by Tanya Bird
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Aldara asked.
Fedora shook her head. ‘I think she is dying,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I will send for the physician. And inform the king.’
Aldara climbed back into bed with Idalia and tried to warm up her cold body. Astra came over to the bed and sat at the foot of it, crying. The others stood mutely, watching. Idalia’s breathing became sporadic. Soon they could not hear her at all. Aldara sat up, took hold of her shoulders and shook her.
‘Idalia, you need to breathe,’ she said.
Her colour was changing, and her mouth was open in a way that made her unrecognisable.
Fedora walked in at that moment with King Zenas behind her. The women dispersed to the darker corners of the room. Aldara stood next to Fedora, against the wall, watching the life bleed from Idalia. Zenas stared at the still body, her skin grey, chest no longer rising. Fedora stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on his arm. He stood motionless.
By the time the physician arrived they already knew she was dead, but they all waited for him to examine her and hoped for a different outcome. A few hours earlier they had been learning Braul. She was the only one of them to have ever met a Braulian man. Now her clammy body lay dead in front of them. They would never again see her dance or watch in awe as she entered a room, claiming everybody’s attention.
Zenas did not look up when the physician spoke quietly with Fedora. She removed her hand from his arm and it covered her face for a moment. It would be the only time Aldara would see her cry. It was silent and uncomfortable for everyone present. The king did not have that luxury; his grieving would need to be done privately.
‘I will have the priest come,’ Zenas said, barely composed.
Fedora removed her hands from her face and took a slow inward breath. ‘That is very kind, Your Majesty.’
She gave a small curtsy as he fled the room. Then she looked around at the women, who were all in shock. ‘Pay your respects,’ she instructed. ‘Before the priest comes. And before they take her away.’
The rest of the night seemed to occur in short bursts for Aldara. The sound of Astra’s violent sobs. The stunned faces of Rhea, Panthea, and Violeta, standing over the corpse. The sight of Sapphira’s back shut off from it all. Hali trying to mother everybody. And finally, the arrival of the priest, who prayed for her soul while masked with nothing but disapproval. He covered her face, and then two men Aldara had never seen before arrived and carried Idalia’s limp body from the room.
‘Where will they take her?’ Aldara asked.
Fedora was staring at the empty doorway. ‘King Zenus is sending her back to her family. A burial here would not be appropriate.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘The herbs do not always work.’
Aldara was not sure whether she was commenting to herself or directing the words at the women as a warning. Some of them were now asleep. Some of them were just still, like the dead. Astra had gone to bathe, trying to wash away the stench of her friend. She would not be consoled. No one knew how to help her.
Aldara lay down in her own bed, where the sheets were cool and clean. Hali climbed in next to her, saying nothing. They did not talk or touch. Eventually they slept. Because that is what the living do.
Chapter 26
The warmth slipped away. It left with Tyron or it died with Idalia. Aldara was not sure which. The sun just stopped trying. Idalia’s absence was felt by everyone. It was as though dancing had died with her.
Tyron remained away. Pandarus returned occasionally, holding hushed meetings with the king and then disappearing again. No one knew where he went each time he left. Hali dreaded his returns. She complained of the way he spoke to her, his abrupt manner in bed. He would keep her out for days on drunken escapades, sometimes offering her up to acquaintances she had not met before.
‘I am the one thing that man does not mind sharing,’ Hali said one morning. Her breath smelled of wine. ‘I have had more of his friends inside me in the past two days than hot meals. Only some of them of noble birth.’
Aldara hated that she could do nothing to help. ‘How do the other men treat you?’
They were lying on her bed, trying not to disturb Sapphira, who was in the bed next to them with a blanket over her head, an attempt to block the noise of their voices as she tried to sleep.
‘Better than Pandarus,’ Hali said. ‘Doesn’t stop me from feeling like a cheap prostitute though. I cannot even use that term as they are not required to pay. That makes me something else I suppose.’
