by Anna Steffl
“What did you say?” the captain asked.
His voice seemed to resonate through Arvana, shake her bones. From behind the spectacles, his eyes, a breathtaking light blue, bore into her. Heat flamed her face. How could anything so coldly blue be so searing? “It’s plain...a dedication...to Thiabault.” She forced her gaze to his boots. They were honey-colored, soft suede, so unusual for a soldier. But she couldn’t help but look back up at him.
He nodded curtly and slipped the sword into the scabbard.
She turned from him and to the king. What would Lerouge say of the sword now?
Jesquin, with a lovely pleading expression, was speaking into her father’s ear, but he, grimacing, was still looking at the captain’s scabbard. Finally, though his expression never changed, he sloughed his shoulders, tore his gaze from the sword and said, “Sarapostans, come this evening to my table. I’ll give you audience afterward. I will consider what I can do for Sarapost.”
Deciding she wasn’t needed further, Arvana returned to her seat. No one noticed. Prince Fassal was beaming as he accepted the king’s invitation. Jesquin was just as happy. Captain Degarius wore a blank look. What did he really know of his sword? Arvana buried her hands in her sleeves. Goose bumps covered her arms. If anyone found she’d lied to the king, her head would be on a stake, a feast for the carrion birds.
The princess glided into her seat and clutched the tablet to her chest. “What a lovely lesson this has been.”
“Lovely.” Arvana touched her hand to her chest as the captain strode down the dais. She couldn’t see his face, but there was a hitch, nearly imperceptible, in his step.
“Isn’t he the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?” The princess sighed.
Hardly knowing if she answered aloud or only in her head, Arvana replied, “Yes.”
FOUNDLINGS
Lake Sandela Hant, Gheria
The dragline went taut in Lieutenant Juvenot’s hands. “I snagged something.”
As he gripped the rope tighter, a similar tightness gripped his chest. What if it was the sword that killed Seraph? He prayed he’d be the one to find the blade that at once destroyed his hope and might now be his only chance for redemption.
His rower, and those of the six other boats making a parallel sweep of Lake Sandela, stilled their oars. As the boat slowed, the layer of yellow, frothy scum reformed in its wake.
The only sound was the splash of the oars of the Fortress Guard’s boat that followed them, watching their every move. The guard boat glided in closer.
Juvenot begged the Eternal Master that the magnet at the end of his line had snagged the sword instead of a piece of debris from the hant. He’d rather bear the curse of the ancients than that of the sovereign. Tending the creature, he and his regiment-mates had lived within the shadow of an ancient ruin for half a year and no unusual sickness or bad luck had plagued them—unless you counted the creature’s death as bad luck. The sovereign wouldn’t see it that way, though. It was the regiment’s failure of duty that had allowed a band of Sarapostan trappers to kill Seraph, their charge. Though Juvenot doubted it was any mere trapper who killed Seraph. Only a blessed sword could kill a draeden, or at least that’s what history said, and there was only one blessed sword. The dead man who floated to the top of the lake had to be Prince Lerouge or one of his emissaries. That’s why the sovereign had sent his adopted son to make sure the sword was retrieved from the lake. That’s why a boat of Forbidden Fortress guards watched their every move. That was why a special leniency was promised to the men in the boat who found the sword.
Hand over hand, Juvenot drew in the rope. His gloves grew foul with the scum the rope collected. A long gray shape appeared under the surface.
A sword.
Easy does it, he thought. Bring it up smooth so it doesn’t drop back to the bottom of the lake.
The heavy magnet broke the surface. At the midpoint of the blade, the sword was stuck to it.
Just a bit more.
He grasped the sword’s hilt and as if it was a newborn babe, most carefully brought it into the boat.
The rower, leaning far forward on his seat for a better look, asked, “Is it the one?”
It took all of Juvenot’s strength to pull the heavy, strong magnet from the blade. He wiped the mud and scum from it with his faded blue jacket sleeve. “It’s engraved, but not in Gherian.”
“Bring it to the shore,” shouted the nearest Fortress Guard from the boat that had been watching.
As they reached the shore, General Aleniusson strode into the shade of the overturned pot that had held Seraph on his journey to the lake. Someone must have summoned him.
“Don’t go to the dock. Take me straight to the general,” Juvenot said, unwilling to give up the sword to anyone except Aleniusson. At the dock, someone would want to take it from him while he disembarked.
The bottom of the boat scraped to a stop in the shore’s soft mud. He stepped into the shallows, not minding ruining his boots. What were boots when the sovereign’s son waited? “I have found it for you, my glorious General Aleniusson,” he cried as he walked as fast as dignity would allow toward the overturned pot.
“Show me,” Aleniusson said.
The general didn’t reach for the sword with his single hand, so Juvenot, with a chest full of breath, held it for him to examine.
Brow contracted, the general said with heavy disappointment, “It isn’t what I expected.”
Juvenot’s pulse raced in alarm. How could it not be the sword? Why in the Eternal Master’s name would there be more than one sword at the bottom of the lake? Did Aleniusson mean to keep the sword’s identity a secret? Steal it? Juvenot cast the gaze of his one eye to the ground and with all the respect in the world said, “It looks a fine sword, my sovereign’s son.”
