Of Embers

by Amily Cabelaris

  The sleepless night adds to her sense of overwhelming. Ilvara tries to fight them, but the tears come fast. They burn her eyes and cool her warm cheeks. She bows her head, tasting their salt on her lips. The women weave strands of pearls into her hair in silence.

  Once she has given in to her emotions for a moment, Ilvara lifts her head. She wipes the damp trails off her face just in time for a maid to smear pale makeup under her eyes, hiding the evidence of her lack of sleep. She dabs more over Ilvara’s blotchy, red cheeks. A dab of rouge on the lips, a sweep of kohl over the eyes, and Ilvara is finished.

  She studies herself in the looking glass. She is a new woman from the dirty creature that was dragged in here two hours ago. Makeup covers any sign of vulnerability. She looks as if she slept soundly before waking to the happiest day of her life. Her hair is coiled into a twist at the nape of her neck, adorned with small pearls and a net weaved from soft silken threads. The dress they’ve squeezed her into hides her bony shoulders with gold trim and long, scarlet sleeves. A thin golden sash cinched at her waist gives the appearance of soft curves, while the long skirt conceals scraped knees and a fat, purple ankle.

  “You look lovely,” one maid says, breaking the silence of the last two hours.

  “I am a lovely façade,” Ilvara replies flatly.

  The maid recoils a hand from the fabric of her skirt. “Is the dress not to your liking, my lady?”

  The gown must have cost hundreds of gold and months of labour. The maker obviously took careful time in stitching each seam to be strong, yet smooth, joining panels of supple silk in a shade of red that rivals the burning sunset. Truly, it is the most beautiful thing she’s ever worn. And her predicament is not the fault of these poor maids.

  Ilvara shuts her eyes. “Forgive me. I have not slept well. The dress is lovely.” She gives them all a weak smile. “You have all done an excellent job. Thank you for your work.”

  The maid smiles and, with a nod, adjusts the section of skirt bunched up around her sash. As they work, Ilvara counts six of them. Six women to turn her into a bride.

  Another servant enters and sets a tray before her. Ilvara’s stomach immediately tightens. Slices of cheese, a little bread, baked apples. Despite the rolling of her insides, Ilvara reaches for the food like a starved animal. She downs the entire goblet of water in moments. Once she’s finished, the maids reapply rouge to her lips.

  “Apologies, again,” Ilvara mutters through her last bite of bread. “I haven’t eaten or drunk for some time. I’m sure you’re all wondering what Lord Krassis has gotten himself into.”

  The maid from before, the one with raven hair and a squashed nose, places her hand on Ilvara’s shoulder. She looks younger than Evelyn.

  To Ilvara’s surprise, she says: “It will all be well, my lady.”

  The words sound as if Evelyn herself spoke them. Ilvara takes a short breath. “Thank you,” she says to the girl, and to Evelyn, who whispered the same in her heart.

  She rises from her seat at the glass. With a final breath, she allows the women to lead her back out. Ilvara’s heart flutters unsteadily. Images of her wedding to Hadrian flash in her mind. Only Evelyn and one other maid helped her get ready that day. But Hadrian saw rouge and fancy dresses as gaudy and impractical, so her dress had been grey. In contrast to the bright, summer foliage of today, the leaves then were all beginning to change. Fading greens and yellows clung to thin branches. The evergreens stood ready to prove their endurance in the coming cold. And the air was cooling fast. It always did.

  In four months, it will have been seven years since that day.

  Krassis stands at the front of the hall before the priest. Suddenly, Ilvara forgets his first name. Something with an A. Andrew? Aaron?

  He’s smiling, dressed in a long tunic of deep crimson, adorned on the edges with gold trim like Ilvara’s dress. The similar clothing gives Ilvara a sense of belonging to him. And she does not want to belong to him.

  Ilvara hesitates. The maids have left her. She wishes they hadn’t. She would feel much better with them at her side, reminding her that all will be well. She would feel best with Evelyn at her side, a dagger in her hand, ready to defend her if she decided to flee.

