The Emerald Storm

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Seeing her chance, Arista closed her eyes and began to concentrate. She focused on blocking out the sounds of the street and on—

  Pain exploded across her face.

  She fell backward to the ground where she lay dazed. Her eyesight darkened at the edges, a ringing wailed in her ears.

  “We’ll have none of that!” The sergeant declared.

  She looked up through watery eyes seeing him standing over her rubbing his knuckles. He drew his sword and pointed it at Brice.

  “I know better than to let you cast your spells, witch. Don’t make another sound and remove that robe. Do it now! I’ll strip you naked if needed. Make no sudden moves or sounds, or I’ll cleave off this man’s head here and now.”

  Lynette was somewhere to her right, and Arista heard her gasp in horror.

  “The robe. Take it off!”

  Arista wiggled out of the robe leaving her clothed only in Lynette’s thin kirtle. The sergeant sucked on his teeth again and stepped closer. “Are my men going to have any more trouble with you?” He lifted the point of his sword toward Brice once again.

  Arista shook her head.

  “Good. Bind her tightly. Wrap her wrists and fingers and find something to gag her with.” The guards approached again and jerked her arms so roughly behind her back that she cried out.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” Lynette begged. “She didn’t do anything wrong!”

  They tied her wrists, wrapping the rope around her fingers, pulling until the skin pinched painfully. As they did, the sergeant ordered Lynette to pick up the robe and hand it to him. One of the soldiers grabbed Arista by the hair, dragging her to her feet. Another took hold of one of her sleeves and ripped it off.

  “Open yer mouth,” he ordered, pulling Arista’s head back. When she hesitated, the soldier slapped her across the face. Again, she staggered and might have fallen if not for the other guard still holding her hair. The slap was not nearly as painful as the blow the sergeant gave, but it watered her eyes again. “Now open!”

  He stuffed the material into her mouth, jamming it in so far Arista thought she would choke. He tied it in place by wrapping more rope around her head and wedging it between her lips. When they tied one final length around her neck, Arista feared they might hang her right there.

  “Now, that should keep us safe,” declared the sergeant. “We’ll cut those hands off when we get to the palace, and after you’ve answered questions I expect we’ll take that tongue out as well.”

  A crowd gathered as they dragged her away and Arista could hear Lynette weeping. As they reached Coswell, the patrons of The Bailey turned out to watch. The men stood on the porch holding mugs. She heard the word witch muttered more than once as she passed by.

  By the time they reached the square, she was out of breath from the quic pace and choking on the gag. The guard holding the leash was one of those hurt by the robe and he jerked hard whenever she lagged behind.

  She stumbled frequently but stayed on her feet. Seeing her fall behind once again, the soldier pulled hard. This time she was off balance and fell. Her left knee struck the cobblestone of Bingham Square and she screamed, but the sound came out as a muffled grunt. Twisting, she landed on her shoulder to avoid hitting her face. Lying on her side Arista cried in agony from the pain shooting up her leg.

  “Up!” the soldier ordered. The rope tightened on her throat, the rough cord cutting her skin. The guard growled, “Get up, you lazy ass!” He pulled harder, dragging her a few inches across the stones. The rope constricted. She heard the pounding of blood in her ears. “Up damn you!”

  She felt the rope cut into her neck. She could barely breathe. The pounding in her ears hammered like drums, pressure building.

  “Bruce?” one of the guards called. “Get her up!”

  “I’m trying!”

  There was another tug and Arista managed to sit up, but she was light-headed now. The street tilted and wobbled. It was becoming hard to see, as darkness grew at the edges of her vision. She tried to tell them she was choking. All that came out was a pitiful moan.

  She struggled to reach her knees, but the dizziness worsened, the ground shifted and dipped. She fell, hitting her shoulder again and rolled to her back. She looked up at the soldier holding the leash and pleaded with her eyes, but all she saw in reply was anger and disgust.

