by R. J. Price
“Sleep well, Lady Aren. The throne is still sat upon, the lights are still glowing heartily, and the water still runs,” Telm responded, moving out of the room.
Aren watched Telm leave and stared at the closed door for a long moment. She could go out of her way to ensure Telm never spoke to someone about what she knew, but to what end? How could Aren have made the head of house disappear and not have suspicion brought down on her?
No doubt Telm would want something from Aren in the future, would ask her for something that Aren did not want to provide. Such as a mate for a young son, or grandson.
Groaning, Aren dropped to the bed, her energy spent. Nothing could have been helped. Aren had been sick. While sick her body had done whatever necessary to ensure survival. She had to be thankful she had escaped with her life and it had at least been Telm, and not Lord Av, who noticed the changes in her. She heard rumours of consumption—her parents spoke of it before sending her to court—but there hadn't been an outbreak in a decade.
With these thoughts in mind, Aren fell back asleep, awaking several times over the course of the afternoon and into the night. The last of the sickness burned away, leaving her tired in the morning, with a slight tremble. She pulled herself out of bed nonetheless, dragged herself to the bathing room where she washed, and pulled on her training clothing. The clothing hung on her more than before, threatening to slip off her shoulders, even.
Aren had a small hand mirror among her possessions, to check her face and hair before attending court. The small mirror did not help as she struggled to take in the full scope of the illness. She was certain she had lost weight, but her head was muddled. Aren couldn't seem to make a proper comparison between then and now.
Determined, she left her rooms. There was no excuse to miss training, she told herself—she had not been that ill. With this in mind, Aren left the palace.
Getting to the master's yard was a whole different kind of struggle. By the time Aren stepped onto Lord Av's yard there was nothing left to give. Her body went through the motions because she forced it to, nothing more.
“Lady Aren,” Lord Av said cheerfully. “Good to see you out of bed.”
“She looks like she's on death's door,” one of the lady's chortled.
“Run the grounds,” Lord Av barked at the lady.
“Wh-what?”
“I said, run the grounds. You've got enough energy to be snide to someone who was seriously ill, and is now trying to recover, then you have enough energy to run the grounds. When you're done come back to me,” Lord Av said, raising his voice when the lady tried to protest.
Not good, Aren locked her mind down, willed herself to be small and invisible as the lady jogged past her, muttering. Lord Av not only took notice of her, but another lady had as well. People were looking at her, seeing her. Everything she wanted depended on her not being seen, especially by Av.
Perhaps they were not seeing her. Aren ventured a hesitant glance up, around. Those near enough to hear the incident did not see Lady Aren, they saw a sick woman who had just been teased. Their faces did not hold recognition, but pity.
“Lady Aren, why don't you sit yourself on my porch?” Lord Av said loudly. “Before you fall over.”
Aren obeyed, grateful even as she was irritated to do what she had been told. Sitting on the porch she watched the ladies go through the motions of training. When they were dismissed, she stood to leave. Lord Av stepped into her path.
“Lady Aren.”
Aren stepped around him.
“A lord should never be left alone with a lady,” she said before walking away.
She wanted to give Av no time to register anything about her besides her words. If he walked her to her room, he would want in to talk to her, to see to her needs. Av would end up hesitating in the rooms and ask about her eating habits. Probably order food and watch her eat, just to be sure. No doubt he would then insist on helping her write letters home to explain she had taken ill but was better. Then he'd make a fuss when she tried to go to the kitchen and simply put, Aren would never be rid of the lord whom she had to avoid above all else.
Halfway back to her rooms, Aren regretted speaking in such a manner. Lord Av might have simply been offering help back to the palace. Maybe he wanted to tell her to rest a few more days before returning to training.
Aren stopped to sit on a bench and rest a moment, dragging in breaths. At the sound of a scuff, a foot on the carpet, Aren turned to look down the hallway she had just walked.
