by Sarah Dalton
Luca thought of little Carolina and his heart hurt. She was eight years old and should not see her big brother so weak and ill.
“Will you give Carolina my training sword when I am gone?” Lucas said. “She wants to learn but I doubt that Father will let her. And Alberto can have my clothes. He will fit into them soon.”
“Alberto has enough clothes, and you are going nowhere. You will need your clothes, little brother.”
Matias handed Luca a cup of water and he sipped slowly. “There is a sleeping draft here, Luca, would you like it?”
Luca shook his head. “I want to stay awake.” Luca stared at the untouched honeyed plums. His arms ached from the effort of holding the cup. “What of Reva?”
“The last I heard she was with child. But I have heard that rumour before and yet there are no children currently at Unna Castle.”
Luca bit his lip. For the last three years he had thought of Reva often, and his fever worsened every time he thought of her. His eyes burned when he remembered how she had been half-dragged out of the throne room by that beast. As he thought about that moment, he seemed to feel the pressure on his elbow even now, as he remembered how his father’s guard had escorted him away. He had then been locked in his chambers so that he was powerless to help the girl he had loved.
“I wish I could see her one last time,” Luca said quietly.
“I can try to get word to her, but if she is with child she may not be able to travel.”
Luca nodded. “I understand.” He closed his eyes, trying to block the thought of that beast of a man with his good, sweet Reva. He had never forgiven his father for what he did.
“Perhaps Stefan will come to visit you later.” Matias changed the subject. “He told me he would come.”
“Stefan cannot bear weakness, you know that. He is too much like Father. Sometimes I wonder how you both share the same parents and yet are so different. At least I have a different mother to explain the strange phenomenon.”
“You and I are not so different, little brother,” Matias said with a smile, ruffling Luca’s hair. “You are just as brave as I am. Look at you now, fighting bravely against the fever. You will overcome this, Luca. You will leave this bed soon, and you will be back out into the barracks training with me and the men. You will see.”
Luca glanced over at the tapestry on the far wall. It depicted a cavalry charging into battle. Luca loved to ride. He missed his horse, Vareen, a beautiful bay mare with a bright white blaze between her eyes.
“I do not know, Matias. You say I am fighting, and that I am strong. But I do not feel it. I do not want to give up, but what if this is my time? What if this is all God intended for me? And what if there is no God? Brother Axil talks of the Enlightened God like He has a great plan for us all, but I do not know if I believe that, or even if I think that is fair. Why can I not choose my own path? Why could I not marry Reva and live with her in here, in the keep, long enough to see you crowned and Estala prosper under your reign? There is no chance that this is how I want to end, but I cannot see that I have a choice.” Luca paused to cough.
Matias stood to collect a damp cloth from the table. “You are working yourself up, Luca. Your skin is red and you are burning even brighter. Lie back and relax. You should try this sleeping draft, it will help you.”
Luca pushed the furs away from his body and writhed in the bed. He was hotter than ever before. His skin itched with the heat.
“Should I get Brother Axil?” Matias asked.
Luca shook his head. “Water.”
Matias passed Luca the cup, and dabbed Luca’s forehead with the cloth as Luca sipped from the cup.
“Are you in pain, brother?” Matias asked.
Luca tossed the cup aside and dug his nails into the sheets beneath his body. It was like his dream. His body was so hot that it was oppressive and tight in his chest. He coughed and rolled to the side, fighting against the unbearable heat. He was vaguely aware of hearing his brother’s voice, saying something about his inflamed skin. He heard Matias call for Brother Axil. Luca reached out to take Matias’s hand to tell him not to get Axil. He did not want his Governor here. He wanted the healer, not more stories and counsel.
As Luca touched Matias’s arm, a strange sensation coursed through him. It charged as fast as Vareen’s gallop. His eyes were screwed shut. His mind was as thick as soup, and everything he heard was distorted. The sensation was one of heat, but it was more than his fever. It was like his dream, with the flames and the burning of his skin. He could smell it. Sulphur and ash. He could hear something. It was like a pig squealing for its dinner.