  “Get up or—” He stopped. The soldier looked abruptly to his right. His face appeared puzzled. He let go of the rope and took a step backward.

  The cord loosened, the pounding eased, and she could breathe again. She laid in the street, her eyes closed, happy to be alive. The clang of metal and the scuffle of feet caught her attention. Arista looked up to see the would-be strangler collapse to the street beside her.

  Standing an arm’s length away, the hooded man loomed with a blood-coated sword. From his belt, he drew a dagger and threw it. Somewhere behind her, there was a grunt and a sound like a sack of flour hitting the ground.

  The hooded man bolted past her. She heard a cry of pain. Metal struck metal, another grunt, this one followed by a gurgled voice speaking garbled words. Another clash, another cry. She twisted around, rolling to her knees. She found him again. He stood in the center of Bingham Square holding his sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Three bodies laid on the ground. Two soldiers remained.

  “Who are you?” the sergeant shouted at him. “We are imperial soldiers acting on official orders.”

  The hooded man said nothing. He rushed forward swinging his blade. He dodged to the right and, catching the sergeant’s sword high, he stabbed the man in the neck with his dagger. As he did, the remaining soldier swung at him. The hooded man cried out then whirled in rage. He charged the last soldier, striking at him, his overwhelming fury driving the guard back.

  The soldier turned and ran. The hooded man gave chase. The guard nearly made it to the end of the street before he was cleaved in the back. Once the soldier collapsed, the man continued attacking his screaming victim, stabbing him until he fell silent and still.

  Arista sat bound in the middle of the square, helpless as the hooded man turned and, with his sword and cloak dripping blood, came for her. He pulled Arista to her feet and into a narrow alley.

  He was breathing hard, sucking wetly through the scarf. No longer having the strength, physical or mental, Arista did not resist. The world was spinning and the night slipped into the unreal. She did not know what was happening or why and she gave up trying to understand.

  He dragged her into a stable, pushing her against the rough-hewn wall. A pair of horses shifted fearfully, spooked by the smell of blood. He heldher tightly and brought his knife to her throat. Arista closed her eyes and held her breath. She felt the cold steel press against her skin as he drew it, cutting the cord away. He spun her around and cut her wrists loose, then the cord holding the gag fell free.

  “Follow me, quickly,” he whispered, pulling her along by the hand. Confused, she staggered after him. Something was familiar in that voice.

  He led her through a dizzying array of alleys, around dark buildings and over wooden fences. Soon she had no idea where they were. He paused in a darkened corner, holding a finger to his scarf-covered lips. They waited briefly then moved on. The wind picked up, carrying an odor of fish and Arista heard the sound of surf. Ahead, she could see the naked masts of ships bobbing at anchor along the wharf. When he reached a particularly dilapidated building, he led her up a back stair into a small room and closed the door behind them.

  She stood rigid near the door, watching him as he started a fire in an iron stove. Seeing his hands, his arms, and the tilt of his head—something was so familiar. With the fire stoked, he turned and took a step toward her. Arista shrank until her back was against the door. He hesitated, then nodded. She recognized something in his eyes.

  Reaching up, he drew back his hood and unwrapped the scarf. The face before her was painful to look at. Deformed and horribly scarred, it appeared to have melted into a pa
tchwork of red blotches. One ear was missing, along with his eyebrows and much of his hair. His mouth lacked the pale pink of lips. His appearance was at once horrid and yet so welcomed she could find no words to express herself. She broke into tears of joy and threw her arms around him, hugging as tightly as her strength allowed.

  “I hope this will teach you not to run off without me, Your Highness,” Hilfred told her.

  She continued to cry and squeeze, her head buried in his chest. Slowly his arms crept up returning her embrace. She looked up and he brushed strands of tear-soaked hair from her face. In more than a decade as her protector, he never touched her so intimately. As if realizing this, Hilfred straightened up and gently escorted her to a chair before reaching for his scarf.

  “You’re not going back out?” she asked fearfully.

