by Anna Steffl
“Your dress is getting wet.” His voice came from just over her shoulder.
He had undoubtedly come to urge her to leave. She yanked up her sash. The bottom was soaked. As she wrung it, he came aside. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, vest or neckerchief. His boots off, he waded past her. “Where are you going?”
“Swimming.”
“But it’s cold.”
“No colder than the rivers I usually swim in.”
When waist-deep, he dove and disappeared.
She held her breath along with him. She couldn’t swim, and it seemed like an impossibly long time to be underwater.
Finally, he surfaced. Though he’d swum a long way out, he stood and the water was only to his ribs. He dove again and this time, came up closer to shore and began to wade in. His hair clinging to the sides of his face, Arvana couldn’t help but recall the vision of him fighting the draeden that she’d seen in the Blue Eye. But this time, instead of a fierce grimace, he wore a broad smile. His wet white shirt hung open at the neck and clung to his chest and arms. In perfect peace and joy, she had lain against that chest once. Those strong arms had held her so securely once. Watching him now, her cheek, shoulders, waist, and the bend of her knees ached with the remembered strength of his body.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I...you swim so wonderfully. What’s it like?”
“Swimming?” His squinting eyes gleamed with good-humor. “Brisk.” He motioned her to follow him. They sat on the jetty. He gave her his neckerchief, a lovely black-and-green-checkered silk. “Clean your feet or the grit in your shoes will be intolerable.”
After the folly of refusing to sit on his cloak at Ramblewood, she knew better than to affront his generosity. Her feet clean and dry and her shoes on, she shook the sand from the neckerchief and returned it.
He began to dust the sand from the bottoms of his feet. “You don’t swim? Everyone should learn to swim.”
“We had no lakes or rivers near where I grew up. We had a shallow pond and a stream...” What was wrong with his feet? The skin was thick and discolored. No wonder he sometimes walked as if in pain. Suddenly he shifted his back to her and drew on his socks. Dear Maker, he’d seen her staring and without realizing, she’d covered her mouth with her hand.
He pulled on a boot. “You see my souvenir from Sandela.”
Sandela. Draeden. Her chest ached for him. Chane had inked onto his arm a draeden tattoo to remember his ancestors’ heroics. The captain bore the scars of real heroism. He remembered the draeden with every step. Why, why couldn’t he use the Blue Eye?
His other boot on, the captain stood, jerked into his vest, and slung his satchel over his shoulder. “We should go.”
No, the day couldn’t end like this. She wanted to tell him he was grand and handsome but how would those words sound coming from her? “This afternoon...thank you for the scroll...I was pleased to see your drawings...pleased with the picture. And I’ve never been in the sea before...Nan.” Saying his name was painful and exquisitely wonderful all at once. She was so aware of how her voice, of its breathiness on the final n, how tenuous and foolish it must have sounded. Had he noticed? Had it meant anything to him? She hazarded a glanced.
He was looking at her. The stern crease in his brow had eased. On catching her glance, he looked, almost shyly, back to the water. “I’d rather not go to Summercrest. I’ll lose a week of work in the archive.”
For a moment, she went blind and deaf to the world as she turned his looks and words in her head. He would lose a week of seeing her. She wanted to tell him she, too, would rather he not go to Summercrest. When she regained her sense, he was waiting on her to walk with him back to the Citadel. “When do you return?” she asked.
The huge, gangling, brindled dog nudged its wet nose to Degarius when he entered Sarapost House. “Get your animal off of me,” he shouted to Fassal.
“Come on, Caspar.” Fassal tapped his thigh.
Nevertheless, the dog kept nuzzling Degarius. “I can’t believe you named him after your old horse.”
“He’s as big as a horse, or shall nearly be like a pony once grown.” Fassal pulled Caspar away by the collar and then pushed on the dog’s hindquarters in an attempt to make him sit. “Fine. Stand. Just stay away from Degarius. He despises dogs and nearly everything else.”
“Yes,” Degarius addressed the dog, “I despise you.”
“What happened?” Fassal nodded to his ramshackle appearance.
