Fray

by Rowenna Miller

  I turned to leave, but he must have heard the faint rustle my bare feet made on the path. “Sophie. If you can’t sleep, come sit.”

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” I said. “Or keep you up.”

  “I already slept. It’s nearly morning.” He unkinked his long legs. “And what I’m doing—passing time, nothing more.”

  “Meditation?” I ventured.

  He laughed, a faint snort of derision. “That makes me sound mystical, divine. Is that what you think of Serafans, that we’re some sort of mystics?” He shook his head. “I have a knot in my shoulder the size of a spiny apple. I was only stretching.”

  I flushed. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I know.” He pulled an arm across his chest and winced. “I should not have made fun. You, I am sure, know full well the frustration of bearing the assumptions of others.”

  “Then let’s leave assumptions aside. I still can’t quite understand why you would come with us, why you would take on a charge that doesn’t concern you.” If it wasn’t my country, I would have stayed as far from the bloody turmoil in Galitha as possible.

  “Did you forget how much you agreed to pay me?”

  “No, and it seems a low amount to risk your life for.”

  “What in life isn’t a risk? It was only a matter of time until a jealous wife or angry brother came after me in my current position.” He shrugged. “Or until I aged ungracefully out of my ability to serve in the Warren. It is time for me to turn to another way to earn my bread. But what I cannot quite understand is why you are not inclined to believe someone when he tells the truth.”

  I started. “The truth sounds too simple the way you tell it.”

  He shook his head. “I think it is because you saw ideals corrupted and now you don’t recognize the truth.”

  I clenched my teeth, biting back a retort. He didn’t have a right to speak to me as though he knew me, as though he understood what the Midwinter Revolt had done to me. He didn’t have a right to understand, I amended, acknowledging that he had hit on the truth. My brother’s ideals, corrupted into regicide and murder of innocents, my ideals, abandoned to craft curses. Even Pyord, I admitted, corrupt idealism personified. What could I trust? I struggled to answer.

  “My brother would have let me die,” I finally said. “For ideals. Ideals are not such noble things as you would believe.”

  “You ought to forgive him.”

  Now the anger flared into bitter laughter. “Forgive him? Didn’t you hear me—he would have let me die. Plenty of people did die, but he would have let me die. His sister. He cared more about his ideals and his vision than about me,” I said, my voice rising thin and harsh.

  Sianh nodded. And waited.

  “I’ve never said that before,” I whispered. “He cared more about his revolution than he did about me. He chose it over me.” He loved it more than me, I added silently, the impact of those words too great to say aloud.

  “And for that, you must forgive him if you are to go forward. He is remorseful—why do you think he circles me for a fight, like a rangy hound? He has never behaved thus before. He wants to be the one to protect you, to save you. To make up for the past.”

  “So you say.” I took a shaky breath. “And where do I go from here?”

  Sianh smiled. “Back where you began, but entirely different, no?”

  I blinked slowly, tension seeping from me. The sun was rimming the horizon, pale orange. Sianh had been right—while I had seen only night, it had been nearly morning. “True enough. I’m not sure what place a charm caster has in this.” The thought struck me. “Sianh, does the Serafan army use… music?” I asked awkwardly.

  “Drums and pipes on the field, yes. Not dissimilar to your own army’s drums, for relaying orders.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure you want to know,” I replied.

  “I think you’re telling me that I must know.”

  I hesitated, but there was no avoiding letting him in on the Serafan court’s great, deadly secret, not if I wanted to have any way of countering it if it came to that. “The Serafan court uses charm and curse casting, executed through music. At least, only music as far as I know.” Too much I didn’t know, yet I had to press forward. “It influences the listener. They were using it to sway opinion on issues at the summit, but it could be used…” I shook my head, overwhelmed with possibilities.

  Sianh considered this carefully, impassively, and finally nodded. “I can see how that could be effected.”

  “Was it?” I asked. “That you saw?”

