by Anna Steffl
“You have no heirs and at the rate you’re going, will never have any. Miss Gallivere was mortified that you came in sopping at the ball, unfit to dance or say a fair word to anyone. Then her mother—”
“Brother, do this one thing for me.”
The king’s secretary was waiting for them at the gated portal to the staterooms.
“I’ll do what I can,” Fassal said. “But not until after the accord is signed. I’ll not jeopardize it by instigating the king’s ill humor. I’ve run afoul of him once already.”
In the most lavish room Degarius had ever seen, the king, a general, and an admiral sat around an enormous table. Gilded molded plaster and official state portraits of the Lerouges covered the old stone walls. The signing of this accord was no light matter.
“My witnesses,” the king said. “Shall Captain Degarius suffice as yours?”
Fassal assented, so Degarius presented his work, and they took seats at the far end of the massive table.
The king, with no show of either approval or condemnation, took his time digesting the accord. Finally, he said to his witnesses, “This duplicates the stipulations I made orally with the Sarapostans for the deployment of Acadian forces against the Gherians. I agree as it stands, unless there are objections.”
None made, King Lerouge put his bold mark to the paper. The copies circulated to acquire the signatures of the witnesses. In inking his name, a small satisfaction settled on Degarius. It was nothing to a generalship, but his life’s goal was, after all, to assure peace for Sarapost and this document was a step in that direction.
The king dismissed the admiral and general. He extended his hand to Fassal. “Tonight, Sarapostans, come to dinner.”
Say something about my sword, Degarius inwardly urged Fassal.
Fassal heartily shook the king’s hand. “Dinner? With pleasure. And I have a proposition for you. I’ve felt bad that I offered you a sword as paltry as my captain’s as assurance of my intentions. Your daughter is worth far more. I wish instead to give you one dear to my heart.”
Degarius’s hope rose. Oh, Fassal was damnably brilliant and eloquent. If the king didn’t know what his sword was, he’d surely agree to the terms.
“Swords, you say.” The king started past, motioning them to follow. “Come with me to see my collection. I know you are both connoisseurs of the blade, and I have a gift to dispense.”
A gift? Following the king far into the windowless interior of the Citadel, hope simmered in Degarius that King Lerouge was going to return his sword as a mark of goodwill.
They stopped before a heavily fortified door guarded by six soldiers. The king withdrew the key from a pocket deep within his robe. If this was where his sword was, it was a good thing Degarius never seriously contemplated trying to retake it. He’d have been able to handle three, but not six guards. And they didn’t have the key, the king did. To bust down that door, one needed a battering ram. The king opened it.
Rack after rack of historic weaponry hung from the walls. It was a magnificent collection in scope and depth. Where was his piece, Assaea? There it was, between a Tremblador blade and a wicked serrated knife with a carved bone grip. As when his grandmother first took the sword from his grandfather’s trunk in the attic at Ferne Clyffe, all his boyhood awe over the sword welled anew. After a summer spent plowing, mowing, and harvesting, it was nothing for his fourteen-year-old frame to haul his grandfather’s trunk into the dormer’s light. From the trunk, his grandmother unfolded a black uniform coat decorated with a patchwork of medals. It had belonged to his grandfather, General Stellan Degarius. She held it up to young Degarius’s shoulders and said, “You are Stellan all over again. He was the bravest of men. He would be so proud of you, Nanie. You work as hard as a grown man.” She gestured approvingly at his widened shoulders. “Your father couldn’t plow a quarter of what you do in a day.”
Being at Ferne Clyffe wasn’t hard, the boy Degarius thought. He loved the work, how it made his body ache and grow strong at the same time. He loved the smell of freshly broken earth, of green growing things, of hay drying. Was anything finer than hearing the crack of a watermelon splitting open and then feasting on the miracle of its sweet, red middle? It was hard, though, to hear his father disparaged. His grandmother never forgave his father for choosing a career in diplomacy. She said Gherians were a stubborn race. They never listened to words, only force.