“I went for a swim.” He plucked at his shirt. It was mostly dry.
“I thought you were going to draw.”
“I did.” He laid his satchel on the table, took off his boots, stretched out on the couch, and closed his eyes.
“No, you’re not napping. It’s unlike you to sleep during the day. We have dinner at the Citadel. You can’t go in that blouse.”
“You’re right.” Degarius opened one eye. The dog was hovering. “I’m not going.”
“Brother, what excuse am I to give?”
“I’ll see everyone for a week at Summercrest and want an evening to myself.”
“I’ll say you’re ill. You are in an ill humor.”
“I’m not. I’m in an excellent humor, but I’ll be in a terrible one if you insist on my going.”
Caspar drooped his head onto Degarius’s leg.
“Ingrate,” Fassal said.
Degarius rested his arm across his forehead. He heard Fassal unbuckling his bag, sliding out its contents, flipping through the pages, and then silence. From behind closed eyelids, he saw what had driven him into the sobering cold of the sea—she was standing in the surf, her dress blowing around her body, revealing the curve of her waist and her long legs. But now, in his mind, he wouldn’t be the captain and she wouldn’t be a hera. She had called him by his childname. He was Nan and she was Ari. He came behind her, reached out, and put his hand to her hip. Beneath the fabric of her dress, her body was soft, round, everything his wasn’t. She turned to him. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her closer, closer, so close that there was no distance between them.
This once, he wouldn’t stop it. This once, he couldn’t stop it.
“Ah, brother,” said Fassal, “perhaps I’m somewhat less insulted that you didn’t wish to draw me today. How charming. Might this explain the clean shirts for reading dusty books?”
“What?”
“That is what I expected you to say,” Fassal remarked under his breath. “Your what has a truth all its own.”
FORMS OF SPARRING
Summercrest, Acadia
“Your form again,” Degarius boomed. The lad, of perhaps fourteen, jerked his ash practice sword to the vertical ready position, counted to three, and began the sequence, owl flight, which was part of the eleventh level forms. Though Degarius had mastered the sweeping yet controlled moves twenty-five years ago, he still routinely practiced the form. To escape the house this morning, he’d offered lessons to two brothers who were also Summercrest guests. They were out on the road, past the line of trees that edged the front lawn. “Loosen your knees. Open your stance. Good. Give me your staff.” To the second, older boy he said, “Your turn to spar with me.”
The older brother pulled the hay-stuffed apron over his head and belted it in place. Tall and slight, the boy proved quick and agile at avoiding Degarius’s blows, but dealt few strikes in return.
“Come after me,” Degarius said, “or you’ll never score a point.”
The boy launched, swinging and jabbing more effectively until the sound of approaching horsemen drew his attention. Degarius landed a gentle thud against the boy’s chest protector.
A gentleman rider and two redcoats stopped. The civilian-clothed man said, “You’ll be ready for the tournament in a few years, boys.”
“Yes, sir!” they cried in unison and bowed.
“Who’s your teacher? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Captain Degarius, sir,” the boys chirped.
“The Sarapostan champion? I’ve heard you killed a remarkable creature.”
Degarius put on his glasses. “It seemed so to me.”
The man’s teeth flashed brilliant against his black beard. “I’m glad you’re a guest at Summercrest. You’ll tell me the story tonight at dinner. I’m Lerouge.”
Lerouge. Degarius looked straight to the hilt of the prince’s sword. It was Assaea! A mixture of hope and relief swirled through him. If the prince didn’t know what the sword was, he might be worked upon. And Ari was safe. No one knew her treason.
The prince must have noted his look. Lerouge touched the scabbard and said, “I know it was yours and what it secured for your prince. My father conveyed the story.” He dismounted and offered his hand. “It has been ages since I’ve sparred. Shall we give these boys a demonstration?”
The prince gave his horse’s reins to one redcoat and his coat to the other. After circling his shoulders to loosen his muscles, he took the wooden practice staff from the awestruck pupil.
Degarius removed his glasses.
