I find Vincent with a handful of soldiers who have stayed on the training field past dusk, valuing swordplay that could save their necks over food waiting at home for their stomachs. Vincent moves fluidly, his broadsword arcing and dipping around his body, defending here, attacking there. Everything he knows he was taught early, though the lessons of Stillean royals were more for show than combat.
That changed the first time Dara knocked him on his ass. Vincent rose from the ground, a smear of mud on his cheek, his royal blood rising to his face. Though we were only children, I had always played nicely with the young prince. Dara not so, and I stood by her side, hand on the pommel of my wooden sword, hoping that our friend didn’t prove to have more of his father in him than we thought. Vincent spat onto the ground, the flat white streak of a lost baby tooth going with it.
“Show me how you did that,” he said to Dara.
So we did, that day and every one thereafter, the wood traded for blades, playtime for training, his royal instructors for two Indiri orphans. Vincent is an excellent swordsman; a unique blend of Stillean and Indiri methods have come together in him to create a fighter only Dara and I could best. Perhaps only Dara, I have to admit, watching him now.
The Stilleans attempt to follow as he breaks down twists of the wrist, rotation of the body, dips, and arcs that can be the difference between life and death. He is a good teacher, and though his students stumble awkwardly in this moment, more than a few may live through whatever is coming because their king trained with them in the dying sun, cold sweat running down his face.
I hail him as I cross the field, a fresh burst of affection for this king I call brother rising inside of me. He smiles and waves in answer, and for a moment, we are but children again, well met of an evening. His soldiers share a nod with me, bid Vincent good night, and leave us to walk to the castle. We cover uneven ground together, our steps sending our shoulders into one another as we go.
“You look well with a sword, brother,” I tell him.
Vincent shakes his head. “Indiri should keep to the sword and not take up statecraft. I see concern on your face now, and I doubt that it has anything to do with my blade skill.”
“If Indiri have glass faces, it is because we are nothing but honest,” I tell him, the words striking me as deeply untrue after they’ve escaped my mouth.
“Honesty will not serve you well within walls that you rule over,” Vincent says. “Now, out with it.”
“Winlan fears that much labor is put into boats that will carry no one,” I tell him.
He nods, leaning against the walls of the castle to rest. “It’s true that not all of Stille has welcomed the idea of sailing into the sunset with open arms. But I will see those ships filled.”
“How many have refused?” I ask.
Vincent sighs, sliding down to the ground in his exhaustion. “I reject my earlier words; you would be an excellent inquisitioner. Half of those I’ve spoken to would rather take their chances with the Pietra and earth that doesn’t rest easy.”
“Half,” I breathe. “I had not thought it would be so many.”
“Yes,” he admits. “And . . .” He blows himself empty of air, then seems surprised words have not come with it.
“What is it?” I press.
“I think even less than that will march with me to Pietra on Dara’s behalf.”
The news takes the strength out of me as well, and I ease myself to the cold ground alongside him, at a loss for words.
“I can order them to, of course,” Vincent says. “But I don’t know what use there is in half-trained soldiers who have no heart in the battle.”
“Little and less,” I agree. “You’d risk mutiny.”
“I know it,” Vincent says. “I’ll make one last push, remind them of Dara’s courage for the sake of Stille here on this very ground. She fought for people not her own. Can they not do the same?”
“She won the respect of many before the battle,” I remind him. “Some asked to have her train them over either of us.”
“Yes, they’ll fight for her, and likely survive because of what she’s taught them.”
I sigh along with him, our breath fogging the air. “That is something,” I say.
“Not enough,” Vincent says. “It won’t be enough, no matter where they stand when they fight, or what their reasons are.”
“No,” I admit, finding a stick that I break in half over my knee in frustration. “Likely not. But if the force will be split, why not put each to a purpose? Ask those who would not march on Dara’s behalf to learn their way around a boat.”
“And if they do not wish to sail?”
I crack the stick again. “March them to Madda’s tower and ask them if they’d rather learn to fly.”
I mean it in jest, but my voice comes out fierce, the snap of the stick echoing the sound their necks would make when they failed to be fast learners. I expect a quick rebuke from Vincent, but it does not come.
“Perhaps you know something of ruling after all. Khosa . . .” Her name trails off between us, the camaraderie broken. He clears his throat. “She found some histories, deeds unknown to most, and for good reason. It seems that those who came before me did not always act with grace or kindness.”
“Good attributes to be sure,” I say. “Though perhaps not the most useful to the king of a country at war.”
“Odd that I find myself wishing I were more like my father,” he says.
“Don’t wish that,” I say quickly. “Ever.”
“I wouldn’t, no matter that I might lead Stille better because of it. I could never wish a husband like him upon my wife.”
I nod in agreement and mean it, though to hear her called his wife burns my ears more than the sun at mid-sky. I feel Vincent’s eyes upon me and return his gaze, hoping my face is, indeed, not glass.
“She is not well, Donil,” he confides in me. “The sea calls more loudly to her than ever, and I fear she’ll bash herself to death against walls to get to it.”