Lord Av ducked down a side hallway.
Or maybe he was following her because Telm told him the truth. Being master, all Lord Av needed to do was command Telm to speak, and Telm would have to or risk losing her position as head of house.
The thought gave Aren the anger which allowed her to command her body to move. She stood and shuffled back down the hallway, ever aware of how weak she looked as she stopped before Lord Av.
“What do you want?” she commanded.
She did not draw herself straight or try to put anything behind the words. Simply enough of an edge for the lord to realize she was being serious.
Lord Av had been 'studying' a painting on the wall.
He looked at her sheepishly when she first spoke, clearing his throat before answering, “Assuring you make it back to your rooms all right. You wobble a good deal.”
“I'm fine.”
“Seventeen took ill, and fourteen died, so I think math begs to differ, lady,” Lord Av grumbled.
“Oh, he can do numbers,” Aren said before she caught herself.
Lord Av's eyes expanded just slightly, and he looked her up and down as if questioning his own sanity, then gave his head a shake. “This outbreak was small and we were very lucky. Not to mention you were lucky to survive. I want to see that every survivor of the consumption recovers as quickly as possible. This could simply be the start. If the illness comes back, it could wipe out the palace.”
“Do you follow all the survivors, or just me?”
“You're the only one out of bed,” Lord Av said pointedly.
He seemed to want to say more, but kept quiet. Aren was certain what he wanted to say was a jab at the fact that he thought her foolish for being the only one out of bed. Her body needed rest. But if Aren rested, visitors would come. She had to get everything back to normal as soon as possible.
“I can handle myself, thank you,” Aren said quietly.
Lord Av's eyes narrowed, his mouth opened, and he dragged a breath in through his teeth. Trying to let his other senses explain something that he would not find simply by breathing a bit deeper. Aren took a step away from him, as she had seen many commoners do in just such a position.
“I need to go,” she said, keeping her eyes on the floor.
Fleeing to her rooms, Aren closed and locked the door. Pressing her back against it, her heart thundered in her chest. Lord Av did not have a key, but that did not mean he could not find someone who did, to open the door for him. She only prayed he took her rushing off as a fear of what he was, and not fear of discovery. Hoped he thought fear fuelled her sudden speed and nothing else.
Sinking to the floor, Aren sat, back still pressed against the door. There was no will to get up again. She sat for a long time, jumping at even the smallest sound heard on the other side of the door.
She was not better yet, which was something she could use as an excuse to stay in her rooms. Despite her desire for everything to return to normal, Aren knew she needed to recover after being ill. Obviously she was too weak to hide, the master was now suspicious.
In a few days—no, longer—she would venture out to Lord Av's cabin to see if he had forgotten the incident. She would have to see about covering her tracks more than before, to tell him that after leaving bed she had felt strange, that her head had still been muddled. Perhaps he would be stupid enough to believe the excuse, and would think that was all he saw.
Working in the kitchens would cover the smell some commoners claimed c
ertain ranks gave off. Food would give an excuse for all sorts of smells and reactions. If Aren could find a meal Lord Av liked, she could be certain she had some hand in preparing the meal and convince the master that his interest in her was purely because she happened to smell like something he associated with a pleasant taste.
Forcing her body to move, Aren stumbled to the bed finally and dropped face-first onto it. Groaning, she dragged her legs up, rolled onto her side, and fell asleep once more.
Waking much later, covered in sweat, Aren washed again and put on the only clean clothing she had besides her training clothing. Dropping the dirtied clothing outside her door for the laundress, Aren left, heading for the kitchen.
Walking into the heart of the palace, Aren had to dodge a messenger who was rushing out of the kitchen. The head cook glowered, then shook a large knife at her.
“This is no place for a ward. Especially not in a fancy dress!”
Aren stepped up to the cook's table. She looked over the battered top and the chopped vegetables waiting to be dropped into the bubbling pot over the hearth fire. A kitchen was a place where she could feel very much at home. Producing foodstuffs that would sustain a body, feed the palace.
