by C. K. Brooke
A little boy, one of the youngest, rested his head against Lucie’s shoulder. She wrapped an arm around him.
Fengani sipped his flask. “Without their wives, Seightar’s men—the ones who survived the fire, anyway—couldn’t care for their children. Workin’ men, you know. And with their city, homes and businesses in ruins, they’d nothin’ left. They suffered and starved, abandoned their sons, or…worse.” He drew a subtle line across his neck with a forefinger, and Geo felt sick. The King of Llewes had destroyed the livelihoods of his own citizens to the point where some had actually resorted to suicide?
“Well,” the old man patted the patchy knees of his trousers, “I’ve taken their boys under me wing since. We make a mighty fine team, don’t we, lads?”
The children chorused their assent.
“So we take a little for a living; so what?” Fengani shrugged, poking his skewer back into the fire. “They bring me valuables, I sell what I can, and with the money, I provide for us all.”
“Their clothes are in rags and they’re eating squirrel,” Geo pointed out. “You call that providing?”
“They’re fed, ain’t they? Ah, Your Highness, we’re a harmless crew.” Fengani’s features darkened. “It’s the Atasi you’ve got to look out for.”
Geo neither knew nor cared what an Atasi was. There was only one matter about which he was concerned. “Earlier, you evaded my question about my brother. You said you’d explain tonight. If you know anything, Fengani, I need you to tell me where Ira might’ve taken him.”
Fengani nodded at a group huddled at the side of the fire, granting permission for them to speak. “We just returned from the northern trails, Your Highness,” said a mousy youngster. “We was in the treetops when we saw a line of soldiers with your brother an’ King Ira himself crossing up to those parts.”
“The northern trails?” Geo relinquished Lucie’s hand. “Are you sure it wasn’t east, to your capitol?”
They shook their heads. “Not east, Your Highness.”
Geo frowned, puzzled, until something occurred to him. “Hang on. D’you mean north, as in—?” He gulped a breath of air, unable to say the name.
A freckled lad fixed him with a sorry look. He wasn’t the only one. “Wintersea,” said the group discordantly.
Geo lowered his head, numb. Wintersea? The place was a fortress, surrounded by ocean on one side, with a moat to boot! What a proud fool he’d been to deny the aid of his father’s men. How could he invade by himself? Could he even get there in time, before Dmitri suffered any serious harm?
A gentle hand petted his back. He knew that touch, had memorized the strokes of those perfect fingers across his flesh. It was wrong now, he reprimanded himself, meeting Lucie’s earnest gaze. “We’ll go to Wintersea,” she assured him, “and rescue your brother.”
Geo was inspired by the strength of her resolve. Unspeaking, he nodded. Yet even still, his guilt swelled.
Keats’s voice came again, firmly. “I hope you find him, sir. And I hope you defeat King Ira.”
Around the bonfire, scores of young faces watched Geo and Lucie, their desperate eyes silently requesting: Avenge us.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THEY SAID farewell to Fengani and his peculiar gang as Keats led them out of the forest. Geo double-checked to ensure he still possessed all his weaponry before he and Lucie took to the northern road.
They stopped in the next city, where Geo bargained for a new horse, and Lucie waited for him outside the stables. She glanced down at her once-fine evening gown. It was virtually ruined now, having waded through a rushing river and spent the night in a bower.
Once the transaction was complete, she mounted the new steed behind the prince, riding sidesaddle as she gripped his waist. To hold him sent sparks up her spine. No matter how many moons should pass, she realized, and no matter the circumstances, her feelings for Geo would never disappear. Of this, she was as certain as the summer rains of Augland, or of the gentle tides of the Maleilan Sea.
She yearned to tell him. For days on end, Lucie rode behind him, her lips on the verge of confession. But what good was the truth? Were she to admit her lie and profess that Geo was, in fact, the only man she’d ever loved, it wouldn’t change a thing. Her fate had been sealed before the nation. If she succeeded in helping to rescue Prince Dmitri from Wintersea, then she was to wed the elder brother upon their return. Not fulfilling the mission…well, that wasn’t an option for her, or Geo.
