by CS Sealey
Eben watched the girl as she slept, his head resting on the back of a large chair beside the bed, wondering who she was and how she had come to be on the beach after the storm. Her skin was pale, as though she had spent her entire life hidden away from the sun, and her hair was a very dark brown, almost black, like her eyes. She had delicate hands and feet but the nails were chewed and the skin on her soles was hard, as though she had never worn shoes.
The bruises that dotted her body were large and several days old, and the ones around her neck, as well as some of the others, suggested that she had been beaten or mistreated in some way.
Perhaps she is an escaped slave, he thought gravely, who threw herself into the sea to escape her master.
The girl murmured something in her sleep and Eben moved over to kneel beside her bed.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes opened and she stared at him. Tears slid slowly down her cheeks. Eben made to brush them away but the girl’s hands shot up and pushed him away.
“It’s all right. You have no reason to fear me. I won’t harm you, see?” He raised his hands in submission. “What is your name?”
She stared at him, her brow slightly furrowed.
“I’m Eben.” He patted his chest and smiled. “E-ben. Who are you?” he asked, gesturing to her.
After a moment, she opened her mouth and whispered, “Angora.”
“That’s an unusual name,” Eben said, pleased to finally hear her speak, “but very pretty.”
“Where am I?” Angora asked hesitantly, her words laced with an accent Eben could not identify.
“Metaille, just south of the Müil River. That storm you got caught in wrecked many ships in the strait and claimed many lives. There’s debris strewn up and down the coast for miles.”
“Ships?” Angora shifted in the bed, even more frightened.
“A couple of our patrons said that there’s a lot of smoke in the air above Teronia. Looks like the Ayons attacked it.”
Angora stiffened.
“Don’t worry, they won’t come down here, you’re quite safe. The imperial navy is moored at Kaledros. Not even the Ayons would risk baiting them. Now, how did you come to be washed up on that beach?”
Angora was silent for a moment, her brow creased slightly. “The storm,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands, “it tore my boat apart.”
“Did you run aground?”
“Mother was braver than me,” Angora whispered, her gaze drifting to the window.
“Your mother was with you?”
Angora shook her head and began to whimper. “I was afraid and fought the sea,” she said. “I should have given in. I thought it would be quick, but…”
Suddenly, Eben understood and shock swept through him. She had tried to kill herself. But she was so young!
“I have nothing.”
“You have your life, that’s much more than some.”
“My mother was all I wanted.”
Eben did not know what to say. He felt suddenly grateful for his comfortable situation, his stable marriage, his son and his flourishing inn. They were not rich, but they were happy.
“Where did you come from?” he asked after a long silence. “We can arrange passage for you to return home if you – ”
“Never! I will never return there!” she cried.
Eben put his hand on hers in an attempt to console her but she quickly moved away, dragging the sheets up to her face, and sobbed once more. He sighed.
“Angora, there must be someone, somewhere – your father, perhaps, or a relative?”
“No,” she replied and sniffed. “Why could I not have died? Why did the Goddess make me live?”
*
After five days, Angora still refused to tell them where her home had been. It was as though she was ashamed of naming it or too afraid to return there. Eben and his wife had tried many different ways to encourage her into telling them but she was stubborn, like any other girl of sixteen.
She became more active, though, and ventured downstairs into the tavern a few times. She preferred to eat alone and took supper in her room, sitting at the table beside the dirty window, where she could look toward the northwest. Eben and Maevis did not press her to dine with them but they were growing increasingly concerned about who might be searching for her.
“Who looked after you after…after your mother passed away?” Eben asked.
“No one I could call family,” Angora replied stiffly. “The son and daughter of the…” Angora paused and then shuddered. “When I looked at them, I only saw him. They were kind, but I cannot go back.”
“You must understand, Angora, it’s not right that we keep you here indefinitely. Someone might be looking for you.”
“I see. I am a burden.”
Angora stood up immediately and began to unbutton the dress Maevis had given her. Maevis shook her head and stilled the girl’s hands.
“That dress is yours,” she said kindly, “and, no, we don’t mean to turn you out. It has been a long time since we have looked after a child of your age and there is little for you to do here.”
“I will never return home,” Angora said sternly, folding her arms. “It is dead to me, just as I must be to them. If you wish me to leave, I will.”
“No, no,” Maevis said, shaking her head. “You must stay until you are fully recovered. We can speak of the future later.”
*
Reports came in several times a day and Angora listened anxiously to each one. All the islands along the coast of Kirofirth had been attacked and, apparently, so had many coastal villages on the mainland. Even though the invading Ayons had strangely and suddenly withdrawn from their campaign, the news of their destruction was still drifting south.
The Ayons, she thought bitterly. They prey on men and women who can barely defend themselves. They are animals.