“I only have this dress, training clothes, and night clothes,” Aren said as respectfully as she could to the cook. “My training clothes are soiled, thus I have come to you with the only other clothing I had.”
“Looking for work?” the cook asked. “You look sickly, are you sickly?”
“I had the consumption illness, I was told, but am better now,” Aren said quietly. “Recovering after the illness will take some time.”
“You must be the one Telm told me might be coming. Said the kitchen master would not be able to scare you off as he has many others. Is that true?”
“I have not met the kitchen master,” Aren said. “I would not be able to accurately predict my reaction to his presence.”
“When the lady speaks, she never lies, even by accident,” the cook grumbled, returning to her chopping. “The kitchen master rarely visits. When he does half my staff leave with him. If you can tell me that you've a backbone enough to stand toe-to-toe with him, I'll provide for you; three sets of work clothes—spirits know I have enough left from those who could not even bring themselves to return for their private possessions—a job and, if you work hard, a wage of a coin a week.”
Aren stared mutely at the cook, unaware of what that translated to for a commoner. Was a coin a week good, or bad? Cheap, or well paid?
“Servants don't pay room and board. The palace feeds them, clothes them, and puts a roof over their heads, asking only for hard work.” The cook eyed Aren critically. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“How much longer are you a ward?”
“Six months.”
“Six months to prove you can work hard. Anything less and I will throw you out of my kitchen, am I understood?”
“Perfectly,” Aren said.
“Good. You, boy,” the cook said, throwing a small potato at a boy, “bring her that bag the little Magger left. Do it quickly. That'll be your clothing. You come back tomorrow morning, and I will put you to work.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Don't call me ma'am. I'm a commoner like most of the staff. Born without rank or title. I am only Cook.”
“As you say,” Aren said, turning to accept a canvas bag from the boy who had just returned.
Chapter Six
Av sat in the tavern, waiting for Jer, with a cold drink before him. The little one behind the bar, who had chilled his drink, smiled at him hopefully. He had gotten her the position in the tavern, making her all too happy to follow a few simple commands in order to try and fool others.
She wasn't bad to look at, but her hair was the wrong colour, her eyes were grey instead of a deep brown, and Av simply couldn't bring himself to give attention to someone so obvious. Ever since the confrontation in the hallway, when he thought for a moment that Aren might be something she wasn't, he hadn't stopped thinking about her.
A commoner who questioned him was one thing. But the ranks that came to court never dared question the master. They knew what his position meant, they knew that even Em would listen to him, if Av dared challenge the longest-ruling queen in two centuries.
It was the idea of the thing. For a wonderful moment, Av thought Aren a rank—not only a rank, but one willing to get out of bed, willing to work hard when commoners would have slept thankful for an excuse. Intelligent enough to be aware of her surroundings despite her illness, stubborn, reserved, polite, and willing to stand toe-to-toe with Av, literally. Av had considered chasing after Aren but knew that what he wanted, Aren would not be able to provide, even if she felt the desire.
Aren was just a commoner. The ranks Av had seen since that moment were all caught in comparison with what he had thought Aren might be. None of them measured up to the fantasy. Each rank left a bitterness in Av that needed to be expunged before he hurt himself or others.
Jer walked in to the tavern and made his way past the tables to Av. At the corner table the brothers would have a fair amount of privacy. The chair Jer sat in was right beside Av's, close enough that unwary witnesses might have thought the pair lovers, but everyone in the tavern knew Av and Jer, had seen them converse in just such a way before. Av paid for drinks for the tables surrounding theirs on the promise that the tables would be loud, creating a barrier.
The tables were filled by palace guards with a free day or two. Av trusted them to keep anything they might overhear to themselves. Nothing would get back to Em, which was Av's main concern. Em was becoming jealous of rivals—younger women with beautiful looks, women who drew the attention of too many lords. There was even one young man, who looked a bit like a woman in the right light, who had left the palace suddenly after a quiet conversation with Em.
