by Beverley, Jo
I felt the golden glow of Elua’s blessing wash over us both, accepting my oath, banishing my guilt. I smiled wearily at Rolande. “Too late, your highness.”
He sighed, leaning his brow against mine. “I have a duty to Terre d’Ange. You know I cannot swear the same.”
“I know.”
YOU, AND YOU alone, Rolande.
It is why I took no wife, fathered no children. It is why my own father disavowed me, for throwing away my heritage on a romantic whim.
So he said.
My mother understood, and gave me her name. That is when I ceased to be Anafiel de Montrève, and became Anafiel Delaunay.
Edmée understood, too.
“I LIKE HIM, Anafiel.” Her fingers curled into mine as we strolled. “I do. I like him very much.”
I smiled at her. “I’m glad, near-sister.”
We were heroes in those days, in those long winter nights in the City of Elua. The Dauphin and his band of Protectors, guardians of the border. After a year of hard-fought skirmishes, we had pushed the Skaldi back.
Rolande courted Edmée; she accepted his suit. Together, the three of us accepted the arrangement.
A betrothal was announced, a spring marriage planned. Shunned, Barquiel’s sister Isabel L’Envers glowered impotently.
I didn’t care.
I was happy.
FASTER AND FASTER, memory comes.
Edmée.
SPRING IN TERRE d’Ange, a green haze of leaves on the trees. There was a royal fete; a hunt. A prelude to a wedding.
She rode beautifully, Edmée did. She always had.
I was behind her.
I saw the saddle lurch sideways as her mount leaped the hedgerow; I heard her startled sound of dismay.
I saw her fall.
I do not remember jumping the hedge, I do not remember dismounting. I remember hearing the sound, the crack of her slender neck breaking. I remember kneeling beside her, holding her hand and begging her not to die, watching the light fade from Edmée’s eyes as she did anyway, sweet and apologetic.
Just like that.
Others had gathered. I looked at their faces; fast, so fast. I saw a mingled expression of guilt and furtive triumph cross Isabel L’Envers’, swiftly giving way to solemn grief. Then and there, I knew.
But I could never prove it.
WOULD IT HAVE made a difference if I had been able to prove it, Rolande? Ah, gods! Why couldn’t you just believe me? You were angry, I know. Furious with grief at Edmée’s death; and beneath it, still angry at me for concealing the truth from you. For lying to you. You didn’t want to hear my suspicions.
I was right, though.
THE GIRTH ON Edmée’s saddle was frayed to the point of snapping. It might have been tampered with, but it might merely have been worn, too. Several stable hands were dismissed for carelessness. When I hunted them down to query them, one had vanished—gone from the City of Elua, gone home to Namarre, according to rumor.
I tried to locate him, and failed.
“Leave it be, Anafiel!” Rolande said in disgust when I returned. “Like as not, the lad’s sick at heart over what his carelessness has wrought.”
I shook my head. “Someone put him up to it. You didn’t see Isabel’s face.”
“I’ve known Isabel L’Envers for most of her life, and she’s as heartsick as all of us at Edmée’s death,” he said in an even tone. “She’s been a considerable comfort to me while you’ve been haring around the countryside, chasing after shadows.”
I was unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “Of that, I haven’t the slightest doubt.”
Grief-racked and angry, we quarreled; quarreled and hurt one another in intimate ways that only two people who know each other’s every weakness and vulnerability can do.
I had a sharp tongue; I should have held it.
I didn’t.
Instead, I pushed Rolande away, pushed him into Isabel’s consoling arms. I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out at him. Amidst our quarrels, we parted. She played him skillfully, while I and my aching heart, my lost heritage, my unproven suspicions, and my forlorn oath were relegated to the outskirts of D’Angeline society.
Come autumn, he wed her.
It was a somber ceremony, overshadowed by the memory of recent tragedy. I was not invited to attend, but I heard about it. By all accounts, it was lovely and appropriately solemn. If I had done nothing, mayhap their poignant tale of romance found in the wreckage of sorrow would have charmed the nation.
But I wrote a poem.
