In Heaven and Earth
Page 14
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’, The Book of Common Prayer
In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty
God our brother N.; and we commit his body to the ground; *
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Chapter Ten
‘Get with child a mandrake root’, John Donne, ‘Go Catch a Falling Star’, 1633
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
Chapter Eleven
‘A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, a Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread— and Thou’, Omar Khayyam, trans. Edward Fitzgerald, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
‘Perchance to dream’, William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1, 1603
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life
‘There’s no place like home’, most famously from Frank L. Baum, The Wizard of Oz, 1900, but has been around for much longer as a proverb.
‘knits up… ravell'd sleeve…’, William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 2, Scene 2
Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--
‘If we had worlds enough and time’, Andrew Marvell, ‘To his Coy Mistress’,
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Chapter Twelve
‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments’, William Shakespeare, Sonnet 118
Chapter Thirteen
‘None but the brave deserve the fair’, John Dryden, ‘Alexander’s Feast’, 1697
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft, in awful state,
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crowned.)
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
‘Did he who made the Lamb make thee?’, William Blake, ‘The Tyger’, 1794
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
‘Come live with me, and be my love’, Christopher Marlowe, ‘The Passionate Shepherd to his Love’, 1599
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
‘For in that sleep of death what dreams may come’, William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1, 1603, see above
‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Vairya, than are dreamt of in your philosophy’, William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5, horribly misquoted
Also by Amy Rae Durreson
The Lodestar of Ys
Emyr’s Smile
From Dreamspinner Press
A Frost of Cares
Spindrift
Lord Heliodor’s Retirement
Gaudete
The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock
From DSP Publications
Reawakening
Resistance
Recovery (coming April/May 2017)
Author Bio
Amy is a quiet Brit with a degree in early English literature, which she blames for her somewhat medieval approach to spelling, and at various times has been fluent in Latin, Old English, Ancient Greek, and Old Icelandic, though these days she mostly uses this knowledge to bore her students. Amy started her first novel twenty-one years ago and has been scribbling away ever since. Despite these long years of experience, she has yet to master the arcane art of the semicolon.
Contact & Media Info:
Email | Website | Twitter | Facebook
The Lodestar of Ys
Sjurd is convinced that Celyn of Ys is the most irritating man alive. It’s a good thing that Celyn is engaged to Sjurd’s brother, not him, because Sjurd loathes the brat, and it’s quite mutual. When an elopement and the threat of invasion force the two princes together, however, they have no choice but to marry and fake true love to keep their countries safe. Can warrior Sjurd and diplomat Celyn find any common ground?
Read the first chapter below…
Chapter 1
Celyn: Aged 14
THE FIRST time Celyn met the oaf was aboard the flying ship Llinos, on the eve of their betrothal feast.
Not, of course, that they were supposed to be marrying each other. Celyn was sister’s son to King Pryderi of Ys, which meant his main value to the crown was as a minor marriage pawn. He certainly didn’t have anywhere near enough status of his own to merit an engagement to the newly selected First Prince of Axholme, who had been named heir elect by the acclaim of his gathered bloodline; was military leader of already legendary status; and was (Celyn was soon to learn) an all round arrogant prat.
No, First Prince Sjurd the Great Oaf got to be engaged to Mathilde, second daughter of the Principality of Challoner, a realm bigger and richer than Celyn’s beloved Ys. Challoner, not coincidentally, was possessed of a very large standing army and an unenviable geographical position right between the Axtooth Range and the border of the Perth Empire. Celyn, on the other hand, got to be engaged to the new First Prince’s younger brother Ivarr, a development with which he was entirely happy.
Ivarr was in possession of the following virtues, all to be welcomed in a spouse: he was only eighteen months younger than Celyn; he possessed the use of all his limbs; he could hold up his end of a conversation, albeit not as fluently as Celyn himself; and he had a rather pleasant smile. (This latter point would not have appeared as part of Celyn’s essential criteria a year ago. It had, however, become more important of late, along with the realization that he was very relieved that his uncle had affianced him to a boy, even if it had been a purely political decision about not producing further heirs, when they might have to evacuate everyone beyond the Veil of Storms if the Empire did come over the mountains.)
The only problem with Ivarr that Celyn could see so far was that he came with an attachment. The attachment’s name was Hrolf, and he wasn’t very impressed by Celyn either.
