The Tears of the Rose

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “So She went to the human women and asked them for their advice. They were awed by Her unearthly beauty, but they soon grew accustomed to Her. They showed Her their ways, how to nurse the child, how to introduce the soft foods, to chew the meats. As She learned from them, Glorianna wondered how to repay them. She wanted to offer the women a gift, such as Her sisters offered Her. Something that would guard and protect their human babes.

  “She saw how they spun coarse thread from the animals they kept—the goats and horses—and how they labored at their looms, to make clothing to protect their mortal bodies from the elements. But weaving required the bright light of day. Glorianna’s radiance comes from the between times. She is in the soft, rising dawn and in the falling dusk of brilliant sunset. Her gift, She thought, should be for those times. For when men and women sat together quietly with their children, to tell stories.

  “So Glorianna took a rib from either side and shaped them into long needles. She touched the goats and gave them soft underdown and coaxed the rabbits from the hills with sweet clover. She spun the first yarn, soft and sweet as sunrise, then gave it the bright colors of sunset. Giving these things to the women, She showed them how to knit the yarn together, to make soft blankets for their babes while they sat together, sharing stories.

  “And that is how we came to knit. Also why the luckiest needles are made of the bone of someone who loves you.”

  “Surely that last isn’t true,” I burst out.

  Marin winked at me, her needles flying in their steady dance. I peered at them, trying to discern what they were made of.

  “What happened to them?”

  “To who, Princess?”

  “Well, I know other stories of Glorianna, but what about Her lover? What was his name? And what became of the daughter? Did She have other daughters? You said the birth of Her first daughter.”

  Marin considered, and it occurred to me that we were doing as Glorianna had wanted us to do, sitting in the evening and sharing stories and time together.

  “Can I learn to knit?” I asked impulsively. I knew how to embroider and other such elegant needlework, but now I wanted nothing more than to knit a blanket for my babe—son or daughter. Something soft and bright to wrap my child in.

  “The stories never give the man’s name,” Marin said. “There’s another tale, of how Glorianna’s lover died, as mortals must, and how She grieved for him. In the madness of Her grief, She nearly destroyed the world. I always wondered if it was the same man.”

  Everyone knew that story. It was often held up as the example of Glorianna’s ascendant power and how Moranu and Danu followed Her bidding, lashing the tides and scorching the earth as She demanded.

  I understood that story better than I ever had. I’d always kind of puzzled over it, the tales of Glorianna’s grief. How could She have treated the world and Her people so badly, when She was the goddess of love? It never made sense, and, especially as a girl, I’d wanted Her to get over it and go back to being benevolent.

  But . . . now I comprehended on a visceral level how She’d felt. There was no choice about it, no getting over anything. Grieving is like being ill. Just as my body had taken control, flinging me to my knees with the wretched sicks, it seemed this terrible mourning had all my thoughts and feelings in a death grip around my throat, choking the life from my body.

  The way the cliffs had beckoned to me, I still felt that siren call to end this pain and fling myself into numbing death. If I’d had Glorianna’s power, I, too, would have wanted to take the world with me.

  “Knitting might be good for you,” Marin broke into my dark thoughts, nodding at me placidly when I started at her voice. “It will occupy your hands and give you a sense of peace.”

  She didn’t have to say that I sorely needed some kind of peace.

  “I should mention, though, that the reason you never learned before is because the fine ladies have long frowned on the art. Fit only for coarser hands and thicker yarns.”

  “But you’ll teach me anyway—can I make something for the baby?”

  “We’ll start you with something simple and you can work up to a more complicated piece.” The midwife chuckled to herself. “Though if Her Highness Queen Amelia takes up the art, she may yet start a new fashion.”

  “I’m not queen yet.”

  “Give it time, ducks. Give it time.”

  The next day, I made my way to Glorianna’s Temple. It stood right outside Castle Ordnung itself, but still well within the walls of the keep, so I could leave my ladies behind. Though most of them had taken advantage of our visit home to be with their families and other friends. I didn’t blame them—being in my circle these days sorely lacked the social whirl they’d always enjoyed. Of course, they, too, had abandoned me.

