Solace Shattered

by Anna Steffl

  Somehow, Arvana ended up where she should be—next to Miss Gallivere with the other ladies-in-waiting. Behind them was Chane, with Lady Martise on his arm, then the king and Jesquin at the very end.

  Two guards threw open the door at the top of the wide staircase. Heralding the procession, the trumpeters went first and sounded pure, high notes. From the floor of the hall, the musicians answered with a lovely, sweeping march.

  I won’t look for him. The room below glowed amber with candlelight and gold gilding. Hundreds of expectant faces upturned to the stairway. Flowers were everywhere—cascading down the balustrade, over the doorways. Every hothouse in Acadia must have been growing them. Their scent overpowered even the Acadian’s heady perfumes. He never wears perfume. Oh, Ari. The procession wound through the crowd to a platform arched by a trellis woven with vines and yet more flowers. As they neared, children threw handfuls of petals into the air, a fragrant, fluttering snow.

  Though she’d sworn she wouldn’t look for him, as she came to the platform, there he was in the front row, so unmistakable. His wore his cape thrown back over his shoulders to show a beautiful new coat edged in gold. Chane was good to his word. Nan was general. How happy he must be. But not to see her. He seemed to be watching everyone and everything except her. Yes, that was best. She fixed her gaze on her shoes, on the steps to the platform, on finding her place with the ladies-in-waiting, on the princess’s happiness.

  To Arvana’s relief, the king began to speak. Having to watch him at least gave her someplace to look. Unassailable by both age and position, he droned uninterrupted for half an hour. Over the noisy jumble of her thoughts, Arvana only heard half of what he said: he recollected Jesquin’s mother, flattered himself indirectly by praising the girl’s excellent nature in spite of lacking a mother’s attention, lamenting her growing up, lamented his own advancing years, hoped for her happiness, and lectured on the duties of adulthood. Then, his eyes grew moist, and he nodded into the crowd. “A young man has my permission to speak.”

  Prince Fassal, followed by Nan, ascended the stairs. Thank the Maker, Nan was standing on the other side of Fassal and so was mostly hidden from her.

  Taking the princess’s hand, Fassal kissed it. “I give you joy on your Coming of Age.” He turned to Nan and came away with a ring. Its diamonds flashed around a huge pale citrine. Those close enough to see gasped at its size and significance. “I hope it’s not the last gift you’ll receive from me.”

  Jesquin’s hand flew from his to cover her mouth. Her whole body trembled and tears streamed her cheeks. Though she’d expected the proposal, the expectation hadn’t prepared the princess for the emotion of it, Arvana knew, feeling herself in much the same, yet opposite, predicament.

  Fassal drew her left hand from her lips and held the ring poised at her fingertip. “Will you wear it?”

  “Forever.”

  He slid the ring upon her finger.

  Arvana knew she should be happy for Jesquin and Prince Fassal. They deserved her happiness. She smiled for them.

  Prince Fassal lifted Jesquin off her feet in a sweeping embrace. The crowd broke into roaring and applause.

  There, still holding the open, empty ring box in his palm, was Nan.

  Watching her.

  Hera Solace’s smile turned brittle and her eyes went glossy and inward looking, as if focusing on pained images only she could see. It brought to Degarius’s mind the all too familiar look of a widow to whom he was returning the remembrances from a dead soldier’s pack. It dawned on him that he somehow was the cause of the sorrow on her kind, gentle face. His weeks of absence, of seeming indifference, hadn’t been a trial only for him. Damn it, why had he looked at her? Because it is impossible not to. A noose of guilt tightened around his conscience. Fassal was right. He had dismissed her feelings, even if they were only of abiding friendship, to absolve his own. He had to explain.

  Suddenly, everyone was moving past him. Fassal, the princess, the king, and Lady Martise. In Miss Gallivere’s wake, Hera Solace swept past.

  Degarius descended from the step. An Acadian admiral, his hand thrust out, came from the crowd. Degarius realized he still, like a fool, had the open box in his hand. He snapped the box shut, shoved it in his pocket, and accepted the admiral’s congratulations on his generalship.