A satire; a tale of a noblewoman who seduced a stable lad and convinced him to do a dire deed with terrible consequences.
I HAD TO, Rolande. My voice was all that was left to me. Here at the end, I will admit that I don’t believe Isabel intended Edmée’s death; that she intended petty vengeance, nothing more.
But Edmée died, and Isabel was responsible for it.
So I had to.
FOLK IN THE City of Elua were delighted by my allegations, ever ready to be appalled and titillated by scandal.
Isabel de la Courcel was furious.
So was Rolande, so was his father the king, Ganelon de la Courcel. But they could no more disprove the rumor that the Dauphin’s new bride was a murderess than I could prove it.
I was summoned to Court.
I denied authorship of the poem, but I was not believed. I was declared anathema, and all existing copies of my known poetry were destroyed. With banked fury in her gaze, Isabel argued for banishment.
Not looking at me, Rolande spoke against it. His father concurred, content with the punishment.
I was not banished, only made miserable.
There are always those who relish beating against the currents, and so I was able to eke out an existence in the City of Elua as a former prodigy, once beloved of the Dauphin and sure to be named the King’s Poet, now living in disgrace, reduced to writing bawdy poems and satires on commission.
It was a bad year—a very, very bad year.
It changed when Ysandre was born.
Rolande’s daughter.
HOW IS IT that love always catches us unaware?
I see a lot of you in her, Rolande. The relentless nobility, the determination, the firm sense of obligation. Although Ysandre looks a great deal like Isabel, I do not see her mother in her.
Only you.
STANDING ON MY doorstep, surrounded by guards, Rolande swallowed hard, the knot of his throat rising and falling. “You heard?”
I stared at him, wondering why in the world he was here. “Yes, of course. Congratulations.”
“Anafiel …” He caught my hand, and I let him. “I have no right to ask you anything, but I am asking nonetheless. My daughter, Ysandre …” The knot of his throat rose, fell. “I begin to fear that you may have been right about certain matters. I begin to fear that a good deal of intrigue may surround her.”
I was silent.
Rolande’s eyes were so blue, so earnest. “I have no right—”
“You have every right,” I said softly. “What’s changed?”
He smiled a little, sadly. “Mayhap you’ve heard, my uncle Benedicte is planning a visit. He has grown children he wishes to introduce to the court. Isabel grows fearful and speaks of intrigues against me, against our daughter. There is a dark, suspicious edge to her I’ve never known before. I need to know Ysandre has people who will protect her, who will have her interests at heart. Like you did with Edmée. Remember?”
My heart ached. “I remember.”
Rolande squeezed my hand. “Will you?”
I lifted his hand to my lips, pressed them against the signet ring he wore with the crest of House Courcel emblazoned on it. “Of course. On the blood of Blessed Elua, I swear it.”
He sighed.
My throat was tight, too. “Will you come in?” I asked, hoping against hope.
He didn’t look away, and there was hunger in his gaze. “Yes.”
It was good and g
lorious and terrible all at once, a tempest and a homecoming, an apology and a benediction. Afterward, Rolande wept. I stroked his hair, dry-eyed. Although my love for him was undiminished, I wasn’t the innocent young Siovalese country lordling he’d fallen in love with anymore.
Presently, he whispered a question. “Has there been … is there anyone else, Anafiel?”
I gazed at his beautiful face, his eyelashes spiky with tears, and pitied us both. “No, Rolande,” I murmured. “I swore an oath. For so long as we both live, I am bound to you, and you alone.”
He bowed his head. “I would release you from it if I could.” His voice was low and uncertain. “Would you want that?”
“No.” I lifted his chin with one hand, the memory of the golden warmth of Elua’s blessing spilling over me. “Only don’t shut me out again.”
Rolande smiled with relief. “Never.”
YOU KEPT THAT promise, Rolande. And yet you left me anyway.
It hurts.
I don’t want to relive it, but I am dying, and I cannot stop the memories from coming.
THE CITY OF Elua buzzed with the news of our reunion. Isabel gnashed her teeth in fury. What passed between them in private, I didn’t know, but in public, Rolande held his head high and acknowledged me with quiet dignity.
