by Anna Steffl
Relief to be home. Oh, if Musette only knew the wound she rubbed. I promised to be with you through rules I well understood, and Solace, with its simple life, is so dear to me. I can’t even imagine not wearing this gray dress. It reminds me to love you with all I am, however imperfect my love. But how can I carry this heart of mine into Solace and dishonor the sacrifice of the Founder? She let go of her love of Paulus. Shall I secretly suffer there, or resign and suffer the pain of seeing my brother, of begging him for a place that I may live out my days with my failure exposed to the world? I must either be false to my vows in keeping them, or false to them in breaching them. Tell me, where is to be home?
Chane was right. Nothing has ended. Not even for me.
Hera Musette’s knock ended her prayer but not her indecision.
DUTY REWARDED
Sarapost House, four days later
Degarius pushed away his dinner plate and took his pipe from his pocket.
“Oh no, not yet,” Fassal said. “You’ll be asleep or delirious by the next bell if you smoke. Remember, we’re going to the club to celebrate my last night as an unengaged man.”
“I remember.” Degarius stashed the pipe and rubbed his stubbly chin. He hadn’t felt like shaving, and he didn’t feel like going to the club, but he had to oblige Fassal. Tomorrow night would be yet another obligation—the princess’s Coming of Age party. Fassal was going to propose during it. The ring cost four years’ rations for a regiment. As Degarius reached for the wine decanter, a servant came in to announce the arrival of a Sarapostan express rider.
The weary-eyed rider was coated in road dust and clutching a wooden travel case. “For Captain Degarius from the king and chancellor.”
Degarius sat down the decanter. Such a package, sent by express rider from the king and chancellor, could only mean one thing. Why didn’t the messenger’s fingers work faster unlashing the case bindings? Degarius could have done it himself already by now, but he had to sit with a great man’s requisite composure.
Fassal’s dog, roused by the messenger’s arrival, trotted to Degarius and hung his drooling jowls over his leg. “Not now,” Degarius said and scowled. This was supposed to be a moment of dignity, but the damn dog stood fast.
First, the messenger withdrew a polished black-lacquered box. Next, he presented a plain, paper-wrapped parcel.
“Open them, man,” cried Fassal. “The box first. I long to see what’s inside.”
From the box came a gold oval broach stamped with a buck in midleap. Degarius took it in his fingertips. He’d waited so long, and now it was his.
He was general.
“By the Maker,” Fassal cried and was around the table in a flash to wring Degarius’s hand. “Let me be the first to call you General Degarius. What does the scroll say? Read it.”
Degarius laughed. “If you let go of my hand, I will.”
After removing the ribbon and unrolling the scroll, Degarius paraphrased King Fassal’s letter. “I am appointed General of the Mounted Third. I’m bestowed the title with this letter. A formal ceremony will be held upon my return to Sarapost at my earliest convenience.”
“I give you joy, brother.” Fassal shook his hand again. “Tomorrow is not your earliest convenience. You must stay for my engagement.”
“Of course.”
“Good, good. What’s in the parcel?”
By weighing it in his hands, Degarius guessed the contents of the package from his father. He unwrapped a general’s coat with the requisite double row of buttons and a profusion of gold lace and picot ribbon trim. The card said the tailor had run up the coat in amazing speed to the measurements of an old garment.
“Try it,” Fassal said.
Degarius slipped the coat on over his peasant’s blouse. It fit perfectly.
“It’s handsome of your father. You’re quite official. You must go change and wear your new uniform to the club. And shave, for all love. You look like a barbarian.”
Degarius gave a final rub of his chin and cheeks before wiping the razor blade dry. There, he was himself again. He exchanged his peasant’s blouse for a starched, white dress shirt and his buff breeches for black. The only thing left to do was to pin his medals to his new coat. On the bed, he laid out the beautifully made coat. It was absurd to be pleased by fabric and a bit of gold ribbon, yet he was. From the wardrobe, he withdrew his box of personal effects and brought it to the bed. Inside, atop the medals, were two letters. He went to move them aside. Nothing had the right to spoil his supremely happy day. But he took the top one out and unfolded it. The bottom letter was the one Hera Solace sent to Summercrest. The one in hand came the day after his loss to Lerouge. It accompanied his Valor in Service medal. Though he knew by heart the single, unsigned line, he read it again.
