by Wren Handman
“I was blinded, Tay. She blinded me.”
Taya nodded but said nothing. She knew he needed to speak his thoughts, exorcise his demons.
“It weren’t her beauty. I know ya think it were, but it weren’t. Not at all…No, that’s a lie. It were part of it. The thing is…I ain’t no king, Tay. I ain’t. I don’t got the workings to do it right! I don’t got the words or the fancy looks or all the history they all know! Ya know Jeremy knows how to use five different forks to eat his food? Five! On board ship we don’t even got forks—just knives and spoons. An’ then there were this girl, and sure, she was real pretty, and that was nice. But that wasn’t why I liked her, Tay.” He paused, as if the words were hard to say. “Oblivion take me,” he muttered, and let the truth spill out. “That weren’t why I loved her. I loved her ’cause…she made me think I could be king. Made me think she didn’t give no never mind that I didn’t know how to use the Cursed forks, an’ she said she thought I had real good ideas, only that I needed to learn how to get ’em out. Like she thought I was somethin’. And not just no rover.
“I know I’m one of the best card players sailing the waters today, and Oblivion take it all, I sure can dance a storm. I know Ashua’s back like my own, could sail it with my eyes closed an’ never wreck. But Nicola didn’t see in me the best sailor since Alahai first sailed Ashua’s tears. She saw a king. I thought…well, hey, if a girl like that could love me, maybe it’s true, y’know? Maybe I could really do it…Maybe I ain’t so lost as all that.” He dropped his head, and she knew he was fighting back tears, struggling to keep himself together.
She reached over and caught his chin, lifting it up so she could stare into his eyes. “You listen to me, Darren, and you listen close. There are plenty of people in this world that are good at lying, complicated folk who build their lives around it. You’re one of them, and so am I. But you see those men?”
She took his chin, still held gently between two fingers, and turned his face so that he was looking back at the camp. People were setting up makeshift shelters for the wounded and building fires to warm their shaking limbs.
“They’re simple men, Darren. They don’t believe in prophecies or birthrights or any of that nonsense. They believe in strength, and steel, and they believe in freedom. If they didn’t think you would make this country a better place, they wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t fight, bleed, or die for a lie. You ever think you aren’t good enough, you ever doubt that you are here because you deserve to be, then you just take a good look into their faces, and you remember. Remember how much faith they have in you.”
He nodded softly and she released his face, wiping gently at his cheek.
“Come now. The men need to see you strong, and there are tasks to be done at camp.”
He nodded, rising with her, and the two of them made their way back to the growing circle of light, a silent figure walking in their shadows.
Chapter Fourteen
THEY HELD THE FUNERALS that evening, waiting until the stars were visible in the night sky. Those who could stand joined ranks in a half-circle around a bonfire, with those wounded but conscious sitting at their feet. There were no white sheets in which to wrap the bodies, so they had been wrapped in their extra clothes, with stripes of white bandages circling them. Each was carried on the shoulders of four people, and there were so few in the party unwounded that it had been decided the same four would carry each of the bodies, one at a time. Taya was surprised to see that Liam had volunteered for the duty—it seemed that every time she thought she understood him, she found herself mistaken.
Marce stood at the mouth of the semi-circle, dressed in a traditional robe. It was black wool, with tiny holes cut through it. His skin glowed white through the fabric, and his arms were spread to the side. He began the ceremony with a traditional prayer for the dead, and then he quietly intoned the names of the dead. He repeated the first name, and then the body-bearers came forward, the corpse balanced between them. They walked to the fire and then stood, waiting for Marce to speak.
“Yariel, we beseech you from below. This man has died with your name on his lips, and your love in his heart. For his morals he died, as you for yours. Take him now, and may his ashes find your arms and be sheltered there.” He bowed his head, and the sweating men threw the body into the fire. It was the first time Taya had ever seen a Sephrian burial, and at first she was struck by the beauty of the moment. In Miranov, bodies were consigned to rivers or the sea, to find Ashua, but this too seemed to resonate. As the smoke from the fire curled up into the night sky, it seemed so possible that it might reach their god, frozen as pinpoints of light in the sky. But as the flame began to eat into the dead she was struck by a terrible sweet smell, like pork roasting, and her stomach turned. She was quietly sick in the scrub by the fire pit, praying no one was paying her any mind.
Marce repeated the words for each man, and then he brought forward a cask of wine. “As we hold vigil here, we speak of the dead, and of their deeds, and so too do we speak of our dead, and of the stories that made our lives. May the vigil begin.” He uncorked the wine and took a long swallow, and every throat let out a resounding cheer. Their voices echoed from the cavern walls and filled the space until they could have been two score, or a hundred, for the passion that they held.
People broke into groups of two or three, speaking quietly, sharing their stories. Some of the wounded fell asleep in the warmth of the bonfire, and they were covered with blankets and left to their restless dreams.
At one point in the endless night, Taya noticed David and Ryan sitting to the side, their heads bowed together. People were giving them a wide berth, leaving them to their thoughts, but something prompted Taya to walk over and sit down beside them.