“It is so fine that Captain Degarius had his name put upon it. What a bastard, to mar such a blade with his foul name.” The general grabbed the sword and went to the two skeletons baking in the sun. One was that of the man who killed Seraph; the other was the creature’s. It stretched a hundred paces along the shoreline. The corpses had floated to the top of the lake before Aleniusson arrived. Now, three new moons later, the flesh had all decayed and the bones were bleaching. Aleniusson took the sword and thrust it downward through rib cage of the man’s skeleton. The blade stuck upright in the ground. Then he bent, took the forearm bone, and flung it into the lake.
The rest of the men had arrived from the boats and the barracks. They gathered around the pot, looking at turns from Juvenot to the general. Juvenot smelled fear all around him. Not the sweet smell of the captives he’d fed to Seraph. It was like the stink of common farmhands, part sweat and part manure. It hung around the men in dense clouds like the mosquitoes at twilight.
Their glances to him were accusing. Because he had found the blade, they were deprived the chance of mercy. Maybe the smell of fear was tainted with anger. Though certainly fear was stronger. They feared for their fates because they weren’t the lucky one to find the sword, and the general was in a rage. What punishment would he bestow on them for allowing Seraph to be killed?
The general pulled the sword from the ground and returned to the waiting men. “It is the sword that killed the draeden and the sword that took my arm. I am ordered to bring the man who found this to the Forbidden Fortress so that the sovereign may reward him. That is you.” He pointed the sword at Juvenot.
“It has been my honor to serve the sovereign.” Juvenot bowed. He was to receive a reward from the sovereign! “I was caretaker of the creature during our journey here.”
“You are the man who cannot smell,” said the general.
Juvenot nodded.
“And you’ve lost an eye. You have suffered a great deal in this life. I am glad I shall not have to inflict another deficit upon you.”
In Aleniusson’s face there was sympathy. Having lost an arm, he understood. What a noble son the sovereign had chosen. But of course, the sovereign would c
hose brilliantly.
“I am required to ask that you promise to speak to no one about what happened here. The sovereign does not want his enemies to know that the draeden existed...and was killed. Do you promise?”
Juvenot pounded his fist to his heart. “With all my soul.”
“Good. As for the others, guards—”
The Fortress Guards drew their swords and Juvenot put his hand to his nose. The place was rotten with fear.
“The sovereign ordered your deaths, but since you worked diligently dredging the lake, I am moved to mercy.”
A relieved cheer went up.
“Cut out their tongues.”
The Forbidden Fortress, Gheria
“I have most excellent news for you, my Sovereign,” said the Cleric Rorke. His mouth salivated at the sweetness of the announcement, as if it was cream-filled pastry presented on gold plate.
The sovereign was sitting alone in the coffin room. Only a few of the candles in the glass globes were lit, giving the soft glow of twilight to the scenes of the four seasons painted on the walls. “We are glad you are here. We have an important task for you, one that can’t be trusted to Nils.”
As gratifying as it was that the sovereign had taken him into his complete confidence, Rorke felt like a child whose hand had just been slapped away from the pastry because he had to eat dinner first. “I will undertake anything my Sovereign desires.”
“We have a special guest for my coronation as divine emperor at the end of the Winter Solemnity. We wish her to have the clothes of an empress, after the fashion of what my mother wore, but finer yet. Spare no expense.”
Was the sovereign to be married? What if he had a child? Rorke’s rule of a kingdom would last only until the child came of age. He wasn’t exactly in his first bloom of youth, but he hoped to have far more than sixteen years left. “But tell me the name of the lady and I will secure the best materials and tailors.”
“Breena.”
The name wasn’t familiar. “Is she a new Lily, or a cabinetman’s daughter?”
“Neither. She was a commoner.”
Rorke’s eye twitched trying to suppress the raising of a brow. “Where shall I find Mistress Breena?”
“Here.”
The sovereign lifted the tablecloth and meticulously folded it halfway over itself. Underneath it was a gilt box topped with a sheet of the most flawless glass Rorke had ever seen. Inside was a human-sized wax doll wearing the clothes and sapphire braided hair of a Lily Girl. No, not a wax doll. The roasted pigeons from lunch fluttered in Rorke’s stomach with the dawning revelation that the box was a coffin and the figure no doll. It was why this was called the coffin room. Not because it was close and windowless. He choked down the salty, fatty taste of lunch. “This is Breena. You wish the clothes for her.”
The sovereign bowed over the coffin and gazed down into the waxed face. “She will finally have the coronation denied her.”
This was one task Rorke would have rather left to Nils. He shuddered at the thought of not just touching, but dressing a corpse. Perhaps the garments could be cut open in the back and tucked under the body. “Must I take any special precautions?”
“Be gentle. She suffered a painful death. Her clothes caught fire and couldn’t be put out in time. Most of her body was burned.”
“What a terrible accident.” It wasn’t just a corpse. It was a burned corpse.
“It was no accident. My mother was arguing with her and pushed her into a candle tree. She hated Breena because she was a commoner.”