“I want to show you something,” his grandmother said. She set aside the uniform and dug a velvet-wrapped parcel from the bottom of the chest. “It was found in Gheria, at my childhood home when my father dug footings for a barn.” She uncovered an old sword and scabbard. “I gave it to my Stellan when we married.” The faraway, wavering glint of nostalgia animated her eyes. “What do you think of it?”
“It is beautiful, Grandmother Lina.”
“Your grandfather would want you to have it.” She placed the sword in his hands. “Would you like it?”
The sword’s grip was surprisingly at home in his grasp. “Yes, I’d like it very much.”
“Study hard, Nanie. Learn how to handle a sword. Only then will I trust it to your keeping. You see, it’s a special sword. Can you keep a secret, one even your father doesn’t know?”
So much for trusting it to his keeping. Now the king had it. Lerouge motioned them to another rack. “As a mark of our friendship, I show you something few have seen. Here is Artell, the most famous of all swords.”
Degarius looked with earnest awe...and relief. Artell looked nothing like Assaea. Lukis and Paulus had carried distinct, unique blades. The king hadn’t stored them together. Perhaps he didn’t suspect what Degarius’s sword was. He paid no extra attention to it. The Solacian had kept his secret.
The king’s hand went to the rack, but it didn’t take Artell. He removed the blade below it. “This is the Citrian Heart, my personal favorite piece.” The king fondled the silver hilt whose end encompassed an enormous heart-shaped ruby. “The stone is flawless. The Citrian prelate’s foolish second son, Demetrius, filched it and secretly wagered it against me for autonomous rule of his province in the ’04 Brevard tournament. Though held to be the best swordsman of his time, Demetrius fell before ever reaching the round with me. It was the easiest bet I ever won.”
Demetrius. What unsavory thing had Degarius heard about the famous swordsman’s last tournament? Ah yes, Degarius’s sword master was at Brevard when Demetrius, deemed unbeatable, fell to an unknown Acadian in only the second round. The sword master insinuated that Demetrius’s death was a foul thing. With only a little cut upon him, Demetrius collapsed and died. The king’s physician said his heart gave out. Poisoned blade, Degarius’s sword master said.
The king’s loving expression as he replaced the Citrian Heart rankled Degarius. The king was utterly without honor. By duplicity, he took what he wanted. What would he have done to get Assaea if he knew the truth of what it was?
“Now, what I came here for,” said the king. “As a symbol of Acadia’s good faith in your commitment to our treaty, I present you with this Te-a Raha, a fine sword from our renowned Acadian craftsman. It’s not fancy, isn’t for show or to display its owner’s wealth because it’s merely what a sword should be—strong and lethal. Te-a Rahas must swing. Other pieces, the ones you see here, need to be locked away, kept pristine. They are a record of history not to be defiled by common hands.”
“My humble thanks,” Fassal said as he accepted the blade.
It was the least valuable piece in the room, the only thing that wouldn’t be defiled by Sarapostan hands. How did Fassal manage to thank the king with such seemingly real gratitude?
Fassal glanced to Degarius and then to the far rack. “King Lerouge, there is Degarius’s sword. I truly wish to give you much finer.”
The king headed to that rack and took Assaea from the support.
Though he never prayed, Degarius asked in his heart for his sword. It was the one thing dear to him.
King Lerouge he
ld the sword, turned it this way and that. “You make a generous offer, Fassal, but my son will like this well enough. He will be home in the next moon, but it is his birthday within the week and I wish him to have it.” The king called for a guard. “Have this delivered to Prince Lerouge. Send it on the Triesis. It’s leaving on the next tide, within the hour. Hurry.”