  “It’s difficult to be certain,” he replied. “No—I will tell you what I experienced. And you tell me if that is casting.” He closed his eyes, centering a memory. “We were facing the Bhani; they had built several small redoubts and were defending them fiercely. The pipes retreated a short distance and played a song I’d never heard before—a march, but with a snake of a melody, twisting and fast. I felt—I am no coward, understand, but I felt invincible.” He opened his eyes. “My horse didn’t care for it. We took the nearest redoubts far more quickly than I could have anticipated, and—this was strange—the pipes played the entire time.”

  “And you felt different while they played?”

  “Bright, fast, brave—yes. I thought I was simply fighting exceptionally well,” he apologized with a wry grin.

  “I’ve no doubt you were”—I smiled—“but it certainly sounds as though there was casting. A charm, for all those things you felt and needed to be. And, damn it all, but clever—so that they can use the charm without even the soldiers knowing, let alone the enemy.”

  “I suppose you have your answers. The knot in my shoulder is better,” Sianh excused himself, “but I fear I’ve new ones in my head, now.” He stood, sinewy muscle unfolding and engaging. A warrior’s stance even as he walked through the garden. He was joining us out of a sort of ambition borne out of who he was, who he had fashioned himself to be.

  And what was I? I was a charm caster. I was a seamstress. I had been born with the ability to cast and with nimble fingers, and I had fashioned them into what I was. Sianh could serve his ideals with a sword or a rifle. He saw redemption and a new life in doing so. I had put myself in service to corrupted ideals once. Could I redeem myself by serving something I believed in? If I could, what use was a charm-casting seamstress to the war raging in Galitha?

  50

  BY THE TIME I HAD DRESSED AND COMBED THE WORST OF THE SNARLS from my hair, everyone was gathered in the dining room, papers and maps spread in haphazard layers. Sianh was already making notes on a map in fine graphite.

  “I’m ever so glad you picked up a military tactician in your detour to the brothel,” Theodor said to me with a wan smile. “Yes, you’re right. We can’t return without some plan to shore up our forces and our assets.”

  “Are those Merhaven’s?”

  “They’re not Merhaven’s any longer,” Ballantine replied. “I took a few maps and charts. After I realized he’d withheld those letters from you, Sophie, I started going through his papers. Merhaven relied too far on either my ignorance or loyalty. Those,” he said, gesturing to the largest two, “are not his usual seafaring maps. They’re marked with the areas that the Royalists currently occupy, including, it seems, some of their storehouses, and they arrived less than a week ago.”

  “The Royalists appear to hold the majority of territory south of the Greenbow River, or at least have a significant presence there.” Sianh pointed to notations made in a stranger’s handwriting on the map.

  Theodor waited a long moment before he allowed himself to ask the question I knew weighed most heavily on him. “And the king?”

  “The map doesn’t note his location,” Ballantine said. “I don’t wish to speak disrespectfully, but—”

  “Hang it, Ballantine. If we’re to get anywhere with this, we’ll speak openly. Our father has turned on his people. So.” Theodor swallowed hard.

  Sianh scrutin
ized the map. “Then the Royalists hold much of the south, between these two rivers. Rock and Greenbow. And you say that Galitha City is held by the Reformists, under Niko, at least tenuously. Yes?”

  “That’s what I said,” Kristos said.

  “If it were me,” Sianh said, meeting first Theodor’s and then Kristos’s eyes, “I would land in this region, in the center, and consolidate an army there.”

  Viola hugged her arms around her thin cotton housedress, even though the sun was already heating the room through its wide windows. “Consolidate an army? Living hell, Theodor, you’re quite serious!”

  Annette slipped next to Viola and took her hand as Theodor straightened his shoulders. “Yes, I’m serious. It’s already begun—we make a stand now or forever forfeit our place on the ethical side of this war.”

  “What about the military?” Sianh asked Ballantine. “To whom does their loyalty sway?”