“Are you afraid I’m wild, or that I’ll make an unfair hit to your face?”
“No, it’s my custom,” Degarius answered.
“I give you my word your spectacles will come to no harm.”
With the danger of shattered glass in his eyes a worry from the first moment he began training as a youth, Degarius had learned other tricks to compensate for visual acuity. By keeping unfocused on particulars, he saw motion across the whole visual field. “I don’t doubt your skill or honor.” He entrusted the glasses to one of the boys. “But accidents are accidents.”
The two stood a staff-length apart, bowed, then waited with wooden weapons held vertical until the redcoat gave the word.
Degarius soon understood Lerouge’s win at Brevard wasn’t solely by the reluctance of a subject to defeat his lord. Though stout, he was quick. His command was consummate, his anticipation of moves uncanny. The prince easily blocked every thrust and countered with agile swings.
After ten minutes of docile, well-mannered exchanges, Lerouge laughed and took a step back. “What do you say boys? Was that pretty?” He balanced his staff against his shoulder, straightened his cuffs, and then took up the staff again. With a snarl, he resumed the sparring. His next blow hit Degarius’s staff hard.
If Lerouge wanted to make more of this, fine. The prince having Assaea had been enough to plant the seed of dislike. Degarius returned with a quick, firm strike that the prince countered with a dismissive laugh.
Lerouge drew his staff back to make a level swing. Degarius positioned his perfectly to block the blow. Lerouge hit. Degarius’s staff snapped. One moment the wood was splintering with a bright crack, the next, his side zinged with pain.
“By the Maker, you still stand.” The prince laughed, but nodded in respect.
Though his ribs stung fiercely, Degarius wouldn’t flinch, not in front of this bastard. Nothing more than a wicked bruise would result from the hit.
“You’re good, Sarapostan. We’ll finish the contest another time.” The prince neatened his collar, put on his coat, and took his horse’s reins. He was about to mount when he turned back to Degarius. “Wait. We’ll finish at Brevard. We’ll have our own event. No forms or sparring. Nothing to hoist a flag over. Just a full-dress demonstration of one former champion against another. We could give these young ones something worth watching and end our careers as swordsmen knowing exactly how we rate.”
Degarius saw again his sword’s hilt and his chance. This was far better than simply trying to tempt Lerouge into a trade. “Call me a mercenary, but I’ll only fight for a prize.”
The prince, leading his horse after him, came toe to toe with Degarius. “What prize?”
“The sword you now carry for an 800-year-old Gherian Cutlass from the old country.”
A slow smile spread across the prince’s face. “You want back what’s yours. I’ll consider it, Sarapostan.”
The prince remounted and rode around the stand of trees.
“Come on,” Degarius said to the boys, their eyes still wide. “That’s enough for today.”
By the time they came to the lawn, all of Summercrest’s guests and servants had gathered there to greet the prince who was embracing his sister, father, and Lady Martise.
Fassal came and clapped Degarius on the shoulder. “Brother, where have you been hiding? I scarcely saw you last night after you bolted from dinner to change your breeches. We must go and be introduced to the prince.”
Degarius touched his tender side. “We’ve already met—and sparred.”
“Sparred? You are doing quite a bit of that lately, but I thought it confined to Miss Gallivere over dinner,” Fassal said in reference to the miss’s reaction to Degarius setting her straight about his intentions. She’d dumped a glass of wine on his breeches. “Perhaps you’re ready for a respite. I wish you to write a few letters for me. At breakfast, Aunt Martise and I came up with a plan. Master Teodor and his wife will be dinner guests at Sarapost House next week. The invitation must be sent with haste.”
“A dinner for a tradesman with Lady Martise? You’re bribing the man with what money can’t buy.”
“And given our guest’s fondness for the kithara, I thought we might have music, too. Exceptional music. A private concert. Do you think it possible?”
“I have no idea.”
“Write to her and ask. I want everything in order.”
“Shouldn’t you entrust that to Lady Martise?”
“Asking the honored guest to invite the entertainment? Honestly, brother, I thought you would be eager for the excuse I give you.”