“It has been my honor to keep this in my care while in Shacra Paulus.”
He refolded the paper and returned it to the box, then affixed the Valor in Service medal to the coat in the proper place—beneath his general’s insignia on the left chest side.
When Degarius’s new title rang through the club, heads turned and men leaped to their feet to offer congratulations. Even men not acquainted with Degarius let out a whoop and came to shake the hand of a man who wore the general’s insignia.
Magnanimous in the princely way, Fassal brought wine all around. “Raise your glasses, gentlemen, to Sarapost’s General of the Mounted Third.”
A vast quantity of wine was poured, drunk, and poured again until the congratulations and many bottles ran dry.
A young redcoat approached Degarius. “General, I heard of your cunning victory at Barton’s Bell. The gentlemen telling said it was April, fought in the snow, and seventy Gherians lost to your seven Sarapostans. Snow in April and seventy to seven?”
“That’s all true,” Degarius said. “April snow is unusual around Barton’s Bell, but not impossible.” He tapped his lips. “Bring the saltcellar from the other table. Fetch the bread basket and butter dish, too.”
With an array of foodstuffs, plates and cutlery at his disposal, Degarius proceeded to arrange on the table the major landmarks and initial positions of the troops. “The bread is the line of hills to the west of Barton’s Bell. This knife is a streambed. My main body of men, this saltcellar, is to the north, behind the hills. The dish of olives is the Gherian camp.”
“But the olives are black,” Fassal said. “They should represent Sarapost rather than the Gherians. Change the saltcellar with the olives.”
“Fine,” Degarius huffed. “We fooled the Gherians into thinking we were moving our forces south. Through the falling snow, they could not tell it was the same handful of men retracking around to the front of the hill.” He walked his fingers around the bread. “They shifted their position accordingly. In reality, nearly all my men were still to the north.” The olive dish came into play as the Sarapost force. “I came from behind. They tried to run still further southward, but a deeply ravened creek, slippery with snow, checked their retreat.”
“What is the butter dish?” Fassal asked.
“Anyone can see,” Degarius lifted the lid to show the creamy contents, “the butter dish is a butter dish.”
Fassal threw out his hands. “Surely it must be something. You called for it. The saltcellar is the Gherians, the bread is the hill, the knife is a creek, and the olives are your regiment. What is the butter dish?”
“Very well.” Degarius winked to the young soldier. “The butter dish is Sarapost. To keep our scale correct, you must place it somewhere near the Citadel.”
The redcoat took the task of clearing the implements of battle from the table. Degarius stayed the young man’s hand from the olives, a rare treat. As he popped one into his mouth, a lively group stormed the club. They were punching the shoulder and ruffling the coat of a gentleman at their center. It was Sebastion, the young man made Governor of Orlandia while they were at Summercrest.
“Poor devil,” one of his friends shouted. “He’s gone and pr
oposed to Miss Gallivere, and she and her family will have him.”
A grin plastered Sebastion’s ruddy, pocked face, and his eyes were watery from mirth. Looking like the victim of several doses of wine-fortified elation en route to the club, he bumbled through the crowd and collapsed into a chair to receive his well wishes.
Fassal, upon reaching Sebastion, offered his hand. “Shall your wife accompany you to Orlandia?”
“Yes. No. I mean she wishes it, says Orlandia will suit her as well as Acadia. But I won’t have her in such danger.”
When Degarius extended his hand, Sebastion shook it with the ludicrous, wavering solemnity of a highly inebriated man and said, “No bad feelings, then?”
“None at all,” Degarius answered with an honest smile, but came away inexplicably less cheerful than five minutes ago when maneuvering the olive dish. Damn, he wanted to smoke.
Back at their table, Degarius patted his new coat. Due to the row of double buttons, the pockets were in slightly different places than on his captain’s uniform. He found the pipe, the bag of altartish and secured a candle.
Fassal was eyeing him. To the devil with him if was going to tell him to put it away. It was his day to celebrate, too, in whatever manner he wished. Instead, Fassal said, “Don’t tell me you regret Miss Gallivere.”
