Lovers and Beloveds

by MeiLin Miranda

  Hildin's reflection rippled and faded. In its place appeared Emmae.

  "I have her!" cried Hildin. "I have the Princess, and soon, two thrones!"

  "Where did you find her?" said Teacher, the usually impassive face thunderstruck.

  "With my brother Warin--oh yes, I found the coward living in the woods near the Leutan border, almost two weeks ago. I'm not entirely sure he won't follow her here. If he does, I shall kill him. Yes, your favorite, everyone's favorite," mocked Hildin.

  "Has she been asleep this whole time?" said Teacher.

  Hildin snickered. "Oh, no," he said. "There's a very entertaining spell on her."

  Teacher snatched a flame from a nearby candle and formed a wand. It danced in the air, drawing golden sigils, until the now-familiar silver answer formed beneath them. Teacher gasped. "How cruel! How could she do this?"

  "Ah, you can read it! I discovered its meaning through trial and error, you might say," said Hildin. "The girl has no idea who she is, and I doubt Warin does, either. He found her near his shack and named her Emmae. She thinks he's in love with her."

  "And you think he will come for her," said Teacher.

  Hildin shrugged. "It doesn't matter either way. If he comes, I kill him. If he doesn't, I take the throne."

  "If your father dies and Warin is still alive, I recognize Warin as king. No one can do anything to change that, even were I willing to recognize you."

  "Warin dies the minute he appears. I will kill him, and since I am of the blood, you can't stop me, nor can you hurt me yourself. Once I've married the Princess here, I will be king of Tremont and Leute both."

  "Not until her father dies," said Teacher.

  Hildin smiled, sharp and frightening. "Very true! Now, Teacher, you will not aid my brother in any way. As Regent, my commands over you are as binding as the King's. Go to your library and stay there. Gian, set a guard on the room. Let no one enter or leave. Search the library and Teacher's person for mirrors--anything reflective. When you return, we'll take the ring off, and have a little celebration with Her Highness."

  "Will you tell her?" asked Gian.

  "Not yet. Give her forgetfulness a little longer."

  Hildin waited a day before unfurling Fredrik's parchment again. "King Fredrik, hear me!" he cried.

  The drawing came to life, as if Fredrik had been waiting for him. "Speak, I listen--Oh, Your Highness, news so soon?"

  "I have found your daughter and have her safe at Tremont Keep."

  The drawing became quite animated. "Where? Is she all right?"

  "She is happy and safe. We found her held captive in a squalid hut. The scoundrel is dealt with, and he did her no harm--well, the Sister's Temple can be bribed, and I have nothing but compassion for the poor girl. I'll marry her even in her condition," Hildin smiled.

  "She's not with child?" gasped the drawing.

  "Oh, no, no, nothing of the kind. At least we don't think so at present. Are you near the boundary river?"

  "Within a day's ride."

  "Bring a mirror across the border into Tremont. I will bring you to the Keep by reflection as soon as you send word through this enchantment."

  "Thank you! That saves me countless days of travel! I shall leave you now to prepare," said the drawing; it stilled, and became a parchment portrait again.

  Emmae awoke the next morning to find Old Meg bustling about the room. "Child, get up! See here, the Prince has given you new dresses!" She spread out a fine blue gown.

  "What?" yawned Emmae. Her sleepiness fled on seeing the clothes, and she sat up in bed. "He's giving me clothes? Why?"

  "I'm sure I don't know, dear, but I'm to get you ready as fast as ever I can."

  Emmae ate and then let Meg dress her, as impassive as a doll. Meg brushed Emmae's lustrous chestnut hair and set a soft blue veil and a golden circlet over it. "Ah, to be young and have such skin again!" said Meg. "My Hildin will be so pleased! You look like a princess, dear!"

  "I'm not a princess. I'm a woodsman's wife. Or was meant to be." Tears pricked at her eyes, but after days of crying, she had few left.

  Meg shooed her out the door, where Gian waited to escort her. "Welcome to Tremont Keep, my lady," he smiled. "You look more beautiful than ever. That dress is the very color of your eyes."

  "Why are you letting me out?" she said.

  "It's time."