“Then I will build boats to save your wife,” I tell him. “And you will lead an army to the door of my sister’s enemy.”
We sit together and watch the sun set, the last rays lost in the trees as the voice of an oderbird calls from the sky.
CHAPTER 61
Vincent
Though Donil will build the boats, Vincent is the one who must convince Stilleans to board them. The Elders were right in that many of the generations that came before stood too long on the land, growing roots that have twisted deeply into native soil. They would rather stand than sail, and while he tries to hear them out without imagining insult, there are those who have implied rather heavily that building boats is not so much an act of discovery as one of cowardice.
Vincent knows what lies in his own heart, and any shame found there does not stem from lack of courage. Yet his cheeks still flame with the indignity of words passed the day before as he knocks upon one door that he assumes will be open to him, and hopes the woman behind it will be receptive to his ideas.
Milda answers at a rush, a rag tossed over her shoulder, a bright burn across her forearm from the kitchen fire. Her eyes light at the sight of a former lover, but cloud when she sees he stands alone and wearing common clothes. She was never good at hiding her thoughts, bold when she spotted him on the street when they first met, eager yet apprehensive in her bed after their fathers came to an agreement. Her thoughts flow as clearly to Vincent now as they did then, and he calms her in an instant.
“I do not come to seek privileges no longer mine to claim,” he tells her, then tries to cover his own disappointment when she sighs with relief.
“Oh no, my prince,” she says quickly, spotting his expression. “It’s not that I . . . Well . . .” She glances up and down the street, then takes his hand and pulls him inside.
“King, I should say.” Sh
e corrects herself hastily, brushing loose hairs behind her ears, a blush rising. She is very pretty in the afternoon light of her own kitchen, a touch of flour on her nose and a glow about her he doesn’t remember from their days together.
“Call me Vincent still,” he says, sitting down at her table so that she is free to do the same. “I would prefer it.”
“Me too,” she says, giving him an old smile that he knows well as she plops into the chair opposite his. “To be clear,” she goes on, “it’s not that I wouldn’t—”
“It’s that you shouldn’t,” he finishes for her, well aware of the conundrum.
“That,” she agrees with a wave of her hand. “And . . .” She stands, pulling her kitchen covering tight against her waist to show him a bulge there.
“Milda!” he says, real pleasure in his voice. “Congratulations, truly.” He rises to meet her, taking her hands in his. “He treats you well?”
“Very,” she says, blushing a bit more. “I cannot complain.” She releases her hands from his and goes back to the table, only to snap to her feet again. “I forget myself. Would you like a drink or—”
“Nonsense.” He waves her back to her chair, taking his own. “I’d not have you serve me, regardless.”
“Well, then . . .” Milda eyes him, clearly at a loss for the purpose of his visit if not to bed her.
“Have you heard talk of the ships?”
“As we were in bed, so in conversation?” she asks, one eyebrow raised prettily.
“Direct and honest,” he agrees, trying hard not to remember too vividly those times together. Not at this moment, anyway.
“I have heard of the boats,” she says, eyes dropping from his. “It frightens me.”
“I understand,” he says. “Yet believe me when I say I would not ask you to go on one if I did not think it the better choice.”
She tilts her head, confusion as to the true nature of his visit still evident.
“You and all Stilleans,” he adds, rather lamely. “But yes . . . there is something more I would ask of you. We were close once, and I believe still are, though the nature has changed. You have a way with words and a warmth about you.”
“And so you would like me to speak in your stead to my friends,” she says, proving herself to be quick as well. She sighs heavily, hands on her swelling belly. “I carry the next generation of Stille in me,” she says. “Must I carry the responsibility for others as well?”
“No, you must not,” he agrees. “That job is mine, and mine alone.”
“But you wouldn’t sniff at a little help,” she says with a smile.
“Neither will you when your time comes,” he says, pointing at her bulge.
She laughs in agreement, then leans toward him across the table. “Tell me this, King of Stille, for a girl who was once your lover and for the child who will be your subject—is this truly the best chance at life that we both have?”
“Yes,” he says, voice unwavering. “I would not risk either one of you—or anyone in Stille—if I did not think it necessary. Should the Pietra come or the earth beneath us fall away before they do, the sea is our only hope.”
“Ugh,” she says, leaning back from him. “Bleak thoughts, all.”
“I am sorry to be the one to carry them to you.”
“That’s that, then,” Milda says lightly, waving away his words. “I’ll take your boat, Vincent, and talk many into following me.”
“I believe you will,” he says, smiling at the girl he knew who has turned into a woman, yet is unchanged in many ways.
She smiles back. “How’s your wife, then?”
“Very well,” he says as he rises to go, regretting that the pleasant conversation has to end with a lie.
CHAPTER 62
Khosa
There is no happiness in her days, and what memories she could lay claim to that spoke of that emotion are now clouded with concerns for the future. Any good things she has known in her life came from her Keepers, now dead; Vincent, now betrayed; and Donil, whose child she carries, its skin doubtless as spotted as his.