  But she cannot flee. Asher and Caius are in the dungeons. Marrying Krassis will spare their lives. It will spare her own, if she’s lucky. It is the only solution to everything. If only I could remember his name…

  Ilvara finally makes it to the front of the hall. She tries to smile as she stands before him. The priest begins his long speech about the values of marriage and the importance of following the example of Arx and Clarus. Ilvara wonders why he is bothering with this. If she is not a good wife, won’t Krassis just have her killed? Perhaps such things would be frowned upon once Esterden sees she is his wife. Perhaps they won’t allow him to have her killed.

  Andrew, Ilvara thinks, just as the priest says it. That’s right.

  She hears a door open, but keeps her eyes on Krassis. Her feet are ready to break into flight, should whoever entered give the word. But no word comes.

  The priest hands Krassis a sword, a silver one with a swirling design on the hilt and a tiny “A.K.” carved into the base of the blade. Ilvara’s mouth waters when she sees it. Krassis kneels before her, holding up the blade.

  “By giving your sword to Ilvara, you pledge your lifelong devotion to her,” the priest says. “Lady Ilvara, do you accept this offering?”

  Ilvara stares down at it. The steel shimmers from the torchlight nearby. Her shadow covers part of it. She reaches down, wraps a hand around the hilt. It’s steady, strong. A beautifully made sword.

  She pictures herself driving the blade into Krassis’ chest—no one would even see the blood on his crimson tunic—shoving the priest away, blasting them all back with magic. She imagines her lungs burning as she races out into the morning air. The eyes of the Esterden citizens watching this woman, scarlet gown gathered in one fist, silvery blade in the other, charging through the city. The guards at her heels, never catching her. Stealing away into the arms of the forest.

  Then, tragically, the news of Caius and Asher’s executions reaches Tarreth. Ilvara makes it back, but she is all Evelyn has left, and despite Ilvara’s contentment with that, Evelyn has developed into a young woman, ready to start a life of her own. Evelyn is no longer an impressionable girl who crushes pottery in her hands at the first stroke of anger, but a very unique woman with a beating heart that cannot be caged. And she would never really forgive Ilvara for choosing freedom over the life of her first love, no matter Ilvara’s own opinions on the matter.

  Taking Hadrian’s sword was not this difficult. She had not thought twice about it. What if Evelyn is making a mistake with Caius, like Ilvara did with Hadrian?

  What if Evelyn and Caius do not remain together? What if all of this was for nothing?

  Her hand trembles. Stiffly, she lowers the sword to her side. At the end of it all, she must do what is right. Evelyn means too much to risk it.

  “I accept it,” she says.

  Krassis smiles. The priest hands each of them a gold band, then requests that they place it on the third finger of the other’s left hand while repeating his words. Ilvara lifts her hand for Krassis.

  There it is. Her silver ring. Hadrian’s silver ring. She had forgotten it was there. Why hadn’t the maids removed it? Did they miss the small band of tarnished metal in their occupation with her wounds?

  Awkwardly, Ilvara lowers her hand, wriggles the ring from her finger with her sword hand, and holds it against the sword while raising her left again.

  “I pledge thee my troth, Ilvara, until death shall part us,” Krassis says.

  He slips the ring into the furrow on her finger. Ilvara squeezes the silver one in her right hand against the sword hilt, denting a circle into her palm. Tears come without warning. Then, with her left hand, she slides the ring onto his finger.

  “I pledge thee my troth, Andrew, until death shall part us,” Ilvara
says. The words are numb against her lips.

  “And it shall be sealed in the eyes of the gods with a holy kiss,” the priest announces.

  Ilvara shuts her eyes. Krassis’ whiskers and wet lips press against her mouth. She opens her eyes only once he has pulled away.

  The priest raises his arms. “By the power of Arx and Clarus, I entrust you with the privilege and responsibility of matrimony. May you always follow their steps in courage, faithfulness, and love.”

  Love. Ilvara finally meets the eyes of the man holding her hand. He gives her a smile before turning to the small group of witnesses Ilvara did not even see until now. He leads her off the steps. She raises the sword off the floor when she realizes she was dragging it. She struggles not to tread the hem of her gown.

