Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8

by Jacob Falling

  “Again...” Sir Rodham shouted, and a flurry of blows, hesitant parries, and quick pain followed. Then laughter from the boys as Hafgrim was knocked out of the circle.

  And “again...” and “again....”

  Adria’s anger grew steadily throughout this display, until at last it knotted into courage, and she finally stormed down the stairs at the end of the gallery to break through the tangle of young boys. Once they saw who she was, they mostly quieted, and then hastily showed some sign of respect. Ewan and Hafgrim slowed their fight to a stop, and Brother Rodham himself inclined his head.

  “Milady.” He was half-smiling, which might have been a sign of condescension, good humor, or mere politeness. Adria did not know him well enough to determine which, and now, suddenly nervous but still fuming, she barely had the sense to address him.

  “Sir Rodham.”

  Her breathing grew shallow, her anger cooled, and Adria realized that she had simply thought to march down and stop the fight, but had not considered what to do afterward.

  Hafgrim’s face had paled, and he had used her distraction to dry his eyes, but it was easy to see that he would anger at her interruption if she was not careful. She cursed herself for allowing such a display of her anger, no matter how just it might have seemed.

  “Sir Rodham,” she repeated, in a louder tone. She was grateful that she knew his name, but then hesitated to think of something to say in following.

  “Yes, Milady,” he responded, and he seemed to be on the verge of smiling wider.

  He thinks of me as a jest, she realized. I have no place here, and he knows it, and he is waiting for me to make myself look foolish.

  But she was determined not to look foolish, and more, she had to make Hafgrim not seem more foolish, in his sister having attempted a rescue. Her thoughts raced with her blood, and she hoped fervently that she wasn’t blushing.

  “I… am of course uneducated in matters of combat, as you likely know.” Her words sounded steadier in her ears than she had expected. “I take my education among the Sisters, and it is not put upon me to take up arms in my schooling.”

  A couple of the boys were trying not to laugh at the thought of this, but Brother Rodham only nodded his head in acknowledgment.

  “However,” she continued, in imitation of Taber’s formality, she was beginning to realize uncomfortably. “It has been my understanding that simple repetition of any exercise is not always sufficient to teach a proper response. Do you not agree?”

  Adria realized she should not have asked a question. Whenever Taber asked a question, she always knew exactly what answer would be given. But Adria did not yet have this benefit over the Brother Knight.

  Like chess, Adria thought. Always look one move ahead.

  “Milady, sometimes the repetition of an exercise, particularly a physical one, can serve to teach a pupil his mistakes, which can be the first step toward learning a proper response.” And again he inclined his head in respect. Still, some of the boys were obviously on the verge of mocking her. Hafgrim glanced about nervously, but waited to see what she would say.

  “I see…” Adria said, searching for some way to back out of the circle gracefully. “It is interesting to watch these exercises of yours, and to add to my education things which would normally be outside the covenant of the Sisterhood.” She nodded sagely. “My brother has spoken often of his practices, and indeed has tried to impart some of his learning to me, at least in theory, though of course it is unlikely to serve me as it will him.”

  Adria reached beside her to one of the watching boys, one she knew to be slight in will as well as years, and she gripped the haft of the staff in his hands. She gave him a slight smile and a nod, and hoped he had the sense to let go of it, for she did not wish the embarrassment of prying it from his grasp.

  Wide eyed, and out of surprise or respect, he relinquished it.

  “Lord Praetorius,” she bowed slightly, then raised the staff between them. “Please do me the honor of continuing my education.”

  Ewan Praetorius watched her uncertainly, but did not raise his staff, and so Adria lunged at him, confident he had the instinct to respond, and entrusted the rest to the violence of boys.

  But the blow did not land. Sir Rodham stopped her staff in mid-arc, his hand catching it just above hers. She lost her grip, stumbled, and fell sideways upon her elbow amidst her skirts.