  “No,” he replied, his voice dropped a tone. “The city will be filled with guards. It won’t be safe for either of us to venture in public for some time. We’ll be all right here. There are no occupied buildings around and I rented this flat from a blind man.”

  “Then why are you covering up?”

  He paused a moment looking at the scarf. “The sight of my face—it makes people—uneasy, and it is important that you feel safe and comfortable. That’s my job remember?”

  “And you do it very well, but your face doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

  “You don’t find me…unpleasant to look at?”

  Arista smiled warmly. “Hilfred, your face is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  ***

  The flat Hilfred stayed in was very small, just a single room and a closet. The floor and walls were rough pine planks weathered gray and scuffed smooth from wear. There was a rickety table, three chairs, and a ship’s hammock. The single window was hazy from the buildup of ocean salt and admitted only a muted gray light. Hilfred refused to burn a single candle after dark for fear of attracting attention. The small stove kept the drafty shack tolerably warm at night, but before dawn it was extinguished for fear of someone seeing the smoke.

  For two days they stayed in the shack listening to the wind buffet the roof shingles and howl over the stovepipe. Hilfred made soup from clams and fish he bought from the old blind man. Other than that, neither of them left the little room. Arista slept a lot. It seemed like years since she had felt safe and her body surrendered to exhaustion.

  Hilfred kept her covered and crept around the flat cursing to himself whenever he made a noise. On the night of the second day, she woke when he dropped a spoon. He looked at her sheepishly and cringed at the sight of her open eyes.

  “Sorry, I was just warming up some soup. I thought you might be hungry.”

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  “Thank you?”

  “Yes, isn’t that what you say when someone does something for you?”

  He raised what would have been his eyebrows. “I’ve been your servant for more than ten years, you’ve never once said thank you.”

  It was the truth, and it hurt to hear it. What a monster she had been.

  “Well overdue then, don’t you think? Let me check your bandage.”

  “After you eat, Your Highness.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “I have missed you so,” she said. Surprise crossed his face. “You know, there were times growing up that I hated you. Mostly after the fire—for not saving my mother, but later I hated the way you always followed me. I knew you reported my every move. It’s a terrible thing for a teenage girl to have a teenage boy silently following her every step, watching her eat, watching her sleep, knowing her most intimate secrets. You were always silent, always watchful. Did you know I had a crush on you when I was fourteen?”

  “No,” he said, curtly.

  “You were what? A dashing seventeen? I tried everything to make you jealous. I chased after all the squires at court, pretending they wanted me, but none of them did. And you…you were such the loathingly perfect gentleman. You stood by stoically, and it infuriated me. I would go to bed humiliated, knowing that you were standing just outside the door.

  “When I was older I treated you like furniture—still, you treated me as you always did. During the trial—” she noticed Hilfred flinch, and decided not to finish the thought. “And afterward I thought you believed what they said and hated me.”

  Hilfred put down the spoon and sighed.

  “What?” she asked, suddenly fearful.

  He shook his head and a small sad laugh escaped his lips. “It’s nothing, Your Highness.”

  “Hilfred, call me Arista.”

  He raised his brow once more. “I can’t. You’re my princess, and I am your servant. That is how it has always been.”

  “Hilfred you’ve known me since I was ten. You’ve followed me day and night. You’ve seen me early in the morning. You’ve seen me drenched in sweat from fevers. I think you can call me by my first name.”

  He looked almost frightened and resumed stirring the pot.

  “Hilfred?”

  “I am sorry, Your Highness. I cannot call you by your given name.”

  “What if I command you to?”

  “Do you?”

  “No.” Arista sighed. “What is it with men who won’t use my name?”

  Hilfred glanced at her.

  “I only knew him briefly,” she explained, not knowing why. She had never spoken about Emery to anyone before. “I’ve lived so much of my life alone. It never bothered me before and there’s never been anyone—until recently.”

  Hilfred looked down and stirred the soup.