  Love. A servant pries her fingers off the hilt and takes it away, to hang it above their bed as is customary. The other ring falls out of her hand and bounces across the floor, rolling under one of the desks. Krassis pulls her through the witnesses toward their bedchambers.

  Love. She thinks only of that ring, lying in the dust under the desk. For seven years she’s worn it to show the rest of Aranea that she belonged to someone. For seven years it symbolized the adoration she’d had for her handsome, rich husband. For seven years she was faithful to it, guilty at the mere stirring of attraction to any other man. For at least six of those seven years, her husband did not do the same.

  Love. Love was that thing that made her blush when Hadrian handed her ten gold coins as payment for delivering a letter. Love sped up her heart, blurred her mind, dizzied her senses. Love drew Evelyn to a man who got her killed. Love swept up in a great whirlwind and left just as fast. When it was gone, Ilvara was empty. Alone. Bleeding to death. And at the end, what was the use of it all?

  Love is not what she feels for this stranger she now calls her husband. She finds it odd that courage must be added to the list of things a spouse must feel. Courage—that unpredictable creature. She was surprised to recognize it when Hadrian confessed his adultery, but it was gone in other moments. Before Evelyn was resurrected, when Caius left the burial garden, she did not feel courageous. She felt anything but courageous.

  But Evelyn is alive, and so are Caius and Asher. Hadrian is dead, Lockmire is destroyed, and Ilvara is married to an Esterden lord, circled by two women hungry for her blood.

  The gods must be laughing at her now.

  Post Ortum

  Chapter 22

  The Soldier and the Mage

  “Just tell me where she is. I have important news for her. Please.”

  “Evelyn is resting. Could you please wait downstairs?”

  “It’s this room, isn’t it?”

  Evelyn’s door bursts open. She sits up gingerly as Alec walks in, Priscilla close behind.

  “Evelyn,” he says, “I’m sorry for waking you, but I’ve just come from Prynveil. Someone there saw Ilvara taken captive.”

  Evelyn eyes widen. “And didn’t do anything?”

  “There were three of them, apparently. Bandits. But they said they wouldn’t harm her because Lord Krassis of Esterden wanted her alive.”

  Evelyn lets out a long breath. “Oh, praise Herus she’s alive.”

  “There’s more.”

  Evelyn tries to read his solemn expression. “What?”

  “Caius and Asher were captured and taken to Esterden as well. I saw a couple of dragons take them.”

  Evelyn nods slowly, digesting it. “At least they aren’t dead.”

  Alec wrings his shirt in his hands. “The Orc didn’t make it.”

  “Grogar? He went with Asher?”

  Alec nods. “I assume they killed him inside, but I didn’t want to get too close. When I saw the dragons leave with Caius and Asher, I knew Grogar was still inside. And if he was, he was dead. I’m sure of that. There was only one man who made it outside, but he wasn’t Caius or Asher. As I was scouting the area, he asked for directions to Prynveil. I just told him to follow the signs.”

  “All right. Thank you for telling me.”

  He nods again. “What are you going to do?”

  “I…I don’t know exactly. I can’t very well take all of Esterden by myself.”

  “Perhaps you could speak with Captain Bertrand,” he suggests. “He could arrange for troops to join you. I’ll happily accompany you myself.”

  “I appreciate that.” Evelyn slowly drags her legs out from beneath the covers. “I’ll speak with the captain and see what he thinks. Join up with Tarreth troops in case they march on Esterden. You’ll be very useful there.”

  “I’ll do that.” He turns to the door.

  “Thank you, Alec. You’ve given me both peace of mind and a new mission.”

  “Please,” he says, “tell me if you plan to do anything yourself. I want to help.”

  Evelyn has the very strong sense she won’t have time to tell him anything. Nevertheless, she says, “I will. Farewell.”

  He smiles once before leaving.

  “Are you sure you should be getting up?” Priscilla asks.

  Evelyn ignores her and stands. The skin pulls a little on her sides, but it doesn’t hurt. Francine is just as talented a healer as Asher claimed she was.

  “Come now; you know very well that I’ve suffered worse than this,” she says.