“She's new,” Jer said about the young woman tending the tankards. “That's a problem.”
“I can barely tell. Em wouldn't notice her unless she stepped into the throne room. More pressing matters,” Av said to Jer, picking up his drink. “Besides, cold drinks. Who can argue with cold drinks, what with the warm weather we're suddenly having?”
Jer smiled as the barmaid brought him a chilled tankard of ale, as Av had directed her to when his brother arrived. Sipping the ale, Jer made an appreciative sound before taking another sip and motioning to Av to speak.
“Lady Aren Argnern,” Av sighed out.
This made his brother choke on ale. Sputtering, Jer set the tankard down with a thump and coughed several times. “What?”
“She was ill. She looked at me, and stood literally on my toes as she questioned me. While sick,” Av said, shaking his head.
“It's been years, Av, for good reason,” Jer said. “You're attracted to strong, stubborn women who refuse to bow to rank. Or title in the case of the last one. I still have to hear about how she stabbed lord snotty-pants about once a month. How's she doing, by the way?”
“Better now that Perlon's convinced her I didn't send her there to mate him. She's taken his guards and whipped them into shape like I whipped her,” Av said, managing to time it just so.
Jer choked on another sip of ale. “You promised never to mention that again. I do not need that image burned into my head, when I've got to go back to Em.”
“You're just mad because you'd love to do that to her.”
“Who doesn't want to give Em a good beating?” Jer muttered. “In the case of your problem, though, what's wrong with the barmaid?”
“She doesn't look right,” Av said.
“Fair enough. What's your lovely lady look like? Perhaps there's someone here who could match close enough to make do with,” Jer said as he began looking around the tavern.
Av picked up his drink, clearing his throat before he sipped.
He set down the drink before he spoke. “That's part of the problem. I still have no idea what she looks like. Suppose it's th
e coastal bloodline, maybe something she picked up from her mother, or in the village she grew up in. I don't know. It's difficult to find anyone who looks even near like her. None of them feel like her, that's for certain. If they did I could just turn down the lights.”
“Where is she?” Jer asked. “Does she know?”
“No, of course I mentioned nothing to her, but I think she suspected I might be interested,” Av said. “She ran off awfully fast for someone so ill. And she hasn't come back for training, though I suspect she's working the kitchen.”
“Suspect, Av?” Jer said all too knowingly.
“I'm not following her everywhere,” Av said. “I'm not following her at all, I should say. I went to talk to Telm about the outbreak, now that we know for certain it's over and Telm was grumbling about Aren working the kitchen like a common servant.”
Jer stiffened. “Did she say common servant, or commoner servant?”
“I'd think we'd know if Aren were ranked,” Av said glumly. “That's what started this whole thing. For a moment I thought she might be, but I hadn't slept in a few days and she was ill. Everyone acts strangely when they have been ill.”
The tankard was raised, Jer drained the ale from it, and thumped it back onto the table. “Em's been growling about a girlie queen hiding at court.”
“Mar arrived yesterday, so she might have been growling about her daughter coming to court,” Av said. “Besides, we won't allow anyone to take the throne. Em's sat it too bloody long. Here's to another decade of her on the throne. Which would make it the longest sitting in five centuries, instead of just two.”
“To Em,” Jer muttered as his tankard was replaced with a fresh one, chilled just like the first. “Are all the drinks chilled in this place?”
“Pay extra for that,” Av said. “You and me and one random at the tables for each round.”
“That's concerning,” Jer said quietly. “Em is serious about not having others like her this close to the palace. Send her away, to wherever you send the others you find.”
“It's a nice tavern, Jer,” Av protested. “It's nice to be able to sit here with a cold drink rather than warm piss because your mate has a stick up her—”
