The Price of Blood and Honor

by Elizabeth Willey

  It was out of the question that he should take Freia to Landuc again: she was too fragile, and he had promised not to do so. Get the child out of it, he thought, and let her recover her equilibrium; let her grow accustomed to the whole business, rather than shove it down her throat and kill her with it; let her be spared the sneering condescension of her relations; do all that, and Freia would make her own choices when she was ready.

  “Thy arrival here was in good time,” Prospero told his lover. “Wouldst agree to depart also?”

  “Thou art minded to leave,” Odile said, “and I have said I would join thee on thy journey, an thou wouldst be companied.”

  “I’ll have none an thou refuse. Perhaps ’twere better to thy liking to return to Aië, for I know thou hast but little power here, no resource but thyself.”

  “I find myself sufficient to the occasions that have arisen,” Odile replied, smiling her slight, maddening smile, and she touched him invitingly.

  He caught her hand, took it to his lips, and watched her over the smooth curve of her soft fingers. “I’d not uproot thee, madame, nor deprive thee of thy home. For where I go shall be as far again from there as is here, and worser journeying. The place is crude and without amenity, madame, and its habitants and habitations rustic. Mayhap ’twere little to thy liking, when the occasional novelty hath grown dull to thee.”

  “Nay, my love, I have thought long on this ere undertaking the journey,” she said, “and I will travel with thee.”

  Prospero kissed her hand reverently. “I thank thee for thy grace,” he said.

  “ ’Twere an ill homecoming for thee, to arrive alone and dwell alone,” Odile said. “Thy bereavement will breed melancholy, an thou bide alone. I who have bided solitary for long years know this full well.” Her look of tender concern was soft and wise.

  Prospero took her other hand and kissed them both, his eyes closed. To go home alone, with nothing, to vacancy; nay, it was a bleak prospect. His throne, lost, and lost at great cost, in order to keep Freia alive long enough to destroy herself. His books, burned in the great fire; his daughter forever absent, and his ingrate son having plundered him, cozened his sorcery from him as he’d robbed Odile his mother— He put his face in Odile’s hands and she smoothed and stroked his head, held him to her breast and offered lover’s comforts.

  Thus, in the dim hour before sunrise, two horses were harnessed to a phaeton by quick hands and a third saddled; and with a light whip-lash the phaeton, occupied by a well-muffled lady, and the horse, whose rider was tall and grim-faced, trotted from the Palace swiftly, passed the Bounds without opposition, and left through a side-gate in the city walls.

  Three blankets, two chemises, the woollen dressing-gown, and Gaston’s cloak were bundled around Freia. She wore three pair of moth-eaten hose. The Fireduke had finished removing all signs of use from the hunting lodge and saddled his horse as the sun set in a livid stain of scarlet, guading the clouds and purpling the evening sky. Now, after dark, by lantern-light and milky stars, he set her on the folded blanket he had put before Solario’s saddle. Their breaths puffed white in the dry air. Gaston mounted behind her. Freia held the lantern. He took it from her.

  “Here, sit back toward me,” said Gaston, “so, aye. Good. Will that do?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry—”

  Gaston interrupted her. “If th’art uneasy in thy seat, say so.” He glanced around: nothing left behind save hoofprints and bootprints, his only because he had carried her. It was unlikely that they would be so unfortunate as to meet anyone. With a nudge, Solario started away.

  Freia held the blankets with one hand and clutched Gaston’s fingers with the other. His gloves were far too large, but he had given her them anyway. He had one arm around her waist, his other busy with lantern-pole and reins. She settled, half-leaning on him, and when Gaston glanced down at her he could not see her in the folds of cloak and blanket over her head.

  The snow was dry and light, no hindrance to speed, and so Gaston hurried with his passenger toward Montgard, trotting Solario. They arrived at the megalith and passed onto the Road meeting no one, which relieved him profoundly. Because he had tarried a night at the lodge, he had missed a Gate that would have shortened the journey he now must make. Gaston suspected he would need to stop at an inn to feed and warm Freia, perhaps taking a room and sleeping awhile. Delays, delays—unavoidable. He did not speak of time and detours to her. Prospero and the Emperor had called her a nuisance (and worse) more than once in his hearing, and in hers, and clearly she had begun to believe it.