I was not wholly absolved, the ban on my poetry remaining, but I was once again welcome at Court—or at least tolerated.
Even so, I avoided it for the most part. I had few friends there. Rolande and I spoke of those we trusted the most, men we had ridden and fought with. Gaspar Trevalion. Quintilius Rousse, who had accepted a naval commission. Percy, Comte de Somerville, kinsman to Rolande’s mother the queen and a Prince of the Blood in his own right.
Based on what I’d learned in Tiberium of the Unseen Guild, a plan began to form in the back of my mind.
This time, I was wise enough to keep my mouth shut on my thoughts.
And all too soon, concrete concerns in the world displaced vague and nebulous ones. Once more, the Skaldi were raiding in strength, angling for control of one of the major mountain passes. Rolande’s uncle Benedicte de la Courcel was bringing a contingent of seasoned warriors from La Serenissima on his impending visit. King Ganelon was minded to use the occasion to mount a large-scale offensive and seize the pass for good.
Once again, I was to fight at Rolande’s side.
“Achilles and Patroclus side by side once more,” Rolande said lightly, dallying in my bed.
“Hush.” I covered his mouth with one hand. “Don’t make ill-luck jests. It didn’t end so well for them.” I took my hand away. “Any mind, I fear I cast you wrong. You would never sulk in your tent while your honor was at stake.”
“Oh?” He raised his strong brows. “Who, then?”
“Knowing you as I do now?” I smiled wryly. “Noble Hector, mayhap; but I don’t like to speak of him, either.”
Rolande folded his arms behind his head. “It ended badly for most of them, didn’t it?”
“It did,” I agreed.
He eyed me complacently. “You’d have gotten away, though. Wily Odysseus, that’s who you would have been.”
I shuddered. “Let’s not speak of it, truly.”
A date was chosen, plans were made. It was decided that the command should be shared among three men: Percy de Somerville, Benedicte de la Courcel, and Rolande. Princes of the Blood, all three.
Even before we set out, folk were calling it the Battle of Three Princes. But only two of them came home alive.
WHICH IS WORSE, remembering or dying?
I cannot say.
THE SKALDI MADE their stand in a vast meadow high in the Camaeline Mountains—a green meadow in which thousands upon thousands of starry white flowers blossomed, a meadow dotted with lakes and rocky outcroppings.
Overhead, the sky was a flawless blue, and the white tops of the mountains where the snow never melted glistened.
The Skaldi awaited us at the far end, clad in furs and leather, hair braided, steel weapons and wooden shields in their hands. A handful were mounted on shaggy mountain ponies, but most were on foot.
They outnumbered us by half, but we had steel armor, better weapons, and a sizable cavalry.
The air was thin and clear, very, very clear. It reminded me of my childhood in the mountains of Siovale. I breathed slowly and deeply, stroking my mount’s withers. She stood steady as a rock beneath me. She was a good mare, sure-footed and battle-seasoned.
Rolande eyed me sidelong, eyes bright beneath the brim of his helm. All along the line of the vanguard, leather creaked and metal jingled. “Ready?”
I frowned at the uneven terrain. In private, I’d argued in favor of sending the foot soldiers out first, but the Three Princes, none of whom were mountain-born, had overridden my concerns.
Rolande read my unspoken thoughts and lowered his voice. “Anafiel, I’m not willing to give up one of our greatest advantages. If they don’t break and flee by the third charge, we’ll fall back and let the infantry engage them while we regroup. Well enough?”
I knew my duty. “Well enough, my liege and my love,” I murmured. Saluting him with my sword, I added in a ringing tone, “Ready!”
He grinned.
His standard-bearer raised his staff, flying the silver swan pennant of House Courcel. Some fifty yards to the right, a second standard was hoisted, flying the pennant of House Courcel and the insignia of La Serenissima on his uncle Benedicte’s behalf. To the left, Percy de Somerville’s standard-bearer raised the apple tree of House Somerville.
Rolande lifted his sword and nodded at his trumpeter.
