Walking on Water

by Matthew J. Metzger

  Janez ignored him, marching straight to his mother’s chair where he dropped to one knee and kissed the rings adorning her fingers.

  “Your Highness,” he said gravely, lowering his eyes to the floor. “I am honoured by your kind reception.”

  “And I by your attendance, Prince Janez. Please, sit.”

  He sat in demure silence while she ordered more food and wine to the table before dismissing the guards and servants entirely.

  Finally alone, the formality broke, and they giggled together like children sharing in secrets.

  “That captain is such a pompous arse, I thought he would give himself a stroke and pass clean away if we were to greet each other properly. Come here, and give your old mother a kiss.”

  “Hardly old, Mother,” Janez protested but reached to kiss her cheek all the same.

  Neither he nor Alarik much resembled their mother. She was darker-skinned, with dark hair she kept tightly coiled to prevent it frizzing in the damp. She’d been tall and regal (too-thin and perhaps hard-looking) when queen, but age and grief had softened those physical edges and rendered her quite fat. It suited her better, despite the cause. Yet her beauty glowed in spite of the terrible loss that had chased her here. She’d always been a happy woman, perfectly suited to the role of benevolent queen and mother of future kings. Janez’s childhood—so often regimented by duty and service, by strict tutors and stern swordmasters—was peppered with memories of Mother’s stories by the fire in place of any maid or governess, and on her insistence upon cradling them through illness and injury, despite the distance most aristocratic mothers kept from their broods. Indeed, his very earliest memory was Mother singing as she brushed his hair for bed. Of how she’d rest him, all of three years old, against her breast and soothed him to sleep with that rhythmic brushing and her soft melody.

  Father had been distant. His brother had always been someone to navigate, thanks to his destiny as king. But Mother—oh, Mother had always been quite simple. She loved him, and Janez her, and all else was of no concern.

  So he didn’t speak of balls and princesses, of Sigurd and empty shipyards, or even of his despair of marriage and his failure the night before and this very morning. Instead, he sat back in his seat and said, “Ingrid is taking after me, Mother.”

  “After you?” Mother laughed. “In that she is running her poor father ragged, or in that she has learned how to charm the entire palace guard to treason?”

  “Both.”

  “What is the latest?”

  “She managed to persuade them to dress her in a guardsman’s uniform and teach her the first strikes of sword fighting. Alarik caught her challenging a kitchen cat to a duel.”

  “I can’t imagine he was thrilled.”

  “Neither was the cat.”

  “Did he scold?”

  “Spluttered, rather. I didn’t know if he was going to laugh, or lock her in the dungeons for a tearaway.”

  He updated her with trivial stories as they broke bread—of Ingrid’s adventuring, of the baby’s hair slowly turning a rusty blond, of Sofia glowing suspiciously of late—and so was taken quite by surprise when Mother sat back, wine glass in hand, and said, “So tell me of this friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “Rumour travels faster than you do, Janez. I hear of a foreigner who dragged you from the water and has scarcely left your side since.”

  Janez laughed and lied, as was his strength. “Mother. He is quite simple. I feel sorry for him. That is all.”

  “You feel sorry for cats, Janez, so you hand them to the cooks to keep the mice at bay.”

  “He cannot speak the language. He would be subject to much suspicion and abuse, what with the current war.”

  “And you are certain he is not of the enemy?”

  “I am.”

  “Still,” she said. “I know you, Janez. This is not kindness for some simpleton. You are fond of him.”

  His hackles rose slightly.

  “I’m fond of a great many people.”

  “But of him, most of all.”

  “Not at all,” Janez replied. “If it’s company you speak of, I’m most fond of a port-girl with particular charms.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. And a particular price, no doubt.”

  Janez lifted his glass in silent acknowledgement, and Mother smiled.

  “All the same,” she said. “I would advise that you—get this out of your system, perhaps. By the spring, you are likely to be married. You will certainly be betrothed. And your wife will deserve your devotion.”