  The boys laughed, even Hafgrim, and Ewan was shaking his head with a grin. Only Sir Rodham did not, instead offering his hand.

  “All apologies, Your Highness,” he said, in a tone which silenced most of the laughter and chattering. “But there are some rules that cannot so easily be broken, even by a royal will.”

  Her face burned, her arm throbbed, and she was determined not to be helped. She rose of her own accord, thankfully not tripping upon her dress.

  Sir Rodham nodded his head a little, and he smiled without any mockery.

  “Princess Idonea teaches us a good lesson today,” the Knight instructor said, sweeping the circle with his gaze as he returned Adria’s borrowed staff to its owner. “Never give yourself fully to a strike. It reveals your intention to your opponent, it wears your limbs and your weapons, and it leaves you undefended when the blow fails.”

  Some of the boys muttered, while others nodded. Hafgrim ignored her, but walked back into the circle again, his jaw set and his bloodied fists upon his staff, determined to face Ewan once more.

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Sir Rodham inclined his head.

  Adria nodded, and managed a small smile despite her flush of embarrassment, then exited the circle with all the grace she could manage.

  Sir Rodham crossed his arms and turned away to the instruction of the boys.

  “Again.”

  “Why did you think you should fight?” Hafgrim asked as they made their way back to their towers.

  “I…” Adria wanted to be careful not to embarrass her brother. “I just wanted to feel like I could. I tire of watching. Tire of the rules of Sisters and Knights and royals and peasants.”

  “And do you think you could fight? As… a girl?” Hafgrim was on the verge of mocking, but not quite. It was something a little more, or a little less.

  “It’s much like chess,” Adria shrugged, her arms cross. “Space, strength, and mobility. Being fast or clever is often better than being strong. These are things a girl may understand as much as a boy. A queen as much as a king…”

  And when her brother shrugged, she felt a little like a queen. She looked Hafgrim over closely as they climbed the central stair, and suddenly felt a little ashamed, though her brother remained silent.

  Regardless of my desires, he will be expected to wage wars I will not, Adria thought. I may be as capable as he, but Rodham is right. Hafgrim will have to learn to take care of himself.

  She expected a reproach when Hafgrim turned and spoke again, but it was not what came.

  “Adria…” Hafgrim asked. “Where did you learn chess?”

  She had wondered, many times, why she and Hafgrim had rarely visited their father together, at least in private, and why Father had never taught Hafgrim the game. It was with some surprise that she realized the likely truth — that her father probably never saw Hafgrim in private at all. He had never once spoken of it.

  “I learn all sorts of things from books,” Adria half-lied, a little to her own surprise. Then she smiled, teasing, “You should try reading sometime, when you’re not busy bloodying knuckles in the courtyard.”

  She struck just the right tone, and Hafgrim took it as she intended. “Well, someone’s going to have to duel your more unworthy suitors. It wouldn’t do for you to pummel them yourself.”

  “Yes, I think that’s in an etiquette book somewhere,” she nodded, sighing.

  They parted at the top of a stair, returning to their separate quarters for
separate lessons. She never spoke of chess to her brother again, and he never again asked.

  Twyla was Adria’s only real window to the world beyond the citadel, and fortunately Twyla enjoyed talking as much as Adria enjoyed listening. She spoke of the city, mostly, for this was where she lived with her mother, and on the days her mother did not serve Adria and the household, they sold bread in a market stall. Here they had much opportunity to learn the news of Heiland and beyond from travelers and visitors to the city.

  “Do you hear any word of the Wilding Ghosts?” Adria asked, redirecting Twyla from her usual unfocused storytelling.

  “Mother sometimes asks those from the south about them, where the forests are still wild.”

  “And what do they say?” Adria asked. “Do they truly steal children?”

  “Sometimes,” Twyla said thoughtfully. “Or so they say. And often, the ghosts’ll replace a stolen child with one of their own, and they grow up charmed, and speak to angels.”