  Such a shame, he thought, an innocent, truly innocent, dragged through so much will-she, nill-she. And how she had gotten from the sea to the stone Gaston did not know, but he thought he would like to, and he suspected he never would. Some sorcerous business: the Moonstone had an aura of alienness to it, of sorcery. Gaston believed her when she said she did not remember what befell her after she stepped from wood to wave. She trusted him, had trusted him with other things already. She would have told him had she known.

  So someone, somehow, had fished her out, poor lass, and dumped her to freeze in the forest rather than drown in the ocean. But why no better rescue? Why not bring her to safety and warmth? She had been near to dying, there in the wood. Had it been intended that she die anyway? An offering to the Moonstone, or to whatever it represented, he speculated, and hoped not. No sorcerers about who’d perform such deviltry: Prospero’s sail was lately reefed, and he was her father anyway, and Dewar was, Gaston considered, not inclined to bloody perversions such as sister-slaughter. Breaking the girl’s heart was another matter.

  Freia shifted a little before him.

  “Art well?” he asked her, leaving speculation.

  She moved, a bob—yes, Gaston supposed. She pressed her fingers in his cavernous glove against his.

  “If th’art cold, or ill, tell me,” he reminded her.

  Another pressure of fingers, a small movement of her whole body to lean more on him. The hazy, blended landscapes of the Road flowed by at Solario’s steady, confident pace.

  16

  GASTON BROKE THEIR JOURNEY AT AN out-of-the-way Road junction which, to the best of his knowledge, nobody else used. The tavern nearest the place was rough and offered no luxury, but it had warm fires, hot soup, and a close-mouthed landlord who knew Gaston. A few words, a few coins, a less-desirable guest shuttled protesting into a less-desirable bed; and minutes after arriving, Freia could sit in front of a fire with mulled cider in a pewter tankard and a wooden bowl of pungent dark soup, watching bread-and-cheese toast on a fork her uncle held over the coals.

  “Thank you,” she said as he plopped the bread-and-cheese in the soup.

  “Welcome. If th’art too warm I’ll screen the fire.”

  “It’s lovely,” Freia said, stretching her feet toward the flames.

  “Hast lost sense i’ thy feet?”

  “My toes hurt. They’re blistering, like my fingers.”

  Gaston nodded. “Take care the blisters be not broken.” A girl came in and made up the bed vigorously. Freia slowly ate two bowls of soup and sopping bread and nodded off at the fireside. Gaston picked her up and she woke, struggling, as he put her in the bed. She clawed for his eyes; he caught her wrists. “Freia, ’tis Gaston!”

  “Oh …” Freia blinked at him. She relaxed all at once again.

  “Th’art asleep, lass.”

  “Yes. Bad dream.” Her eyes closed again and then opened with visible exertion. “You’ll be here?”

  He nodded.

  “Cold,” Freia said. “You’re warm.” Her eyes closed again, and Gaston comprehended: she wanted him beside her in bed again. He frowned at the idea. It smacked of seduction; yet there was no lust between them, and the tiny chamber was cold, save by the fire, the walls unplastered logs and the floorboards uncarpeted. Gaston left the soup plates on a table in the common hall where other patrons snored on benches, went to the stables to check on Solario, stopped at the latrines, and i
n the chamber again found Freia migrated far under the blankets, curled in a ball, shivering. He pulled off his boots and coat, spread his cloak over the bed, and climbed in with her.

  “Cold … so cold …” The bed was sucking away what warmth she had.

  “Hush, child.” Gaston put her icy hands under his arms and hugged her bony body. He cursed himself for neglecting to get a warming-pan or some hot bricks.

  Freia’s teeth chattered. “So cold. Always so cold. Since I went looking for Papa. Cold. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t.”

  “Hush, hush, lass; ’tis all gone by, cannot be undone.”

  “Wish it could. I wish it could,” Freia said, and she cried a little before she slept.