  “That gets sticky. The soldiers in the City Guard and Royal Guard have always stuck close to the king—they’ll side with the Royalists as long as there’s a king to side with. From these letters, it appears most left with the king when he ran from the capital like a beaten alley cat.” Ballantine cleared his throat. “Meaning no disrespect to His Majesty, of course.”

  “What of the army? The navy?”

  “By and large, both naval and army officers are noble-born. A few will stand with Galitha and the law, but most will follow wherever their fathers and uncles and cousins go, and most will go to the Royalists. Their sailors—most will remain loyal to their officers and their ships. It’s just their way,” he said, shaking his head as though apologizing for them. “The army is, as I understand it, much the same. There may be some mutinies, but as it stands, we can’t count on that.”

  “So most of your army’s soldiers will not be soldiers at all,” Sianh said, “as we had guessed. Not all is lost,” he said with a faint smile, “provided they have leaders they trust. I presume this is the role of the Prince of Westland?”

  “Not exactly,” Theodor said. “Yes, the people will likely rally behind the Prince of Westland if he sides with them. But the Prince of Westland cannot and should not assume leadership by himself. He is nothing without the common people, and they need to be treated on equal footing in this endeavor.” He looked at me, and I nodded with a slow, gentle smile. He understood.

  “Stop talking in the third person,” Viola said. “You sound affected.”

  “I mean it in the third person,” Theodor said. “I’m not earning my place by anything aside from this title. But if this title can serve us, very well. They don’t truly need me.”

  Viola glanced around the room. She slid her back against the wall, her gown like a delicate blossom against the dark, vining wallpaper. She had, I saw, only just realized that she was superfluous here. Her title, her money, her talents—they were secondary in a new game of influence and ability.

  “And let’s not forget that you’re next in line for the throne,” I said.

  “Could we?” Kristos asked with a caustic laugh.

  “You can try, but it’s a fact. And Theodor can’t play the role of returning prince, ready to take the throne from a corrupt despot.”

  Kristos leaned forward. “What are you saying?”

  “If we let the common people elevate Theodor too much, the story very, very quickly becomes that he should take the throne for himself. Suddenly, the fight is recast, isn’t it? It’s not about the reforms. It’s not about the law. It’s about a young pretender to the throne mounting a coup.” I let that sink in. “At least, that’s how the Royalists can tell it. Any hope we have of securing any of the army will be gone, I think, and many of the people, as well, if this ceases to be about the ideals we are holding to.”

  “You’re right. Damn, Sophie.” Kristos gave me a faint half smile. “You’ve been around these politicking nobles so long you’ve learned their language.”

  “That’s hardly a compliment.”

  “I’m not great at compliments.”

  “But what you are good at,” I said, seizing the opportunity, “is writing the story. You did it once before. You can do it again, making sure to diminish Theodor’s importance in relation to how important the people are. Delegitimize any propaganda emphasizing a claim to the throne. Especially if you’re there alongside him.”

  “We have to tell the story before it happens,” he mused. “I can’t argue with your logic, Sophie, you’re right.” He let his fingers tangle themselves in his hair, absently tugging at knots buried in his thick waves.

  “Then we have something like a plan,” Alba said. I started—I had forgotten that she was in the room. “We travel north, land in this—what, central region?” Sianh nodded. “And we have to raise an army.”

  “Talking about it is easy,” Viola cautioned. “But actually doing it?” She shook her head. “You should all eat something. There’s fruit and pastries in the parlor.”

  Everyone else filed out, but Kristos stayed behind. “I didn’t think you would want me to join your beloved’s glorious cause,” he admitted. “Thank you for—well, for cementing my place alongside your prince.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure I deserved it.”

  “I admit it, Kristos, I hated every bit of every treatise and broadside you wrote last fall. I didn’t want to let that promise of change you loved so much risk what we had. Your writing was a threat, and I hated it because it was good. Because it was effective.”