It was when the sounds disappeared that he realised he was not holding Matias’s arm any longer. And it was then that he realised he felt better. The fever was gone. His arms and chest no longer ached. There was strength in his legs again.
But there was still heat.
Luca opened his eyes. He sat upright in bed and began to scream. The room was on fire. His tapestry of the cavalry was burning. His bed had begun to burn. And Matias… Matias was gone.
Brother Axil burst into the room. As he took in the scene, his eyes widened. He stared down at something on the floor near the bed, and Luca thought he saw Axil try to retch. But it was a mere moment before Axil composed himself. He fought through the flames, grabbed Luca, and pulled him from the bed. He grasped Luca by the wrist and pulled a small iron band from his own arm. Without saying a word, he pushed the iron band onto Luca’s wrist.
“We must leave,” Axil said.
Luca nodded. There was strength in his legs again. He could stand, he could walk. But why had his fever gone? And where was his brother?
As Axil pulled Luca from the burning room, Luca turned back and saw the ashes on the ground. They were not just ashes. They were bones and flesh, and half-burnt silks. On top of the mess lay a sword, with part of its sheath burned away. The hilt was engraved with suns.
Reva
She lay on bloodied sheets and furs. Sweat pooled beneath her wrist as she clenched the cotton sheet and screamed. Reva knew only pain in that hot, stifling room, and she thought that pain would never end. A wet rag was pulled over her burning forehead. Soft whispers came from lips pressed by her ear. Reva was sixteen, and she thought she was dying. Even the room smelled of death. It was metallic and rotten with sweetness beneath it all. She leaned back and stared up at her bed canopy. It was time to stop. It must be.
“You must try.” The words came from her handmaid, Ammie, who still held the rag between her fingers. “You must fight.”
“You must push,” the midwife persisted. The older woman stood at the foot of the bed with her hands pressed against Reva’s knees, keeping them prised open. She peered at what was in front of her with a deep frown set on her face. “I see something.”
“What? What do you see?” Reva leaned forward on her elbows. There were rivulets of sweat working their way down her face. Every part of her body was sore, but she did not care. She had to know.
This was her fourth. Three years had given four and taken three away. Two of them slipped away early, hardly noticed except for the holes they made in her heart. One had lived for six months until she suffered agonising pain to give birth to a tiny little thing that looked nothing like the baby she had imagined. The thought of that thing made her stomach roil. She put that thought away and concentrated on the here and now. This was the first baby she had nurtured in her womb for the full nine months. It was a boy, she was sure of it. She would call him Lucian, after the prince she once knew, and the mother, Isabella, that she missed every hour of the day.
He would be all her. It was decided. She knew the gifts she would give him: the light copper skin that glowed under the sun; the deep brown eyes; the dark, almost black hair; the smile she inherited from her mother. He would be an Avalon, even if he grew to have the Unna name. She had already decided that her son would not share any features with her husband. He would not have the deep-set eyes or the protruding for
ehead. No. He would grow to be strong and healthy, but he would not be violent like his father. There would be no temper, no lust for battle. He would be wise, too.
Foolish girl. These thoughts soothed nothing. Had she not learned from her previous mistake? There were woollen booties and knitted outfits in a carved wooden cot that had sat unused for three years. Yet she still thought ahead. She still planned. She still whispered the name of her unborn child as she slept at night. Despite the fear that consumed her for the first six months, she made plans; she let the love flourish in her heart. She did not look at the midwife’s face.
But now she looked. Now she saw the grim expression on her face. She saw the set of her jaw and the grit of her teeth.
“What is it?” Reva demanded.
“Try to push again,” said the midwife.
“But what do you see?”
Ammie placed a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “Shh, my lady. Use your strength on helping your baby.”
