Mistress of Winter

by Giles Carwyn

  “Lawdon!” Rezzack yelled from behind her, sprinting across the plank before it had been tied into place. At thirteen, he was almost as tall as his father, with skinny, gangly limbs that didn’t always know which way to go.

  “Prepare to be boarded,” Brezelle murmured, letting go of her and stepping away. “I’ll see you after.”

  Rezzack barreled into Lawdon and tried to lift her off the ground in a bear hug, but only managed to throw them both off-balance. Lawdon stepped back, laughing and steadying herself just in time for the ten-year-old twins, Pialla and Silas, to slam into them and knock everyone to the ground.

  Caretz, who’d just lost his front baby teeth, jumped onto the pile and clung to her leg. Even little Derick toddled across the plank and squirmed his way into the chaos. Evess, who was only seven and already a perfect lady, stayed back and watched the mauling with a shy look of disapproval. Everyone started shouting at once, and Silas cracked heads with Rezzack in the midst of the anarchy. Rezzack shoved him away, and Silas returned like a battering ram, knocking his older brother to the deck.

  Rezzack whipped his wooden sword from the sheath and pointed it at Silas.

  “Have at you!” Silas shouted, drawing his own sword, and the duel was on. The boys chased one another across Moon Maiden’s deck. They leapt up on the railing, halfheartedly swinging at each other as they fought to keep their balance.

  The other children only watched them for a moment before turning back to Lawdon and burying her under an avalanche of questions.

  Lord Reignholtz was the last to arrive, wearing a fine tunic of dark blue, with black sailor’s breeches. His blue eyes glittered with secret laughter. Lawdon had seen those eyes lose their laughter only twice, and each time the intensity of that stare had stopped men in midsentence.

  “My dear Captain,” Reignholtz said, inclining his head. “We are glad to see you return home safely.”

  “Is that the royal ‘we,’ Dad?” Pialla asked, looking up at him and wrinkling her nose.

  Reignholtz continued as if he had not heard her, though his half smile said differently. “You are most welcome here, as always, Captain Lawdon.”

  “It is good to be back,” Lawdon said, extricating herself from the children and bowing low.

  “Don’t tell me you have sold our mighty Summer’s Heart and bought yourself this sleek little vessel?”

  “A swap of necessity, my lord. Summer’s Heart is safe in Ohndarien,” she said, hoping it was true.

  “A safer place than the Summer Cities these days,” Reignholtz said. “But it sounds like you have a story to tell.”

  “A story and then some.”

  “Good, then let us retire to—” He stopped, turned his attention to Lawdon’s left. Everyone’s gaze swiveled to see Shara emerge from the hold in a very short blue skirt and a low-cut blouse. Fashion on the Floating Palace had never been modest, but Shara’s clothing took it to the extreme.

  Rezzack paused in his fencing, his eyes going wide. Silas took the opening and smacked his brother upside the head. With a startled cry, the gangly teenager stumbled off the rail and splashed into the water.

  “Moron overboard!” Pialla shouted, running to the rail. The entire herd of children thundered to the edge of the ship. Rezzack shouted for a rope, but everyone was laughing too hard to help him.

  “My lord,” Lawdon said solemnly, her brief joy chilled as she saw Shara fixing Reignholtz with her gaze. “May I present Shara-lani, former mistress of the Ohndarien Zelani.”

  As she drained her third cup of wine, Lawdon finally leaned back and put her boots up on the empty chair next to her. The night was almost as warm as the day had been, and the air smelled of summer.

  They had taken their dinner outside on the foredeck, and the heaping bowls of steamed mussels had never been better. The Reignholtz girls and the cook’s two daughters were gathered at the far end of the table as Shara told them another story. Lawdon could hear the thumping and wooden clacking of the epic battle still raging back and forth across the main deck. Mikal was playing the villain in some elaborate sword drama the boys had concocted.

  Lawdon upended her cup, found it dry, and blinked. She looked to her left for the bottle and—

  Brezelle absently filled Lawdon’s cup, watching Shara and listening intently to the story.

  “…had taken control of my mind, you see,” Shara said. “I was helpless.”

  “No,” Evess breathed.

