My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  Lashing back, Rosamund whacked the scabbard's end twice against the dummy's face. The cheap ball knocked about like it was shaking its head no at her. A scream burning in her veins, she jammed her sword deep into the chest right through the lopsided heart someone carved into it. In her anger, the sword traveled halfway up the blade until it finally struck a knot or her muscles gave out.

  "Damn it," she hissed, wiggling her hilt back and forth to try and yank her cursed sword free. It wouldn't budge. Blinking against the tears of frustration and shame, it grew harder for Rosie to see her sword, and then the dummy. Why did this have to be so blighted hard? Everyone else made it look easy. Just...do what you're told and it all works out. That was how it had always been. You're so smart, Rosie. You've got this.

  Ha. They were all lying, every tutor, every trainer, everyone that needed to prop up a princess. What did they care if she wanted to be good? They just wanted her limited approval. She was a waste, a mistake at all of this. A failure without being wise enough to know it.

  Releasing her grip on the hilt, Rosie slid against the wooden dummy and bashed her forehead to its painted eyes. The poor thing was staring askance, one eye focused upon the sky, the other towards the far left. It was foolish, but the idea of the dummy even attempting to enter combat with that view drew a laugh to her stomach.

  She released a few chortles even through the tears, when a voice spoke up behind her. "That's one way to clear a place out."

  Shit. Rosamund moved to wipe away evidence of her crying, but she froze realizing the mere act of it would give her away. She could hear Anjali sliding back and forth behind her. How long had the assassin been watching? All of it? Maker's breath.

  "I did not expect anyone to follow," Rosie admitted, stepping back from the dummy she mutilated. Her sword remained jammed inside its heart, the rounded hilt curling downward towards its wooden flesh as if to gesture and emphasize her idiocy.

  Anjali stepped nearer; she could feel her without seeing her, a warmth from this stranger's body reaching out for Rosie. "No one else did, and I'm not surprised. Royalty starts screaming and people scatter lest they lose a head."

  Snorting, Rosie pointed to the dummy's wooden noggin, "He was allowed to keep his."

  "Heart's not in such a good shape though," Anjali whistled, easily spotting the mess Rosie put herself in. She grumbled at the obvious failure and slid away, wanting to bury her face in her hands. Perhaps, when she removed them, she'd find herself back in Denerim with nothing more important on her shoulders than what clothing to wear that day. That'd be nice.

  The trained assassin's fingers drifted across Rosie's sword. She didn't grab onto the grip and yank it free, but let her tips trace up and down the smooth, rose-like petals of the hilt. Each edge of the petal was razor sharp, the better to impale the enemies with should they try to yank her sword out of her hand. Whether Anjali noticed or not, she gave no hint.

  "You're pretty scary with that," the woman who no doubt killed dozens of people in her day pretend complimented. Rosamund snorted at it, well aware of her lagging skills. She wrapped her hands around her chest as if she suddenly grew cold, fingers burying into the fur.

  "Really?" Rosie snickered cruelly, striking back at herself. "I'm not allowed to square off against any living opponent. Only..." she jabbed a finger at the dummy whose head bobbled back and forth.

  "Why?"

  Lifting up her hair, Rosie revealed a scar across the very top of her forehead. "Blade broke, dug in pretty deep. Edict decreed and everything. The princess shall not engage in live combat."

  Anjali drifted away from the sword and stood just out of view to tip her head, "Still, you're not bad for only going after wood. Not the most graceful, I'll give you, but sometimes brute screaming your lungs off and fighting as if your ass is on fire does far better. And the scabbard bit..." She gestured to the stand-in weapon still in Rosie's hands. "That was impressive."

  "My dad, he..." Rosie sucked in a breath, "he always used a shield and I wanted to but couldn't swing carrying one. It ruins the lines of most dresses."

  At that Anjali snickered, her plump lips lifting higher to reveal her pearly teeth. She was a strong smiler, no half measures to appear disinterested in everything the way so many blue bloods did. When she showed enjoyment it was with her whole heart. Her dad would like her, Rosie thought...except for the assassin bit.