Ah, so that was why all the candles in the room were encased in glass globes. It was why all the Lily Girls looked like the exquisite wax doll. The sovereign had been trying, all these years, to recreate his lost love. It was tender, pitiful, and disgusting. Yet, men of much power could do as they pleased. The thought of power brought him back to his news. But first he must shift most artfully from the sovereign’s preoccupation with the corpse. “I will dress the empress as none other before has been dressed. I know all the best furriers, silk merchants and gem cutters. As always, I am your endeavoring servant—and my endeavors on finding a spy in Acadia have come to fruition. I have engaged the services of a lordly confidant of Prince Lerouge.”
The sovereign broke his gaze from the wax face and turned it, so intensely blue and penetrating, upon Rorke. “A lord?”
Rorke imagined the sovereign’s pleased smile beneath the hood. For there had certainly been a smile in his voice. “He is a young man by the name of Sebastion. He often accompanies the prince, was invited to the Lerouge summer palace. His family is ancient, from the time of Lukis, but without money. Our lord makes his way by gaming, sometimes in the less than noble establishments. He lost 2,000 crowns to one of my spies in the longshoremen’s union. This not-insignificant debt will be marked repaid in full if our Sebastion can find the lady in court who wears a certain locket.”
“And what will your spy do with this lady?”
Rorke now smiled. “Kill her, of course. I requested her head along with the locket.”
A SOLDIER’S DUTY
The Lerouge family sitting room
“I’m going to marry her.”
Fassal’s words speared though the ache of Degarius’s still tender feet and his wrenching disappointment over the revelation about his sword. He sat straight in his chair. “What?”
“I’m going to marry her.”
Fassal was staring at the princess who, with a Miss Gallivere, was alternately fretting and giggling over the copper coffee pot. Nat would have had the damn after-dinner coffee made by now. Aloud to Fassal, Degarius asked, “Marry her? You’ve decided that just now?”
“No, I decided this afternoon when I first saw her.”
Degarius relaxed and shook his head.
“Brother, haven’t you ever known something to be true and sure from the start?” Fassal asked.
Degarius guessed his friend had been truly and surely besotted from the start by the girl’s generous bosom, which showed to advantage as she bent to lift the coffee pot from the tray of hot sand that sat over the burner. In the Borderlands, he’d seen enough of Fassal’s amorous advances to know the girl’s short stature and ample figure were exactly his taste. Degarius was about to dismiss Fassal’s statement when the prince sighed and glanced to the king, who was playing cards with Lady Martise.
“Her father’s going to be the trouble,” Fassal said. “What could Sarapost offer him?”
Fassal was serious. He went on, “At the Provincial Assembly I shouldn’t have made that crack about the country horse winning. It set me out on the wrong foot.”
At the mention of foot, Degarius’s feet began to burn. It took all his fortitude not to grimace or limp after the fight this afternoon. He was dying to pull off the boots, but here was Miss Gallivere, the young woman who’d been his dinner partner. She was approaching with two coffee cups.
Fassal elbowed him in the shoulder and whispered, “See, didn’t I tell you Acadia is full of beautiful women and that even you aren’t too blind to appreciate a good thing now and then?”
That was the line Fassal had used when he’d told Degarius that his next appointment was a diplomatic mission and not the generalship. Except then he’d used his hands to mimic the effects of a low-cut gown. Miss Gallivere certainly did fill out a gown.
At the lady’s arrival, Fassal said of the coffee, “I believe the princess has mine,” and jaunted away.
Miss Gallivere gave him his coffee. It was foamy. She put hers on one of the strategically placed little tables, pulled a chair next to his, and sat.
He was about to drink when Miss Gallivere put a hand to his arm. “You must wait until the grounds settle, Captain. It’s a new way of making coffee.” Her fingers lingered on his arm, as if she had forgotten the placement of her hand. That was odd. She’d been rather cool at dinner. “Princess Lerouge told me of your performance at the Provincial Assembly. They are already naming you champion at Brevard.”
“Then I shall be the first to contradict the story with authority,” she said with cultivated ennui while squeezing his arm. “The princess also told me you have an estate. Do you spend much time there?”
So here was the reason for her sudden interest. He was no longer a mere captain without prospects. He didn’t blame her. A woman had to have means in life as well as a man. At least she was blatant about it. “I live mainly on the frontier. During the winter I divide my time between town and my estate.”
Finally, she removed her hand. “So you are lord as well as Captain Degarius?”
“I prefer the earned title.” He blew on his coffee.
“As well you should. By luck of birth, even a fool can be a lord. I’ve often thought that if I was born a man, I would have been a soldier.”
“Infantry or cavalry?”
“Cavalry, sir!”
Degarius held the cup to his lips and looked at her askance. She wore a seductive smile. He had to be careful with this one. A misspoken word in public and a noblewoman’s father would be pressing for an engagement. He raised a brow to her smile and sipped the coffee. It was horribly sweet. He tried not to frown as he swallowed. What in the hell had they done to ruin honest coffee? Nat could make coffee a thousand times better. Nat. Why had he taken the boy with him to Sandela? Why did he let him take Micah’s horse? He sat the cup and saucer on the table, and all the ill humor he’d felt returned.
