He found it alongside the slightly smaller one containing his mother’s remains. Both were fashioned of gray marble, topped with lifelike effigies of their respective occupants. Magnes paused to gaze at the carved stone likeness of his mother. The blank eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. The face bore little resemblance to the woman he only barely recalled from childhood memories.
Magnes raised the small lamp higher to illuminate his father’s tomb. The unknown artist had done a superb job of coaxing Duke Teodorus’ plain, blunt features from the dark stone; it seemed at any moment, the father would awaken from his cold slumber to arise and denounce his treacherous son.
A strangled sob clawed its way past Magnes’ clenched teeth; he collapsed to his knees beside the tomb. With shaking hands, he set the lamp atop the carved folds of the effigy’s gown.
Tears wet his cheeks as Magnes laid his hands over his father’s chilly marble fingers. “I’m sorry Father,” he sobbed. “I have no right to ask for your forgiveness. I was always a disappointment to you! I wish with all my heart I could have been the son you wanted. I just couldn’t. It was never in me.”
He stared into the empty eyes of the effigy, as if by sheer force of will, he could draw a response from the stone. Duke Teodorus remained frozen, implacable, unreachable.
How long he sat slumped beside his father’s tomb Magnes didn’t know, for he had lost all sense of time in the dark and stillness. Shadows crowded around the tiny pool of light cast by the altar lamp like the spectral presences of his departed progenitors. They surrounded him, accusing, his father’s angry spirit standing at the fore.
Staggering to his feet, Magnes snatched the lamp and fled. He slipped on the slick stairs, cracking his left knee on the brutal stone. Groaning, he stumbled up and out of the crypt, then paused just beyond the gate. Breath ragged with agony, he massaged his knee, trying to get some sense of how badly he had injured it. His probing fingers told him nothing.
The chapel’s narrow windows glimmered like pearl rectangles within the blackness of the surrounding walls. Dawn was fast approaching. Magnes had been down in the crypt for most of the night. Wearily, he limped toward the front of the chapel, pausing to replace the altar lamp in its rightful spot, then he slipped out through the door to the yard.
Already, he could feel his knee stiffening as he made his way back to the keep. As he passed the kitchen, he heard sounds of activity within. Cook and her staff were always the first ones up and working well before sunrise; the bread had to go into the ovens before anything else.
When Magnes came at last to his rooms, his knee throbbed with such fierceness, he feared he had torn something loose. As bad as it hurt, though, it felt as nothing compared to the pain in his soul. By visiting his father’s tomb, he had hoped to ease some of the guilt tormenting him since his return home; instead, he had accomplished the opposite. What peace he had found while living and working with the Eskleipans had been shattered like a dropped mirror into a thousand jagged shards.
You have to find a way to forgive yourself.
Thessalina’s words rang mockingly in his head. Magnes groaned aloud.
How can I, when what I’ve done is so heinous?
Who, in all of Amsara, could help him?
He returned to his bed, but sleep refused to come.
On the Brink
Four days later, beneath the banner of the Duchy of Amsara—three black lions rampant on an azure field—Thessalina rode out of Amsara Castle at the head of a force numbering some four hundred foot soldiers and a hundred light cavalry.
The ruddy early morning light painted helmets and spearheads with crimson. High atop the castle walls where Magnes stood, the sound of marching boots rumbled like distant thunder. He watched Thessalina’s army until it had dwindled to a dark smudge on the horizon, then limped back down the stairs and headed across the yard toward the kitchen. He wasn’t really hungry but the part of his mind which could still think rationally reminded him he must eat.
He allowed Cook to serve him a bowl of hot oatmeal, accompanied by a thick slice of bread, fresh from the oven. The look and aroma of the food elicited no response from his body. Each bite became a monumental struggle. Just as he decided to give up and leave his meal unfinished, Claudia appeared at his side, her own breakfast in her hands.
“Are ye leavin’ already, young master? Why, ye’ve hardly touched yer breakfast! Are ye ill?”
