by Alma Boykin
“And so they separate us, send you into danger without obviously doing so, and knock away the support that doesn’t officially exist.” It made warped sense if she looked at it through enemy eyes.
He growled, “Remember too, love, some don’t accept that our marriage is even valid. They’re protecting both of our souls by separating us.” The poison in his voice sounded all too familiar.
Cold determination straightened her spine, and she felt a terrible smile spreading across her face. “Truly, they do not know with whom they deal, if they think to use religion to beat us into submission.”
“No, they do not.” He matched her expression, reaching out and caressing her cheek. His sorrow returned and he added, voice low, “And if it is Godown’s will that I don’t come back to you, I accept that, too.”
Her tears burst out anew and this time he held her, cradling her against his chest until exhaustion dried her eyes. The great Duchess von Sarmas reduced to a pile of fabric, weeping her eyes red. You’d love to see me now, wouldn’t you, to gloat? My hand to Godown, you’ll never have the pleasure. “I suppose I’ve terrified the entire staff,” she croaked at last.
“We’ve terrified,” he corrected, helping her sit, then stand. “David took one look at me and disappeared.”
She found some now-cold tea that Mina had left for her and poured a cup, drinking it straight. Lazlo reached for the pot and she shook her head. “Don’t. It’s not, that is, it’s women’s herbs. A medical tisane, so I can make love to you more easily.”
He took the pot anyway, opened the lid and sniffed. His brow furrowed as his thick black eyebrows drew together. “This is mudmallow, and,” he sniffed again. “Green pea?”
“Close. Soya root, mudmallow, and salibark. The mudmallow and salibark are for my shoulder, believe me, Mistress Hannah knows better than to use salibark on me for anything else.” She closed the teapot and took it from him.
“And the soya root?”
She kept her head down, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry, love. My body’s not young anymore and I need a little help.”
He caressed her cheek again, then tipped her head up, leaned forward and kissed her lips. “Does it hurt you when we have sex?”
“No,” she half-lied. Because she wanted him, needed him, and the discomfort faded to nothing compared to what she felt and to the pleasure it gave both of them. “David fled too?”
He snorted and turned to go. “He’s never seen me ready for battle, it seems. I suppose I should apologize, but I don’t feel like it.”
“I’d planned on raising the wages this year anyway. We can tip them extra before you,” she forced herself to say it aloud. “Before you go.”
“Very well, my lady.” He sketched a bow and left her room. She straightened up the scattered pillows, set the chair back where it belonged and drank the rest of the tea even though it made her stomach churn. Somehow she managed to get undressed without help, and found a little cold water still in the pitcher to wash her face with. Elizabeth put on an old, terribly out of style day dress and wrapper, hissing as she worked the shimmy sleeve and dress sleeve over her arm and shoulder. A very simple head cover finished the job, and she piled her uniform and other things on the bed for Mina to deal with.
Once she found Mina, it took a good half hour to calm the older woman. Then they went and sorted out the maids and the kitchen staff. “No, I have not been banished. No, his majesty has not reclaimed Donatello House or Bellevue,” she assured them. “Yes, Col. Destefani and I are upset, but not with you.” Once everyone had been calmed and placated, she ordered a light meal for the evening, and more tea, real tea this time, for the library.
One her way she tapped on Lazlo’s office door. He growled, “Come.”
She poked her head in. “Once you finish your initial plan of attack, Colonel, I’ll be in the library.” Still pale, he gave her a faint smile before returning to writing out what looked like a list. She reached the library as David arrived from the other direction carrying an armload of wood. He refilled the wood box and lit a small fire and the candles, finishing as one of the junior maids, Kiara, brought the tea and an assortment of toasts and cookies. The two departed and Elizabeth, after serious consideration, added a large dollop of pfeach brandy to her cup before pouring the tea. Only once, she warned herself. Spirits and mudmallow can be deadly. The hot tea and mellow sweetness of the rich brandy warmed her aching belly. She ate a cheese-covered toast before taking a second sip of her tea. I don’t need a hangover to make life worse, although just now drinking myself unconscious has some merit.