  She said nothing more as they walked down flights of stairs and through long passageways, focusing her attention instead on her opulent new surroundings. Tapestries covered even the hallways; real wax candles lit every space. Nothing that might serve as a weapon appeared to her.

  Hildin stood before the huge doors to the Great Hall. "You may leave," he said to Gian, "and take the servants with you." Hildin waited until Gian cleared the hall, then said, "My Emmae, you're as regal as a queen. Fitting, since you'll be one soon."

  "Queen of what? I don't want to be a queen," she growled.

  "My father is dying. In fact, he may not last the night."

  "My condolences."

  "My brother has renounced the throne and has abandoned you. And while I'm not one for Warin's discards, I can make exceptions. I will take his throne, and you as my queen."

  "You're assuming I'll marry you, and you also suppose your nobles will accept a commoner as your wife."

  "But you're not a commoner," he said. "You, my dear, are the only child of King Fredrik of Leute. Your real name is Edmerka--horrid name, isn't it? I shall continue to call you Emmae. The man you marry will inherit Fredrik's throne, and that man will be me."

  "I am not this Edmerka!" she cried, stamping her foot. "You are wrong! And I will never marry you!"

  "Yes, you will." He pressed her into the tapestried wall. "Under this fine gown, you're wet for me, Emmae," he whispered in her ear. His fingers found a hard nipple through her bodice and pinched it; she gasped, and closed her eyes in pain and arousal. "I know you burn for me because I burn for you. If you refuse me, I will take you before the entire court, make you straddle me on my throne, everyone knowing you are the Princess Edmerka. And you will not only let me, you will scream out your pleasure before them like the slut you are!" He ground his hardness into her; she whimpered, but spread her legs. "I will fuck you, Emmae, in front of the whole court, in front of your father, and then after? I will let anyone who wants you have you, right there. I will watch you scream and beg under my lords. Your father will disown you--he's uneasy enough you've spent the last three spokes with your 'abductor.' And after I have thoroughly shamed you, I will give you to the stablemen. No one will lift a finger to help you. That," he finished, "is how I know you'll marry me."

  Hildin released her, but she stayed pressed against the wall, choking on her breakfast. "Now," he said, "We are going before your father, his retinue, and my nobles. Oh, yes, he's here. I brought him through a reflection just to see you. Your feelings of shame at your captivity and its implications will explain away your obvious emotional turmoil. Nevertheless, you will do your best to be grateful to your rescuer. Won't you?" he said, shaking her just enough.

  Emmae nodded wordlessly, and followed him into the Great Hall.

  * * * * *

  Temmin broke from the book, filled with Emmae's despair and Hildin's resentment. He thought of something his father once said about finding coercion arousing, and wondered if it ran in the family. "Poor girl! Did she live out her life like that, under the spell? How did the King keep her safe? What a sentence, all for refusing to pay a Traveler!"

  "Never cross a Traveler, Your Highness. Never. They have nothing to lose, and so fear nothing. By contrast, you have a great deal to lose, for the King is always the hope and possession of his people. Always keep that in mind. The King is not his own man."

  "Then why does everyone want to be king?" said Temmin. "If it's such a burden, why take it up?"

  "Because not all kings fulfill this hope, nor recognize their servitude. Many of your ancestors ignored their real responsibility and ruled for them
selves alone. Even Warin tried to escape it, to live for himself rather than his people."

  "You're always going on about being my own man. How am I to be my own man if I serve the kingdom?"

  "Servants are their own men and women, even slaves. Even in straitened circumstance--" Here Teacher paused and the long white fingers flexed minutely on the edges of the tabletop. "Even in straitened circumstances, there are choices in one's own conduct, and many decisions to make independently. If a servant cannot make the right decisions for himself, he cannot make them for the ones he serves." Teacher paused, and the silver eyes searched Temmin's face. "By taking Supplicancy, you shoulder a great responsibility that will serve your people as well as yourself. Obeying the Gods and walking among your subjects will bring you closer to both."

  "Father says it will hurt the kingdom."

  "Do not confuse the kingdom with the nobility, Your Highness." Teacher shifted on the tabletop. "I note you have stopped calling the King 'Papa,' as your mother prefers."

