. But no words. No response. No. No no no…
"Fetch the prince's horse from the Hound and Hare," Pidge barked at the drunk, who still stood stunned in the rain. "Do it now!"
*~*~*
Aram breathed. Aram's heart beat slowly. Aram was still alive. But his skin was cold as ice.
"Hang on," she said as she settled him in the saddle and hauled herself up behind him. The stallion snorted and shifted, unaccustomed to a strange rider. Pidge held Aram to her chest with one arm as she kicked into the steed's sides.
"You're going to be fine," she insisted again and again as he bobbed against her. He needed to be fine. "What will I ever tell Trina if you're not? You didn't just pick us, you know. She… she picked you, too. So, you have to be fine to prove you're worthy of her choice. You wouldn't let Trina down, would you?"
Each agonizing pause between his heartbeats, each moment between the rise and fall of his chest, felt like an agonizing eternity. And yet it felt like only the span between one breath and the next passed before she was again at the palace with no prize, and no glory.
Pidge had half a mind to haul him off the horse and dump him in the physician's rooms… but no. Aram was a visiting prince, the future king-consort only days into life in his new home. If word somehow spread that he'd joined the mercenary bride of the imminent queen and been harmed, it would only complicate matters. The physician would simply have to come to him.
Gently as she could, Pidge slung his slender form over her shoulder, only breathing when she felt the soft thump of his heart against her.
"We're almost there," she whispered, stepping softly as she carried him through the grand halls, her wet boots clicking and squelching as she trailed cold rain behind her, mucking up the fine stonework.
Trina's rooms were empty when she arrived. Hard to say if that was a burden or a benefit. Pidge set the prince down on the mattress, pulling off his boots and arranging him carefully so he at least looked dignified. Why, at a time like this, it even mattered, she couldn't say. Somehow, it just did.
Pidge rang the bell for the physician and knelt down next to the bed.
"You're going to be fine," she murmured, squeezing his cold hand. "And when you wake, Trina will be here."
Within moments, the doors flew open again. The first person to walk in was a portly, youngish man with a bulging bag of elixirs and poultices for any malady. Behind him, her face ashen and her eyes wide, was Trina.
An uneasy feeling squirmed in Pidge's gut, but she forced herself not to look at Trina. Right now, this was more important.
"What happened?" the physician demanded, his bag already opened as he rushed to Aram's side.
Pidge's chest tightened. "I… there was a lich and… it raised a ghost..." Her words jolted forward like an unwilling carriage, jerky and unwilling. She might as well have been a bashful school child again, struggling to learn her letters.
"How long ago?"
"I…" Pidge glanced out the window. What time was it now? "I think… three or four hours ago?"
"Three or four hours?" The physician stared back at her, wide-eyed. "Where were you?"
"Gurd."
"And you managed to keep him warm the whole ride here?" He shook his head. "You're lucky he's still alive. He's caught a chill that won't be easily chased away. Get a fire going, now. My princess, if you would fetch more blankets. We need to keep him warm."
Pidge hurried to the fire. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Trina's jerky movements, stilted and uncertain like a puppet being maneuvered by an inexperienced fool. And all the while, her eyes kept darting to Pidge, wide and dark, their intention hidden under a sea of fear.
The early rays of morning had just begun to pierce through the windows when, at last, the physician declared Aram stable. Trina straightened with a nod, her hands folding in front of her.
"Thank you," she murmured, jerking her head toward the door. "Pidge?"
Pidge's stomach sank, but she nodded and followed Trina out the door, bracing herself for what was to come. But Trina's anger burned slow. She sailed smoothly down the halls, past the sitting room, all the way into the library. Pidge stepped in, still dripping slowly onto the rug as Trina shut and locked the door. And, even then, the princess did not speak. She just stood, staring at the door, her shoulders tense.
"'He… he was trying to help," Pidge explained, her chest tight. "These two drunks showed up. It got one of them. He was trying to save the other-"
"And why was he there in the first place?" Trina whirled around. Her dark eyes swam with unshed tears. "Why were you even there?"
"I…" Pidge swallowed. "I left a note."
"A note!" Trina howled. "I asked you to stay, Pidge. This is our courtship! How could you leave at a time like this?"
"Because, Trina, I'm not royal!" Pidge snapped, and it felt as though her own words whipped around and slapped her right back. Pidge clenched her hands into fists. Her heart hammered in her chest. "I am not royal. And I know that you're fine with that, but the rest of the world isn't. When your uncle bars me from the courtship because he's afraid I'll interfere, when the footmen shut the doors to me, when the whole kingdom thinks of me as a sly vagabond who tricked her way into your bed, it isn't fine. It matters!"
Bright red splotched Trina's face. She crossed her arms over her chest, visibly biting her cheek in an effort to keep the tears in.
"And we both knew it would be difficult. I thought you would be willing to stand up to it. You slew a dragon to save me from Count Cordo. But this? This is what will tear you from me? The act of being here and living with me? With us?"
"I just needed fresh air. I wasn't leaving you."
"You have a duty now, Pidge! You are royalty now. I thought, when I let him go after you, you'd both be back."
"We are," Pidge insisted.
"Yes. And Aram stands before death, now." Trina turned, pushing the door to the library open. And Pidge didn't chase after her.
*~*~*
Pidge didn't much like to think about the future. A foundling living in the palace, in love with a princess, engaged in an occupation deemed by many to be unsui
table for a woman. Certainly unsuitable for a woman in the presence of royalty. For Pidge, the future had always been too nebulous to grasp.
But circumstances had changed. Aram could die.
Even dancing near that particular thought filled Pidge's insides with tar.
It hadn't seemed like it would spark such a mess, just going back to her work. Getting away for a bit to escape the scrutiny. The rejection. And what had come of it?
She perched on the roof of the stable, staring down at the training arena. It was empty this early in the morning, but soon it would be filled with squires and knights.
Pidge's chest tightened. Aram thought her a knight. But a knight wouldn't have failed her liege so terrifically.
She wasn't a knight. She wasn't a royal, despite what Trina said. She was still just a mercenary who'd gone and put herself in a position where she couldn't even be that. The one thing she was any good at. Which meant she was… nothing.
Gentle footsteps tapped across the tiled roof. Pidge glanced back to see Trina picking her way delicately toward her, skirts bunched up around her knees. It was the first time in years she'd tried anything so reckless.
Trina sat down, her wide skirts billowing out around her, staring down at her slippers for a long moment. Pidge knew she ought to say something, but nothing seemed a good idea in that moment.
At long last, Trina spoke.
"I know this isn't easy. And I apologize. Just because I want you here doesn't mean it's easy for you."
Trina was apologizing. The tar inside of her thinned just a bit and Pidge reached out, resting one hand on Trina's. Trina took a shuddering breath and laced their fingers together.
"Pidge, it's just that… I lost my parents. And my uncle has always been so kind, but I still miss my parents. And then my brother. I was thrust into the life of an heir that I never expected and you were my only constant through it all. You were the only person who never changed. Then Aram came and I thought: Here is another who'll be just as constant as my Pidge. Who'll always be with me. Who'll never change even after I become queen." A tear slid down her tanned cheek. "Then you left. And he wanted to go after you. I thought I'd lost both of you in one night."