  "What happened to warrant you sticking your sword deep into Woody's chest here?" Anjali jerked her head towards the dummy as if it was a simple matter, but Rosie felt the waves crashing around her again.

  Glaring at her feet, she spotted the dirt of the fighting arena coating along the hem of her dress. The girls were going to be extra cross for that one. With her fingers, Rosie tried to roll up the hips of her dress as if that would somehow rescue the hems from future damage. Foolish. What did it matter?

  "I made a grave mistake," Rosamund muttered, shaking her head. Turning away from Anjali, she stared out at the city resting below them. Palace walls hid much of it, but a few chimneys and protrusions of the mountain itself broke up the landscape before a bright orange and pink sunset filled the sky. Stirring her foot into the dirt, Rosie sighed, "I never should have come on this journey in the first place."

  "Maybe," Anjali spoke in a hushed voice, causing the princess to break from her glare at her shoe to look at the woman. The assassin's lips lifted in a smile and she beamed her decadent umber eyes right into Rosie's, "But then you wouldn't have met me, and that'd be an eternal regret upon your soul."

  It was said with such silly determination, Rosie couldn't help but laugh. "Perhaps," she felt oddly glad to have this unknown, foreign stranger prodding into her business. Isolating herself and her tantrums for the good of the country could be exhausting. Squeezing her eyes tight, she whispered to herself, "Perhaps I should return home. Forget I ever tried. Or leave it all up to Avery and his flock of pigeons to handle such diplomatic matters."

  A simple solution, really. They didn't honestly like the idea of her prodding around into things. They barely tolerated her father, who many dismissed as a complete moron. Someone asking pointed questions and listening threw everything off. There were backs to scratch and coffers fill, deals stretching behind the scenes a bumbling royal could destroy without thought. It'd be easier if she played along. Acted like her father or the girl in pigtails they all remembered from twelve years ago.

  "Is that what you want?" Anjali's voice strummed the air, the accent's emphasis like plucking strings from a full bodied lute.

  Rosamund snickered, "What I want? As if that is a simple question or answer for anyone. What do I want in all of life itself? Perhaps if I sang about it." Her voice rose up to hum out, "I want adventure and a great big cake."

  Laughing beside her, Anjali appeared upon Rosie's periphery. The assassin was all eyes for her, while the princess only risked an occasional glance over. "Only sing if you have adorable woodland creatures to back you up."

  Cranking her head around, Rosie turned to her left, then her right. After a beat, she sighed, "Sorry. No such luck. I think you have to look to Orlais for the woodland creature princesses." With her lips in a half smirk, her pivoting face landed with her staring dead center upon Anjali. How did the woman's cheeks shine like that? It wasn't sweat, the air was far too cool for such a thing here, but a glisten against her deep brown skin as if she glowed all the time. Absently, Rosie's tongue lapped against her top lip in contemplation.

  When the woman's eyes darted to her mouth and Anjali smiled at catching her, Rosie tried to bury the thought in a pile of 'she should ask about her skin regime' excuses. Fully blindsided by her blush, Rosamund curled her hands up tight, while Anjali took control of the conversation.

  "Let me guess here. Beautiful princess, no man you're betrothed to -- if I hear the scuttlebutt around the fire correctly. You're probably looking to sneak off into the wilds, live life like a peasant, and stumble upon your one true love -- who's either a woodcutter or ano
ther prince pretending to be a woodcutter."

  At her summation Rosamund broke into peals of laughter. The entire thing was preposterous. Who would want any of that? "No, I...I want to be queen. To be a good ruler. To continue what my father begun, guide the country, do what I was born to do. Help...help people."

  "I admit, I haven't met a lot of destined to lead types before," Anjali slid a hair closer. As if it was no big deal, her hand gripped onto Rosie's shoulder, the strong muscles and bones rubbing into her skin and kicking the princess' heart into overdrive. "But that's the best reason I've ever heard to want to be queen. Much better than 'someone's gotta chop out my step-daughter's heart and it might as well be me.'"

  "The good it does me," Rosie sighed, unable to break from her despair pit. Nonchalantly, Anjali slid her fingers off of her shoulder, but she wished they'd stayed there. For a bit longer. "Barely into it and I've already caused a national incident that could spill over into the threat of war."