Aldara closed her eyes against the words. It broke her heart to hear her speak that way. She would talk to Tyron about it when he returned. Yes, when he returned.
The women were idle and felt suddenly misplaced at Archdale. They expected King Zenas to acquire a new Companion, but the silent war kept him too busy. Or perhaps Idalia could not be replaced.
The king sent Stamitos south to the Braul border, knowing the only fight that far south was the fight to keep the starving alive. They barely had an army. The Braulian king had been on the throne for over sixty years, and his people were politely waiting for him to die so they could try again. Those circumstances meant Sapphira and Aldara were mostly left alone. They spent many hours at the butts, practising. Many of the knights were away, so it was a quiet part of the castle, particularly as the weather grew cold.
‘I should be with him,’ Sapphira said one day. She was replacing the hemp on her longbow and ignoring the fact it was almost evening. She normally resented women who pined for their men, but she had become one of them. ‘I am a better archer than the men with him. And I am a better teacher than all of them.’
Aldara was staring at the same target she had been staring at all afternoon, having the same conversation with Sapphira they had had all afternoon. ‘Women have no place in war except to nurse the wounded…you know the rest of the boring speech. Don’t make me repeat it again.’
She was sick of the sound of her voice, and she did not believe a word that came out of her own mouth anyway. She had not received one word from Tyron since his departure. She had heard however that there had been further attacks. More women and children taken, and more men killed trying to stop them. It seemed progress was not quick enough, or perhaps ineffective.
She checked in regularly with the maids, the kitchen hands, and the servants, seeing if they had any news of him. She had even worked up the courage to ask Fedora. No one seemed to know anything.
‘Probably a good thing we are here. There is no one about to defend Archdale,’ Sapphira said, only partly joking.
Aldara looked down the arrow, adjusted her aim slightly and released it, piercing the bullseye. There was no one around to care. Sapphira had ceased to be impressed by it days ago. She put down the longbow, took off her glove, and rubbed her tired hands together. ‘Well, we will give them a good fight when they get here. The maids can join us with their fire stokers.’
‘And Cora with her broomstick,’ Sapphira said.
Aldara could see Fedora walking across the grass towards them. A guard escorted her.
‘Bet she heard that,’ Sapphira said, bracing.
‘Would that be Princess Cora?’ Fedora asked, stopping in front of them. ‘The princess whose house you reside in?’
Aldara was impressed with that impossible hearing distance.
‘I apologise,’ Sapphira said, packing up. ‘I meant to say Princess Cora with her broomstick.’
Just when Aldara thought the evening could not get any colder.
‘I have a number of chores waiting for you which may help remind you of your manners in the future.’ Fedora said, her tone sharp.
Sapphira turned and looked at her. ‘Yes, my lady.’
Tyron and his three men were staying in Lirald, a village two hours east of the Corneo border that produced modest amounts of wheat, most of which now went to Corneo. They had spent the day training the local men with crossbows, using haystacks as targets. Very few of them hit the haystac
ks. Next they would be travelling east to Nuwien, a village that had ideal growing conditions for root vegetables but was better known for its prostitutes. Noblemen from Veanor preferred to travel to Nuwien for women and drink in an attempt to protect their business reputations.
Tyron had been pleased with their progress until he had heard the village of Agrissi had been burned down during an attack. They had been there only five days earlier. The men had all been fantastic fishermen and terrible fighters. He had trained them hard during the day and shared meals with their families in the evenings. Their faceless enemy had responded to their newly obtained arms with fire. Three girls under the age of sixteen had been tied up and thrown onto the back of the men’s horses. The kidnappers were spotted riding north.
He sat eating bland soup prepared by a local woman who had made it especially for him. The woman had also offered him accommodation in their family’s home for the duration of their stay—and her eldest daughter. He had taken only the soup and made camp in a field behind the main road. He put down the bowl and threw another piece of wood onto the small fire before picking up his blackened map once again. He was trying to predict where their enemy would appear next. Somewhere in the North, always in the North. They had to be Zoelin, or at least Zoelin allies to have access to that long stretch of border.