As the sword left the room, bitterness over the futile prayer gushed into Degarius. The sword wasn’t in his hands, and it would be on a ship. One foul blast of weather could send it to the bottom of the sea. So much for a benevolent Maker. Degarius considered begging off and trying to intercept the soldiers on their way to the docks. Perhaps even sneak on the ship. It might be done. But King Lerouge wasn’t dim. Even if Degarius hired men to do it, the king would suspect Sarapost behind the theft as they had just practically begged for the sword’s return. Wouldn’t it be worth the risk? Still, he came back to the fact that the king would intuit him behind the theft of the sword and put a price on his head. Then, even if he escaped to Sarapost, Degarius knew Fassal would never forgive him unless he revealed what the sword was. The one thing Degarius cherished in this life was irretrievable, at least until the prince returned to Acadia. The prince! He might be persuaded to trade. Reputed to be a historian and a man of taste, he would see the value of the Gherian blade.
And Lerouge would be back in the next moon.
TRUTH OR TORTURE
Feast of the Saviors, Shacra Paulus
The bell of the Saviors’ Gate rang midnight and the lamps in Acadia, and every place in the Easternland, went dark. With far less than his usual enjoyment of the event, Degarius held his paper boat, a sleeve of white paper fixed to a light wooden base. Its cargo was a short candle. As a boy at Ferne Clyffe, he’d delighted in this final day of the Feast of the Saviors. After two days of fasting to remember the dark, hard centuries under The Scyon and the draeden, the midnight ceremony of a bonfire burning of an effigy of a draeden and the lighting of the candle-boats ushered in a grand dinner and games to celebrate Lukis and Paulus’s victory and the return of the world to its natural order. Like most boys, on the second day of the feast he’d dressed as Lukis or Paulus and taken his sword against a straw draeden. Later, because of what his grandmother whispered about his sword, he’d always chosen to be Paulus. It was a damn cruel time to lose the sword.
The king put a torch to the kindling under the bonfire’s cone of timbers. Within minutes, it roared, the flames licking upward at the poison draeden effigy made of white cloth with huge opal-like stones for eyes and silk wings. Its body curled around the center post. Whether it was from the heat of the fire or the intricate effigy’s passing resemblance to the creature he’d fought in the lake, Degarius’s skin burned as if the sun had baked it deep red. All over again, he was on the lakeshore, tearing off his soaked clothes so the rain could wash away the acidic lake water. He stiffened, fighting the urge to remove his coat until an ooh from the crowd brought him back to the moment. Finally, an ember had ignited a silky wing. The fire spread to the body. On the breeze, thousands of bright burning bits floated aloft. Everyone stood in silence until the last remnant of the draeden was gone, either crumbled into blackened bits or flown away as ash. The king then bellowed, “Spread the word of the saviors’ victory. The draeden is dead!”
As the celebrants cheered, Degarius wondered if the creature he’d fought in the lake was dead. Or if it had been a draeden. The Solacian said his sword was Assaea. There she was, with the governor, taking their punks to the bonfire so they could light the candles in their boats. It was a bold move, going together, or did they think no one suspected them. But what business was it of his?
Miss Gallivere handed him a punk, then leaned against his arm. “Let’s take our turn.”
They lit their candles and took the glowing boats to the river’s edge. Really, it was the sandy edge of the river’s wide estuary where it emptied into the sea. Miss Gallivere, seemingly without taking the time to make the required reflection on what good she’d accomplish this year, knelt and sat her boat afloat. She rose and turned to him. The light of his candle cast a deep shadow in the hollow between her breasts, and he completely forgot the draeden. Suggestively, she swept her tongue over her lips. “Do you know what I pledged to do this year?”
Why had she spoiled the moment? Degarius wouldn’t guess aloud for a thousand fine warhorses what she’d pledged for this year. The candle’s light symbolized not only Lukis and Paulus’s victory, but also one’s promise to do a good deed to brighten the world so it would never fall into darkness again. The candle-boats were set on currents to spread the light, just as Lukis sent out missionaries to spread the word of the end of the Reckoning. It was why the Lerouge family had the spot closest to the sea. Their boats would be first to find the wider world. Degarius crouched to the water and thought of the coming year. The war with the Gherians would certainly start before the next Feast of the Saviors. He must do all he could for Sarapost. If only the generalship were his and the sword returned. Those were beyond his control, however. What within him was of value? Honor. Perseverance. Courage. Vowing to abide those principles, he crouched and placed the boat in the water. It buffeted, in constant peril of overturning. The river at Ferne Clyffe, though far from the wider world, was a better place to launch a candle-boat. His boats there glided slow, steady and bright on the dark flow.
