by C. N. Faust
“Give him time,” Elise said, finally. The needle poked through the fabric a little too close and pricked the very middle of her finger. Elise gasped in pain and held up the finger for observation. A dark bead of blood appeared, and slid down her golden tanned finger. Elise pursed her coral lips, almost in disapproval, and placed the finger to her mouth, sucking the blood away.
“It’s that servant boy,” Arceia continued, ignoring her maid completely. “He’s probably been ‘occupying’ him for the past half hour! I hate him.” She concluded, unhappily.
“Nicholas?” Elise asked, removing her finger from her mouth and picking up her needle again.”
“No! Yes, well, no,” Arceia sighed. “I don’t hate Nicholas. I hate Arodi.”
“Why?” Elise rather liked Arodi, herself. He talked to her whenever he had the chance – and he held a fondness for her embroidery.
“He took Nicholas away from me,” Arceia muttered, raking her blonde curls away from her face. “Before we were even married, he had him, and I never stood a chance.”
“Oh,” Elise crooned, setting aside her embroidery so she could stand and hug her mistress gently. “There, there, darling, you have your child.”
“My child…” Arceia’s hands wandered down to her stomach. “Yes,” a small smile played on her lips. “My baby.”
“Does his lordship know who the father is?” Elise prompted, knowing the answer but knowing also that it gave Arceia great pleasure to repeat it.
“No,” Arceia said, grinning triumphantly. “No, he has no clue as to the child’s patrimony.”
“There, you see?” Elise hugged her again. “Your secret is well-kept, and you always have Lord Remphan.”
“Yes,” Arceia agreed. “As long as this child lives, I will have a small part of Remphan with me, even if I never see him again.”
“You will,” Elise broke the embrace and stroked her mistress’ hair. “Don’t be so down and out about it!”
“Good morning, light of my endless darkness,” came Nicholas’ low, sardonic voice from the stairs. Arceia bristled immediately and turned to face her husband, who was nearly upon them, his boots clicking against the marble staircase. Behind him trailed young Arodi, looking sweet and demure as always. Arceia gave him a hated glare. Elise lowered her eyes and curtsied low to her master before backing away, standing a respectful distance away from both lord and lady and retrieving her embroidery.
“Good morning,” Arceia clipped. “And do you have any idea of what time of morning it is?”
“I’d say it’s well time we were on our way,” Nicholas lifted one flame-colored eyebrow. “Don’t you agree, my little harridan?”
“Well about time,” she fastened her rose-colored cloak around her shoulders and turned away from him haughtily. Nicholas rolled his eyes and stepped towards the hallway door, opening it and bowing for her. She swept out, and Elise followed close behind, her needlework pressed into her hand.
Nicholas was next to exit, and Arodi followed close behind, shutting the door behind them.
Arodi stood quietly in the back of the prayer chamber, his hands folded properly in front of him, his eyes downcast. Arceia felt the old jealousy stirring again as her eyes bore straight through her husband’s beloved servant boy. Could it be that the impossible Arodi had grown even thinner? The boy had been a rod to begin with, but now he was impossibly skinny, and paler, if that was possible too. While she, Arceia, was growing steadily along with her child. As the child expanded, it seemed, so did she. Naturally, she could be considered in no ways fat – even by her standards she had only reached the level of pleasantly round – but vanity called for her to gnash her teeth together and leave behind the extra cakes at supper. Of course, she was careful not to spare herself too many luxuries. After all, it was not only herself she was depriving – it was her unborn child now as well. She had already made up her mind that even in the womb her baby would be spoiled. If that meant compromising her own personal beauty then – a mother must make sacrifices.
Arceia stroked her stomach absently, wishing to the gods that she was permitted to sit during prayer, but at least they had spared her from the constant kneeling and abasing. Nicholas may have hated her, but he was as eager for the child as she. And so for a few months, she would get everything she wanted – for the child’s sake, of course.