Every time she heard one of these reports, she picked up her supper knife and carved a small notch into the windowsill. As the days passed, there gathered a great many little grooves. A new rage was building inside her and each of the marks made her ever more determined to do something, seek revenge for all those who had suffered and died by Ayon hands. She knew Teronia, her home, had been attacked and, if the other reports were anything to go by, her village was probably gone. She might be the only one left of her kind in the whole world.
On the seventh day, she moved over to the windowsill and looked down at the number of lines she had carved. Fifteen. Her gaze drifted to the garden and the sea beyond and noticed that the rain had calmed for the first time in three days. Across the Castlemaine Strait, the clouds were starting to break apart and small shafts of afternoon sun shone through. This would probably be the last time she saw any sort of sunlight for a month – the storms had been intensifying and becoming more frequent, heralding the stormy season that the coastal towns had been dreading. She could just see the gray shape of Teronia on the horizon and images of its ravaged shores and forests came unwanted into her mind. A tear ran down her cheek and Angora pressed her nose against the windowpane. She stared at the dull silhouette of her homeland for a long time, wondering how many of her people had been left alive after the Ayon invasion. Every island had been attacked, even those who were neutral, like Teronia. Hundreds had died, maybe even thousands.
I must do something. But what could I do?
She had never held a weapon nor had she ever struck another person. She had never harbored any thoughts of violence before. Yet, in that moment, when she looked out across the sodden countryside to the sea beyond, she knew she could kill. She must and would learn to kill.
Angora left her room a little while later and went to study the large tapestry map of the mainland in the tavern downstairs.
“Here we are,” Eben said, startling her, pointing to a small dot on the map. He held a mug in his other hand and a cleaning cloth hung over his arm. “Metaille. See?”
“I have never been this far south bef
ore,” Angora said, shifting her eyes away from the chart. “My village would not be marked here.”
“You mean it’s too small?” Eben asked.
“Yes… It is not important.”
“Well, the only reason we’re on this map is because the queen paid us a visit four years ago, so now the cartographers realize we exist!” He chuckled. “Perhaps your village will warrant a royal visit one day as well.”
Angora shook her head. “That will never happen.” An idea occurred to her and she looked up at Eben. “Where is Leith?”
The innkeeper’s brows furrowed slightly and he pointed. “Here,” he said. “It stretches from this coast to that one there, and south from the Great River Divide to the Boundary Ranges in the north. Not the biggest country in the Ayon Empire, but definitely the wealthiest.”
“And the capital?”
“Delseroy.” He pointed to a large dot at the very top of the map in the eastern part of Leith. “Larger than Te’Roek by all accounts, though I’ve never been there and never will.”
Angora nodded and returned to her room without another word.
*
Two days later, she had worked up the courage to leave. The tavern downstairs was full, as night was settling in and the warm fire and ale drew many people in from the rain. Though she longed to be between the warm sheets of her bed, she knew it would be harder to slip away during the daytime. The dark of night would give her a good start.
She had saved some food from her past few meals, storing it in a small bag in her bedroom wardrobe. Shrugging into one of Maevis’s old jackets, she silently apologized for the things she had taken. She opened her window and anxiously looked at the drop from the second floor of the building. It had been raining continuously all day and the thick mist, which had come rolling in from the sea, prevented her from seeing past the boundary of the garden.
She dropped her bag to the ground ahead of her then held on tight as she swung her legs over the windowsill. Angora glanced back at her bed and, for a moment, had second thoughts. She could feel the warmth of the room reaching out to her as though enticing her to stay, to change her mind, but she did not heed its pleas.
Mustering her resolve, she leaped from the window.
CHAPTER 5
Archis Varren stood by the window and looked west across the Great Northern Forest. He was in a bitter mood. Each time he met with the Ayon king, he left with clenched fists and the overwhelming urge to crush something. Samian was slowly driving him crazy.
Varren tightened his jaw and released his breath slowly, forcing his fists to relax. The stupid boy. How could he be so damned reckless? It had only been a few months since Samian’s father had died, but the transformation from carefree prince to responsible king was proving to be a slow process. The new king knew nothing about politics and law and did not even seem interested in learning. And now he’d withdrawn their armies.
Varren left the window and continued down the long corridor toward the main foyer of Delseroy castle. He hoped the afternoon light and cool air would sooth his anger. Perhaps he would venture down into the city and share a pint or two with some of the Home Guards. They were crude after several ales but hours of their swearing and belching was more agreeable to him than any brief exchange with the king.
He had just decided which tavern he would visit when he heard his name being called. He turned gingerly, fearing the worst, and saw Samian approaching from the other end of the corridor. He was a tall young man, but despite training with the best swordsmaster in the country, he had barely developed any bulk. His light brown hair was cut short and his chin was dotted with stubble – the only thing that convinced Varren that the king was, in fact, older than twelve. As usual, he was wearing his court attire in a casual way, despite repeated comments from his mentors and advisers. However, it was not Samian’s appearance that made Varren’s jaw clench, but the fact that he was waving a roll of paper.
His face fell. Here, he knew, would be the end of his plans for the night. He forced a smile to his thin lips and made a slight bow.