Unable to remain still, Elizabeth started work on her latest sewing project as she thought, staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace, plotting her next move. She could do nothing to affect Lazlo’s exile. She could train her men and plan for the next campaign season. Would it be north or south of the Triangle Range? And would the Turkowi remain quiet? Probably, if Jan Kossuth’s spies told the truth. Turkowi mothers tell their children to be good or Elitsarm will get them. Guess what, Father, I’ve become a night monster. He’d probably have found it funny, if her cousin’s memories of him were correct. She decided to have the men plan for both possibilities, but budget for not having to besiege any major cities. They had time, at least, since it would be spring before anyone moved, if then. But when did spring not bring war? Seven years ago. It’s been seven years since we’ve not been fighting someone. And how long before that? I can’t recall. I wonder how the Landers kept from fighting eachother. They can’t all have shunned war, like the Mee-no-nights are supposed to have done. Which may be why there are no more Mee-no-nights today.
She got up and poked the fire, adding a log, and poured more tea. She crunched a lace cookie before pulling some long-overdue mending out of the bag, flipping the material over and starting to repair the ripped trim on the underskirt. As she worked she thought about the fire, and the Fires. If Clellan’s allies planned on using their religion against her and Lazlo, she needed to fight back the same way. She looked over at her long-unused theological books and copies of commentaries on the Holy Writ. The Landers had sinned, of that she had no doubt. They were human, and humans sinned because Godown had given them the gift of free will, and so they were free to make bad choices. And free to make good ones as well, she reminded herself. But she doubted that Godown had sent physical fires down to burn up the Landers just for having technology.
The sewing kept her hands busy, freeing her mind to wander. You know, I’ve not heard of anyone from the northern cities following St. Mou. And you can still see dancing fires in the sky up there, especially in winter. So why are the cities still standing? The residents of Hämäl are no better than anyone else when it comes to spiritual matters. And why did the Lander remains that formed the core of Starheart, Donatello Bend, Crownpoint on Peilovna, the palace in Vindobona, and other places not show scorch marks and melting? “Because centuries of rains washed them clean, of course,” she answered, as one of St. Mou’s priests would have, before knotting and biting off the end of the thread.
“A thaler for your thoughts,” Lazlo said, pouring himself some tea and starting to settle into his chair. He stopped, walked over and poked the fire into brighter life, then sat, slouching, legs stretched out towards the fire.
As he crunched on a cheese toast, Elizabeth explained, “Trying to recall if anything in the Writ condemns objects simply for being objects, as opposed to warning against misuse or leading weaker souls astray.” She set her mending aside for the moment.
He finished the toast and reached for a cookie, while she munched on a toast smeared with soft sausage. “I can’t think of any, except,” he tipped his head back against the top of the chair back and closed his eyes. “Ah, Glimmerings chapter two?”
She wiped her fingers on a fabric scrap and got up, retrieving a copy of the Writ and looking up the reference. “Therefore, touch not the things of power with an unguarded hand, lest they lead you astray through craving for thei
r power,” she read, holding the book farther away than she usually did. It does help. Blegh. “You could use that, but the rest of the chapter is talking about political power and the corruption it can breed, and the previous section explains how to discern if someone could be corrupted by watching you use what is harmless to you. I could just as easily turn this to say that the government should be abolished instead of technology, since if political power didn’t exist, no one would be tempted to misuse it.” She marked the place and closed the book, bowing to it before replacing the tome on the shelf.
Lazlo bit into his snack with a fierce crunch. “I sit corrected and educated,” he replied around a mouthful of cookie. Instead of sitting back down, Elizabeth stood behind his chair and began rubbing his shoulders, working her fingers into the knots she felt in his muscles. “Ow, that, mmm,” and he began to relax. She rubbed and massaged until she felt the last tension leave the muscles. She kissed the top of his head and returned to her chair. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the flames lick and pop, and drinking the tea. “Tell me,” he inquired at last, pointing to the squat tan bottle. “Where did you find the pfeach brandy?”
“I found all but one bottle behind the reds, those fierce ones we’d agreed to either pass on to some unsuspecting soul or to inflict on the mess this coming year.”