  For the moment, however, I didn’t mind. I needed to speak further with High Priest Kir about Glorianna’s mission to recover Annfwn, so I could be prepared to put it to the High King in a clear way, without an opportunity for Ursula to poke holes in me with her verbal sword.

  When I found the High Priest, his countenance brightened at my arrival and he strode away from a group of underpriests he’d been apparently lecturing. They all bowed deeply to me, scraping the pink tiles with their shaven brows, as if I were Glorianna Herself. They murmured a chant I hadn’t heard before, something lovely and musical.

  “Your Highness.” Kir beamed at me. “You are as lovely as the dawn. It is easy to see how Glorianna’s hand rests upon you.”

  You need to learn not to listen to every bit of flattery lobbed in your direction. I banished Ursula’s nasty voice from my mind.

  The White Monk lurked behind him, as he always seemed to do. He did not chant along with the others, it seemed.

  “What is that prayer?” I asked.

  “Why, it’s yours, Your Highness.” Kir smoothed his immaculate robe. “I composed it myself, to honor you and your son, who shall sit upon the High Throne and lead us all into Annfwn. Under his leadership, we shall reclaim paradise and, along with it, your birthright.”

  “What if the babe is a girl? And why not reclaim it under my leadership?”

  Kir laughed. Then stopped himself as he realized I hadn’t spoken in jest. “The child will be a boy. All the portents confirm that truth. As Glorianna lays Her trust in Her priests, She has determined that your son will lead.”

  “But Glorianna’s first child was a daughter and the goddess loved her.”

  “Your Highness, I assure you, there was no such daughter.”

  “But I heard the tale of how she gave us knitting.”

  Kir looked aghast and, with extreme unctuous courtesy, silently urged me away from the still chanting priests. “Princess Amelia, I beg you to have a care which tales you listen to. There are many that purport to be of Glorianna but are not. They are heresies that can only lead to sorrow and misinformation.”

  The White Monk trailed behind us, silent as always. But I had the feeling that he listened to us intently. Kir seemed to make the mistake, as many did, of thinking the silent also don’t listen. In Andi’s case, that was often true. Not so for everyone.

  “You must tell me where you heard such blasphemy,” Kir went on, an impassioned flush high on his cheeks, “and I shall see to it that the poor, misguided soul receives proper instruction.”

  “Blasphemy?” I echoed, aghast. Surely had Glorianna not wanted me to hear that story, She would have warned me somehow. A sense of wrongness should have alerted me. But it had felt so good, so right, tucked under the covers, listening to Marin’s story. Knitting couldn’t be blasphemous, could it?

  “Oh, yes.” Kir looked gravely concerned. “Be wary of those tempting you from Her path, Your Highness. Especially in these turbulent times.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The dark forces rise up against Glorianna’s champions. You have already been tested—far beyond what any fair young damsel should be expected to bear. We grieve with you, Princess. The people of the Twelve Kingd
oms feel your pain.”

  My heart flooded with emotion to hear this. I wasn’t alone. They shared this terrible time with me. It meant everything.

  “There are demons lurking among us, however,” Kir broke into my thoughts.

  Inadvertently, my gaze flew to the White Monk. He did not raise his bowed head, but he cocked it, ever so slightly. As if he might be laughing at me. How dare he? I was a Princess of the Realm, daughter of the High King, and future Queen of Avonlidgh. Not to mention Glorianna’s avatar upon this earth. He should be kissing the hem of my gown.

  “Princess Amelia, do you heed my words?”

  “Yes.” At least I thought so. Demons and lurking. Sharing my pain. Oh, Hugh.

  “They seek to divert you from your holy mission, Your Highness. By telling tales to distract you, so you won’t hear Glorianna’s voice.”

  My breakfast turned over in my stomach. Had I already failed as Glorianna’s avatar by listening to Marin’s stories?