“What? Never.” Degarius held a candle to the bowl and sucked in breath to light the altartish. He blew a stream of smoke. “But I think it’s a damnably foolish thing to marry at this time, considering what happened to the last governor of Orlandia.”
“Perhaps Sebastion, like I, finds it’s now or never. Only the foolish tempt time.” A waiter put a plate of hard-boiled eggs between them. Fassal took one, dipped it in salt, bit through the center, then held up the uneaten half. A faint green rimmed the yellow yolk. “I’ve known you to smoke occasionally, brother, but never regularly except at the Outpost. What’s afoot?”
Despising both having his habits questioned and being reminded of his feet, Degarius winced with the pipe in his mouth.
“By the Maker.” Fassal clapped his hand to his forehead as if rattling his brain might make amends for the poor choice of words. His palm slipped over his nose and down to cup his chin. “What I was trying to get at is I can’t have my general out of his head with altartish.”
“It’s temporary.” Degarius took another smoke. “As soon as I’m away from Shacra Paulus, have real work to do, it’ll all be far from mind.” He removed his glasses. It was strangely comforting to have his vision blurred when his thoughts were unfocused by altartish.
“What will be far from your mind, brother? The tournament?”
“Yes and...” The thought of her legs encircling him, her thighs pressed to his sides, dissipated from Degarius’s mind when the shame of its admission came perilously close to his tongue. “Nothing.”
Fassal shoved the last bit of the egg in his mouth. Chewing, he said, “Your nothing sounded unconvincing. It must be something.”
Degarius tapped the spent altartish into an empty wineglass. “Nothing worth discussing.”
“I know what it is.” Fassal rapped the table. “Maker forgive me, I’ve been so busy with my engagement that I forgot. You’re leaving. What are you going to do about your...what shall I call her...your friend?”
“What?”
Fassal rolled his eyes.
Degarius tucked his chin to his chest. “There’s nothing to do.”
“Certainly it’s a delicate matter, but—”
“They give themselves to the Maker. Wear a ring. I can’t ask her to break her vows.”
“I agree you can’t ask her such a thing. But you can offer her a choice. My theology is not of the deepest sort, but I know that while a man is loath to share anything to which he is attached, the Maker unselfishly shares our spirits. The Maker created us for it. We are gifts to one another. Can you believe in a creator who would damn a woman for accepting her Maker-given nature?”
Through the altartish’s miasma, Degarius made clumsy mental snatches at the notions of Fassal’s speech. The questions and their contrary answers jumbled together into a numbing fog of ambiguity. Degarius’s gaze wandered from the altartish ash dissolving into the wine dregs to the pin on his lapel “I can’t resign my position on a whim. It’s the same thing for her.”
“A whim? I can’t believe you’d toy with such a woman on a whim. Or are you one of those ridiculous men who only love a woman they can’t have?”
“There’s nothing between us.” The stabbing feeling of betrayal pierced him even as the words came from his mouth. “I haven’t even seen her for weeks. End of discussion.”
“You only say there was nothing to absolve yourself. I saw you together at Teodor’s party. I saw her tears for you at Brevard. Whether you deserve her affections or not, I would wager my kingdom that you have them in abundance.”
“That’s it,” Degarius said with sudden lucidity and vigor. “I don’t want to have to quiet a woman’s worry, have it looming over my head, influencing my decisions when I have a war to fight. Besides, as a woman of peace, what can she possibly understand of my profession?”
“Yes, it would be impossible for her to simply love Degarius the man instead of Degarius the soldier or counselor. The Maker knows I have only been your friend this age because you have a deadly hand with blade and write a fair commercial letter.”
Degarius croaked resentfully, “It’s not the same.” He dismissed Fassal’s easy excuses and justifications. What did he know of love? Fassal’s love was a boy’s love of a pretty figure and merry smile. He bandied about the word with the same ease with which he ordered a cup of coffee.