One trumpet blew; two, three, ringing clear and brazen beneath the clear blue skies. At the far end of the valley, the Skaldi roared and beat their blades against their wooden shields.
We charged; charged, hewed down men where they stood, wheeled and retreated, dodging ponds, boulders, and crevasses.
Once …
Twice …
I was hot beneath my armor, sweating through my padded undertunic and breathing hard, my sword streaked with gore and my sword arm growing tired. The ranks of Skaldi were growing ragged, wavering. A young lad with tawny-brown hair, long-limbed and tall for his years, rallied them, urged them to hold fast. At his tenacious insistence, they did.
“Third time’s the charm!” Rolande cried.
Cries of agreement echoed across the meadow.
Once again, the trumpeters gave their brazen call; once again, we clapped heels to our mounts’ sides and sprang forward.
I KNOW WHICH is worse.
Remembering; oh, gods, by far. Dying is easier.
I WAS A Siovalese country lordling, and I knew mountains. I rode a sure-footed horse for a reason.
I’d made sure Rolande did, too.
Not his standard-bearer. When the lad’s mount caught a hoof in a crevice and went down with a terrible scream, left foreleg broken, there was nothing I could do but check my mare.
Uncertainty rippled down the line.
While Rolande raced to engage the Skaldi, men and horses in the center of the vanguard hesitated.
Those on the flanks, men under command of Percy de Somerville and Benedicte de la Courcel, had farther to travel.
Rolande plunged alone into the ranks of unmounted Skaldi, his sword rising and falling.
His standard-bearer’s mount rolled and squealed in agony, crushing her rider, sowing chaos. Cursing and sweating, I yanked my mare’s head with uncustomary viciousness and rode around them, putting my heels to her.
Too late.
I saw Rolande surrounded, dragged from the saddle. I saw the crude blades rise and fall, streaked with blood. His blood.
I fought.
Others came and fought, too. Too few; too late. Oh, it was enough to seize the pass, enough to guarantee a victory in the Battle of Three Princes. Still, it came too late.
As soon as the line had pressed past us, a handful of soldiers and I wrestled Rolande’s ruined body across
my pommel, retreating with him. My good mare bore the burden without complaint.
Behind the lines of skirmish, I wept with fury, unbuckling his armor, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding of a dozen wounds. “Damn you, Rolande! You promised! Don’t leave me!”
Beneath the blue sky, his blood soaked the green grass, drenched the starry white blossoms. A faint sigh escaped him, bringing a froth of crimson to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. One gauntleted hand rose a few inches, then fell back to the ground, limp. “Anafiel. I’m sorry.”
And then the light went out of his blue, blue eyes, just as it had faded from Edmée’s.
He was gone.
WHY COULDN’T YOU have waited, Rolande? You always had to be first into the fray.
Why?
IT WAS A bitter, bitter victory won at the Battle of Three Princes.
For a long time afterward, I wished I had died with Rolande. Once the initial crushing weight of grief had faded, I flung myself into excesses of debauchery, making a circuit of the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, sampling the highs and lows of all that carnal pleasure had to offer as though to mock the vow I’d never wished to be free of, now broken with Rolande’s death.
It was the other vow I’d sworn that kept me alive; the vow to protect his daughter, Ysandre, now the infant Dauphine of Terre d’Ange.
For Rolande was right, intrigue surrounded her; from the moment of his death, a dozen challengers set their sights on the throne. Slowly, slowly, I gathered my grief-addled wits and began to assemble a net of spies, informants, and a few trusted allies. I remembered words spoken to me long ago by Master Strozzi in Tiberium.
Whores make some of the best spies.
I set out to cultivate them, aided by goodwill generated during my period of debauchery.
I kept my finger on the pulse of the world, learning that a well-placed word at the right time could thwart the most ambitious plot. The only one I failed to foil, I did not regret. In a fitting twist of irony, Isabel died by poison at the hand of one of Prince Benedicte’s scheming offspring; but her daughter lived, which was all that mattered to me.
Here and there, I had dalliances—always with women, for no man could compare in my eyes to Rolande.