Leksi appeared out of darkness and joined him by the fire.
‘Supplies await us in Nuwien. We should leave early to maximise our time there.’ He poured some soup for himself and then moved closer to the flames for warmth. ‘Have you noticed there are a lot of really big men here? Most are well over six foot and have necks like tree trunks. And most of the women match me in size. I have mistaken them for men countless times. They are far too intimidating to sleep with. I’m confident our enemy will take one look at the locals and bypass this place.’
‘What is the likelihood they will volunteer as footmen when we call on our people to fight alongside us?’ Tyron asked, only partly joking. He put down the map and looked at Leksi. ‘How many men do we have along the Zoelin border?’
‘None as far as I am aware. Our instructions were to place more men along the Corneo border. Do we have any reason to suspect the attackers to be Zoelin? Pandarus is floating across the border almost weekly.’
‘Where else can they be disappearing to? Unless they are travelling underground or flying over our heads, they are coming from the North.’
Leksi began eating his soup, but after tasting it, he changed his mind and put it down. ‘Even the children are man sized in this place. We should take a few of them for our own protection.’ Tyron did not laugh, and Leksi did not mind. His humour was often under-appreciated. He glanced at Tyron, realising he needed something more than a joke. ‘They are Zoelin,’ he agreed. ‘The river is low this time of year, and the water can be crossed without risk of death from low temperatures. Proof will surface soon enough.’
‘I would love to know how much Pandarus actually knows about the whole thing.’
‘My guess? More than we do.’ He picked up the soup again and smelled it. ‘Do we have any food that does not taste like a dog’s arse?’
Tyron looked at him. ‘I’m not sure. What does a dog’s arse taste like?’
Leksi waved a finger. ‘Ah, there’s the hilarious prince I know is in there.’ He stood up. ‘Bugger it. If I can’t eat, maybe I will find myself a big Lirald woman after all. It’s going to get cold, and I refuse to spend the night curled up next to you.’
Tyron watched him disappear into the dark and then made himself comfortable against the large tree that reached out over their tents, listening to the banter of the other men a few yards away. He watched the flames of the fire and tried not to think of anything outside of the strategy. Evenings were the main time she found her way into his mind, so each night he fought to keep her out. His eyes were heavy with sleep, and as they closed, he saw her face—hair sweeping across it as they rode with the wind behind them, teeth flashing with open-mouthed laughter. A playful expression that invited him to put his hands on her. His eyes opened again, and only the softly lit village was before him.
It may have been moments later, or it may have been hours. The piercing scream of a woman pulled him from sleep. His eyes snapped open, and his hand immediately reached for his sword. He could hear the collective pounding of hooves. A lit arrow caught his vision in the distance and he was on his feet in an instant, kicking the cold pot of soup over the fire before taking cover behind the large tree. Where were his men? He peered around the thick trunk and saw a house alight with flames. He could make out six men on horseback thirty yards away. Returning his sword to its sheath, he reached for his bow. Two of the horses separated from the group, and the men rode away from the village. Soon they would pass him. He waited until he could identify the riders a little better. The moment he saw reflection from their armour he took aim and shot the first rider through the neck. Before he had even heard the thud of the body hitting the ground, he reloaded his bow and shot the second rider. He missed the neck, but the arrow pierced his armour through the chest. The Corneon armies had some of the strongest armour he had ever encountered, and there would have been no way to pierce it from that distance. The only way to kill using a bow was to aim for exposed areas such as the neck or lower abdomen. These were not Corneon soldiers.
He slipped back behind the tree as the two horses trotted past him. He looked for royal symbols on the saddles, but they were unmarked. Crouching low, he crept to where Otus was tethered. Two of his men had emerged from their tents and stood by their horses waiting for instructions. Leksi was not with them.
