by R. Cooper
He swooped back to whisper furiously at Mil, ignoring the concern that would have compelled Mil and Arden to order more protection for him. Something else had just occurred to him as well. “What do you mean, ‘knowing they’ve no chance?’ He hasn’t been offending anyone. I made sure of that. We even practiced!” Mattin nearly hissed it. “Did you two decide against it and have been going through the motions so as not to offer any insults? You could have told me, you… you pair of dirt clods!”
“Well, fuck me,” Mil exhaled, staring at Sass in near wonder. Mattin considered poking a finger in his face again but recalled their audience in time to stop himself. He turned quickly instead, staring with dismay at Cael, Lan, Jola, Arden, and several others, who were, naturally, watching the scene.
Mattin inhaled sharply, and then, with little else to do since he could not explain himself, he turned on his heel and fled the room.
Just as he stepped beyond the doorway, he heard someone exclaim softly, “Oh dear. That could have gone better.”
He thought it might have been Lan.
Mattin was not at all appeased by the new cloak, in his size if not his usual style, that was left on his desk two days later. The cloak had clearly been commissioned much earlier, for it was not an item hastily bought or borrowed, but one designed with Mattin in mind. It was the sort of heavy winter garment the palace guards might wear, but the fur at the collar and in the lining was warm red-brown and soft to the touch, and the stitching was precise and perfect. It was, in fact, quite lovely for all that it was designed to be sturdy. Some part of him whispered that it was made to protect him from more than the weather, but Mattin let that stay a whisper. There was too much else on his mind.
He wore the cloak whenever he left his room to attend to his duties, but only because snowstorms had settled over the capital, and also because whenever he forgot it, one of the guards who trailed after him would either hand it to him or remind him to grab it—and his gloves as well. This occurred not once or twice, but regularly, as if Mattin’s guards—as they undeniably were—had been commanded to remind him.
Irked, Mattin nonetheless did not chastise them for it, since they were obeying their orders. Perhaps he also did not because there was comfort to be found in soft fur against his hands and brushing his neck. But he offered no comments, either, and left his reports and summaries on Cael’s desk.
He crossed the arched, elevated walkways over the guardhouse and the guard’s training area with a quick step, and rarely strayed from his path from the library to his room to Cael’s office. He received no more invitations and took his breakfasts alone. He thought this wise, and lamented it in his office with his cold tea, staring at reports he had trouble reading.
He did not know what the knot of feelings in his belly was, or how to unravel them to name them, or if it mattered if he did. They were obvious, he suspected, and others would name them for him if they had not already.
Mattin did not like his feelings being so close to being spoken of, when he had so carefully never done so himself. He had hoped they were invisible to others. He no longer had that hope. And yet, Mil was not cruel. Arden was not cruel. Cold, when needed, as was fitting for their roles, but never cruel, and never to him. He didn’t understand why they wouldn’t tell him that while they did not object to the idea of another marriage, they had no plans to seriously consider his choices. Why they would say what they had. Why they would tease him but take such gentle care of him when all he had done was have a little wine.
He fretted, and the assistants brought him tea, and then food he did not ask for but dutifully ate. He asked them, nicely, to help him keep his fire lit during the day and shivered in his cloak at night, after first shooing his guards into at least the library itself, where they would be marginally warmer. He did his job, answering the questions Cael put to him, and slipping into council meetings late enough that his arrival should go unnoticed and slipping back out before anyone could turn to him.
It was only a matter of time before Cael intervened. Mattin nearly expected it when she called him into her office to review the last council meeting. Per Tyrabalith had been oddly quiet for the duration, but though Cael had questioned Mattin about his thoughts on that, she had seemed more interested in the current state of the palace grounds and possible improvements once the government’s stability was more assured.
Her office was ancient, in a small building semi-attached to the old queen’s quarters, and though it had fireplaces in each room, the space remained chilly. Cael sat on a large, cushioned chair behind her vast desk, swaddled in velvet and furs, and drank warm, sweetened milk topped with the mild, spicy liquor from the deep woodlands where her people were from.
She raised pertinent questions about locations of previous houses and the age of some of the infrastructure, including bridges and plumbing and the leats through the gardens, both ornamental and practical. Mattin took notes in his ledger, and drank tea, and then eventually started to take his leave to go attend to this new assignment.
“It is good to speak with you,” Cael offered as Mattin rose to his feet. Mattin paused, because he knew that tone; she was not making the remark idly. “I do not think you realize how helpful your presence can be, Master Arlylian. You listen, and you offer thoughtful choices, and you can be relied upon. That is admirable in easy times, and invaluable in the hard.”
“I… thank you.” Mattin ducked his head and held his tongue as he waited for the rest.
Cael’s even voice fell on the back of Mattin’s neck like a sword stroke. “Your presence has been missed.”
Mattin closed his eyes and exhaled before he raised his head again. Nothing he said here would leave this office unless Cael deemed it a matter of critical importance, which was a confidence possibly even more sacred than the secrets shared between lovers.
“Since I have been informed that nothing will come of the meetings between the king and any potential suitors, I thought my presence at those meetings would be unnecessary.”