  Priscilla’s laugh sounds uneasy. Perhaps the memory of Evelyn’s resurrection makes her uncomfortable.

  “Indeed, but Asher wanted you to stay and rest,” Priscilla says. “Here, have some bread at least.”

  Evelyn takes the half-loaf from the desk. “I’ve slept all day and all night in this bed. I’m finished resting. And you heard the man. Ilvara, Caius, and Asher are in Esterden. I need to help them.”

  “How much help could you be in this condition?”

  Evelyn shoots her a look, cheek full of bread. “Francine healed me. I am all right.”

  “I am not trying to dissuade you from doing what you must, but it’s so dangerous.”

  “I have no choice.”

  Priscilla nods, eyes drifting to the floor. “I will stay with Alesia, and pray for all of you in this.”

  “Thank you,” Evelyn says. Moved by a prompting in her spirit, she reaches forward to take Priscilla’s hand. “Thank you for everything.”

  A smile brightens Priscilla’s face. “Of course. And ask Gabriel, but I’m sure you’ll be able to take a horse. It’ll be easier than walking to the captain’s tower with those freshly healed wounds.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Downstairs, Evelyn finishes off her bread as she makes arrangements for the horse, packs a few supplies, and thanks the ministers once again for their hospitality. She is just about to mount up when a woman in robes stops her.

  “Francine,” Evelyn says.

  “I didn’t know,” Francine says quietly, glancing around. “I didn’t know you were the one they raised from the dead. I don’t know how I didn’t know. I had heard you had white hair, then someone else said it was bright orange. A friend told me it was you yesterday.”

  “Yes,” Evelyn says, not sure what else to say.

  “You’re the woman from Lockmire who changed the entire war?”

  Evelyn shrugs. “Without intending to.”

  “Since I first heard of your imprisonment in Lockmire, I believed in your innocence.”

  “Oh. That news travelled here?”

  “Yes. Copies of events in the region are published weekly at the Diamond Eye. That was the major one a few weeks ago. They spoke of the jailbreak in detail. Said your accomplice shouted a dragon from the sky.”

  “Caius, yes. But if Tarreth people knew who we were, then why was there no stir at my party’s arrival?”

  “A copy was published saying you’d fled the region. We all believed it. Then, news of your supposed death was issued.”

  “Who publishes these things?”

  “Workers for the Diamond Eye get into every corner. They know Aranea and its events like a mothe
r knows her child. They’re publishing your resurrection this morning. My friend works there. He seems to know everything that goes on.”

  Uncomfortable with the thought, Evelyn glances toward the tower. “Well, I should be going. I have some business in the city.”

  Francine takes her arm. “May I ask: what kind of business?”

  “I need to speak with Captain Bertrand about helping some friends, your brother included.”

  “My...” Francine’s smile fades. “Asher needs help? Why? Where is he?”

  “He’s in Esterden. He was captured.”

  Francine’s face pales. “Gods. Take me with you.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll need a healer at your side, after what happened before. Take me.”

  Evelyn considers it only a moment before nodding. “Very well. I’m just speaking with the captain, though. I want to request that he send out men to take Esterden and rescue them.”

  “He won’t have troops ready today. Perhaps not for weeks. We may have to sneak in ourselves.”

  Evelyn’s eyes widen. “Just us?”

  Francine grabs her shoulder. “Who knows what they’re doing to them? We need weapons, armour, maybe another horse…”

  “We can’t take Esterden by ourselves, Francine.”

  “We won’t. We’ll just break them out. I’ve been to Esterden. They know me. I’ll get us both inside.”

  Evelyn blinks rapidly. “All right.” The idea is better than waiting here, not knowing. “What about Captain Bertrand?”

  “We’ll request some weapons from him. You’ll need one, won’t you? Come. Let us waste no more time.”

  Francine mounts the horse in front. Evelyn climbs up carefully behind her, minding her healing sides. Francine urges the horse off in a flash. They arrive at the tower in mere moments.

  Francine bursts inside. “General Asher Xerxes has been taken to Esterden,” she says as soon as she’s inside.