Telling the truth would only inflict more damage. For then, she and Geo should have to dwell together in the castle, bypassing each other along the corridors, knowing full well of the other’s true affections. As such, it was likely they might tempt one another to bring scandal upon themselves and their families. Nay, she could not permit it, for the sake of all parties involved. Best to let matters remain as they were.
Their horse clopped through woodland groves and modest villages, and Lucie’s thoughts meandered to her mother. A single cameo portrait hung in the wainscoted upper halls of Backshore; it was the only likeness Lucie had. As a child, she would stare up at the rendering, wondering what her mother had been like. What would the baroness think now, she mused, of her only daughter engaged to marry the Crown Prince? It would be any mother’s—indeed, any girl’s—dream. But Lucie was in love with the wrong prince. Why couldn’t things be simpler for her?
She had lost track of the hours as she walked alongside Geo one afternoon, guiding the horse by its reins so that the travelers could stretch their legs. She didn’t realize she was fingering her pendant until the man pointed it out.
“Awfully fond of that thing, aren’t you?” His tone was curious, not scathing. He watched her from the corner of his eye, and Lucie lowered her hand. She thought of mentioning her mother, but couldn’t. She didn’t want to become sentimental in front of him.
“It was a gift from my grandmother,” she said. “I suppose I’m attached to it because it reminds me that I—” She stopped herself. Her conviction to do something heroic, in honor of her mother’s memory, was private. She had never shared the thought before, and wasn’t about to be laughed at.
“That you…?” he entreated.
“It’s sort of personal.”
“I see.” He shrugged. “A necklace is personal to you, while lying with a man, apparently, is not.”
Lucie stopped walking. “Excuse me?”
Geo appeared on the brink of saying more, but the look on her face silenced him.
“I am sick,” her singed heart flapped, “of your disparaging comments, Your Highness. You understand very little about me.”
“Then explain yourself.” He halted as well, staring as though trying to see inside of her. When she failed to reply, he shook his head. “You perplex me, Lucie Camerlane,” he admitted. “I look at you and behold compassionate eyes, a demeanor of courage…yet, your words that night in the pavilion contradict it all.”
“Geo,” her voice was strained, “it isn’t what you think.”
“Never mind.” He tightened his grip on the horse’s reins, leading it onward again. “At this point, I should know better than to believe a word you say.”
EMPTINESS. IT WAS ALL HE knew. The tower was desolate, his stomach vacant, and his heart, a void. Perhaps it was shock or denial, but Dmitri could barely feel. He could only think.
His life was over, already? Why, there were still hundreds of books he’d yet to read, a whole library in his father’s castle, which Dmitri had planned to devour for years to come. And he’d not even the chance to write his own novel! That was another goal he’d never accomplish, he realized, his hollow heart severing in twain. He’d thought he had so much time to impart his stories to the world, to immortalize himself beyond his royal title. Alas, how naïve he’d been.
And he wouldn’t live to see his wedding day, either. He thought on the (admittedly obscure) young woman fro
m his Reveal Banquet, whom his mother had announced as his bride-to-be. What had been her surname—Carmelite? Chamberlain? Oh, well. He couldn’t remember now. And it didn’t matter, anyhow. He’d never take a wife, or know a woman’s touch.
Good God. He was going to die a virgin!
Two days passed in stark solitude, and he was ravenous. Rainwater leaked down from the open barred window, and he licked the stone wall. The hunger was excruciating, as though his stomach were caving in on itself. Meanwhile, his backside was numb from the hard floor.
On his third morning in the dying process, an echo reached his ears. Dmitri sat up, shivering despite the room’s stuffiness. He’d not heard noise from any part of the fortress since he’d been imprisoned. Could someone be near enough to hear him, reach him?