  Music started. Fassal and the princess were opening the dances.

  The congratulations turned into a blustery commentary on Orlandian pirates.

  Another dance began and ended.

  Maybe yesterday Degarius would have welcomed the admiral’s diversion, but not now. “You’ll excuse me Admiral. I’m engaged for a dance and —”

  The admiral chortled. “Then go to it.”

  He wasn’t engaged for a dance. Where was she? Weaving thought the crowd, past the vast spread of food and the punch table, he searched for gray-clothed shoulders among the bare ones. Finally, he saw her from the back.

  “Hera.”

  She turned.

  His chest lurched into his throat. Something in his resolve faltered. He’d endeavored not to think of what tonight would be, had drank half a bottle of wine beforehand because Fassal wouldn’t forgive him for the altartish. He didn’t know what to say. All he knew is that he wanted her to understand. But understand what?

  “Your coat. You are made general,” she said.

  “My father sent it.”

  “He’s a good man. Please remember me to him. When did this happen?” She motioned to the new medal.

  “Only last night.”

  “I give you joy. I know what it means to you.” Brow creased, she gave a sweeping look at the room. “This is wondrous, isn’t it? I hardly remember turning sixteen. I couldn’t have imagined anything like this. The flowers. The dresses.” She returned to looking to his chest. Not to it, but through it. Her voice seemed distant, as if she wasn’t speaking to him, just into the space between them. He wanted to take her in his arms, pull her so hard against him that she’d feel what he didn’t know how to say. “I made a raisin cake for my sixteenth birthday,” he heard her say, but was thinking of how lovely she was, how pretty the flower was against the soft blushing skin of her temple that he yearned to touch. “My father gave me music manuscript paper,” she went on. “I remember not wanting to use it because it was so precious. I wonder what happened to it. What did you do when you turned sixteen?”

  “You look...different.”

  She modestly glanced to her dress. “Lady Martise insisted.”

  “What kind of flower is that? I’ve not seen it up north.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That one.” He reached toward her veil but wouldn’t touch it.

  Her hand, rising to the flower, brushed his. Her face flushed, and she stepped back. “We should say good-bye.”

  “Wait. I wanted to apologize. I haven’t been to the archive lately. I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy. I won’t keep you, then.” Her chin began to pucker. “Excuse me. I depart early tomorrow and have already overstayed.”

  Damn, damn, damn. Why had he said that? He thrust a hand toward the dancers. “You can’t go. It’s not over. The dancing’s just begun.”

  “It was over weeks ago,” she murmured and turned to leave.

  “For the Maker’s sake, Ari. Let me explain.”

  Oh, she looks quite unhappy, Miss Gallivere thought with pleasure at seeing Hera Solace with Captain Degarius. She deserved to be unhappier still, that scheming woman who cloaked herself in piety to catch the very same two men Miss Gallivere sought. Captain Degarius wasn’t such a loss. But at Summercrest, the woman dashed her hopes for Prince Lerouge, and she still blinded the poor fool. Miss Gallivere smirked. She’d seen him pull Hera Solace into the dressing room. He’d put that flower in her headdress. What a pity he hadn’t seen her with the captain, seen her for what she was. At this moment, the prince was too deep into Orlandian politics with Sebastion to notice. Well, the blind must see the light. She grasped the prince’s arm
and whispered to him.

  The prince craned his neck in the direction she pointed.

  THE IMPOSSIBLE AND THE INEVITABLE

  The full moon swam in Arvana’s watery, wide-open eyes. A mere blink would roll tears over her cheeks, and dear Maker, she wouldn’t cry before Nan, though his every new coldly rational word about duty mercilessly added another drop to her precariously full eyelids.

  “I wished to complete my study on winter campaigns,” he was saying as they walked the shortcut to Lady Martise’s through the wooded park behind the Great Hall, “but I had to prepare for the match with Lerouge.”