  What would her father say? Nothing. At least nothing that wasn't a joke. But what would he do? Shuffle Rosie back, say that she wasn't quite ready for the headache and that she should live her life free of it for as long as possible. Damn it all! She was ready. She wanted this more than anything. Why couldn't she get it right?

  "Well," Anjali stepped away from her. "I don't know much about politics and national snits that could bring about war, but..." Grabbing onto Rosamund's sword, with one smooth pull, the assassin yanked her embedded blade free. "I know people."

  Stepping over to the princess, Anjali held the extracted blade out for Rosie. With a careful eye, the princess slid the scabbard over the sword, sheathing it safe into her hands. "Like say whenever I do a contract," Anjali continued. "When they need something done it's all 'oh Anjali, you and your band are famous across thedas. Only you can help to rid me of my sticky problem that we're going to call marmalade for some reason. Code words are so cutesy.'"

  Rosie cracked a smile at the pathetic simulacrum Anjali attempted of her clients. She kills people. The problem they're talking about is assassinating someone. Why was it so hard for her to remember that simple fact when she looked at the assassin in their midst?

  "But then I show back up with the bill in hand and the switch gets flipped. 'Well, what you did was easy. Damn near anyone could have handled it. I don't know why I should pay you so much. You certainly don't deserve it.'" The woman scoffed, "Dumb bastards, who short changes an assassin that knows where you live? But more of them try it than don't."

  "That's..." Rosie began when an idea struck her.

  "Stupid, right? I try to explain to them why, usually with very sharp objects that could go into their tenders, but..."

  Her rant faded as Rosamund turned to gaze back at the caravan. Yes. That just might work. "I need to find Cailan first. And one of the... No, Cailan probably already has it memorized." A plan snapped into Rosie's head and she moved to dash back to her people, ready to make the Teyrn pay up for his blunder.

  Pausing in her tracks, she sheepishly glanced over her shoulder at the assassin left in the dust. "Thank you for your help."

  "Glad I could offer it," Anjali waved. "Eyes as beautiful as yours should never be washed by tears."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ambush

  After Princess Rosamund had the bill delivered to the Teyrn she expected it to take a few hours for the man to respond, but a messenger with a face red as a tomato came hoofing it towards their stand-in campsite. When Rosie caught sight of him all but begging for the princess to reconsider the Teyrn's hasty declarations and join them in the parlor, she turned to her brother.

  "What all did you include in that?"

  Cailan had been squatting on a stand in chair playing a dwarven game with marbles that also involved counting. Lifting up a piece of green glass he shrugged, "The usual. Damages to the royal wagon, costs for any emotional burdens heaped upon our soldiers. Wear on blades. Extra to replace arrows." He turned from his game to smile at Rosie, "It added up to quite a fee in the end."

  That was her ultimatum. If the Teyrn did not wish to work with the crown, then he would owe them compensation for his bandits attacking the royal train. It was, after all, only fair. While, no doubt, her brother's cruel machinations with interest rates and business jargon startled the Teyrn, it was probably Rosie's decision to include mention that she'd already sent a copy on to her father that sent the messenger peeling out to the lawn.

  Even still, she chose to force the man to wait a few hours, her turning to the advisors as if needing to confer with them. They drew up a half tent, the front exposed to reveal Rosamund calmly stitching up a ripped piece of canvas as if she was part of the clean up effort. Every once in a while, she'd glance up at the palace with an 'it didn't have to be this way' look. By the time she entered the palace proper it was nearing the supper hour and she was battle ready to take on whatever challenges the Teyrn tossed at her feet.

  It proved to be for little, the man seeming to have lost his bluster outside the door. As they sat down to the negotiation table Cailan whispered to her, "Bet he didn't want to admit he had a bandit problem and thought shaming you out of his house would work. Oops."

  Rosamund wanted to appear magnanimous, the sweet princess who could forgive the bill and cost to her people. All she required in exchange was for the Teyrn and his various advisors and treasurers to hear her out. Midway through her attempts at building up negotiations to get the Teyrn to increase his guards patrols by 25% while the crown would take up the slack with knights, Cousland suddenly rose from his chair.