He considered shouting out, but thought better of it. If he caused a ruckus, King Ira might have him dragged to the dungeons and tortured in punishment for his disturbances. No, Dmitri would much rather starve to death.
But the echoes grew louder. Someone was climbing the stairs. Curious, the man stood to his feet. Was a soldier coming to feed him, save him? Would he be given a trial, a chance to defend himself? Perhaps they only intended to check whether he’d died yet. Or worse, they were coming to mock and flog him.
He was trembling with dread by the time the footsteps sounded unmistakably from outside the keep. The door slowly opened, and in scurried…a girl.
She sighed, angular arms brimming with a heft of scrolls and tomes, and kicked the door shut behind her. She didn’t even notice Dmitri as she bustled over to the cobwebbed desk and plunked down her cargo. She tucked a sleek bob of straight, ginger-brown hair behind her ears and tapped her foot thoughtfully, scanning the room as if in search of something. She looked straight past him.
Bewildered, Dmitri could only watch as she appeared to locate what she’d sought, and dragged an enormous, spindly candle stand from the far corner. He covered his ears at the deafening scrape of iron against the flagstone. When the girl had arranged the stand to her satisfaction, she withdrew a match from her skirts and reached up to light the wick protruding through the ancient wax. The old desk was illuminated by a pleasant glow.
“Much better,” she declared to no one. “Although the sun has ascended, my eyes would be hard-pressed to imbibe your wisdom in this dingy chamber, dear ones.” She patted her parchments fondly, and Dmitri took a step closer to the bars. She spoke to her books, too?
With tight, jerky movements, she pulled out a stool. There was something rather finch-like about her, in the hunch of her narrow shoulders and the way she craned her neck as she organized her materials. She looked young—quite young—but recalled to Dmitri something of a little old librarian.
He could stand it no longer. Sooner or later, she was bound to notice him and shriek like a banshee. She’d think him some sort of pervert, spying on her in silence without announcing his presence. He cleared his throat. “H-hello.”
One little word. That was all. A succinct, polite greeting.
Her hands flew to her mouth and she stumbled, knocking over the stool. Down it fell with a crash. A scroll rolled off the desk as she whipped around to face him. “F-forgive me,” she stammered, backing up against the furniture. “I didn’t know…. N-no one informed me that a prisoner was housed here.” With haste, she gathered up her books.
“Wait!” Dmitri reached a hand through the bars. “Please, do not go.”
Terror in her eyes, she scuttled back to the door, struggling to reach the handle beneath her pile of literature. As she managed to wrench it open, Dmitri could not help but blurt after her: “What are you reading?”
She went still. Slowly, she turned back around. “Alfred Meignon’s Order of Natural Philosophy: Volumes I, III, and V.” She hesitated. “And The Chronology of Extinct Monarchs.”
He cocked his head. “And the scrolls?”
She took a tiny step forward. “Benson’s Maps of Astro-Mathematical Values.”
Dmitri frowned. “What, no novels?” he inquired. “No lyrics, no epics?”
The girl wrinkled her nose, seeming to momentarily forget her fear. “And why ever would I waste my time on such useless frivolity?” she scoffed.
“Useless frivolity?” Dmitri was incredulous. “Young lady, in what sort of nonsense have you been schooled? Why, fiction captures the heart of man, the very essence of the human experience through an entirely unique and uncopiable process!”
She smirked. “And what are you, some sort of bard?”
Dmitri paused. “I…well, I’d like to consider myself an aspiring novelist.”
“Oh?” She looked unconvinced. “Then what, pray tell, is a mere aspiring novelist doing locked up in the king’s most formidable fortress?”
“What are you doing here?” he countered.
She blinked. “I live here.” As if remembering herself, she motioned to turn again.
But Dmitri called after her, “Hang on! What is your name?”
“Pavola.” She surveyed him through hazel eyes. “And you?”
“Um.” He straightened his spectacles. “Mit,” he decided. “And who exactly are you, Pavola?”