“Do you ever stop talking?” Hrolf demanded, crossing his arms and looking down his rather long nose at Celyn.
“Eloquence,” Celyn remarked, trying to ignore the fact that Hrolf, over a year younger than him,could look down on him (clearly t
hey grew them big and stupid in Axholme), “is a gift of princes.”
“Not any prince I’ve ever met,” said Hrolf.
“And how many princes do you know?” Celyn demanded.
“Sjurd and him,” Hrolf said, pointing his thumb at Ivarr, “and he’s too busy thinking about things to talk much.”
“I’m sure I’ll get better with practice,” Ivarr said, looking rather worried. “I’ve only been a prince for a month. Until they chose Sjurd as First Prince, I thought I was going to be a turnip farmer when I grew up.”
“Urgh,” Celyn said, wrinkling his nose. “Was there nothing better you could grow?”
“I like turnips,” Ivarr said, a little more firmly. “They’re unfussy, and you can write poems while you’re waiting for them to come up.”
“Oh,” Celyn said in relief. “Well, if you’re a poetical turnip farmer, that’s perfectly all right.”
Ivarr beamed at him, displaying that rather nice smile again. “Do you like poetry?”
“Er,” said Celyn. A lie at this point in a lifelong relationship was bound to have unpleasant consequences, but he didn’t want a row when they were getting on so splendidly. “Not exactly. Which is to say, not yet, but I’m sure that’s just lack of exposure. I mean, I’m bound to find some I like. Eventually.”
Ivarr sighed wistfully.
Hrolf snorted and went back to his pet topic. There was a certain grim inevitability to Hrolf’s conversation, Celyn had already come to realize, rather like the way a flying ship accelerated towards home when no one was working the rudder. Right now, he was saying, “That’s right. Real princes don’t waste time with poetry any more than they talk too much. Sjurd says actions speak louder than words, and he should know. He’s probably never read a poem in his life. He’s a proper prince.”
“And I’m not?” demanded Celyn.
Hrolf gave him a look that said clearly not, but he wasn’t going to be rude enough to point out the blindingly obvious. “Sjurd’s a fighting prince.”
“I could fight you,” Celyn offered. Hrolf might be bigger, but Celyn was pretty sure he was meaner.
Hrolf snorted again. “Sjurd fights brigands, and Imperial spies, and misthounds. He wrestled an ogre once, and it almost throttled him.” He held out his hands to demonstrate, eyes bright. “But he headbutted it in the balls, then smashed its brainpan on a boulder, and its brains went up his nose, and he didn’t wash them out for three days, not until he’d killed the whole nest and rescued the children they’d nabbed for their supper.That’s a real prince.”
“Holy Dwynwen protect us,” Celyn breathed, covering his own nose with a wince. “That’s vile. No wonder he doesn’t like poems. He probably can’t understand any complex ones because he’s been hit in the head too many times.”
“He is my brother, you know,” Ivarr said, a little huffily, and for a moment, trouble threatened.
Then Celyn had the bright idea of offering to show them how the lodestone was rigged to steer the ship, and all notions of proper princely behavior were promptly forgotten.
Llinos was sailing over the foothills on the Axholme side of the ridge, her sails bellying before the wind. Up here, the sun was bright and warm, although the air was cool enough in the shade that both Ivarr and Hrolf shivered a little. The valleys below were silver with mist, only brown ridges and occasional lines of dark forest rising into sight. Ahead of them, the rough crags of the higher ranges rose in blue-brown folds. The wind was fresh from the northwest, steady but not too strong, and they were making good time across the morning sky. A tour of one of Axholme’s lodestone mines was on the agenda for the morning, and then they would be tacking back to the capital at Holmebury for the evening’s feasts.
This close to the Axtooth range, where the lodestone was mined, the attraction was so strong that the sailors had only exposed a tiny sliver of the black stone to allow them to counteract the boat’s natural tendency towards its home island.
“What happens if we open the lead casing completely?” Ivarr wanted to know.
“Well,” Celyn said, gratified that even Hrolf was hanging on his words, and trying to sound knowing, “either the lodestone would rip itself out of the side of the ship, tearing the hull apart, or it would take us with it, and we’d crash into the side of the mountain.”
“Brilliant,” Hrolf breathed, and Ivarr looked intrigued, his blue eyes widening with excitement.