After almost a full day of bleeding, pushing, bleeding, she had no strength left.
“I feel faint,” Reva admitted. “I do not know if I can go on.”
The midwife dug her nails into Reva’s knees. “You can. You must.”
Fear drove adrenaline through her veins, and with the adrenaline came strength. She fought against the pain to push through her body. There was a hand on her shoulder, and pressure between her legs, and a scream ripped through her. When the scream was over, she knew that she had delivered the baby. Finally, at long last, she had done it.
But as she was about to let herself slump back onto the bed, a cold prickling sensation washed over her skin. Something was wrong. The room was too quiet, too silent.
Reva sat up. “Why is he silent? Where is his cry?”
She watched the midwife bundle up her soundless baby in soft linens. Ammie rushed around the bed to the midwife. Reva watched as Ammie raised a hand to her mouth and shook her head. That tiny motion of the head, the sight of Ammie’s hand raising to her mouth was too much for Reva. She felt the room melt away. The strength from the adrenaline vanished, leaving her limp and lifeless without any fight left. She knew without asking. She knew.
There were tears in the room, but they did not come from Reva. It was Ammie, turning to her, sobbing, saying she was sorry, over and over. Reva fought back nausea and dizziness to hold out her shaking arms.
“Can I hold him? Can I hold my son?”
The midwife shook her head. “It is no son.”
Ammie wiped her tears away and took the bundle from the midwife. “My lady, I do not think you should see.”
Reva felt terror for the first time. What had she birthed? Was it a monster? Was it deformed?
“Tell me,” she whispered. “If you will not show me then tell me.”
Ammie and the midwife exchanged glances. Quick, furtive glances that finally brought the tears to Reva’s eyes.
“It is like last time,” Reva said, understanding. “He was born wrong. Dead, and wrong.”
“I am sorry, my lady,” Ammie affirmed.
“You are young. You will have time for more children.” The midwife walked to the basin and began washing her equipment. She came back with a cloth and began cleaning Reva’s legs. “You will have more yet, my lady.”
Reva shook her head. “No more.”
Ammie stepped towards Reva with the small bundle in her arms. “I will… I will bury him with care. I must do it before Lord Unna…”
Reva could not look at Ammie. She could not look at anyone in the room; instead she stared at the fire until her eyes burned. It took a short, sharp slap from the midwife to bring her back, and finally she finished pushing out the last of it so that the midwife could stitch her up.
The problem was her, she knew that now. She was not made for this. It was her one purpose—to give her husband an heir. But she was incapable of the task. As the midwife ripped away the bloody sheets, she turned onto her side and cradled her belly. Though there was still bloat, it felt so empty. She felt empty inside, bereft of emotion, of love. She been given four and four had been taken away. How many more would be taken away? How many more times would she have to go through this pain and agony?
I do not have the strength, she thought. I will not live through this again.
As the midwife gave her a tonic for the pain, and food to give her strength, the doors to her chamber burst open and large boots thudded across the stone floor.
“Where is my son?” Francis Unna demanded.
“Your son was stillborn, my lord.” The midwife did not stop in her tasks as she pulled furs up to Reva’s chin and felt Reva’s forehead. “Your wife has lost a lot of blood and is feeble. She must rest now. This is no place for a man.”
Reva did not have the strength to face her husband, though she knew his rages well enough. He was forty-five now and still had no heir to the title given to him by the king three years ago. It was all he cared about, his heir. When Reva was pregnant, he treated her sweetly. He let her rest in bed. He ensured she had the best food possible, and the best healers to tend to her. With each loss, he became bitter and cold. When Reva was not pregnant, he could be cruel. He drank too much. He berated her for being dull and unentertaining. He went with other women.
And he beat her.