‘Go east and enter the village from the north,’ Tyron said. ‘We leave no opportunity for them to escape. I expect us to meet in the middle with a living and breathing Leksi in tow.’
They nodded and left on horseback.
Otus was never more alive than in the moment before battle. He did not have to be told his role. When Tyron mounted, the horse lunged into a canter and headed straight for the fire. As they neared the houses, Tyron could hear children crying and men shouting. He dug his heels into Otus and the horse stretched out beneath him. The four remaining horses he had seen earlier stood amid the shadows. Except there were not four men; he counted six, four on the ground and two on horseback. He took aim but did not release one arrow until he was close enough to see why the number of people did not match the number of horses. He realised two of the people on foot were in fact women. The men were binding their hands with strips of cotton. They did not hear Tyron approaching over the whimpering. He took care of the mounted riders first, shooting one in the back and the second through the chest. The two on the ground made the mistake of letting go of the women as they retrieved their bows and were immediately attacked with bare fists. Tyron took out his sword and cut the throat of one of them before driving the sword through the chest of the remaining man. He was surprised to discover the women were in fact young girls. Leksi had been right about their size. He carefully cut the cotton around their wrists with his sword. ‘Hide,’ he said to them. ‘Run away from the fires and do not come out until someone comes to find you.’
Their panicked faces took in the sight of the four bodies lying about their feet. They nodded and then fled. Tyron rode along the main road that divided the village, which was lit up by the fire. Families were spilling out onto the smoke-filled road, the men clutching their new swords and the mothers clutching their children. He tried to spot his own men among the chaos, but it was a mess of shadows. A woman was crouched on the road, her hands wrapped her head as she screamed in short bursts. He kept hold of his sword as he dismounted. Otus remained where he was left, fire hissing behind him. As Tyron reached the woman, two men appeared through the haze of smoke, their swords hurtling towards him. His body moved automatically to avoid the blades, his balance steady as his sword sliced the smoke-filled air. He had the advantage of traditional Syrasan training where soldiers were blindfolded in order to enhance th
eir senses and improve their balance. As the bodies collapsed next to the hysterical woman, Tyron felt tremendous gratitude for the unconventional methods, but the smoke was clawing at his eyes and throat, and soon he would be unable to think past it.
He pulled the screaming woman to her feet. ‘Run,’ he shouted at her. She backed away from him and then took off at a sprint.
The fire was now leaping between the houses, and his throat was closing against the thick smoke. He walked on, stopping only when he tripped on a dead body. He looked down at the armoured man, not from Lirald. He reached down and pulled the helmet off his head. The first thing he noticed was the black ink marked along the man’s dark neck. There was an arrow wedged in his leg and blood pouring from a stomach wound. He was still crouched over the body when he saw a reflection from a sword above his head. He had just enough time to raise his own sword, block the blow, and push the attacker back. His attacker stumbled, and the sword fell to the ground between them. It was a Lirald woman. She was cowering in front of him, hands trembling. When she recognised him, she immediately fell forward onto her knees.
‘Forgive me, my lord. Please. I could not see through all the smoke.’
Her dress was soaked with blood. Tyron picked up her sword and pulled her off the road, away from the smoke. He led her behind a house that was safe from the flames and handed her back the sword.
‘Are you injured?’ he asked, looking again at her dress.
Tears poured down her cheeks then, and she dropped the sword. ‘It is my husband’s blood. He was trying to stop them. They took our daughter.’
She took in a huge sobbing breath and began to cough. Once again, he picked her sword up and closed her hand around it.
‘Don’t cry for your daughter yet. And don’t let this go or hesitate to use it again.’
He ran back into the thickening smoke, unable to see past his own hand. He listened through the crackle of fire. He could hear a woman wailing but could not tell what direction it came from. Another flash of a sword stilled him. He stopped breathing, his sword hot in hand. Leksi appeared through the smoke, his face blackened with soot. Tyron felt a rush of relief at seeing him unharmed.