Arceia watched as her husband continued his ritual of prayer under the watchful priest’s eye. She hated herself for ever admitting that he was beautiful – or at the very least handsome. There were times when she caught herself wishing it was his child growing in her belly. She remembered what it had been like to be sixteen and so in love with him. She had never fully grasped why he hated her, except that she was a woman – and she couldn’t help that. She had married him eager to prove herself a loving and devoted wife, but she had never been given the chance.
And now she pretended to hate him as much as he hated her. It was a defense mechanism – a mask that she was constantly hiding behind. If she didn’t have it, it would be only too easy for her to crumple.
And so Arceia stood, her hands resting on her stomach, doing everything she could to avoid the judgmental eyes of the priest and the surrounding clerics. She felt as if every one of them could see inside of her. She could almost hear every voice saying, “There is Nicholas Ercole’s wife. Poor pathetic creature, she couldn’t even keep her husband in bed. That’s another man’s child in her stomach. Not a proper heir, no, not a proper heir.”
She looked once more at Arodi, hating him even more with every passing second, and wondering -- not for the first time –- how much he hated her.
Arodi was dying.
He knew he was dying. He had known for weeks, ever since the pain had first appeared. It was a pain so intense; it felt akin to being stabbed savagely in the stomach – repeatedly. Even standing on his own in the corner of the temple’s prayer chamber was costing him. The pain was almost unbearable, and the heavy incense was hard to breathe. His head was already starting to feel light. But he bore it all and stood as if nothing were wrong. If for nothing else, then for Nicholas. He had not yet told his master, and he never intended to. If a time should come that Arodi would die – well, so be it. But in the meantime he wasn’t going to worry Nicholas with it. Not in the middle of a war.
Arceia kept glancing back at him; her lips twisted in contempt, her eyes alight with judgmental fire. Arodi couldn’t suppress the bitter resentment that rose like bile to his mouth. He wanted to spit that bile right in to her face and make her taste of it. The bitter, bitter gall of loneliness and rejection. Why shouldn’t she have to drink from the very same cup as he?
Nicholas may have hated her, but she was still his wife. She still carried his child – in a fashion – and that was all that mattered. Arodi was nothing in comparison to this woman, who in the eyes of the law probably had even less rights than him. But she had the only right that Arodi had ever wanted – she had the right to Nicholas as a husband.
Arodi had known from the beginning that his romance with Nicholas was never going to get much further than where it was. This realization did not make it hurt any less the day Nicholas announced that he was taking a wife. Arodi remembered curling up in his bed and crying. He remembered Nicholas trying to comfort him, but none of it had really helped. He had to finally come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t give Nicholas what he really needed, and he could never keep the man he loved more than anything in the world all to himself.
A week after making the announcement, Nicholas had taken Arceia to be his wife, and Arodi had hated her from the beginning – simply because she was everything he wasn’t.
“Shh, my love, don’t cry, don’t cry,” Nicholas said, stroking Arodi’s hair gently. “You are still first in my heart, you know that. I don’t love her, I love you.”
“Then why did you marry her?” Arodi sobbed, his face buried in the down feather pillow, which was soaked through with tears.
“I had
to, my love, don’t you understand? I had to. Father wasn’t going to let me inherit if I didn’t.” Nicholas sighed. “Please, love, try to understand.”
“Then you should have given up the barony!” Arodi screamed into the pillow, digging his fingers into the side. “You say you love me!” fresh sobs, his shoulders trembled with emotion.
“I do love you,” Nicholas replied, at a loss. His own emerald green eyes were brimming with tears that rolled freely down his cheeks, bursting at the point of his handsome chin. “Gods in their heavens, Arodi, you have no idea how much!”
“Some idea, obviously!” Arodi picked up the pillow and whacked Nicholas’ shoulder with it. “Marry her, I don’t care, I don’t give a damn!” with that, he hurdled the pillow across the room and ran, slamming the door behind him.