But she pulled open the door and scampered out, and he could only shout after her retreating figure. “Please return, if you can! I am starving, I’m parched, I’m going to die!”
He sank to his knees, his voice cracking. She couldn’t hear him anymore. Again, he was left alone, the candle she’d lit still burning. Somehow, her fresh absence felt worse than if his solitude had continued unbroken.
IT RAINED ALL EVENING. PAVOLA Ward listened to the droplets tapping against her window, unable to shake the morning’s encounter from her mind. She set down her pages. It was no use. For the first time in her young life, she couldn’t concentrate on reading.
The man imprisoned above in the tower’s keep struck her as neither rough nor imposing. In fact, he seemed rather mild and refined. Why had such a gentle soul been subjugated to the worst sort of confinement, she wondered? What could he have possibly done to earn such condemnation?
Pavi had heard rumors of King Ira’s increasing lunacy, and secretly agreed. Perhaps the ruler had taken to incarcerating innocent citizens for no reason whatever? Given what he’d committed against his subjects of late, she wouldn’t put it past him.
At any rate, the more she thought on Mit and his kindly disposition, the less threatened she felt. And his resounding claims of lethal hunger and thirst as she departed the tower that morning ate at her. How could she knowingly leave a man to starve, even if he was a prisoner?
To feed him would be treason, Pavola warned herself. And for the first time in years, the king was actually lodging at Wintersea. She knew not for how long, but betraying him right under his nose would be most unwise. Nay, the logical course of action would be to keep her hands clean, and try to forget the incident altogether.
…But a man was starving!
No one cared what she did anyway, she reasoned. That had always been the rule at Wintersea: to pretend she didn’t exist. And the king’s mind was so addled, it was likely he’d forgotten all about her. If Pavi returned to the high tower, where she’d intended to study, and brought Mit some of her dinner, who would pay her any mind?
And so, as the sun fell, she made her ascent. She hauled her books in a tote this time, with food from the kitchens wrapped in brown paper. The stairs were endless, but she was grateful for the exercise. She was not permitted outside of Wintersea’s walls to run or exert herself otherwise.
At last, she made it to the top of the tower, barely able to distinguish the man through the shadows. “Mit?” she asked, uncertain.
Rustling. A figure rose in the far corner, and the voice that echoed in her direction was soft and vulnerable: “Pavola?”
She set down the tote and relit the sagging wax candle on the iron stand. Hi
s face was revealed to her, light hair limp and parted, sapphire blue eyes wan beneath black spectacles, pronounced lines around his mouth—laughter lines. He was a laughing sort of person? Again, the girl was baffled by his presence at Wintersea.
“I’ve brought victuals.” She approached the cell. Peering in, she saw naught but a grimy floor. “Haven’t you anything to sleep on?”
He shook his head, though his gaze was fixated on the brown paper in her hands. Carefully, she handed it to him. She stepped back as he snatched it with alarming force, his breaths audible as he tore open the paper and crammed the food into his mouth before even looking to see what it was.
He moaned with zeal—a barbaric, orgasmic sound—and Pavi took another automatic step back. “Water,” he suddenly rasped.
She handed him a flask, and watched his Adam’s apple bob intently as he drank without pause until he’d drained the container. His ensuing exhalation shocked the wits out of her, so loud and forceful did it smack the stone walls, hissing all around her.
“My goodness, you are like a primate, sir,” she snapped.
Unexpectedly, he boomed with laughter, throwing his back against the wall. “Oh, Pavola,” he declared, his mirth unbridled. “You’ve no idea! That is the longest I’ve ever endured without food or drink. And you…you’ve just saved me!”
He continued to lavish delirious praise upon her, even as he shoved more food into his mouth, and Pavi fought to maintain an even expression. She turned away, her cheeks reddening.
“I’m going to study up here, if you don’t mind,” she finally informed him. She withdrew an armful of books from her bag, and placed them upon the desk.
“What are you studying for?” asked Mit through a mouthful of cheese.
“University.”
He wiped his lips. “University?”