  “It is true. All I remember is a long, terrible nightmare, repeating over and over, until I opened my eyes and saw…”

  She paused, her dark eyes watching them as she sipped her wine with agonizing slowness.

  “What?” Pialla asked, leaning forward, chin in her hands. “What did you see?”

  “I saw Lawdon,” Shara said simply, glancing over at her.

  Lawdon took a long drink from her cup as she met Shara’s gaze.

  “You saw Lawdon?” Evess said. “She was there?”

  “She was,” Shara said. “She saved my life, and she wasn’t much older than Pialla here.”

  “I would have saved your life,” Pialla said suddenly, with great conviction.

  “Would you have?” Shara asked, her eyes widening slightly, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Victeris was so cruel, with bright eyes, hands like claws.” She reached her hooked fingers toward Pialla. “He would have been happy to meet a pretty young girl like you…” She suddenly turned and grabbed Evess. “And hook you forever!”

  Evess shrieked, then everybody started laughing.

  Brezelle leaned toward Lawdon as Shara continued the tale. “Did you really do that?” she murmured.

  “I found her,” Lawdon said, taking another drink. “But I didn’t rescue her.”

  “Who did?”

  “Scythe. He killed three men to do it.” She didn’t say anything more, and Shara continued the tale of her battle with Victeris.

  “I envy you, the things you have seen,” Brezelle murmured to Lawdon.

  Lawdon shook her head. “Don’t wish for it, Brezelle,” she said. “It was brutal, and ugly. I can’t believe she’s even telling this story. The man was vile. What he did to her was horrific.”

  “But she beat him.”

  Lawdon slowly nodded. “She did. And almost became him in the end.” And might yet, Lawdon thought but didn’t say.

  For the first time, Brezelle took her eyes off Shara and looked at Lawdon. “What do you mean?”

  Lawdon waved her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t listen to me. I’ve had too much to drink. Listen to Shara’s story and thank Fessa that it’s only a story now.”

  Reignholtz returned to the foredeck just as Shara finished with Victeris’s dramatic leap from the Zelani school’s tower. The Summer Prince held an immense pipe in his hand, the stem almost as tall as he was and the bowl as big as a fist. Lawdon took her feet off the chair, sat up straighter.

  “I am lighting my pipe,” Reignholtz announced, sitting in the chair next to Lawdon.

  A collective groan of dismay arose from the children, and Lawdon smiled. Those were the words the children knew all too well. It was time for bed.

  The Summer Prince settled himself in, pulling a large packet of tobacco from his vest. “A full night’s sleep is a child’s pleasure and duty,” he announced for the entire ship to hear. “You will miss it when you are my age, and sleep does not come so easy.”

  “But Shara is telling stories!” Evess cried. “I want to hear one about the Sleeping Warden.”

  Reignholtz ignored her, stuffing the bowl of his pipe. “We must always seek the path of a sober and temperate life, lest we be left anchorless as the currents of chance sweep us away.”

  The children continued complaining all the way to their rooms, the oldest carrying the young ones with them. All save Brezelle.

  “Is that why you drank two bottles of wine at dinner?” she asked. “To seek the sober and temperate life?”

  Reignholtz raised
an eyebrow at his daughter. She raised one back. With a quiet smile, he put his feet up on his little stool, setting the bowl of the fantastic pipe on the edge of his boot. Brezelle took a brand from the little brazier in the center of the table and put it delicately into the tobacco.

  Reignholtz puffed his pipe for a time, and no one spoke. Lawdon sipped her wine, enjoying his presence, enjoying the simple beauty of being home. In the silence, Mikal arrived, took a chair next to Shara. He picked up a cup, searched about for the wine. Brezelle tossed the open bottle his way, and he caught it deftly in his left hand.

  “So,” Reignholtz said at last. “You have certainly assembled an august group of companions in your travels. Our dear young Lord Heidvell and a master of Zelanis…” He paused. “I am sorry, my dear. Is it Zelani master or Zelani mistress?”

  “It is neither, my lord. You may call me Shara, if it pleases you. Shara-lani if you must.”