“You asked me for a story once,” Taya said, resting her hand against her chin. “Did Darren ever give it to you?”
Startlingly, it was Ryan who answered her. “No.”
“We never asked,” David admitted. “It seemed prying.”
“Would you like to hear it now?”
When they nodded, she settled down.
“It’s a simple tale, full of intrigue and dashing heroes. It starts, as all good stories do, with a young woman, too young to know the world but thinking she has more wisdom than all the kingdoms combined, and a young man, with one constant mistress, the sea, and a mother who wants something a little more solid for her darling boy.
“The woman wants to own her own store, but only married couples are allowed to own property. Her parents think she should find a sweet young lad and marry, give her life up to her family like a dutiful child of Ashua. She doesn’t like this plan, wants to be beholden to no one. She spends all her free time at the docks, drinking and gambling with the sailors. She loves their easy attitude, how little they care for the standards of the modern world. Loves the way they love so easily, where they will and for a night and then they’re gone. She meets one in particular who she fancies, and she lures him into bed with food and drink and smiles and games, and somehow they get to talking about their little problems. Mothers who worry for their immortal souls. Society that scorns and clucks its tongue at them.
“She comes up with a clever ruse to solve their problems, a masquerade fit for the opera. A false engagement and a meeting with his mother, which will satisfy his problems at home, and a deed with both their names signed at the bottom, for a little store that used to be a butcher’s shop. They agree and shake, and neither suspects it will be the start of anything other than a business relationship. Of course, they have to travel together to visit his mother, and then there’s the engagement party. She goes out and buys herself a ring, just to make it look official. A child of Ashua blesses the union to be. Somewhere along the way they become friends as well as casual lovers. And then, one day, he discovers he’s going to be king…Well, you know the rest.”
“Only you could have come up with a plot like that,” David said with a chuckle, shaking his head.
&nb
sp; “Probably,” she agreed with a smile. “But it worked. Well, until the part where I lost the store and he found out that his mother wasn’t his mother at all…but I could hardly be expected to account for circumstances such as these.”
“It is those things we least expect that mean the most to us,” Ryan said softly, and David glanced at him with a look that implied he understood more truly what the words meant.
“Funerals are supposed to be about catharsis. We’re meant to shrug off the shackles of the past—perhaps I should have chosen a more important story,” Taya mused.
“Is there something more you need to speak of?” David asked.
She glanced at him, and saw in her mind’s eye a flash of gray eyes, the sparkle of a golden ring hidden in the palm of her hand. But the image was replaced by an actor dressed as a king, by warm brown eyes and a steady soul.
She smiled. “I don’t think there is,” she said, and the words surprised her.
“David?” Ryan said quietly. “Your turn.”
Now it was David’s turn to look surprised. He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Catharsis,” Ryan him reminded quietly.
David sighed, shifted, eyed Taya. He glanced around, but they were alone in their pool of shadows. Everyone was engaged in their own storytelling, in their own secrets. He took a swig from a flask that Ryan handed to him without being asked, and stared at his hands as he spoke. “Once…I thought I would be king.”
Taya had expected his story to be about Ryan, about the secret relationship they seemed to share, but she supposed some secrets were too private even for nights like this. And she had seen hints of this, rumors. It was a story she was eager to know.
“My father is the duke of House Night. Historically, many queens and kings have been chosen from our line, to wed with House Goldfinch. My great uncle was king. My cousin was engaged to wed Darren, before the usurpation. We were a family very loyal to the old line. When the false king took over we fell out of favor, but no duke can be entirely dismissed from court; they’re too powerful. So I grew up around the usurper and his family, around House Badger, the only house closer to the crown than we were, around politics and kingmaking. Jeremy and I are old friends. He is from a minor noble house, but we studied together, and we squired together for my uncle for a time.
“We were firebrands. Revolutionaries. We were vocal of our dislike, not necessarily for the false king, which would get even noble boys killed, but for the changes he was making to the balance of power in Sephria. Taking rights and privileges from the barons and knights and giving it to the dukes upsets the checks and balances necessary for honest governing. Not to mention the taxes, and the court system whose justice seemed to fall away in favor of granting every case to the crown. We spoke out. And gradually we decided that speaking was not enough. Jeremy was the true leader of it all, but mine was the name that gave it power. He meant to start a rebellion, and he meant to crown me king. Octarion tried to have me killed.” Here he gave Ryan a strange look, something gentle and full of memories, before turning his attention back to his hands. “And I set off with Jeremy to fire up the country. The peasants were on fire for change, but the nobles were leery. They didn’t like the thought of a king not from Goldfinch. There was talk of marrying me to Celia, Octarion’s oldest girl, but I disliked the thought of killing a man and forcing his daughter to wed me. It seemed far too cruel…and then Jeremy heard the rumors that Darren was alive somewhere. So we hunted the rumors down. And they were true. And they saved our rebellion…” David shrugged. “And now I shall not be king.”
“But you still chose to look for him—despite what you would be losing. You helped Jeremy track him down,” Taya said.
“I had to do what was best for Sephria,” he explained simply. “What are one man’s dreams against the desire of a nation?”