He said it more stiffly than he should have.
Cael did not blink. “That is for you to decide. No one here would command you to. However…”
“My presence has been missed,” Mattin finished for her, sighing. He was warm and cold, heart pounding and hands trembling. There was a name for that. He did not use it. “Have they told you it is a pretense? That they will not choose a new spouse from this list or possibly any other?” He frowned, briefly distracted. “Surely, this will cause more offense.”
Cael had a sip of her sweet, spicy milk. Her smile was not quite hidden by the cup. “People at court are used to spectacles, and most recognize them when they see them. This one is already building relationships as the king and his husband personally meet with many from the oldest families. Most have been honored with the chance to speak with such famed figures in intimate settings. As for the rest, nothing has progressed to the point where offense, or a broken heart, would even be a possibility. Although, of course, some not invited to these meetings might feel excluded. But that can be resolved in time.”
Some of Mattin’s frown unfurled. “Everyone is playing along? Doesn’t anyone want to marry them?”
Cael’s expression briefly froze on her incredulity and amusement before she smoothed it back to calm. “There are many who would say yes to him now, if he asked. I won’t deny it.” She looked up, patient but expectant. “But you chose people with sense, and people with sense are not expecting him to ask. That cloak is new, isn’t it? I noticed it the other day. Those gloves as well? I don’t think I’ve seen them before. A bit practical for you.” Mattin visibly bristled despite himself. Cael held up her hand in silent apology. “A little practicality is better than something ornamental, no matter how beautiful. Something to feel, heavy on your shoulders, warm around your hands, instead of something to merely look at or be admired in—although, of course, that is nice too.”
Mattin had to swallow several times in order to speak. “They wer
e gifts.”
Cael’s smile said she knew that. “You do have a habit of forgetting such things.”
The walls of Cael’s office held secrets and confessions that would give Mattin more sleepless nights if he contemplated them. “Such things?”
Cael sat back, her cup in her hands. “You do not avoid the world, exactly, Master Arlylian, but you often forget aspects of it. Or, rather, fail to note them because they are not facts on a sheet, or lines in a ledger. You analyze information very well, except for those areas you do not see, or don’t think to look for… or do not want to look for.”
Mattin did not shuffle his feet, though he might have. He hesitated, then lifted his chin. “What am I missing?”
The sound that left Cael was too pained to be a mere sigh. “The murder of our old queen—yes, yes, she did not die, not then, but I will still call it her murder—set off nearly twenty years of chaos. Twenty years of scheming and foolishness and danger that none of us could have anticipated. Or maybe some Master Keeper did but was ignored; I couldn’t say. There had been troubles before. Our history stretches back for a very long time. Of course, there were troubles. But nothing like this. And all because of a nephew’s hurt feelings, impatience, and pride. None of us escaped it without scars, even those of us who fled the capital, or who subsequently grew up in a country where this was normal. It has shaped us, all of us. This is what makes it so difficult for so many to trust him. Oh, his name matters as well, naturally. He is The Canamorra, just and terrible.”
“To a certain sort of person,” Cael continued when Mattin was about to object, “Arden is order and he is a threat to order.” She waved one hand dismissively. “But that is not my point. My point is that just as Arden cannot trust us, we struggle to trust him. Even those of us who want to. I knew that boy. He grew up here, eating biscuits I snuck him and hiding in the stables when his parents were short with him. I watched him take punishments meant for his adventurous sister and filch books from the library for Ral—and take punishments for that, too. I watched him stop smiling after it all, their deaths, her death, his family’s disgrace. I watched his husband with him, although he was also just a boy, then, and they were more awkward colts than stallions. Mil Wulfa.” Cael paused to heave another breath. “He would have come to run this place if he had stayed, if he’d had the stomach to serve pretenders, which he does not, may the fae bless him. I know them better than most, and I love them… but I am afraid to believe in them, because twenty years of fear cannot be forgotten at will.”
“That isn’t… I don’t blame him, or either of them, for what happened.” Mattin shook his head. “Of course not.”
“I didn’t say you did. I said what happened left its marks on us. It taught some of us to be guarded, and some of us to hide, and some of us to act decisively when it comes to battle but hesitate over softer matters.” Cael held his gaze. “One does not learn how to woo a beat-of-four in the Outguard.”
“Woo a—” Mattin clutched the strap of his satchel. They had considered it. They had discussed it. They had asked him. He wet his lips. “He told me… he said… that I had seen him without his armor. Mil said that they trusted me.”
“Those truly are beautiful gifts.” Cael considered Mattin from above her cup. “I hope you thanked whoever gave them to you. They must worry about you a great deal and are willing for everyone in the palace to know it, although some might view that as a weakness.”
“I would serve them as I would serve no other royal couple.” Mattin stared down at his boots marked from his journey through the snow. The knot inside him grew tighter. “They trust me.” The thought warmed him to his fingertips, but the knot was still there. “And I am a beat-of-four.”
He was a good choice. Inoffensive to most, with a distinguished lineage, and the royal couple liked him. He was everything on his list, and they knew him. So they were courting him, using the very advice he had given them.
He had indeed not seen that.