  "He doesn't deserve it," said Temmin sullenly.

  Temmin returned to the dinner table that night, tensed for a confrontation. Instead, his father ignored him, giving him no more than a cursory "Good evening" and a withering look the one time he spoke. Sedra and his mother watched them both, while Ellika chattered on. Temmin supposed Fennows took his dinner in town; he didn't bother to ask.

  After dinner, when the women had retired, Harsin left for his own rooms after one silent glass of port, bolted back and the empty glass deposited on the table. Temmin told himself he didn't care, drank his own glass and joined his mother and sisters in the Small Sitting Room.

  "Small" at the Keep meant smaller than the Grand Salon where hundreds of dignitaries and large receptions might be entertained, but larger than the average cottage; it was considered a private room, for the family's use alone. Books and portraits of Temmin's ancestors lined the walls. Despite its high frescoed ceiling covered in gilt and Gods, it had a cozy feel to it, especially in the circle of warmth around the fireplace where the women sat with their handwork; Ellika picked fretfully at her embroidery and Ansella knitted a little silk reticule, while Sedra drew in her sketchbook. At his entrance, Sedra stuck her pencil at a non-regal angle behind her ear.

  He could see from their faces that news had traveled fast. He wasn't surprised his mother knew--his father probably spent half the morning berating her for not changing his mind. His sisters hearing of it surprised him. "I saw the envelope that came for you this morning, you see," explained Ellika, so excited her hair seemed curlier.

  "I thought it best not to bring it up around Papa," murmured Sedra.

  "Can we not talk about it?" he said, folding himself up on a footstool by Ansella's chair. He leaned his head against her knees.

  "No, sweetheart, we don't have to," she said, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Ellika deflated in disappointment, but returned to her haphazard stitching; Sedra plucked the pencil from behind her ear and resumed sketching. Mama's familiar perfume of chamomile and roses mingled with the scent of the lavender sachet she used in her wardrobe, wafting faint from the violet silk of her dress. It reminded him of quiet nights in the nursery when he and his sisters were still small: Mama and Nurse knitting and mending, Sedra reading aloud, Ellika playing at paper dolls or stitching, and Jenks cracking nuts by the fire, all at peace with the world and each other. He should be ashamed of himself for this longing, but Temmin longed not for his boyhood as much as the peace with the world he'd had at the Estate. He closed his eyes, listening to the gentle voices, the soft but determined scratch of Sedra's pencil, and the tiny, comforting click of Mama's steel knitting needles, and knew this rare, restful moment would have to carry him through his increasingly complicated life for a long time to come.

  Upstairs, the King paced his study; Winmer stood to one side, notepad at the ready as always, and to the other stood Teacher, white hands folded before the long sweep of black robes and the severe black suit beneath them.

  "He spent two hours in the chapel last night? Gods," said Harsin. "I don't suppose he was meeting a girl there? That little housemaid? No? Luck is failing me."

  "He told me he was praying, Your Majesty, on the advice of Neya's Embodiment," said Teacher.

  Harsin groaned. "He said the Gods called him, but I didn't know he believed it!"

  "The Gods?" said Winmer; he cast an accusing eye on Teacher, who returned it so coldly that Winmer looked away and shuddered. "Regardless whether he feels divine inspiration," the secretary continued, "there is still hope he might be turned away from his present course."

  "Let him go," said Teacher, brows lowered.

  "So you've advised," retorted Harsin. "We disagree, and we order you to stay out of it from now on. I would send you to your library for good, but I need you, and you know it. Now, Winmer, give me hope."

  "Hope dusts the downstairs rooms, and wears a white cap on its curly little head," smiled Winmer.

  "That maid?" snorted Harsin. "He's too timid to do anything on his own."

  "Perhaps we might give him a little push, then, sir," said the secretary.

  "He's furious," said Temmin to Jenks on Ammaday morning as he tugged on his riding boots. Paggday had been difficult; a usually pleasant day off had turned into a constant reminder of his father's anger, every glance falling like a blow to his forehead.

  "You knew he would be, Your Highness," Jenks answered, laying out the prince's morning clothes on the dressing rack. He stepped back to survey the effect.

  "You're not still mad, are you?"