Claudia looked a little more stooped, a little less stout, than when he had last seen her, just before his world fell apart on that terrible night all those months ago. Her pale blue eyes had lost none of their sparkle or motherly concern, however. Magnes had not spoken with his old nurse since returning home. He realized upon seeing her now that she knew nothing of Jelena’s fate.
“No, Claudia. I’m not ill,” he lied. “I hurt my knee and it aches, is all.”
Claudia cocked an eyebrow. “Now, young master Magnes, ye never could fib t’me!” She set her bowl and cup on the table and sank to the bench beside him. “Tell yer ol’ Claudia what really ails ye.” Her voice, so gentle and full of affection nearly caused Magnes to break down and tell her the truth, but he stopped himself.
How can I burden this dear, sweet woman with the poison that festers in my soul? She couldn’t possibly understand.
Instead, he changed the subject. “I’ve news of Jelena.”
Claudia’s seamed face lit up as bright as a solstice candle. “Oh, Master Magnes, if’n ye mean the news about my baby bein’ a princess, then I already know!”
“How did you find out?” Magnes replied, startled.
“Jelena’s man told me. Her husband.”
“Ashinji was here?” Magnes exclaimed. “Here at Amsara? Are you sure, Claudia?”
“Sure I’m sure, young master. I saw him, I did. Spoke to him, even! He told me who he was. He had such a pretty name, but so strange and hard t’ get the tongue ’round. Ashee, it was. He told me my baby was expectin’ her first baby, theirs t’gether. Oh, Master, I cried, I was so happy!”
“Did my sister’s soldiers bring Ashi here?” Magnes asked.
Claudia frowned. “No, sir. They weren’t no soldiers! Hard lookin’ they was, an’ they kept poor Ashee chained to their wagon like a dog.” Claudia’s voice quivered with sorrow.
The slavers. Of course, Magnes thought.
“I think he was hurt, too, ’cause it looked like his arm was all bound up,” Claudia continued. “I prayed every night fer a week, askin’ the gods to protect him, even though he weren’t human. He was my Jelena’s man, an’ the father of her child.”
“Those men who had Ashi were slavers, Claudia,” Magnes explained. “They took him all the way to Darguinia where they sold him to a very wealthy woman. That’s where I found him. His mistress used him as a gladiator.”
Claudia gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth. “Is he…” Her voice died in her throat before she could finish.
Magnes smiled as he squeezed her forearm. “No. I helped him to escape. He’s probably back home with Jelena by now.”
“Praise the gods!” the old woman whispered.
“Ashi told you about Jelena’s father, then?” Magnes asked.
“Aye, he did, Master. The king of the elves! I always knew my baby was special, an’ that her dad was noble-born, but a princess? That I never s’spected.” She dabbed her eyes on the hem of her apron. “I guess I’ll not see my lamb again, leastways not in this life.”
“You never know what fate has in store, Claudia,” Magnes replied.
The old nurse nodded, then murmured, “My girl is where she truly belongs now.”
Magnes sat with Claudia while she ate her breakfast, answering her questions about Alasiri and the elves. For a time, he managed to forget his pain.
When she had finished her oatmeal and tea, the old nurse said, “Now, if’n you’ll excuse me, I must be getting’ this old carcass to the laundry.” She rose to her feet, pausing for a few heartbeats with hand press
ed to her chest. Her breath rattled alarmingly, then she bent over in a fit of coughing.
Magnes tried to slip his hands beneath her elbows, but she waved him off.
“Claudia, how long have you had that nasty cough?” he inquired after she had recovered enough to stand upright again.
“Ai, ’tis nothing, young master, just a bit ’o the lung fever, is all. I’ll be all right. I’m very strong, you know,” the old woman insisted.
“That’s not what I asked you,” Magnes responded patiently. “How long have you been sick?”
She shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Not long, though. I drink me some coltsfoot and licorice tea sweetened with honey and at night I lay a nice onion an’ mustard poultice on my chest. Right as rain I am by mornin’!”
Magnes frowned, knowing Claudia made light of her condition.