  “I know. You told me the evening I played for Teodor.”

  “You, of all people, must understand what was at stake.”

  “Yes, I of all people.” Through her restrained tears, the moon turned liquid and dripped into the trees.

  “And after it was over, I had many affairs to complete before returning to Sarapost.”

  Something pierced the arch of Arvana’s foot. She stopped, removed her slipper, shook out a slivery twig from the mulched path, and then put back on the shoe. Nan, talking of the responsibilities of the generalship he’d only received last night, kept walking. Taking opportunity of his oblivion, she blinked hard and ran her sleeve over her eyes before calling, “Please stop,” as much to end his speech as to ask him to wait.

  Her eyes now dry, she saw clearly how he turned, and waiting for her to catch up, crossed his arms imperiously over his chest. He was General Degarius. Not Nan. “Would you have me neglect my duty?” he asked.

  She drew herself straight as she came to meet him. She wasn’t one of his soldiers who must cower at the gold on his coat. “You may say whatever you wish to defend your honor, but not at the expense of mine. I’ve never asked you to come to the archive. You came, or didn’t come, as you pleased.”

  He turned sharply from her and started walking again. “Then why are you upset with me?”

  “Might I be less than cheerful for reasons other than your decision not to finish your study of winter campaigns? For reasons that don’t concern you?”

  “So you understand?”

  “I understand we worked together nearly every day for several moons. I understand that when you could not come, I should feel no moment of disappointment. After all, because I wear this dress, I have none of the usual human feelings—” Her voice broke and her brow contracted, centering a pulsing pain between her eyes. “You had no obligation. I understand completely.”

  “What would you have had me say? What could have made any difference?”

  Oh Maker! Indeed, what had she expected him to say? Dreaded tears welled in the throbbing corners of her eyes. “Nothing, General,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

  With a gentleness that was a hundred times harder to bear than his military superiority—because it was Nan speaking—he said, “Hera, the last thing I wished was to hurt you. Tell me you understand.”

  No, she vowed not to cry. She nodded as she tilted her face upward and rolled her eyes to keep the tears in check.

  As if he’d followed the line of her gaze, he said, “There’s no halo about the moon. No breeze. We’ll have good traveling weather tomorrow. I imagine you’re no less eager than I am to leave this place.”

  She twisted the novice’s ring. After weeks of no appetite, it slid easily over her knuckle. Though the words were farthest from the truth, she said, “Yes, I’m eager to see Sylvania again.”

  “What? I thought you couldn’t go home.”

  Had she spoken those words aloud? She’d not meant to. Not in a thousand years. She crushed her eyes closed and hid her face in her hands.

  They didn’t walk hand in hand like lovers, Chane thought as he watched from a distance behind a statue of his father that stood at the entrance to the wooded area. Miss Gallivere was wrong. Certainly, they knew each other; Willow admitted it. But why would she be alone with him out here? They stopped walking. The Sarapostan’s silhouette neared hers.

  When the import of her words filtered through his surprise, Degarius felt the simultaneous waves of elation and distress of a young captain about to lead his first charge. All he could think was to ask, “Why have you decided on such a thing?”

  “I hope to find work as a tutor or music teacher in Sylvania.” Her hands covering her face muffled her already tenuous voice.

  “Sylvania? You wouldn’t renounce your vows to be a tutor.”

  “Teaching is a noble profession.”

  “You’re an instructor already.”

  “Please, this isn’t your concern.”

  “But it makes no sense.”

  “Why do you ask me to say what you don’t want to hear? To gratify your vanity or humiliate mine?”

  Damn it. She was right. It was to gratify his vanity. A part of him had wanted to hear it, to know that she’d felt at least a fraction of what he had. But what she proposed? He couldn’t bear responsibility for it. “You make a precipitous decision. Stay at Solace.”

  “I am going back. I must do this the right way—return my ring. But I can’t stay. My brother will come for me. He owes me this one thing. I would rather sacrifice my word than dishonor my profession. Surely, you understand this.”