Khosa’s hand drops to her belly at the thought. The sight of the child will send Stille into pandemonium, and she shivers when she thinks she may very well be on a ship when it is born, and hers and her child’s end found in the sea after all. She shakes her head to clear it, aware that such thoughts will do her no good. Better to find time to speak with her husband and share the truth early.
Madda offered an alternative with her nilflower; the life of the last Indiri infant would leave Khosa’s body with none the wiser. The Seer would know, but Khosa held heavier secrets than her own, and Madda would remain silent. She rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling, aware that there are no good outcomes, no matter what her choice. She could rid herself of Donil’s child without telling him, piling deceit upon betrayal. Yet taking the action and telling him it had been done would end their union, and badly. To bear the child means to ruin Vincent, his wife lost to him, a king known by his subjects to have been cuckolded by his wife.
Lost, she lets her hands go to the histories. There are no answers for her situation, and so she has consoled herself of late with the knowledge that at least others who have come before her were equally despicable.
“Fathoms,” she suddenly cries out, dropping a page to the floor as tears rush forward. “How have I come to this?”
Salt water leaks from her eyes, streaking between her fingers as she sobs. Khosa remembers a Hyllenian boy with light hair and bright eyes, a boy she could have taken to the high meadow and fulfilled her duties with, bringing none to misery through her actions. He doubtless lay dead soon after she ran from his side at the sound of Pietran drums, and has long rested in a shallow grave, if they did not burn him.
“Khosa, you have undone many,” she chides herself, thinking of Dara, gone now from Stille, Vincent and his men determined to follow. In the past she has found answers in the histories, saving those around her by digging through paper and ink. Now it is her own story that will be written.
“It will not end well, it will not end well,” she says into her hands, which begin to shake. The tremor slips into her wrists, wandering nearly to her shoulders before she jerks her hands from her face, making them into fists at her side.
“No,” she says, one hand uncurling to cover her belly, though it still shudders. “No.”
Khosa repeats one word over and over, willing the tremors to subside, as she cradles her unborn child in her hands. Her last thought before her body rises from the bed without her permission is that while she may have made her own mistakes, she will not repeat those of others. Her child will know its father, and the father that he has a child.
CHAPTER 63
Donil
More than once, an Indiri memory has surfaced in my body rather than my mind. My hands knew swordplay when they were too small to wield a blade; my feet the way of walking, though my legs were still bowed from the cramp of the womb; my mouth the language of my people. New knowledge comes from time to time, as when I traced Khosa’s face in the sand with the edge of a shell and found a startling resemblance there when I finished. Some Indiri’s skill, perhaps long in my past, resurfaced for me that day.
And it happens again now.
A boat is taking shape beneath my hands. I have put timbers into place before Winlan told me where they should go, have tied lines by instinct, intricate knots forming between my fingers. An Indiri did this once. The knowledge leaves me weak, but I force my muscles to move on, smoothing a board that will be a railing, perhaps my own hands resting on it as I leave Stille behind.
If Khosa stands beside me in this vision, I do not see her, for once. My mind is filled with thoughts of a fellow Indiri—maybe more than one—who worked alongside Harta as I do Winlan. Some of my blood has left this shore. If Dara returns, it will be a fight, but if I have to bind
her hand and foot and carry her over my shoulders onto the decks, I will do so.
Winlan’s finished ship is anchored offshore, sails stowed against the wind that blows this day. The deck I stand on is nearly complete, skeletons of two more on each side of it. Winlan has put all of Hygoden to work, and Vincent sent the Stilleans who chose not to march to the shipwright for orders. I smile, thinking of the nobles and soldiers from good homes who have never known hard labor shrinking from the tasks Winlan sets for them, then shrinking further at the thought of defying him.
Shared labor can make for quick friendships, and I’ve seen Hygodeans slap Stilleans on sore backs in congratulations as timbers were raised, and Stilleans share their food with Hygodeans in the shade of the sails. Winlan says the ship I stand on will be pushed from the shore in the next few suns, and every hand here needed to help set it free from the sand. I have no doubt they’ll push together, while many more look on from the city walls to see if it should sink or float.
“Float,” I say in Indiri. “For me.” I run my hand along the smooth railing and lift it across my shoulders, easing it through the other laborers so that one more piece can find its place.
The sun is high above when I feel a small hand at my elbow and turn to find Unda.
“Hello, small one,” I say, bending down to speak to her. “Have you brought me my midmeal?”
She shakes her head, mute in my presence as always. Instead she holds out a slip of paper, the familiarity of the writing sending a spike into my heart.
“Khosa gave you this?” I ask.
Unda shakes her head again, then ducks it when I look at her sternly. “Out with it, now,” I say. “I can’t very well do what is written here if you’re leading me into a clowder of Tangata, can I?”
She giggles, pulling her shirt up above her nose as if she would hide her whole face. The mop of curly hair sticking from the top shakes again. “My cousin went to the kitchens to get some bread for our midmeal, and the queen asked her if she knew me, and if she could give me a note. It has your name on it, though . . .” She pops her head back out of the shirt. “Why would the queen write you a note and tell someone to give it to me?”
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