  She gripped tight to the table, her research flush around her like a wall to stop any invasion, but he didn't wave her off. "My Lady," he tipped his head down, "I believe it is time for dinner. There are others who are visiting our beautiful lands that would love an opportunity to meet with you."

  "Oh," she pursed her lips, her fingers hovering right over the next point in her agenda. What would her father do? Get drunk with Fergus and convince the man it was all for the best before they wandered around in the back gardens hunting snipe. Sadly, that wasn't an option for a young lady. Running a hand across her face, she looked over at the Teyrn and asked, "Is this a small get together or a full on fête?"

  "I assure you, I would never be so crass as to spring an unexpected party upon a woman," Fergus smiled, dipping his head down into an honorable bow.

  Well, that wouldn't be so bad. She did need to eat, and after they could resume discussions before adjourning to bed. Gathering up her information and passing it to Avery, who continued to smack his lips in disagreement every time Rosie spoke, she smiled. "That sounds lovely." When she rose to her feet, the Teyrn took her arm. "A quiet dinner would do me good."

  By the time they reached the stairs, Rosamund's lips all but thinned to nonexistence. She heard the music first, not a simple lute or bard strumming with a flute for accompaniment. It was a full on tavern experience, drums hammering hard through the walls, various flutes piping to keep up, and lanced above it all a voice hopping so quickly through an epic poem that should take ten minutes it would finish in three. This was no small dinner, it was an ambush.

  The Teyrn tapped her hand as if he expected her to suddenly flee. Her hair was flat, only a single small braid dangling off the side which she used to keep fresh quills close. There were no petticoats under her dress, no bustle to emphasize what she always felt was fine on its own, and the neckline to her traveling dress cut higher up than was fashionable. No doubt this was meant to mortify Rosamund, a young lady who must pride herself upon her appearance to others.

  Too bad this wasn't Orlais.

  Patting her free fingers over the Teryn's grip to her, Rosie -- a girl who'd stumbled into parties since she learned how to walk -- smiled wider, "This is a most raucous dinner."

  "All in celebration of the arrival of their princess," the Teyrn smiled. He was angry about the bill. Understandable. It was a very crafty move, but Rosamund wasn't finished with them ye
t.

  "Delightful," she laughed, every inch of her body language informing him that she was ecstatic about such a thing. "I dare say I do deserve celebrating every once in awhile," Rosie tacked on, leaning closer to the older gentleman.

  Dinner was taken in the grand ballroom, half the chandeliers lit because it was doubtful the servants had time to reach the rest. While the guests -- stretched out across two gigantic tables lining the sides of the room -- were mostly those of the palace and Rosamund's traveling companions, there were a few new but sadly familiar faces. She nodded her head at a pair of young men sitting at the main table but down from the Teyrn, his son, and certainly nowhere near the Princess. It was a question of what they were doing here, all being from the southern bannorn, but one she could bring up later.

  When Rosie curled up into her seat, she caught sight of Cailan stumbling into the room and that damn bastard looked like a thousand sovereigns. He'd combed and pressed his wild hair back flat against his head, and took the time to put on a doublet with tails of all things. Rosamund watched a few of the girls already seated around the room slap into their fellows to jab fingers at the prince sliding into the place as if he owned it. That was her brother.

  He took a moment to stop and say something to Myra, who sat further down towards the middle. It was often a mess to convince the Bannorn that the king's bastard daughter was viewed the same as the other children in her father's eyes, but as Myra grew she seemed to prefer a middle of the road seat. As she put it that was where the interesting people were, and no one in the fancy chairs could see what she got up to and stop her. Rosamund would sometimes be jealous of such an option.

  After batting her brother away, Myra snatched up her silverware -- spoon in one hand, fork and knife in the other -- and began to juggle them. At least she was finding some entertainment in all of this. Cailan managed to finally make it up to the dais where his chair sat empty for the man who liked to make a scene. He turned to nod his head at the Teryn's son, Devon, then smiled over at Rosamund.