  In the morning they travelled along a Ley and turned onto the Road at a Gate which was an ancient, decayed arch, spanning the way, whose shadow fell hard and blue on a red road. Gaston nicked his thumb and left a drop of blood there at noon. He had purchased food at the tavern; they stopped once for an hour at a Gate and ate while waiting for its opening, a summery place where Freia basked and dozed in her wraps on a warm flat rock. There were no difficulties on the Road, and Solario brought them to Montgard just after sunset.

  They trotted along a road toward a walled city whose curfew-bells were ringing, the flat distant sound floating over the hedged fields. Beside it and over it loomed a great fortress. The season was late autumn; the trees still clutched ragged leaves and the fields were stubbled and dark. A sliver of pinkish-gold moon adorned the indigo sky. Solario stepped higher and more briskly, snuffing the air of home.

  “This is Montgard,” Gaston said. “The land, and that city. The river is the Mont.”

  “You live here,” Freia said, asking and stating.

  “Sometimes. ’Tis broad; see the mountains.” He gestured toward the mountains which loomed steeply to either side of them, for they rode in a wide, flat valley.

  “Yes.”

  “Those also are Montgard. Formerly not; I’ve brought them under me. We go now to my castle, and thou’lt bide there. I must ride again to Landuc after some business. Shall return with the men I brought to war.”

  “Oh.”

  “ ’Tis a pleasant place,” Gaston assured her.

  Freia’s head nodded, her face invisible to him. “Dewar said Landuc was pleasant,” she murmured.

  Gaston pulled Solario up; they stopped at a triple-arched stone bridge.

  “Freia. Th’art no prisoner, but a guest. An thou wouldst bide otherwheres, thither shall I convey thee, but cannot in this hour, this day. But I do swear to thee upon my honor: thou mayst move freely here, and mayst leave an thou wouldst, and I will help thee as I can. But first must I bring my men to their homes again.”

  Her voice lowered, she said, “I know. I don’t have anywhere to go home to. I’m sorry.”

  He started to cluck at Solario again and stopped as the words and her tone turned again in his ear. “Lass, th’art welcome, full welcome. Th’art no burden, no weight to me nor my household. There’ll be no such hostility here as hast found in the Palace. I promise thee, wilt be warmly met and kindly.” Gaston paused, wishing he could see her face. “Dost believe me?” he asked.

  She said, “I want to.”

  “Lass, have I lied to thee or misled thee, with words or silence?”

  Freia thought about this, which dismayed Gaston, and her reply further disconcerted him. She turned and looked up at him in the blue evening light as she asked in a near-whisper, “Did you know Papa was coming back for me?”

  “When …”

  “When I was your prisoner before.”

  “Art no prisoner of mine nor anyone’s now,” he retorted, stung, and in a different tone he admitted, “I knew, aye—thou didst not know?”

  “No. No one told me.”

  Gaston sighed heavily. He heard the veiled accusation, the hidden question she wouldn’t put directly: was it all his fault, were Prospero’s loss of power and her loss of liberty and peace all linked to him in the end? How could she trust him, considering what he had done to her loved father and that he had imprisoned her for the Emperor? “Lady Freia, I cannot say to thee, I deceived thee wittingly. Nor can I say to thee, I did not deceive thee. For I did not tell it thee, and I knew of’t, and of the bargain. I knew it, and I would not have left thee ignorant: had I thought of’t, I’d have thought thou knew it too already. Blame me an it comfort thee, but in my defense let me plead that I’ve spared thy father once and again from Avril’s worst wrath, have walked a fine line ’twixt treason and literal loyalty, and I had liever thy father, my brother, live as he is now than that he were dead.”

  She said nothing, thinking about it, looking at him as closely as she could.

  “ ’Twas not malicious silence,” Gaston went on after examining his conscience. “I swear, ’twas no intent of mine to harm thee through thy ignorance. An I have harmed thee, I crave thy pardon with all my heart.”

  “I didn’t mean that—” Freia was distressed.

  “Ah, but thou didst, for ’twas in thy question.”