A wicked gleam appeared in his eyes. “The mess. They need to learn how to run a formation while enjoying a hangover. It will build character.”
“That or they will shun red wine forever. I’ll see to it, Colonel.”
After another long silence he heaved himself out of the chair. “That tea you had earlier, love, when does it take effect?”
She thought back. “I drank it on an empty stomach, so probably not long after supper. Why?”
“Just curious.” The hungry look on his face belied his words and she felt her body starting to warm with anticipation. I’m glad I asked for an early, light supper.
A week and two days later, Elizabeth watched Lazlo’s party ride out of the north city gate, impassive, her calm expression hiding the awful fear in her heart. Light snow swirled and danced on a stinging wind, the remnants of a two-day storm. She and Lazlo had spent the week packing, planning, and purchasing what supplies they could not requisition, including heavier winter equipment and new summer-weight uniforms. Those at least had been easy, since the quartermaster kept bolts of the special Babenburg-blue fabric on hand. She and Lazlo had spent the nights together, sometimes just talking and cuddling. And sometimes they made plans for the future. But most of the time they held each other, savoring every moment they could steal.
“It makes no sense,” she’d complained once. “We’re apart during campaign season more than we’re together. But this feels,” she’d groped for words and failed. “Different. Worse.”
He’d thought about it as he sorted through maps and papers, some to take, some to leave, and a few to burn. “Campaign season is limited. This does not appear to be, my lady. And we know the unknowns of a campaign.” He must have heard her quizzical look, because he began counting on ink-stained fingers, “The enemy will attack or retreat. The weather will cooperate or not. Disease will appear in camp. Supplies will be tight at some point. And the food will be bad, but how bad remains to be seen.”
She’d chuckled, because he was right. Lazlo was the calm one, the person who could talk to anyone, and who kept Elizabeth grounded in reality. And now he rode north and west across the continent, into the fading storm, to take up a position in one of Laurence V’s favorite targets as plague swept the cities and winter’s claws tore the land.
They’d said their good-byes in private. Now Duchess Elizabeth von Sarmas watched from Gray’s back as her aid Imperial Colonel Lazlo Destefani and his escort departed on their diplomatic mission to New Dalfa in the Sea Republics. Once the last wagon creaked out of view, Elizabeth turned her mule’s head and rode back into the city with her guards, Capt. Ulrich Martin, and Lt. Jan Neruda. They had plenty of work to do.
For once in her life she delegated to someone other than Lazlo or Duke Matthew Starland. “Ulli, I need you to oversee the initial planning, focusing north of the Triangle Range for now. Primarily a Frankonian attack, but look at a Turkowi event as well. Don’t neglect the south, but focus on the northern lands.” He’d given her a shrewd look but did not challenge her. “I’m going to need to focus my attention elsewhere for a little while, and I trust you to look at the big picture for me.”
Her distraction sat in her office at Donatello House and on her small reserved table in the Imperial library. Books about religion, books and manuscripts about the early lives of the saints and the first years of the worship of Godown as currently practiced. The early heresies didn’t concern her, but the later traditions and teachings did. She’d decided to start with the basics, focusing on the Holy Writ. It’s time I read it through again. I’ve been remiss. Besides, it might restart those old rumors about me considering retiring and joining the Sisters of Service convent here in Vindobona, since I’m so old. Not that she felt old, mind, most of the time. Elizabeth arranged the lamp, angling a small mirror on a stand so more light fell onto the pages, and turned to the first book. “On Origins,” she began under her breath. “In the beginning was Godown, all wise and all loving. Darkness lay upon the universe and chaos reigned. Godown stretched out His hand, saying, ‘Let there be light’ and there was light.”
She read through the coming of the Great Fires, then stopped and read the Book of Flames again. Then she sat back and read part of a chapter for a third time, aloud. “And lo, Godown sent a sign in the form of flames that covered the greater part of the sky for four nights. Peter, Jan, Olympia, and Gerald saw and believed, and led their followers to shelter, warning all who would hear of the coming of Godown’s power. But the others laughed and continued as they had, mocking the believers. And the flames came by day, bright as the spot-darkened sun, and erasing the stars and moon by night. Godown reached down with His flames, destroying the radios and FTL links, killing one third of all thinking machines and power generators.