They would have liked to stay and rest their wounded soldiers, but they feared that more troops would be sent, so they began their march again late the next morning. Those wounded the worst were sent back the way they had come. It had to be without guards to help them, so everyone prayed that no one would think to watch for rebels retreating, and it was a solemn company that finally began its march through the dangerous mountain pass. Jeremy had made the effort to come and speak with her briefly, but he was harried trying to ensure that all of the wounded had appropriate litters and bearers, and Taya had quickly released him. She had fallen in with David and Ryan yet again, and they seemed glad to have her there.
The trip was different from the first in a way that Taya had not realized would be possible. She had expected spirits to be down after the funeral, people distracted by their loss, but she had forgotten that for them, this was the end of a long campaign. The loss of comrades was nothing new, but an end in sight was. There was much merrymaking and pleasantries on the road, and as soon as they breached the pass and joined the main road, they abandoned their need for stealth, which meant campfires and hot food and songs in the evening. David explained that traffic was common in this area, and no one would be able to tell their group of rebels apart from any sell-swords. It would only be once they approached the capital city and made to join the rest of the revolutionaries waiting there, that they would split into smaller groups again.
They traveled for a full fortnight, and by the fourteenth day even the least religious among them were giving prayers of thanks that they had nothing to write home about. Darren’s shoulder was healing well, to the point where he could move his arm with little pain, and the angry wound had quieted to a sore pink area and a fierce white scar. She spent many hours with him, helping their friendship recover from the shocks it had taken, but more and more she found herself at Jeremy’s side. At first it was only because he was helping her with her swordsmanship, which improved mightily, but they also spoke at great length of philosophy, literature, their lives and dreams, and soon she was by his side more often than Darren’s. She asked him, finally, how he had come to be part of this.
“David’s told me a little about the two of you growing up together, but he never said what fired you for rebellion. He always seemed to say you were the one pushing him forward.”
“Sometimes I wonder if that isn’t just the sort of person I am—that I would always have been the sort to push, to rankle at injustice.”
“It would not surprise me. I think if you lived in Miranov, you would be a member of one of those radical sects that wants to separate church from state.”
He chuckled, but didn’t disagree. “It is personal for me, though. My father is a baron—he was quite important in King Tyler’s day.”
“That’s Darren’s father?”
“Yes. In Sephria, the king is called by his family name until he dies, and then he is called by his personal name to distinguish him from the other kings. So, when Darren takes over he will be known as King Octarion, like his uncle and his father before him. But when he passes away, the history books will call him King Darren, so we know him as distinct from the other King Octarions who have gone before.”
“What about the barons and dukes?”
“The dukes are known by their family name in polite company and their personal name in mixed. Barons are usually called by their first names.”
“And what are you?” Taya asked.
“Nothing.” Jeremy laughed. “Well, a lord. My father is baron, and I will be Baron Jeremy when he passes away. The son of a duke is a prince, as is the son of a king. The son of a baron is a lord. And the vassals of barons are knights, and everyone is called sir this and sir that.”
“You said it was personal?”
“Mmm. My father is a vassal of House Badger. They were very close to King Tyler, and yet when his brother and the majority of the dukes turned on him, House Badger was among them. I am ashamed to say it now, but my father followed Duke Olminato into battle. He believed, as a vassal, it was his duty to follow his lord, no matter what the order was.” He paused in the story, a faraway look in his
eyes, and seemed to take up the thread with difficulty. “My uncle was a close friend to King Tyler at the time of his death. Blood brothers. It is said that King Tyler knew the usurpation was coming, that he sent Richard away to keep him safe, just as he spirited his son away. Sent him to Sephria on some diplomatic mission. When my uncle learned what had happened in his absence, he marched into the throne room, sword drawn, and demanded that Peter meet him man-to-man, a duel in payment for his blood-brother’s death. Archers shot him from the gallery.”
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to bring up such memories,” Taya whispered, and with a soft smile he squeezed her hand.
“I was but a babe in arms. I never knew him.”
“And your father? What did he do?”
Jeremy sighed. “I love my father. But he is not always a man to be admired. He loved his brother, but he was too afraid to do anything to avenge his death. I’ve been told that in his youth he was a genial man, but the one I knew burned with a helpless, bitter anger. I suppose my own anger was bred in the bone, growing up in that house, watching him shriveling under the weight of everything he had not done.”
“Do you think Darren will make a king you can be proud to have put on the throne?” she asked, pitching her voice quietly.
It seemed like he wanted to answer her honestly, wanted to let go for a moment and show his fears, admit the doubts that must have crawled, sometimes, beneath his skin, but he gathered himself and gave her a hollow smile.
“Of course,” he said. “He is the rightful king.”
But Taya wondered if that was enough.
Chapter Fifteen
PRINCESS NICOLA SMOOTHED HER DRESS down with damp palms, willing her heart to beat calmly. She had been sitting in the antechamber for what felt like a lifetime; it had to have been at least a hand—never a good sign. When King Octarion was pleased he admitted his guests promptly, but he used this room as a tool when he was angry. No, she corrected herself, anger is too strong a word. If he was angry, I would already be dead.