“Your Majesty.”
“Archis, my man, I need you to do something for me.”
“What do you require?”
The king grinned and handed him the scroll. “This is addressed to the lord mayor. I’d like it delivered to him.”
“Do you require an answer?”
“Mmm, yes. That’d be good.”
Varren made another slight bow, closing his fist tightly around the note. He imagined the many ways he could wipe the smile from the king’s face and rose from his bow feeling a little better.
“I shall take my leave, then, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, but won’t you…?”
“I feel like walking tonight.”
“But – ”
“Good evening, sir.”
He strode through the entrance hall and into the castle forecourt, where a gardener was sweeping away a pile of dead leaves. As Varren passed, the man tipped his head and muttered a greeting.
The lord mayor’s three-story manse lay just outside the gates of the castle grounds in the gardens district of Delseroy. Varren knocked on the grand double doors and was immediately admitted by a manservant, who bid him wait a few moments while he fetched his master. Archis Varren sat on a comfortable chair in the foyer and studied the portrait of the mayor on the opposite wall. The man had been slimmer then and his gray hairs had been artistically omitted. He was holding a book, one finger marking a page that Varren supposed the man had never reached and probably never would.
He was still scrutinizing the painting when the mayor himself descended the stairs at the end of the hall and offered his hand in a warm greeting. Varren rose and clasped the hand briefly before explaining the reason for his visit.
“Why doesn’t he just use a messenger boy?” Mayor Kerne asked, though his eyes twinkled in amusement.
“He enjoys the spectacle of my power, I imagine,” Varren muttered. “However, he was denied the pleasure tonight.”
“Still, had he sent the messenger boy, I would not be honored with your presence, my lord! Think of all those hearty conversations we’ve had in the past, due to the king’s whims.”
Varren sighed. Those “hearty conversations” had consisted mainly of the mayor drinking several bottles of wine, singing military and folk songs and relating stories from his youth, while stroking his vast stomach and reclining on his favorite couch with a plate of delicacies safely within reach. Varren was not keen to sit through another one of his recitals.
“Is it important?” he asked, gesturing to the scroll.
Kerne unrolled the message and passed his small eyes across the paper. After a moment, he shook his head and uttered a short chuckle. “Why, this is a surprise!”
“What is?”
“See for yourself.”
The mayor handed back the scroll and Varren scanned the few lines of print. Every word seemed an abomination. He cursed loudly, then scrunched the message in his fist and flung it across the foyer. For moment, all he could hear was his heart beating in his ears and feel only the hot rush of fury across his skin. But as quickly as his rage had overcome him, he suppressed it and regained control. He drew in a deep breath.
“I must have a word with the king regarding what he has written, lord mayor,” he said quietly. “I ask you to postpone any premature arrangements.”
The mayor chuckled. “If he wishes to marry, there’s nothing we can do to stop him.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing. His father gave him specific orders on his deathbed, orders he promised to carry out! He has already withdrawn the armies from campaign – now this? How long will it be before he has turned completely from his father’s path?”
“But we don’t even know who he has in mind! He says he’s known her for some time and believes her to be the perfect queen this country needs.”
“I know for a fact that he hasn’t met the right people to make that kind of claim,” Va
rren said hotly. “He refuses to meet the noble families I and his late father suggested, and he has not even been to Turgyl! The daughter of Duke Hanar is claimed to be the most beautiful woman in the whole country, with unsurpassable prospects and intelligence, not to mention political allies.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Mayor Kerne said. “Shouldn’t we try to find out who he intends to propose to before we counsel him against acting?”
“He could be thinking of some wench he met in a whorehouse in Tolersley for all we know!”
“I think he’d have more sense than that.”
“For a twenty-five-year-old, he does a considerable number of stupid things, lord mayor!”
“Varren! Varren…Remember your place.”
“My place? My place?” Varren spat. “Who do you think is running this empire? It most certainly isn’t the boy-king!”
“Calm down, man!”
Varren tried but found it very difficult. He closed his eyes, relaxed his jaw and took in long, slow breaths. When he felt his rage subside once more, he raised his head and opened his eyes. The mayor seemed somewhat shocked at his expression.
“I’ll find out who this woman is and, if I find her acceptable, you may make your arrangements.”
Kerne nodded nervously. “Lord Varren,” he said hesitantly, “your eyes, sir…They…”
“He wanted a reply,” Varren said, turning away and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The flickering white fire at the corner of his sight quickly dissipated. “I suggest you write one.”
The mayor nodded again and searched hurriedly in the top drawer of the table in the foyer. After a moment, he produced a piece of parchment, then snatched up a small quill and began to write a scrawled note, casting a few nervous glances at Varren. When he had finished, he blew on the paper briefly and then folded it twice.
“I’ve told him he should consider an element of secrecy so as not to arouse too much excitement within the populace. Since he failed to mention whether the woman is receptive or not, I advised him to wait until he’s absolutely certain before making anything public.”