“And still the unbelievers mocked the faithful, saying ‘we do not fear Godown. Return to the cities and towns.’ But Peter and Gerald led their people into the Dividing Range, while Jan and Olympia took refuge with those who eschewed machines for animals. And lo, the flames returned, stronger than before, and great was the fear upon the land. And a second third of the great machines failed. Woe unto those who saw and heard but did not believe!” Elizabeth looked up from the Writ, blinking as she saw where the weak sunlight fell on the floor.
She ate a quick supper, barely tasting anything as her mind sorted through what she’d read. Then she went back and read the Book of Flames a fourth time. It’s not in here. She stared at the real flames in the fireplace. Nothing in the Writ says that Godown struck down the Landers for using technology. He struck down the machines because the people did not listen to His words and those of His followers. And He did not destroy buildings or roads or other structures, just things that used electricity. And even then in His mercy He gave them a second and third chance. And the machines that did survive failed because they wore out. His flames never burned human flesh, unlike that horrible mosaic on St. Mou’s chapel. She’d never liked it, even though the craftsmanship rivaled that of the great interior of St. Gerald’s cathedral. The artist had taken great pains depicting Godown’s wrath against the Landers, enough so that Elizabeth could almost smell the burnt flesh. More to the point, the image of St. Mou gloating over the Landers’ agony reminded her too much of the Turkowi and others for her peace of mind. That’s not what the Writ requires. We’re supposed to pray for the salvation of those who fall away from Godown’s will, not savor their misery, even if it is self-inflicted. She started feeling smug, then caught herself. You’re not supposed to gloat over error, either, even when you are in the right.
She settled into a routine. In the morning she read scripture or commentaries for an hou
r before breakfast. Three times a week she went to the military offices in the Imperial Palace and met with her junior officers, the quartermaster, and various staff members. The other mornings she read in the Imperial archives, both military and religious histories and commentaries. After lunch she rode and trained for an hour or two, sometimes with her officers, sometimes alone. Then she took care of business for Donatello Bend and Donatello House, or visited with Lady Ann, consulted with Matt Starland, and others. The evenings she reserved for socializing, repaying favors, and keeping up with rumor and gossip in court. It was the social lull before Winter Fair, but small private gatherings abounded. Then she prayed for almost an hour before retiring.
This time she made no bargains with Godown for Lazlo’s safety. Instead she prayed for serenity and acceptance of whatever happened. Lazlo had given her a set of blue and green glass prayer beads after their son’s premature birth and death, and she ran the cool, smooth beads between her fingers as she meditated and prayed. They’d held the beads as they’d prayed together during her slow, painful recovery from the accident, miscarriage, and murder attempt. The snow fluttered down outside the window as she knelt, reciting the morning office before adding her own supplications. Holy Godown, be with him and keep him safe, if it is Your will. If You will him to return to You, may Your will be done and may I accept that. Grant me peace and discernment, I pray. St. Gerald, help me to bridge the differences so that I may do Godown’s will.
As the weeks passed, she became more and more convinced that the will of Godown and the wills of St. Mou’s followers did not agree. Elizabeth drummed her fingers on her leg, trying to keep from disturbing the other women reading in the scripture room of the convent of the Sisters of Service, near St. Gerald’s cathedral. She looked from the ancient book to her notes and back. This could change a great deal. And this is canon, the source of those popular saints’ biographies I was supposed to read. They’d bored her out of her mind even as a child, and she’d quickly found ways to avoid them. But this, the earliest saints’ list, does not show St. Mou as one of the first generation, or even the second. St. Gerald and Sabrina, St. Kiara, St. Basil-Pastor and St. Michael-Herdsman, even St. François, forgive me for doubting, please, and several others, but not St. Mou. He only received recognition a hundred years after the first of the Great Fires. Of course, that means official recognition, not that he didn’t exist before then, but still.