“What did you pledge of yourself?” Miss Gallivere asked as he uncrouched.
“What every soldier must.”
She arched a brow and brushed her nail over his Valor in Service medal. “Every conquest has its reward. A medal is a cold, hard reward.”
“Few have ever received that award.”
“No doubt. But there are engagements where the reward is rarer still.”
He wanted to question the value of a conquest in which the enemy was as good as surrendering, but a serving boy handed him a plate of food. The boats set afloat, wine and trays of delicacies were going around. He finished a shrimp and grilled pineapple pastry and set aside the plate when the princess called to the musicians to play a lively dance.
Miss Gallivere, like the other ladies, kicked off her slippers.
At the thought of what dancing in sand, even in his boots, would do to his feet, Degarius crossed his arms and sat on a bench.
“You’re not going to dance?” Miss Gallivere’s mouth hardened. “But I insist.”
The fellow with the pockmarked complexion, Sebastion was his name, made a gallant bow to Miss Gallivere. “It would be my pleasure.”
She drew her lips into an alluring smile but then turned to Sebastion and accepted his offer. For half a moment, Degarius reconsidered. Her hair, piled high on her head, showed her long, slender neck. Couldn’t she forsake one moment’s pleasure, though, to sit by him in the firelight? Rather, she took Sebastion’s offer to spite him. He had underestimated his enemy. She hadn’t surrendered. She was going to make him fight. But a good general never allowed himself to be lured into battle by trick maneuvers. He let her go.
A circle formed. It was a chaotic, infectious free dance. They reversed directions, swarmed in and out, raised and lowered their joined hands. Degarius noted he wasn’t the only observer. The governor had stayed with the Solacian. At least the governor had devotion, though he wasn’t spending these nearly private moments acting like her lover; he kept glancing in Degarius’s direction. Afraid of being caught?
At the end of the dance, calls came for another and the music started again. The governor came across the sand. Near Degarius, he stopped and watched the dancers a moment before turning and extending his hand. “I haven’t been introduced to you, but I know you’re the Sarapostan chancellor’s son, Captain Degarius. I’m Keithan.”
Degarius accepted the handshake. “You’re the new Orlandian governor.”
“Unfortunately.” The governor sat and withdrew a fine silver flask from his coat. “Care for a drink?”
Though dubious what the governor wanted fr
om him, Degarius unscrewed the cap and held the flask to his nose. A dense, heady, sweet smell wafted out. Brandy. He tipped the flask. The liquid drained into his mouth and was warm on his tongue. It was a damn good brandy. He passed the flask back. “That’s remarkable. Where did you find it?” The Acadians were fond of wine, but liquors were rare here.
“My father imports it from Garonne.” The governor took a drink, obviously relishing it. “Acadians think strong liquor a vice. But some vices are too fine to forsake.”
Degarius looked askance at him. “Like fine women?”
The governor was quiet. To hell with him if he’d hit upon a sore spot, Degarius thought. Then, however, the governor said, “That has never been one of my vices.” Looking directly into Degarius’s eyes, the governor offered the flask again. “Has it been yours?”
Degarius drank. “No. I’ve been careful to avoid that fate.”
The governor smiled. “I thought so. Miss Gallivere and you...you’re not really...you’re true.”
What in all hell? Did he look like a monk?
As Degarius gave back the flask, the governor’s hand, instead of taking the flask, covered his and exerted pressure. “You should come to my apartments after the feast.”
So that was what the governor wanted of him! Keithan was one of those who sought other men. Degarius pulled his hand away, the flask still in it. “I believe you’re mistaken.”