“Brother, I won’t dissuade you. If clinging to your scruples and the restorative power of war makes you easy, I rejoice.” Fassal leaned to Degarius’s side and whispered, “If it doesn’t, I beg you to swiftly address the reason. I was serious when I said that I wouldn’t have my general out of his wits. Your command is at Sarapost’s leisure, at my leisure. This I am certain your thick hide understands.” He straightened and said cheerfully, as if there had never been a serious word between them, “Ah, Stevas Ousterhall is here. I have half a mind to urge him to sing. He does have a fine voice. What was the ballad he sang with Jesquin?” Fassal rose and sauntered toward Ousterhall.
A thousand miles and a generalship would make him easy. There was a war to fight. He was a general. Just one more blasted evening here to endure and as twisting a spyglass brought it into focus, adjusting to the generalship, back to a military life, would make everything clear again. A spyglass. They’d looked through the spyglass before he’d embraced her. The remembrance of her body against him fired again the burning longing. He packed the bowl of the pipe with altartish. Just one more day to get through.
EVEN WILLOWS BLOOM
Princess Lerouge’s Coming of Age, the Citadel’s Great Hall
As Lady Martise finished buttoning the princess’s Coming of Age gown, she said to Miss Gallivere, “Pull the bodice straight.”
How lovely the peach gown looked on Jesquin. Though Arvana couldn’t help with the gown, it was a sweet sign of the fondness between them that the princess had invited her to attend the dressing in the rooms upstairs from the Great Hall and to be an attendant in the ceremony.
Oblivious to the flurry of hands arranging her dress and inserting flowers in her hair, Jesquin gave an imploring glance to Arvana. “Must you go tomorrow? Stay for the wedding.”
“For what you must learn next, of being a happy wife, I’m unqualified to teach you.” Arvana summoned a smile and nodded to Lady Martise. “Your aunt can tell you.”
“Auntie already has.” Jesquin blushed, likely thinking of the more colorful duties of a wife. “When my children are old enough, you will come to Sarapost to be their tutor.”
“We’ll see.” Nothing in the world could tempt Arvana to dampen the joy of Jesquin’s day. These plans for the future were Jesquin’s way of avoiding saying good-bye, of keeping
today purely happy.
The hairdresser and ladies-in-waiting drew back from Jesquin. She sashayed before the full-length dressing mirror and grew even prettier as she glowed with pleasure and anticipation. “Can’t we begin now?” The peach-colored silk swished as she fluffed the skirt. “I’ve been sixteen for an age already.”
They filed into the hallway where the Household Guards and their trumpeters waited. A redcoat summoned the king, Prince Lerouge and a score of relatives from another room to line up for the procession down the grand staircase.
The hallway buzzed. Waiting for instructions, Arvana stayed pressed to the wall by the dressing room.
Chane, wearing his Acadian reds, waded through the press of people to Arvana. He leaned against the doorframe and glanced to the empty dressing room. “Come, this may be our last chance to speak. I’ll not have a moment’s peace the rest of the evening.”
Inside, he faced her. “When I come home from battle, if your superior gives you leave, may I present you with the proof of my deed? I promise to return the Blue Eye. While I do this for my people and my own deliverance,” he held his hand to his chest where the relic must be, “it began with you and must end there, too.”
Arvana thumbed her ring. She wouldn’t be able to accept the Blue Eye in any capacity he imagined. Refusing to acknowledge his enormous courage, however, would be ungrateful and insensible of the honor he proposed. “If you wish, I’ll find a way to welcome you back to Acadia. I hope it’s soon. For whatever they are worth, you have my prayers.”
The answer and the hopeful smile that accompanied it seemed to gratify him. He turned and plucked a flower from the vase the hairdresser left. Holding the white bloom to his nose, he inhaled deeply. “Ah, ginger lily. It smells sweet, innocent. I’ve never thought you a flower, but come to think of it, the willow blooms.” His hand crossed the space between them and tucked the flower’s stem into her headband. He eyed it critically and reached again to reinsert the bloom. “There.” His fingers closed around the edge of her veil and drew down its length as his brown eyes smoldered once again with their old warmth. In a single, swift motion, he grasped her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze while brushing a kiss across her cheek. He whispered, “Until then,” and taking her elbow, walked her back to the hallway where he left her in a daze over what had happened so quickly and quietly.