  "No, no, Temmin. I never can stay mad at you for long," said the valet.

  On his ride, Temmin pondered how nice it would have been to have Jenks as his father instead of Harsin. Harsin was forbidding; Jenks was not. Jenks approved of him; Harsin did not. Harsin had been absent most of his life, coming to the Estate twice a year. (He overlooked the times when his father came, with no fanfare or preparations, whenever the children or the Queen took ill.) Jenks, on the other hand, had always been there, a presence as constant and reassuring as his mother's.

  Jenks loved him; his father did not, he told himself.

  He ate breakfast in his room, avoiding the tension of the night before. When Teacher entered the study, Temmin already sat on the green velvet couch, the old red-bound book on his lap. "I want to sit here today. It's more comfortable."

  "To be sure," said Teacher in mild surprise. "There is no real reason to do otherwise."

  "So, how bad was it with my father?"

  "I have been ordered to 'stay out of it' from now on," replied Teacher. "I can no longer advise you on the subject in any capacity. Just remember what I have told you in the past. That is all I may say."

  "I don't need any more advice anyway," Temmin said confidently. "He couldn't have been too mad--he didn't lock you in your room!"

  A small smile wavered on Teacher's lips. "He threatened it. But he knows I have endured long periods locked in my room over the centuries. By now it makes little difference to me, and my counsel and support are more valuable than satisfying his pique."

  "Did Hildin really lock you in your room?" asked Temmin. He was done thinking about his father.

  "Only for a little while. Are you ready to continue?"

  Temmin slid a hand over the book's cover and opened it. The blank pages blossomed into words, then pictures, and finally swallowed him up.

  * * * * *

  King Fredrik found his daughter changed. She'd been so willful, so disdainful, so...loud. But now, she rarely met anyone's eyes, and seldom spoke. She kept herself apart, staying in her rooms at dinner. She trembled whenever Hildin came near her, and once almost dropped the wine goblet his page Gian gave her. Even her name had changed. Hildin called her Emmae; he told Fredrik he'd fallen in love with the Princess as soon as he'd set eyes on her, and since "Emmae" meant "worth loving" in the Tremontine, Fredrik chose to believe him.

  The changes in her troubled the King at first, b
ut when he dwelled on the three spokes she'd spent with some lout in a shack--Hildin overlooked the possibility that she might carry a commoner's brat, and so Fredrik overlooked his daughter's unhappiness. It would fade in time, along with the doubtless horrible memory of her captivity. From what the old serving woman Meg said, it had been quite the ordeal, though Meg was an odd thing, possibly addle-pated; for instance, she said something about the dead Prince Warin that made no sense at all.

  The night before the wedding, Teacher stood in the library at the top of the Tower, surveying the chaos the Guards left behind in their daily search for reflections. Against one curved wall, a large, empty frame that had once held a mirror stood; scrolls and books, once carefully stored on shelves, in drawers and cubbyholes of all kinds, covered the floor in haphazard piles.

  Teacher sighed and waved a long-fingered hand. The scrolls slithered to their cubbyholes and drawers. Books floated one by one onto a table, their pages riffled through by an invisible hand. Those whose pages had torn were set aside for mending, and the rest found their way back to their shelves.

  The last book, an old one bound in dark red leather, made its way back to the lectern standing by a shuttered window. Teacher listened for Guards. Silence. Teacher waved the book open to a blank middle page and said, "Reveal." The page turned transparent, and resolved into a mirror.

  Teacher smirked at the reflection. "Show me Hildin." The mirror shimmered; a blurry scene before the Prince Regent's fire appeared. Hildin was drinking hot wine with his future father-in-law. "Mirrors have returned," murmured Teacher. "An open invitation to Warin."

  Teacher scanned the room, and frowned. "Show me Gian of Valleysmouth." The scene changed again; Gian stood behind a fat, cheerful old woman holding a candle in an otherwise dark room. A waxy, almost green, pallor covered the young man's face, but his expression was determined. The old woman rattled on about something, peering quizzically about. Just before she turned back toward him, Gian slipped a cord around her neck, and began to pull; the woman's eyes bulged, her hands flew to her neck, the candle fell, and the image went dark.