  “He was killed. Since then, I have felt this hole. The other night I was so scared. I thought—no, I was certain—I was going to my death. I lost hope and then you appeared. I could really use a friend—and if you called me by—”

  “I can’t be your friend, Your Highness,” Hilfred told her, coldly.

  “Why not?”

  There was a long pause. “I can’t tell you that.”

  A loud silence filled the room.

  Arista stood, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. She stared at Hilfred’s back until it seemed her stare caused him to turn and face her. When he did, he avoided looking in her eyes. He set out bowls on the table. She stood before him, blocking his way.

  “Hilfred, look at me.”

  “The soup is done.”

  “I’m not huy. Look at me,” Arista repeated.

  “I don’t want it to burn.”

  “Hilfred.”

  He said nothing and kept his eyes focused on the floor.

  “What have you done that you can’t face me?”

  He did not answer.

  The realization dawned on her and devastated Arista. He was not there to save her. He was not her friend. The betrayal was almost too much to bear.

  “It’s true,” her voice quivered. “You do believe the stories they say about me. That I am a witch. That I am evil. That I killed my father over my lust for the throne. Are you working for Saldur, or someone else? Did you steal me from the palace guards for some political advantage? Or is this all some plan to—to control me, to get me to trust you and lure me into revealing something?”

  Her words had a profound effect on him. He looked pained as if rained by blows. His face strained, his jaw stiff.

  “You could at least tell me the truth,” she said. “I should think you owe that much to my father, if not to me. He trusted you. He picked you to be my bodyguard. He gave you a chance to make something of yourself. You’ve enjoyed the privilege of court life because of his faith in you.”

  Hilfred was having trouble breathing. He turned away from her and, grabbing his scarf, moved toward the door.

  “Yes, go—go on!” She shouted. “Tell them it didn’t work. Tell them I didn’t fall for it. Tell Sauly and the rest of those bastards that—that I’m not the stupid, little girl they thought I was! You should have kept me tied and gagged, Hilfred. You’re going to find it harder to haul me off to the stake tha
n you think!”

  Hilfred slammed his hand against the doorframe making Arista jump. He spun on her, his eyes fierce and wild in a way she had never seen before, and she stepped back.

  “DO YOU KNOW WHY I SAVED YOU?” he shouted, his voice broken and shaking. “Do you? Do you?”

  “To—to hand me over and get—”

  “No! No! Not now, back then,” he cried, waving his arm. “Years ago, when the palace was burning. Do you know why I saved you then?”

  She did not speak. She did not move.

  “I wasn’t the only one there, you know. There were others. Soldiers, priests, servants, they all just stood watching. They knew you were inside, but not a single person did anything. They just stood watching the place burn, but not me. Bishop Saldur saw me running for the castle and actually ordered me to stop. He said it was too late, that I would die. I believed him. I truly did, but I went in anyway. Do you know why? DO YOU?” He shouted at her.

  She shook her head.

  “It was because I didn’t care if I died. I didn’t want to live…not if you died.” Tears streamed down his scarred face. “But don’t ask me to be your friend. That is far too cruel a torture. As long as I can maintain a safe distance, as long as…as long as there is a wall between us—even if it is only one of words, I can tolerate—I can bear it.” Hilfred wiped his eyes with his scarf. “Your father knew what he was doing—oh yes, he knew exactly what he was doing when he appointed me your bodyguard. I would die a thousand times over to protect you. But don’t ask me to be grateful to him for the life he’s given me, for it has been one of pain. I wish I had died that night so many years ago, or at least in Dahlgren. Then it would be over. I wouldn’t have to look at you. I wouldn’t have to wake up every day wishing I had been born the son of a great knight, or you the daughter of a poor shepherd.”

  He turned away covering his eyes and laying his head against the threshold. Arista did not recall doing it, but somehow she crossed the room. She took Hilfred’s face in her hands and rising up on her toes she kissed his mouth. He did not move, but he trembled. He did not breathe, but he gasped.