But Celyn was a son of Ys, and the boats were too precious to relish the thought of one crashing, even if it was a truly spectacular crash. “Better not,” he said. “Not after all the fuss they made about writing those marriage contracts.”
But there were still gears to investigate, and altitude floats to prod, and the workings of the steerage to be explained at length. And there was good old Captain ap Gwenfor, who had known Celyn since he was a baby and therefore indulged him like one of his own grandchildren, who was delighted to show Celyn’s new fiance how to steer a flying ship.
Later, in front of his disapproving elders, Celyn tried to explain how what happened next was simply the final inevitable stage of an unavoidable process. Indeed, he would go on, it could hardly be blamed on him or poor Captain ap Gwenfor. Any Ysian child knew how to keep a boat steady in the sky by the time they could write their own name. How were they supposed to know that it wasn’t some innate ability shared by all boys, even landlocked ones like Ivarr?
At the time, as the ship plunged suddenly towards the ground, he was too busy screaming and hanging onto the side to think of excuses.
It was only a matter of moments before the captain wrestled control back from Ivarr and brought them out of their dive. It was long enough to set everyone on the ship bellowing with panic, though, and send Hrolf staggering to the rail to vomit the moment they were level.
“That’s probably going to land on a very surprised goat in a few minutes’ time,” Celyn said, just to prove his nerves were steady.
Ivarr stared at him in shuddering outrage. “We nearly died, and you’re worried about the goats!”
And then, before Celyn could respond to that, adult retribution appeared. It came in a rather striking form: a lean, dark-haired man in the gray leather favored by the Axholme border guard. His hair was pulled back severely, and his blue eyes were icy with rage, but he was still one of the most handsome men Celyn had ever seen. By the expression on his face, and the uniform, Celyn guessed this was Ivarr’s bodyguard and he wasn’t impressed with his charge.
“What are you moronic little shits doing?” he demanded, and his voice was a surprise too. Even when rough with rage, it had a low musical growl to it that made Celyn’s stomach clench in an interesting way. “I swear it, Hrolf, I will hang you from the prow by your toenails if you fuck this alliance up.”
Well, that was patently unfair, as Hrolf, annoying as he was, hadn’t been involved at all and was, in fact, still heaving over the side. Celyn forgot about how good-looking the man was and said indignantly, “It wasn’t anything to do with Hrolf!”
A low feminine laugh cut in on them, and Celyn looked up to see a woman scramble onto the quarter deck, her skirts scooped out of the way in one hand. He knew her, and liked her, and could almost see why so many of his cousins thought she was the prettiest woman alive: it was in her wide, laughing mouth, and the way her red hair curled out of the intricate braids that held it off her face, and the forthright way she moved and spoke.
“Was it Ivarr, then?” Princess Mathilde asked. “I didn’t think you knew how to make mischief, sweetheart.”
Ivarr went pink, but set his shoulders and said, “I’m very sorry, Highness.”
“Ivarr?” the rude bodyguard said incredulously. “And I thought you were the one person who wouldn’t embarrass me. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Now that was rather too much, even allowing for the shock of a rough flight. Crossly, Celyn protested, “You can’t talk to him like that! He’s a prince!”
Ivarr sighed miserably and
confided, “That doesn’t really mean anything. So is he.”
Celyn stared at the man again, his eyes narrowing. Now he looked properly, he could see the resemblance to Ivarr: their dark brown hair waved back from their foreheads in the same way, and their eyes were the same pale blue, although what looked like sea glass on Ivarr was closer to ice in this man. They had the same slightly pointed ears, but there the resemblance ended. Celyn couldn’t ever imagine sweet-tempered Ivarr looking as ferocious and humorless as this oaf.
“Oh,” he said, trying to fill his voice with all the disdain he’d learned in a short lifetime at court. “You must be the brother.”
Sjurd: Aged 21
SJURD was too tired to deal with this shit.
His back and shoulders ached with the strain of too many battles and too little rest in between. His calf still throbbed from a misthound’s bite a fortnight ago, the raw pain of its teeth followed by the cold numb wrongness of venom pumping into him. His head felt permanently heavy on his shoulders, and his jaw constantly ready to lock shut, and always in the back of his mind, steady as a heartbeat, was the knowledge that the Empire is coming, the Empire is coming.