Arodi winced at the sudden memory, shoving it back down into the depths of his mind and filing it away once more. Arceia looked at him again, and he felt the old hatred, resurfacing once more. It burned in his chest and he forced himself to tear his eyes away, focusing instead on Nicholas. The only comfort Arodi had anymore was the knowledge that Nicholas loved him, only him, and would never love anyone else. He had married Arceia, and he had shared Ezbon Cavalla’s bed, but he would never love either of them.
With a heavy sigh, Arodi lowered his head and kept his hands folded in front of him, and waited for prayer to end.
* * *
Ivan stood outside the temple doors, waiting patiently for Nicholas to emerge. Nicholas was supposed to have met him several days earlier, but he had never showed up. Ivan had planned to swing by the Ercole castle anyway, just to see how things were doing. He was anxious to see how Arceia Ercole favored, after the rumor had gotten out that she was with child. Ivan seriously doubted that Nicholas was the father, and he knew that Nicholas was uncertain, as well. But then, it wasn’t his place to stick his nose in where it didn’t belong.
The temple bells began to ring, and Ivan stepped aside, careful not to slip in the powdery white snow that coated the salted steps. The grand wide double doors parted, and a flood of worshippers came flooding out – the heavy smell of incense clinging to their clothing. Ivan grimaced and placed a strip of cloth to his nose, doing his best to block out the scent. He never could stand strong odors. Temple incense gagged him. He had never been overly religious anyway.
Several people, peasants and merchants alike, filed out of the temple one by one. It seemed like an eternity passed before the unwashed masses finally filtered their way into the streets. Ivan stepped forward, peering into the temple, and saw Nicholas was just at that moment rising from before the altar. He sighed and stepped inside the temple, banging his boots against the door to shake the snow off. The temple was warm and stuffy, rather like being shoved into a baking oven. The looming grandeur and the dark red wells did nothing to shatter the illusion.
“Ah, my lord,” the priest had found him. Ivan fought back a grimace and toyed with the chain that held his cloak in place over his shoulders. He had fond dreams of taking the pin out and shoving it up one of the priest’s nostrils, who already sounded like a parrot with its tail being wrung.
“Your holiness,” Ivan muttered, bowing with so little respect it was nearly insulting. The priest didn’t seem to notice. He folded his hands into his wide sleeves instead, and gave the baron a reproachful look.
“You weren’t here for Morning Prayer; I trust your reason was adequate,”
“Yes,” Ivan glanced over at Nicholas, wishing he would hurry. “Yes, yes, I just arrived in the city.”
“Then I hope you will find some time during this day to make your peace with Azrael, both to ask his forgiveness and to thank him for bringing you here safely.” The priest said, his voice dripping acid.
Ivan felt a headache forming. Nicholas began walking towards him, but not fast enough.
“Yes, yes, I fully intend to, once I get the chance.” He glanced at the priest and bowed again, deeper this time, for good measure. “If your holiness will forgive me – there are some things I must do.” Without even waiting to be dismissed, Ivan made a beeline for Ivan. He didn’t care if he had just broken every law of protocol in the book – priests made him nervous.
“Ivan?” Nicholas asked, surprised at seeing his friend. “Where did you come from?”
“Home, to see you,” Ivan said, a little breathless from his run. He barely acknowledged Arceia as she stepped out of the prayer chamber, her little maid whom he kept forgetting the name of trailing behind her faithfully. “You were supposed to meet me last week – did you forget?”
“Some things…” Nicholas twisted his lips, searching for the proper lie. “…Came up.”
“Well, I’m here now, and there is much to discuss,” Ivan wiped his brow with his hand. “Might I join you for breakfast?”
“Of course,” Nicholas smiled and extended a welcoming hand to his friend. “We were just going to now.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Ivan said, as they turned to walk towards the temple doors. “I requested for an old friend to drop by later today. You might remember him – I’m not sure.”