  Adria wasn’t certain this was the kind of story she was hoping for.

  “My uncle used to say that the children of his lands were whisked away by ghosts. He never said anything about them being replaced, and he blamed the whole affair on a dragon. Certainly, he considered me foolish to believe such nonsense.”

  Twyla shook her head. “I don’t know anything about dragons.”

  “No…” Adria frowned, hesitating. “But… do you know anything of my uncle?”

  Twyla grew still and bit her lip. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

  Adria frowned. “Why not? And who says?”

  She shrugged. “Mother. She doesn’t like wars.”

  It was Adria’s turn to grow still, thoughtful, and fearful. She knew Twyla’s moods, knew she did not want to hide things from Adria. They were as close as either of them had to sisters. If Adria asked her the right questions, Twyla would answer, and would not think of it as disobeying her mother.

  “My uncle went to war?” Adria tried to sound nonchalant in her tone. It was not too difficult. She knew that wars were terrible affairs, but she had grown up with them as a common occurrence.

  Twyla nodded.

  “Yes, such things happen,” Adria said, trying to put Twyla at greater ease. “It is said we will have peace one day, when the One-Who-Will-Come brings the final war. Father and uncle have brought such order to Heiland. When I am old enough, I shall help them with other nations.”

  But this was too much… it allowed Twyla to change the subject. “Mother says that wars bring nothing good, that it often only means a new face is on the coins we’ll never see.”

  Twyla was getting rather good at quoting her mother’s words precisely. And she always believed them. This gave Adria an idea, and she went to a small chest she kept in her bedroom, and brought the coin inside it to Twyla.

  “Here,” Adria said, placing it in her hand. “This is my father’s coin.”

  “Is it gold?” Twyla asked, in wonder. It was obvious she had never seen one, or at least not close enough to examine, much less touch.

  “It is,” Adria nodded.

  “It’s bigger than any coin I’ve seen.” Twyla felt the engraved face of King Ebenhardt, and turned it over to do the same with his star emblem.

  Adria nodded. She had read books which showed coins from all the countries she knew, and of all of them, her father’s gold Crown was the largest.

  Twyla smiled, and handed the coin back to her.

  “No, keep it,” Adria insisted, using her most royal voice. “You have both served me well, and I should like you to have it.”

  “I can’t,” Twyla said, shaking her head and frowning.

  Adria sighed and crossed her arms. “And why ever not?”

  Twyla blinked. “Highness, everyone will think I have stolen it.”

  “Oh…” Adria said after a moment, feeling a little stupid.

  Twyla smiled and took Adria’s hand in her own. “Thank you anyway, Your Highness. I am obliged.”

  Adria regretted adopting her own formality, now that it was returned. “Oh Twyla, you are so like a sister to me, and the only person I can talk to who knows the world outside this tower. I love you as I do my brother, and my father, and my uncle. I have so little family.”

  Twyla nodded, her eyes downcast, guilty.

  “Adria,” she began, still hesitant, but now with a different tone. She had determined to disobey her mother, and yet she was afraid anyway.

  “Tell me, Twyla,” Adria whispered, now fearing the worst. “Has my uncle died in this war?”

  Twyla shook her head and looked up, perhaps a bit relieved. “No… he is… exiled.”

  “Exiled?” Adria said, with slight disbelief, until she remembered her last meeting with her uncle, the discomfort between him and her father. “Oh… I see.”

  Twyla nodded, frowning, uncertain but hopeful she might say no more.

  “My uncle did not battle alongside my father. My uncle warred against my father.”

  Twyla nodded sadly.

  “And... Uncle lost.”

  Again, Twyla nodded, and Adria nodded along with her.

  “Do you...” Adria fumbled, now trying to keep her breath and hands steady, to hold back tears. “Where did he go?”

  Twyla only shrugged, unknowing. Adria’s thoughts had already raced ahead on their own, across a map of the world like a chessboard, through Somana and the Northlands and Kelmantium... and then she almost smiled, despite the sadness of Twyla’s revelations.