“What?”
“Look. Miss Gallivere is there, sending a furious glance your way.”
Degarius didn’t turn to look.
“I always thought she was a bold one. Those fine features name her a hawk.” Fassal whistled a low note. “Yes, brother, there are gentler birds than the hawk. A mourning dove would be just the thing for you.”
“I have no interest in ornithology,” Degarius said smugly.
Fassal laughed. “Any fool with ears or eyes can tell a hawk from a dove.”
Lady Martise’s, that evening
Arvana, kneeling beside Hera Musette in the small upstairs sitting room they used as a chapel, recited the evening prayer she knew by rote. But last night and tonight, she’d prayed it with the same awe, tenderness and earnestness as when she was first a novice. Why there was this new fervor, she couldn’t say. It simply was. She came to the last, most beautiful lines, and the corners of her eyes ached with joy.
“As I go to sleep I am already asleep, my dearest one.
Awaken me with your mercy.
Awaken my spirit in due time to your glory.”
Just as Hera Musette’s knees creaked as she rose, the downstairs maid came in. She must have been listening, waiting for them to finish. She held a letter to Arvana. “This came for you from Summercrest. A response is expected. A messenger will return in the morning to collect it.”
“Summercrest? Is it from Lady Martise?” Musette asked.
Arvana went to the window and held the letter to the last rosy bit of daylight. Instantly, she recognized Nan’s hand. “Yes, it’s from our lady.”
“What could she want?”
“I have no notion.” Arvana clutched the letter to her chest and started for her room. “Perhaps it is about the princess.”
“I hope all is well,” Musette said in parting.
Arvana shut the door behind her. “Forgive me, Maker,” she muttered as she lit a candle and sat at her dressing table. She ran her finger under the seal to break it. There, at the top, was her name. For a moment, she couldn’t read on past “Dear Ari.”
You will forgive my intrusion on what must be a week of respite from the obligations those absent impose upon you, myself included. I am taking a moment of liberty and the liberty of addressing you. Prince Fassal requests I write to ask if you wou
ld honor us, Lady Martise, and Master Teodor of the Weaponry Guild, with your presence and skill at the kithara for an evening at Sarapost House this coming fourth day of the new moon. Lady Martise gave her approval of this request. Your appearance would be to Sarapost’s aid. Master Teodor is a dilettante kitharist who threatens not to fulfill the terms of a vital contract. While you owe no allegiance to Sarapost, I know you understand the far-reaching implications of the Gherian war. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have countenanced Fassal’s appeal for your assistance.
May I impose upon you to answer directly? The courier will stop at Lady Martise’s before his morning ride to Summercrest. Fassal wishes to have the arrangements settled.
Of course, he had only written at the prince’s direction. And yes, she would help.
There is news from Summercrest that may tangentially interest you. This morning I saw my blade again. It is back from Orlandia along with Prince Lerouge. The prince appeared here much to the surprise of everyone, except perhaps, his father.
The hand holding the letter fell to the desk. Chane was back.
You know what my hope is and now it seems possible with Lerouge’s return.
How is it possible, Nan? Could Chane not know the sword’s true name? Oh, Nan, take care.
We return to the Shacra Paulus early. Do not imagine I have numbered the three days or am in any rush to depart. What is there to miss in Shacra Paulus?
Yours,
M. Degarius.
The last lines swam before her eyes. Did they imply he missed her? At one reading, they seemed to despise Shacra Paulus but at the next, to say the opposite. Stop! The letter’s ambiguity didn’t matter. Chane was back. Nan—he was only Nan these last days—hoped he could get Assaea. What must she do with the Blue Eye? How could she return to Solace without a savior when the Gherians were poised to release a draeden this very winter? Keithan said Chane was a different man, better suited for his birthright. And Chane surely knew Nan’s sword was Assaea, yet he’d taken it to Summercrest with him. A hundred kinds of doubts about Chane clouded her mind, still beneath all these worries, her heart clung to the last lines of the letter. Was it so wrong of her to hope that he missed her?