“I’m afraid I must go,” he murmured, although he had already been on his way out when Cael had stopped him.
“Master Arlylian?” Cael put down her cup. “I did not say this to upset you.”
“I know, and I thank you.” Mattin could not meet her eyes. “This was surprisingly sensible of them. You must have been very patient as they worked it out. But I wish…” He wished many things, but the fae did not feel like answering him today, it seemed.
“You haven’t listened. You’re as bad as they are.” Cael made a politely disgusted noise and moved as if to get up.
Mattin nodded quickly in farewell so she would not bother. “I will thank them,” he promised, bowing his head once more to avoid Cael’s vexed glare, then leaving her office.
He stood outside in the snow for some time after, a concerned guard on either side of him as he stared unseeing at a garden covered in white.
Mattin found them the next morning, earlier than he normally would have bothered on a day he was not expected anywhere, in a courtyard among nobles and palace guards alike, who were all watching—and betting—on some of the guards as they sparred for their training. It was a common way to pass the time for the more athletic crowd, who had less to do in the winter months. The guards sometimes took some of the winnings, or so Mattin had heard, but he did not usually attend such events.
Mil was there officially, Arden likely just to spend time with his husband. But the guards would be pleased by the king and former guard’s presence, almost certainly.
Mattin had not slept, yet had lingered in his room, twisting his hair into a knot instead of a braid, which he held in place with jeweled pins and not clasps. His new cloak was buttoned tight at his neck, his new gloves closed at his wrists.
His change in routine had confused his escort, but they seemed happy enough now to be among the others.
Mattin stopped on the sidelines, prepared to wait until the sparring was over to ask for a moment of Arden’s time, but someone whispered in Arden’s ear, and then Arden looked to Mattin, and Mattin found himself stepping through the crowd to go to him. Several more guards appeared to clear his path and Mattin clucked his tongue but did not comment.
The king sat on one chair in a row of them that had been brought outside and placed beneath a small, open tent, although the snow had stopped for the moment. Mil was next to him, but stood up to watch Mattin approach.
“Sass.” Mil greeted him, gesturing for Mattin to sit if he so pleased. Since Mattin’s legs threatened to give out, he sat, perching carefully on the edge of the offered chair. That this put him next to Arden, and then Mil when Mil sat on his other side, was unfortunate, although perhaps a blessing, since it meant Mattin did not have to look at either of them. He stared straight ahead, wincing at the fighting, then directed his gaze downward.
He’d thought to begin by apologizing for his absence, although that could only be explained by baring more than he wished to. Then he’d imagined discussing anything and everything but their honorable and most flattering intentions. But now he was seated between them, at the king’s side, and it had been done so neatly that he sighed.
“Are we forgiven, then?” Arden asked, voice pitched low. Mattin shivered helplessly. Arden turned from him to someone nearby. “Can we please get a cup of something hot for Master Keeper Arlylian? Tea if you have it, but anything will do.”
Mattin briefly shut his eyes. “Forgiven? You have not done anything disgraceful or deceitful, not really.”
“’Not really,’ he says.” Mil tapped a large fist against his knee. “Something has upset you.”
“It is I who should ask your forgiveness,” Mattin rolled on, though it made Mil scoff quietly. “I have not been around to fulfill my duties, but I have been working. I have revised the list.”
“Ah.” If it had not come from Arden Canamorra, the sound would have been awkward and uncertain. “He has revised the list,” Arden added, apparently to Mil.
“I heard,” Mil replied impatiently.
Mattin’s pinned hair left his ears exposed, and he rubbed them absently, distracted by the sting. “I have found more suitable options for you. If it was the age difference that bothered you, we can go older. I am not sure how I chose so many only at the start of their twenties. I might have had some concern about those your age and their activities during the past decades. But I have considered these candidates more carefully.”
“Cael didn’t mention you were working on a new list,” Arden said when it did not seem that Mil would speak. Mattin did not spare a moment to wonder what Cael had told him, but he did glance up in time to catch the look the other two exchanged over his head.
“We don’t want you making yourself sick over this.” Mil accepted a large mug from a guard with a brusque expression of gratitude and then handed the mug carefully to Mattin, who had no choice but to take it. The mug was clay and so hot it instantly warmed his fingers. Mattin held it close to catch the steam and help the frozen tip of his nose. The steam smelled of broth he had no intention of drinking, but he was grateful for it, for the comfort of having it to hold, and then saddened by the thoughtfulness of it.
“Are you still angry with us?” Arden was studying him; Mattin could tell although he did not look up. “We didn’t think this was considered pushing by your rules, but if you felt pushed, we will stop.”
Mattin burned at the memory of being teased for his arousal at the thought of them, and for what it implied—that they had known all along of everything Mattin hadn’t wanted known. He burned more for liking that they knew. Mil had pressed him to that balcony because neither of them would mind Mattin in their bed. That was what it meant that Mil had done it, and that Arden had told Mattin of what he and Mil had done in the past. The knowledge coiled and tied itself tight in Mattin’s stomach like every other confusing feeling they inspired in him. But pushed? No, he did not feel pushed. Not nearly enough.