  “It was,” he said. “But I—I failed. In quite a few ways. I failed to trust my own judgment. I should have known that Venko could tear our movement apart from the inside. I went ahead and blindly let him—you know the rest. I don’t need to tell you.”

  I let the silence grow between us, thick and cloying. “Do you know,” I finally said, “that for months now, I have struggled to charm cast?”

  He started. “No. Why?”

  “I didn’t know,” I said. “I could see the light—the charm—but the dark curse magic hung around it, blighting it. I thought it was from casting that curse on the queen’s shawl. I thought maybe I had ruined my ability to cast.”

  He let his head sink into his hands. “Did you? Did I take that from you, too?”

  “No. I did, without realizing it. I had to work through the doubts and the grief I had after last winter.” I had to grapple with loss just as that ancient Pellian woman had, to accept change and to acknowledge that I couldn’t go back. “I couldn’t cast cleanly again until I had confronted what I had lost. I thought, at first, it was only losing you.” He started, the realization that I had grieved for him smacking him almost physically. “And it was, but it was also… purpose, and drive, and direction. It was a whole tangled mess of grief.”

  “I think your grief is a bit different from mine,” he said. “What you had was taken from you. What I lost I took from myself.”

  “Then all the more reason you have to do something—anything—to work for good.”

  “And if I don’t know what that is?” he nearly shouted. “I don’t trust myself! Why do you think I studied, buried myself in books? In theories? I thought maybe books and theories and brilliant professors could give me something to trust.”

  I took a steadying breath. “I can’t tell you what to trust, and neither can they. But eventually you have to choose something. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong, but the right choice is most certainly not wallowing in your own self-pity.”

  He wanted to argue, I knew—his mouth contorted under his beard, holding back an angry retort. But my words had found a target, buried deep in his self-doubt and misery.

  “It’s your decision,” I said. “But indecision is still a choice. I learned that too late. It’s a mired mess of light and dark, and it can’t effect anything at all.” I left without another word, lest Kristos corner me into admitting my own indecision about what role I would play next.

  51

  VIOLA MET ME IN THE HALLWAY, PRESSING A PASTRY INTO MY HAND. “Ballantine’s
gone to see about the ship,” she said. “And I suppose it’s time to say goodbye.”

  She didn’t seem happy, but of course her carefully planned and planted life had been uprooted before it had even begun to grow. We joined Theodor and Annette in the garden, the heady, spicy perfume of the flowers at odds with Viola’s solemn face.

  Viola and Annette stood close to one another but not quite touching. I smiled privately; I knew that there was comfort in mere proximity. “Let’s sit a moment—the morning is so warm already.” Our visit might have been a social call, an early breakfast before a boating party or a hunt, from the quiet grace with which she showed us to a dainty table and chairs under a shaded arbor. “I’ve started working on getting some of my funds from the Galatine banks transferred here,” Viola said as she arranged her skirts in the narrow wrought-iron chair. “I’ll be able to send some aid, I hope, when that’s done.”

  “You hope?” Theodor’s brow knotted. “I was sure you’d be coming with us.”

  Annette’s eyes grew wide, and I was as surprised as Annette. Viola screwed her mouth into a hard line.

  “Theo,” Annette said quietly, “you’re asking too much. For us to return with you? What good will that do? There’s nowhere to go.”

  “You forget,” Viola said, “that I saw nobles killed when I fled Galitha City. The Red Caps turned running to Annette into something else entirely, running from execution on the basis of my bloodline.”

  “But I was sure—you were happy to discuss theoretical ideals and proposed reforms in your salon. You were a leader in Galitha City. Plenty of the nobles who eventually drafted the Reform Bill began to think—really think—for themselves in your gatherings.”

  “Don’t flatter me now, Theo.” Viola sighed. “I am not opposed to the changes. I’m in favor of most of them.”

  “It’s not flattery. It’s misplaced confidence.”

  “Theo!” Annette interjected. “That isn’t fair. You never asked—”