  “As your spiritual guide, I feel I must warn you. I cannot put it strongly enough, Princess Amelia. Whoever is whispering such tales in your ear is turning your mind and heart away from Glorianna and the purity of the path She’s laid out for you.”

  I wished that Hugh were here. I’d likely spend the rest of my life—however long that might be—wishing for that. He’d know what to do. I chewed my lip against the rising sick. I should have put one of Marin’s mints in my pocket. Surely Marin was no demon, seeking to sway me from fulfilling Glorianna’s plans for me?

  “Who was it, Your Highness?” Kir’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “At least give me a name, so I can investigate.”

  My mind warred with my heart. I turned my eyes to Glorianna’s rose window, this the greatest of the three, here in Her stronghold, the High Temple. Surely no harm would come to Marin, should I say so. If she had told me the story in all innocence, then all would be well. If she’d spoken due to some demonic influence, then Kir would help her be free of it.

  “My midwife, Marin.” I said it quietly, so none other could overhear.

  Kir relaxed and cast a reverent gaze to the heavens, murmuring the standard phrase thanking Glorianna for Her benevolent protection. Instead of echoing it, I found myself watching the White Monk. He wasn’t praying, either, but stayed still, a snake coiled in the grass.

  “She told me the tale last night. She meant to comfort me.”

  Kir’s nostrils fluttered, his lips pinched, and he made the sign of Glorianna over my belly. “Glorianna grant us peace,” he murmured. “I shall see to this, Your Highness. You did right to tell me.”

  I wanted to feel I did right.

  “High Priest Kir!” One of Uorsin’s valets approached with urgent footsteps. “The High King calls for your attendance immediately. Your Highness,” he said to me, bowing belatedly, but the naked admiration in his gaze did much to bring up my spirits.

  “Of course. At once!” Kir dashed out—with priestly dignity, but with clear excitement—after a flurry of excuses and promises.

  I watched after him. He hadn’t answered any of my questions. I wasn’t even sure what I, as Glorianna’s avatar and head of Her mission here in the Twelve Kingdoms, was meant to do to lead us into Annfwn. Besides gestate.

  Surely I should be doing something.

  “At a loss, Princess?” An amused voice hissed the question in my ear.

  8

  Startled, I turned. Then stepped back. The White Monk stood close enough that I saw his face clearly, despite the shadows of the cowl. His features were harsh but not misshapen. A strong nose with a high bridge dominated his face, sharp lined like his jaw. The spider legs of scars crawled over one cheek, a cicatrix of long-ago pain. As if he carried on his skin all the ugliness of the hurt inside me.

  Though a jagged bolt of scar tissue cut through one eyebrow, his eye orbits were clear and open, pristine settings for the unearthly burning green of his gaze.

  “What happened to you?” I asked, before I thought.

  He smiled. Not nicely, because his upper lip snagged in the movement, making it into a snarl, like a wild beast curling its snout at an unwelcome odor.

  “What happened to you?” he countered.

  “I . . . I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Giving up your poor commoner of a midwife so easily. She’ll suffer because of your disloyalty. She who sought only to help you.”

  I mastered the roiling sickness. “How dare you speak to me so? I know full well the measure of loyalty. Do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.” He laughed, a dry, whispering sound. “So I recognize its viciously opposite cousin when I see it.”

  “I’m the High King’s daughter. I’ll protect my midwife. No harm shall come to her.”

  “Are you sure, Princess?”

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “You asked that before.”

  “And you didn’t answer.”

  “No? Perhaps you’re not asking the right question.”

  “You cannot naysay me. I’ll report you to High Priest Kir. No—I shall have you dragged before the High King to answer for yourself.”

  He shook his head, clucking his tongue as one might at an errant kitten. “Always running to Daddy. What power of your own do you possess, Princess?”

  The way he said my title sounded like an insult, and I wanted to tell him to stop calling me that. Which was ridiculous, of course.