  She looked down. “I’m sorry. You’ve been kind. I— You’re the only person who’s been—just good. Never mind it. I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what I meant. I’m sorry. Please let’s go.”

  “I take no offense; hast said naught to sorrow at.” He nudged Solario, and the horse walked over the bridge.

  Gaston wondered who, in the end, would become the focus of her wrath, taking the blame for everything she had suffered—for sure as thunder followed lightning, she would be angry when she had recovered from outrage. Her father? Dewar? Himself, despite—or because of—his help? Most likely it would be Avril. The Emperor had done nothing to make her love him; to him, the children were extensions of the father, to be abused (in Freia’s case) or used (in Dewar’s, save that Dewar had turned tables on the Emperor) as occasion permitted, and Prospero had doubtless long excoriated him in her hearing.

  The many-towered city before them disappeared as they descended a small hill and reappeared when Solario trotted around a corner and crossed another stone bridge arching over a rocky brook racing toward the narrow river, which ran sinuously to and through the city. Gaston felt Freia lean more heavily against him. She must be sore weary, and he knew there must be pain in her frozen, now thawed, hands and feet.

  “Not far at all,” he said, looking ahead at the walls, a white barrier in the growing dark. Overhead, stars were brightening behind veils of grey-blue clouds. The air was thin and dry, an agreeable change after the dampness of Landuc.

  The city gates were closed, but the watch opened them for Gaston; the city streets were quiet, but one or two men bowed as Gaston rode past toward the castle; his servants were not expecting him, but rallied at once with food, fire, and hot water; and, after a flurry of eating, warming, a soporific bath, and bruise- and frostbite-dressing, Freia dropped into a bright-painted cabinet bed and plummeted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  When he had refreshed himself, Gaston went to his niece’s chamber to tell her that he would send a dressmaker in the morning. She was already asleep. He drew the lofty quilt over her shoulders, looked at her relaxed face for half a minute, and then closed the bed’s latticework doors.

  This was what she needed, he thought. Good food, quiet rest, change of place. He had done right.

  “My lord, what is it?” asked Odile from the phaeton, for Prospero had reined Hurricane in on the crest of a low hill and sat staring.

  “The city,” he said. Argylle plainly had had some difficulties in Prospero’s absence, and there were more concealed beneath the visible damages.

  “It is not large,” she agreed.

  “Not large! Why, a third’s gone, madame, and the river runs broader than e’er I’ve seen it in any season! The bank’s gone, I cannot— Let us make haste, madame.”

  Indeed the river had risen. It had flowed out of its banks, not so widely on the near side as on the far, and buildings, store-houses, and walls were simply
vanished beneath a sheet of water. That the water had been higher became clear as they descended to a mud-plain below; that it had receded as far as it would was opined by Utrachet when Prospero found him in a house newly set upon the waterfront that had been some hundred strides from it before. Mud and water-marks on the wall showed the river’s course.

  “… but it has not fallen more, Lord, and it is silted, too, shallower I think. We are sounding it, I supposed you would want that done, but the channel is gone and we cannot sail the great ships up here without stranding them, so they are down at Wye-mouth, at Ollol’s shipyard’s cove. The ones that survived.”

  “How did it happen?” Prospero asked. They stood now at the edge of the river, Odile a little apart with a perfumed kerchief over her face against the stink of decay that hung over the floodplain.

  “ ’Twas all at once, Lord. It—the Spring— I will tell you of the river first. It was at night, Lord, and I was on the island in the tower you made. I was asleep, as were all here, and that was how so many died, Lord, for the water came down under the full moon in a wall—there is a woman who saw it, she was awake that night.”

  “From the sea—”

  “No, Lord, from everywhere, all swelling up and lifting, then rolling down, from upstream in the forest. I woke at the thunder of the water, and I looked out and saw it crash onto the banks and strike at the city … I saw the houses go under the wave like wood-chips, houses where people lay … I saw folk and animals running from the edge, and some escaped and some were caught by the water as it rose in a great swell, and it ate the land and felled the walls and devoured the bridgeworks and knocked away the storehouses yonder as they had been leaves. It was a terrible sight, and the sound was so deep that the tower and the earth trembled.