  No... Adria realized. He has followed all the children and their ghosts, to where the dragon can never find him.

  Adria returned her father’s Crown to its chest, sighed and brightened herself a little, and they spoke no more of this.

  Kaye always left a set of clothing for Twyla in Adria’s apartments “in case of any mishaps,” she said, though she never specified what these might be, and thus far Twyla had never needed to take advantage of them.

  So one Holy day Adria took advantage of them herself.

  Normally she was left alone on these days, save when there was a feast or some ceremonial observance on the part of the Sisterhood which Adria was obliged to attend. Mostly, she used these occasional days to read, in bed or in her oriel, without even bothering to dress.

  But today she dressed, and it was fitting not having a servant’s help to dress in servants’ clothing. She had to hold her polished silver mirror herself, tilting it about to see as much of herself as she could. It was by no means a perfect braid, and the skirts fit a little more loosely on her than on Twyla, but these were plain enough that few were likely to look too closely.

  It was just after her breakfast tray had been taken, hours until the midday meal. Adria worried for a moment that Hafgrim might call upon her, or she might be summoned to her father’s study, but her brother had been out of sorts for days now, and Father, by all accounts, had been called away on diplomatic matters.

  It was warm enough, with no fire to worry about, and so Adria slipped from her rooms and down the servant stair, where guards were unlikely to go.

  Adria had often enjoyed watching the Knights in the yard more then the noble boys, though she could make out little detail from the distance of her oriel window. But in their rows and columns, they seemed the very living image of chess.

  As she climbed out the keep’s sally port and onto the small landing at the edge of the bailey, the Knights were arrayed in just such a pattern as they drilled.

  Today it was spears, and as Adria made her way along the wall which led to the yard kitchens, she watched the soldiers build their own walls with their shields, in triplicate, their spears held between at ready to breech an enemy’s line.

  When they fell into line, their boots, arms, and voices gave such a shout that it made Adria start, with something close to fear, and something cl
ose to joy.

  Another servant approached from the kitchens. Adria lowered her hooded head to avoid his notice, and he passed without concern.

  The Knights pivoted to form a column, and the butts of their spears clashed upon the stone tiles.

  Adria neared the kitchens, now rather uncertain of her plan, but unwilling to turn back just yet.

  There was nearly as much noise coming from the kitchens as from the yard, as servants handled the crockery and dishware left to clean from breakfast. A bird called, and Adria was surprised to see that it was neither a hawk nor a dove, but a raven which stood upon one corner of the tiled kitchen roof, just where it curved to funnel the rain into a large clay basin.

  Adria tilted her head, half lowering her hood, fascinated by the black-violet pinions of the crow.

  She barely sidestepped as a large dark-headed serving maid exited the kitchen doorway to empty a tub of dirty water.

  Adria stepped back, and again, as the brackish water filled the space between cobbles, trying to soak her stolen skirts.

  “Speakin’ to crows is poor luck,” the red-faced woman said. “And what be your course, young hafslip?”

  Adria blinked dumbly, not fully understanding the woman’s words, and only just realizing her hood had fallen completely.

  The woman waited only a heartbeat before following, “Speak up… we all have work, nae?”

  “Ahm… Aye, Mum…” Adria stammered, trying to sound as much like one of her servants as she could. “Apologies.”

  “Who are you, then, mystery girl? And where are you on about?”

  Adria curtsied, half stepping again away from the dirty water upon the path, and the woman narrowed her eyes and smirked as Adria continued. “If it pleases ye, Ma’am… I am… Maid Kaye’s youngest… cousin’s… niece?”

  Adria could not help but end as a question, the lie having taken so many steps.

  “I am… seeing to the keep a bit while my…” here she stumbled. “While my aunt is at holiday.”

  “And ye’s as likely to be coming as going, reckon?”