  “You’ve not broken your vows. There’s no dishonor.”

  “I...I can’t forget.”

  What did she expect of him? Degarius paused uncomfortably as the terrible weight of her choice sank into his conscience. It had been wrong of him to indulge his desire without considering the price of hers, a price he couldn’t repay, a debt he couldn’t honor. “I’m sorry if you judged my regard other than what it was.” It was a baldfaced lie; he knew it as he spoke it, but what else was he to say? The only way she could have misjudged his regard was to underestimate it. But there were other things in life besides desire. “I don’t want you to give up anything or break any vow on my account. You know how I’ve chosen to live my life.”

  “I give nothing up for you. I knew you’d never ask or offer anything. This is my concern alone.”

  He took her hands from her eyes. They were luminous, full of earnest yearning for a spiritual love that lifted his soul in a way he couldn’t understand and a human one that reached into his heart and compelled him to speak the truth. “Ari, what kind of life could I give you? Waiting alone in Sarapost or at Ferne Clyffe? Following with the supply train? All you would have is worry. And then, if anything should happen... I’ve seen it too often, seen what it did to my grandmother. How could I want that for you?”

  “Is worry worse than regret?” There were tears in her voice and eyes.

  “One can’t regret what is impossible.” He unpinned his medal, took her hand, and laid it in her palm. “I won’t forget what you did for me. You shouldn’t have returned this. It wasn’t a gift. You were brave to help me with Assaea. Let me honor you the only way I can.”

  She looked at the medal and burst into tears.

  What had the bastard done to make Willow cry? She hadn’t wept like that to leave him. In the quiet between each convulsed sob, Miss Gallivere’s insinuating words filled Chane’s ears. You have given him a sword and now a woman of your household. The suggestion took on new and more damning meanings with each repetition, yet he couldn’t believe his own constructs. She had promised him they would start anew when he returned, and she was everything honorable, good, and noble.

  It was unendurable to stand like a spectator idly watching a proud woman weep and shudder. Degarius unclasped his cape, wrapped it around her shoulders, and then gathered her to him so she might cry into his shoulder. He stroked her back and brushed his lips to her forehead. When she became still, he held her tighter. Her scent of jasmine soap, the softness of her body close to his made all the sorrow, pity, and doubt belong to another time and place, to another man. With that thought, he let go of all others and dissolved into the oblivion where there is no self and other.

  The bell in the Saviors’ Gate began to ring eleven, and she s
tirred. He raised her chin to look at her face, which though swollen and damp with tears, was the most beautiful to him. What was worry when there was comfort such as this? What was impossible mere moments ago was now inevitable and the regret unbearable. “Ari.”

  Chane’s eyes opened wide. The Sarapostan was arduously kissing her. Did the dark deceive him? It was a trick of the shadows. Chane’s chest ached and his head raced with thoughts that fought for expression. It was forbidden. Forbidden. He forbade it. Here, on his grounds! His stomach pushed into his throat. The foreigner was soiling her with his ugly mouth. What other parts of her body did his hands dirty?

  She no longer cried. Why didn’t she scream? Push him away? Try to flee? Why did her arms reach around him, completing the embrace?

  Chane’s fingers uncontrollably stiffened and flexed. To calm their restless spasms, he wrapped them around the handle of the knife he wore on his belt. Ten minutes ago, you promised me. You promised me, Willow. Didn’t you see I’ve become what you are? Good and selfless. What has he done to make you betray yourself and me? What has that whoreson bastard done to you? I forbid it.

  The knife came silently from its leather sheath, and he stepped from behind the statue of his father.

  HEAVEN, HELL, AND THE PLACE BETWEEN

  Nan had taken her face in his hands, wiped her tears with his thumbs. Calluses ridged his palms, but the sides of his thumbs were smooth and his touch was gentle. Arvana had seen him fight, knew the strength in those hands, and it made her want to cry anew to know how sweet they could be—and to think she’d never feel them again.