“When I was in Darguinia, I learned a thing or two about healing,” he said. “I trained with the Eskleipans, a very learned order. I’ll make you some of their remedies.”
“Ach, beggin’ yer pardon, young master, but them Esk, Ekslepans sound too foreign t’ me,” Claudia complained.
“They might not be Soldaran, but they were the only healing order in all of Darguinia who weren’t a bunch of charlatans. Do you trust me, Claudia?”
Claudia’s eyes widened and her mouth formed an O of dismay. “My lord, o’course I trust you! I didna’ mean…”
Magnes squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll send the medicines up to the servants’ hall as soon as I’ve made them,” he said.
Claudia offered a crooked smile. “Thank ye, young master.”
She turned to go but Magnes stopped her with a hand upon her forearm. “Claudia, I don’t think you should be working so hard,” he said gently. “You need to rest so you can get your health back.”
“Don’t be daft, m’lord!” Claudia scolded. “Me? Not work hard? What good would I be if I couldn’t work, eh? I’m still just as strong as th’ day I delivered you and laid you squawkin’ on yer mam’s belly!” Though the top notes of her voice rang with bravado, Magnes heard an unmistakable undertone of resignation. Claudia, like most common-born folk who managed to survive into old age, was a fatalist, and quite prepared to accept whatever came, be it restored good health or death.
“I’ll find an easier post for you,” Magnes promised. “You’ve served my family well and faithfully, and you deserve a rest. Let me do this for you.”
“It would be nice t’ get away from all that heat an’ smell,” Claudia sighed.
“It’s settled, then,” Magnes said.
They parted company at the kitchen door, she toward the laundry, he toward the stables. As he stood for a few moments watching his old nurse hobble across the yard, the peace he had enjoyed while sitting with her at breakfast dissolved. Once more, despair slithered up and wrapped him in its clammy embrace.
Got to keep moving, he thought, as he shook himself and continued on. He had no choice; he could stick to the routine of his duties, run the duchy in his sister’s absence, or go mad.
***
The days drifted by, one very much like another. Magnes drifted as well, trying not to think too much, and above all, trying not to feel. Thinking led to remembering, and remembering led to pain. The duke haunted his dreams again, after leaving him in peace for the last few months. To stave off the nightmares, Magnes drank himself into a stupor each night.
Somehow, he managed to crawl from his bed every morning and attend to his duties, though the effort proved more and more difficult with each passing day. He lost all desire for food; everything he put into his mouth tasted like dust. He ate only because he must in order to stay alive, and increasingly, that was beginning to look like endless torment.
At sunrise, on the twentieth day after Thessalina and her army had left to join the Imperial Army, Magnes stood once again on the battlements, looking down and wondering how long it would take to hit the ground should he decide to jump. Gazing out from the dark, terrible place that had become his prison, death seemed like the perfect choice, if only he had the courage.
He blinked…and found himself on the wall, crouched between two crenellations. He blinked again…and rocked on his heels, fingers caressing the rough stone. He blinked a third time and relaxed into the embrace of the air…only to have unseen hands snatch him backward.
A man’s voice, shrill with distress, cried out his name. Strong arms wrapped about him, pinning him against a leather and metal-clad body.
“Gods! Lord Magnes, what’re ye doin’? Ye almost fell off’n the wall!”
A shaft of sunlight pierced the veil of clouds that squatted on the horizon, dazzling Magnes’ eyes. He lifted a hand to his face and it came back wet with tears.
“I…I don’t know what I’m doing,” he stammered. “Help me!”
“Just tell me how, milord!” The guardsman released Magnes from his bear hug but stood close, his broad face twisted with confusion.
Magnes started at the man and dredged a name from somewhere deep in his memory. “Talin.” he croaked.
“Come down to the yard with me, milord,” Talin coaxed. “Please!” As he spoke, the guard inserted himself between Magnes and the wall.
Magnes nodded in acquiescence and allowed Talin to lead him down. At the bottom of the steep stairs, the guardsman touched his forehead in salute, then stood regarding his lord with embarrassed concern. He seemed at a loss as to what to say or do next.