  “Thank you, Shara. I appreciate your coming with Lawdon. As you are probably aware, she and I are anxious for any light you might shine upon our present situation.”

  “I am happy to do what I can.”

  “Excellent…” He puffed on the pipe, still trying to get it going. “And you, young Lord Heidvell, I must apologize. Our politics on Laughing Breeze may not be the kind you are used to hearing. I hope we do not offend.”

  “Not at all, Lord Reignholtz. My mother and I have never really seen eye to eye.”

  “So I have heard. Tell me, does she still support Vinghelt?”

  “My mother prefers to sail whichever direction the breeze is blowing.”

  “A sensible woman. A nasty head wind can muss the hair.”

  Mikal laughed. “And her hair is so very important to—”

  A distant trumpet interrupted him, and they all looked to the west. A ragged cheer spread from ship to ship in the sheltered bay.

  Brezelle leapt to her feet and vaulted atop the ship’s rail in two quick steps.

  “Glory of Summer has arrived,” she reported, squinting into the gathering lights. “The Assembly will begin tonight.” She turned. “Shall I make ready to sail, Father? We will want to be one of the earliest to tie up.”

  Reignholtz didn’t answer his daughter for a long moment as he puffed on his pipe.

  Brezelle darkened. “You can’t concede the center to him. Tie up next to Vinghelt. Show the entire Summer Seas that you’ll meet his lies and treachery face-to-face.”

  “A subtle stratagem, Brezelle, but I’m afraid we must decline to join the Floating Palace this year. I will not acknowledge his position by tying up next to him. The Floating Palace should be in Koscheld this year, with Dancing Dolphin as the pivot ship. Everyone knows it. Everyone seems content to ignore it. I shall not.”

  Brezelle opened her mouth to say something but didn’t. Her green eyes flashed, and she paused on the rail. Finally, she hopped down and returned to the group.

  “What exactly are you planning to do?” Shara asked, her finger circling the rim of her wineglass.

  “There is injustice,” Lord Reignholtz said quietly. “And it has been festering in our country for too long. The time has come for that infection to be purged.”

  “You mean a duel,” Shara said.

  “It is our way,” Reignholtz replied.

  “But others have challenged Vinghelt before, haven’t they? This Natshea who fights for him has never lost.”

  “That is true.”

  “We think there is magic involved,” Lawdon interjected.

  “So we suspect,” Reignholtz said. “And we hope that you, Shara, might help us understand if our suspicions are true.”

  “Is Lord Vinghelt so very bad? Why not let him have his way?” Shara asked.

  Lawdon sat up. Reignholtz held up a hand, his smile easy and relaxed. “It is a good question, and easily answered. The glory of the Summer Cities lies in her heart, in her traditions. The hearts and minds and souls of our people are bound by a blood oath made five hundred years ago. On that day, a group of ship’s captains led by Salice Mick challenged the last petty king of the Summer Seas. They denied him the right to ferry his soldiers across the water and invade the islands of his rival. To avoid a bloody conflict, Mick challenged King Ard to a duel.

  “The king was a better swordsman and fatally wounded Mick, but the man’s words were stronger than the king’s steel. With his dying breath, Mick gave us a gift, a promise of peace, our Eternal Summer.

  “Young Heidvell knows the words, why don’t you speak them for us.”

  Mikal stared at his glass of wine, swirled it around in his glass. Finally, he spoke, barely above a whisper.

  “May I be the last Waveborn with blood on his hands

  May I be the last Waveborn to set foot on the land.”

  He took a deep draft of the wine and stood up, raising his glass to the sky. His voice rang out deep and clear in the night.

  “From this day forth all talk of war shall cease

  From this day forth these waves will know peace

  An Eternal Summer is ours to seize

  With this last drop of blood spilled upon the Summer Seas.”

  Mikal’s words faded into the darkness. He let the silence linger for a moment, then drained the cup and tossed it overboard. Reignholtz, Brezelle, and Lawdon all did the same.

  “What happened then?” Shara asked.

  “Salice Mick dropped dead,” Mikal said, flopping back into his seat.