“Who is it?” Nicholas asked, descending the temple steps with ease.
“Lord Remphan Orchellio,” Ivan said, stepping aside so that Nicholas could get into the carriage first. There were two separate carriages – one for Nicholas and his servant, and the other for Arceia and hers. Ivan slid in across from Nicholas and – what was his name, Arodi? – the servant boy sat down right beside his master.
“Ah! Yes, of course I know Remphan; he was a guest in our home not a few days before you first brought up this idea about a war.” Nicholas stroked his chin. “Why on earth is he coming back this way?”
“I thought we would need a Lord of State,” Ivan said, lowering his voice. “You know, someone who could be organized about all of this – someone we could trust who could keep communication open between the three of us.”
“Remphan is a splendid choice, then,” Nicholas said, nodding his approval. “I know Ezbon would trust him with his life – and he and I go back many years, we are close.”
“Exactly,” Ivan said, pleased with Nicholas’ approval. “I’ve yet to spring the idea on him, of course, so I’ve no idea if he will accept. I think a little brandy will be in order before I even present the proposal.”
Nicholas laughed. “Pump a man full of brandy, m’lord, and he will do anything.” Arodi made a face at this statement, but didn’t comment.
“Well,” Ivan laughed as well, his smile broad. “My intentions for Remphan are much less licentious than yours appear to be.”
“You won’t know that until he gets here, now will you?” Nicholas winked. “Wine will make you randy. Remphan’s a handsome man.”
Ivan blushed slightly at this suggestion, but shook his head firmly. “I intend to take a wife one day, Nicholas.”
“So did I,” Nicholas said, in all seriousness, sliding a hand to rest on Arodi’s knee. Ivan blinked twice. By the second blink, the hand was gone.
“Well,” Ivan said, glossing over the awkward moment. “It’s been weeks, and I haven’t heard anything from Sitharus. Not a single word.”
“We might have to make the first move,” Nicholas said, looking straight at Ivan.
“Yes, but would it be wise?” Ivan asked.
“We have to show Sitharus how serious we aren’t, don’t we?” Nicholas plucked at a loose thread on his cuff. “I propose we go straight for Madrigal. It’s the closest to the border, and it offers a straight route to the heart of Dragoloth. If we can get into Sèrviell and take it down from there, we’ve all but won the war.”
“But Sèrviell is a long, long way from Madrigal,” Ivan argued. “And the journey is long and hard – and Sitharus has enough men stockpiled on every point from here to there – he could cut us down on a whim – multiple times!”
“Yes-“ Nicholas paused as the carriage jolted, rocking from side to side. Ivan braced his arms against the
sides and cursed the driver.
“He’ll be expecting Madrigal, too.” Ivan pointed out.
“No,” Nicholas shook his head. “He’ll be expecting us to attack Sialac. It’s even closer than Madrigal – and more importantly, it’s closer to you. And to Sitharus you are the leader of this operation. He will be expecting you to make a move like that, where it’s most convenient.”
Ivan nodded. “So I agree that we should attack – but when?”
“We should give Sitharus as little time to prepare as possible. A fortenight, at most.”
“We shan’t have any time to prepare either, on that note,” Ivan said dryly.
Nicholas shrugged. “You and I both have considerably full garrisons,” he said. “With a civilian draft, we can raise up the army in no time. Even Ezbon shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“We issue a draft, then?” Ivan tilted his head. “So early?”
“Of course, I’ve already put one forth for my closest cities,” Nicholas gestured ambiguously. “A province-wide draft wouldn’t be our worst idea. We would have the manpower standing close by, when we needed it.”
Ivan nodded again, thoughtfully. “Perhaps if we can convince Sitharus that we are going to attack Sialac, as opposed to Madrigal, that can buy us a little time. By the time we take Madrigal, he would have to move all of his troops from one place to another, and we will have regrouped by then. We could meet him ready.”