Poor bastard. It isn’t every day one’s lord attempts to throw himself from the battlements, Magnes thought.
“Thank you, Talin.” Magnes couldn’t bear to look at the guardsman’s face, for fear the pity he had see in the other man’s eyes would shatter him completely. What had happened—no, what had almost happened—up there on the wall filled him with nearly as much shame and horror as the original act that had precipitated it.
Talin ducked his head and kicked at an imaginary clod of dirt. “Don’t need no thanks, milord. Just doin’ my duty,” he replied. “Will you be all right now, milord?”
Magnes nodded. “You may return to your post,” he said.
The guard bowed again and started back up the stairs. Just before rounding the first curve, he turned and glanced over his shoulder at Magnes, shook his head, then disappeared from view. Magnes sighed. By nightfall, the entire castle would be abuzz with the news that the duchess’s brother had tried to kill himself.
Magnes had known he teetered on the crumbling edge of a cliff and, sooner or later, he would fall. Perhaps the gods themselves had a hand in his rescue, perhaps not; either way, he knew he had to do something, change something, in order to step back from the brink.
Only one person could help him now.
***
Greenwood Town lay a day’s ride from Amsara Castle. Magnes’ final destination stood on the town’s eastern edge, set back from the road down a tree-lined path. He arrived just as the sun touched the crowns of the trees, setting them afire.
A big black dog chuffed up the path to greet him, letting loose a single deep bark, but the effort proved too lackadaisical to cause any alarm. Magnes’ horse Storm snorted in equine disdain. A child’s piping laughter floated on the warm air, commingling with the happy squeals of an infant. Storm plodded on, escorted by the black dog, and soon the house came into view.
Magnes drew rein at the gate and swung from the saddle. A boy of about seven summers sat cross-legged in the middle of the yard, entertaining a toddler with puppets made of twigs and bits of brightly colored cloth. The boy looked up as Magnes tied Storm to the fence post, then pushed open the gate.
“Ma’s out back,” the boy announced. He had a narrow, well-sculpted face beneath a shock of black hair, high cheekbones and dark intelligent eyes.
Magnes smiled. “Is your father at home?” he asked. The boy shook his head, quick and sharp as a bird.
“Naw. Da’s off with th’ duchess, fightin’ in the war,” he replied.
Of course, Magnes thou
ght. “Will you go and fetch your mother, then?” The boy’s brow furrowed as if he were thinking very hard. Abruptly, he nodded, dropped the puppets, climbed to his feet, then swung the baby into his arms. Staggering under his burden, he disappeared around the side of the house. Magnes waited.
After he had counted forty of his own heartbeats, she appeared.
Magnes had always been able to discern her thoughts just by reading the subtle cues of eyes, brow, and mouth, but as the young woman approached, wiping her hands on a clay-stained apron, her face remained unreadable. She stopped an arm’s length away and simply looked at him, hands hanging at her sides. The boy came to stand beside her, the baby still in his arms.
“Hello, Livie,” Magnes murmured.
The Most Precious Gift
I heard you’d disappeared after the duke died,” Livie said.
The wind that always came with sunset rattled the tree branches overhead. It lifted the hem of Livie’s skirt and blew strands of her raven hair across her brow.
“I went south to Darguinia.”
Magnes searched Livie’s face in vain for a clue to her thoughts. The toddler, a girl, began to fuss, but before she launched into a full tantrum, Livie scooped her out of the boy’s arms.
“Come inside,” she said. “It’s getting too dark out here.” She turned and led the way into the cottage. Once inside, she plopped the baby onto a rug before the hearth, then moved around the room, lighting the lamps with a burning splinter. “Sarian, go fetch me some bacon from the smokehouse,” she called out over her shoulder and the boy scampered out the door.
Magnes settled on a stool by the hearth and waited for Livie to finish her task. The baby had found a bit of fluff on the rug and was absorbed in pulling it apart with her chubby fingers. Magnes took a deep breath as he wrestled with his pain and regret, but the feelings proved too strong to be easily vanquished.
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