It could be something as simple as a mistimed sigh that sent Francis Unna into a rage. He would not be belittled, not by his wife. Reva was his property, gifted to him by the king. She would not insult him by sighing to his face or talking back to him. Reva had not talked back to him for over two years. She had learned it was not worth the beatings that came after. The people of Lantha called her ‘the gentle lady’ because of her quiet, sweet nature. That was not who Reva used to be before she had married Lord Unna. She had been brave and wild and fast. She had chased Prince Luca through the castle—laughing—with her hair loose and tangled.
Tentatively, her eyes drifted up to Lord Unna’s face, and she wondered where that girl had gone. Reva felt like a hollowed-out, beaten, bruised, and sore mess, with grief so raw that it hurt to breathe.
“I am sorry, my lord. I have failed you again,” Reva muttered.
Francis took a step forward and Reva closed her eyes. She felt his face move closer to hers. She smelled the sour tang of ale on his breath. “What use are you? I married you to give me an heir and you have killed four of my sons.”
“Lord Unna—” the midwife interjected.
“Quiet!”
Reva opened her eyes at his shout. She saw his face all twisted up with rage. She saw his arm jerk forward and grasp her neck. Her eyes widened in shock as he pressed down on her throat. The midwife leapt towards him, attempting to pull his arm away. Reva stared deeply into those rage-filled eyes.
And then he let her go. Reva took in a deep breath as her husband clenched a fist. His rage had not been quenched yet, she feared.
“My lord, you are so right. I have failed you and that shame is something I will carry for the rest of my life,” she said in a rough whisper. “But you should have seen him. He was beautiful. He had your eyes and your strength. He was perfect, and would have been perfect had God given him his first breath. I will birth you a son and he will live next time.”
Lord Unna’s fist unclenched as he stared down at his wife. Reva let out a small sigh of relief as her husband turned away and walked from the room.
“That was a clever lie, my lady,” said the midwife.
“You disapprove?” Reva asked.
“No. The man needed to hear it. Though it will make it harder for you if your next birth is as difficult.”
“Yes,” Reva said. “It will.” She paused. “My son, was he… deformed?”
The midwife’s body stiffened. She had been packing her instruments into a small leather satchel. Now she stopped and she stared straight at Reva. “Yes, my lady.”
“His skin, was it…?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Reva held back the tears that burne
d at the back of her throat. “Can I trust you?”
“Yes, my lady.” The older woman never once glanced away. She had an open face, lined with age. Reva thought of it as an honest face. “I will not tell.” The woman went back to packing away her instruments. “I will be back to check on you tomorrow. You must sleep and rest so that you heal and regain your strength.” After a pause, she added, “I should not say this but if I am to keep your secret I feel I must. I have birthed hundreds of babes. Perhaps a dozen, maybe more, failed to take their first breath. I have seen deformity, too. Sometimes God chooses a different path for a child, one that will be more difficult. But I have never seen a new-born babe like yours. I’m sorry to say it. I’m sorry to frighten you. That child was a monster. It is better that it did not live.”
King Davead
Davead hated this journey. Every step was a labour he took no enjoyment from. The steps were steep and plentiful, twisting up the narrow tower. It was called the All-Seeing Tower, though Davead did not know who first coined the phrase. He knew that the tower had once housed guards. Then it became a prison. Now, the name of the tower was more relevant than ever. It was the tallest of the seven towers of Nesra’s Keep, and the view stretched for miles, reaching as far as the azure Sea of Kings. Not that the occupant of the tower ever looked out at the view. She preferred to keep the windows shuttered.
His joints ached as he took each step. Whilst not yet an old man, Davead was old enough to tire quickly when faced with the steep steps of the tower, but young enough to remember his strength and agility as a fighter. Before his son Matias came of age, Davead was active in his army, even fighting alongside his men when crushing Menti rebellions. He had never thirsted for battle—he did not have that same itch he saw in other men—but he had been strong and willing enough to stand next to his men when it came to war. Those battles had taken a toll on his body, though he hated to admit it.