  “But the words he spoke resonated in the hearts of everyone there,” Brezelle added, slightly annoyed at Mikal. “Ard’s men tossed their king overboard and sailed back home. There has never again been a king on the Summer Seas. And there never will be.”

  “I see,” Shara said, still twirling her finger around her wineglass. “And you believe these traditions are being trampled by this Lord Vinghelt.”

  Reignholtz puffed his pipe, then continued. “The man is not Waveborn. He was a drunk, a petty con man who convinced the doddering widow, Lady Vinghelt, to marry him and claimed her title when she died. That man is no true lord. The blood of summer does not run in his veins.”

  “It does not run in my veins either,” Shara said. “Or Lawdon’s. Are we such lesser beings in your eyes?”

  Lawdon tensed, hating to be cast on Shara’s side against her lord.

  But Reignholtz did not take her bait. He simply nodded.

  “Another fair question.” He tapped his boot against his pipe before continuing. “The Waveborn are different from other men, no better, no worse, just different. Our hearts are tied to the sea, where most other’s hearts are tied to the land. You cannot build a wall across the ocean and claim that one side belongs to you. You cannot shepherd a school of fish and declare their lives are yours to keep. Lust for land, lust for gold, lust for power is what leads men to war. But the sea belongs to everyone.”

  “Perhaps, but you are lord of Reignheld, are you not? You own the farms and vineyards there, and the people who work them pay you tribute. Their hands built this boat and everything on it.”

  “Very true, and in return for their labors I ensure that those people, my people, can live their lives and raise their children in peace and justice. I ensure that their sons die in their beds, not on their neighbor’s swords. I ensure that their daughters are not widowed and their grandchildren are not orphaned. I own all the land in Reignheld, and, therefore, no one ever need fight over it. That is why I exist, to govern. The essence of nobility is to lead others, to help them to rise above their baser natures. That is what I have always tried to do, what my children will strive to do long after I am gone.”

  Lawdon looked from Shara to Reignholtz. She hated to hear Shara challenge her lord so brazenly, but she had asked those questions herself, years ago. And Reignholtz had given the exact same answers.

  “And what is Vinghelt after?” Shara asked.

  “Physendria is the issue,” Reignholtz replied. “The so-called Summer Deserts. That country is a black mark on the
hearts of our people. To my disgrace, I am as much to blame as any. The Waveborn chose to seize control of our neighbor in her weak moment after the Nightmare Battle. The Physendrians had been a pack of jackals looming just off our shores for generations. We always knew they would stop fighting among themselves one day and turn their greedy eyes on us. They were a brutal people, joyless, and nakedly aggressive. If they had won the Nightmare Battle, Faradan and the Summer Cities would have fallen soon after.” He paused, puffed on his pipe. “So, in our fear, we seized our chance to invade. There were no battles, very little blood was shed, but we broke our promise to ourselves, we left the sea for the land and lost our souls in the process.

  “I mean to end that folly. I have long urged the Summer Princes to stop lingering in a mistake. I say we leave now. We should never have been there in the first place.

  “But the other princes are afraid. Afraid to admit they were wrong. Afraid to admit defeat, afraid to lose the Physendrian gold we have come to covet so much, and afraid of the retaliation that might come after we leave. But I say we leave the jackals to themselves. We need not raise a hand unless they creep out of their desert and try to cross our sea.

  “But Vinghelt has a different plan. He says that we must send more troops, not fewer. Defeat them once and for all, slaughter them if need be. In the last few years as governor, he has been squeezing the conquered Physendrians ruthlessly, practically forcing them into open rebellion. He has manufactured crisis after crisis so he may be called upon to solve them. The man’s tyranny has made him rich, and he is pouring gold into the ears of our youth, selling war and calling it glory, planning an invasion and calling it a rescue mission.”

  “But why challenge this man to a duel if his champion is so great?” Shara asked. “Why not drive him out of office, or simply kill him?”

  Lawdon saw a flicker of annoyance cross Reignholtz’s face. His patience was growing thin.

  “May I be the last Waveborn with blood upon my hands,” he repeated the famous line. “Once we start killing each other, it will never stop. Our Eternal Summer will come crashing to an end. For five hundred years we have solved all conflict with Truth and Steel.”