  “I have enough power to have you beheaded on the spot. Or cast out of Glorianna’s temple and turned out into the countryside with a brand declaring that none shall give you succor. I could ruin you in countless small ways. And you discount my power so glibly.”

  He tilted his head and I knew for certain that it meant he laughed at me. The cynical amusement, floating on the sweet scent of ripe grapes, altered the creases in his coarse face, and his eyes sparkled, glints of sunlight on stream water.

  “The power to destroy is easily come by. Anyone can destroy.”

  “I can create, too.”

  He gestured at my belly. “That? Any female who spreads her legs can do that. It takes no special skill or ability. Nature did it for you.”

  I gasped, my palm oddly itching to slap him, though such a thing would be scandalously beneath my dignity.

  “Are males any different? They cast their seed upon the wind, careless of whether it falls on fertile soil.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  He edged closer, turning so he blocked the chanting priests. “Yes, men are different. They’re worse. Women at least must bear the burden of their choices, then are bound to nurture the child, if there’s any humanity in them. Men can walk away and leave their carelessly cast seed to take root or die. They leave behind them a trail of uncared-for life.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Never had I heard someone speak such words.

  “This is why Glorianna and Her sisters are the ones who remained, to care for us. The male gods abandoned their mortal charges without a backward glance,” he added.

  “There are male gods?”

  “Other cultures still worship them. We know better.”

  “Have you heard the tale of Glorianna’s daughter, then?” Why the question plagued me so, I didn’t know.

  “I have. Shall I expect you to give me up to the High Priest also?”

  I smiled up at him, gazing through my lashes. “Not if you’ll tell me what became of her.”

  His gaze flickered over my face, not quite with that gleam of hatred, but without admiration. “You wield your beauty like a blunt-force weapon, did you know that?”

  I blinked at him, fisting my hands in my skirts so I wouldn’t reach up to touch my face, to feel what he saw there that seemed so brutal to him.

  “Even when you don’t mean to, you manipulate anyone who looks at you with the way you widen your eyes and moisten your lips.” He studied me, as if I were a butterfly on a pin. We’d had a tutor with cases of insects on
little displays, that we might learn their names. He’d looked like that, interested and without concern for their small lives.

  I wanted to flee. But I didn’t want him to know he frightened me.

  “Why do you talk to me if you dislike me so?” My voice came out in a whisper, and I bit my lower lip, afraid I’d say more. I hadn’t meant to ask that.

  He lifted an eyebrow, the one interrupted by the scar that looked a bit like a lightning bolt. “Shall I compose a poem to your perfect pearly teeth and how they worry at the full rose petal of your lip? Perhaps that would make you more comfortable.”

  “I never asked for poems.”

  “But it’s what you know.”

  “From what I hear of you, all you know is service to Glorianna, White Monk. Though I notice you’re not so silent with me.”

  He barked out a bit of a laugh, unpleasant, like the cawing of a raven. “Don’t believe everything you’re told, Princess. You understand nothing about me.”

  “Then you tell me. You evade every question.”

  Shaking his head, he pulled the cowl into place, once again shadowing his features. “No—you haven’t earned the right to my story. You’d have to do more than flutter your lashes for that.”

  Outrage flooded me. “Surely you’re not suggesting—”

  “Relax, Your Highness. I’m not even remotely interested.”

  Ah, that made sense. “I understand many of Glorianna’s priests are lovers of other men.”

  “You would prefer that explanation, wouldn’t you? No, I value my neck more than that. A dalliance with you would hardly be worth it. Even were I attracted.” Those green eyes flicked over me again, with more than a little disdain.

  Left with my outrage and nothing to do with it, I cast about for a reply. Every man wanted to bed me, and some women, too. I could read it in them, like the warmth from a fire, even the ones who were too polite to show it. I’d navigated my world by these stars, the desire and admiration. Even the troubadours who sang songs they wrote for me and then retired for the night with some brawny soldier—they coveted me for my beauty, too. As if I were an object of art.