  “And she will have it,” he said woodenly.

  “You have met them? Sigurd’s daughters?”

  “Never.”

  “Hm. I have met the father—he came to our own wedding, all those years ago. He is pompous, but pleasant enough. He is likely, I would imagine, to value his daughters’ happiness.”

  “As he ought.”

  “And I value my son’s,” Mother said. “Janez. Tell me. Did you offer to do this, or has Alarik commanded it?”

  Both.

  Still, was it? Was it truly both, when Alarik had only ordered what Janez had already agreed to do? And when he had agreed to it, there had been no reason not to. No reason to suppose he would fall in love with anyone but the woman he was supposed to.

  “I would not see you miserable,” Mother said softly.

  “I would not see us defeated in war,” he replied, just as low. “I have no choice, Mother.”

  She reached out and squeezed his hand. But she said nothing, and he knew himself to be correct.

  “They arrive tomorrow,” she murmured. “Celebrations will be the following day. Find some happiness, my darling. Carry it with you into the ballroom. One of them may well be the very thing you need.”

  No, he wished to say. The very thing I need is in a servant’s quarters and cannot say the word for flowers correctly.

  “Maybe, Mother,” he said instead and wished it could be true.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  HELD HAD THOUGHT the palace by the sea to be grand.

  The palace by the mountains was grander.

  It was much like Ahtola—great white towers jutting from the mountainside, capped by dark roofs. There were five of them, with covered bridges between them, and a courtyard encircled at the base by great white walls, punctured only by the gates that had allowed them access. Even the very image of it caused a twinge of pain to erupt anew in his chest—but its life, its vitality, was not like the Whalelands, and so Held was soothed again.

  Now, he stood in one of those towers, peering from the narrow window at some dark creature circling below and screeching in a cracked, croaking caw, and wondering what it could possibly be.

  The room was small and close, like that first inn, but it had this window, and the floor was thickly covered in furs. He’d lain amongst them, admiring their softness for the longest time before the cawing creature had caught his attention.

  It seemed as though he was on the very top of the world—was this the sky, to skymen?—but the great mountain stretched ever onwards above him, until Held felt dizzy just trying to see the top. Maybe there was no top. Maybe the world went on forever, and his pe—merfolk had it wrong all along. They were on the bottom of the world. The skymen in the middle. And maybe something else, even more incredible, above the blue.

  He was disturbed from his thoughts when a knock rapped at the door, and it cracked open. Janez. Looking grand in his most regal attire, so stiff and formal and utterly perfect—and so out of place in this little servant’s room. Held beamed and dragged him across to the window to point down at the creature.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Ein Vogel.”

  “Virgil,” Held attempted but earned no laugh. Instead, he was pressed to the stone and glass by a great weight, intense yet gentle, and arms like ropes circled his middle. “Janez?” he asked softly, reaching behind himself awkwardly to catch at the curls buried against his spine and stroke the
m.

  The grip tightened. And then the fingers spread wide on his belly. One hand was pushed higher, under the shirt, to cover one side of his chest. The other pushed lower, into cloth and undercloth, to cup his sex in its hot palm. Held groaned as his body was stirred into life and sighed when he felt Janez’s rouse as well. Gripped so tightly he could barely move, he clutched instead at the stone walls that bracketed the window, bracing himself there, and shifted his legs a little further apart when he felt that warm, welcome weight against his thigh. Rocked into the maddening, wonderful rasp of Janez’s rough palm against his swollen flesh. Chased that high, that pleasure, and reached it when Janez’s teeth sank into his neck, and he was seized there like a possession.

  Like he belonged.

  He sank into the afterglow, and they went to the floor together. Janez’s hands still roamed, his hardness unyielding, and Held twisted over to kiss him, quite drunk with happiness, and work open Janez’s clothes until he found it. Hard flesh, hot and wanting. He pushed further, opening loops and buttons until they all gave way, and freed the man from the prince’s attire. He kissed the crown of that need—to a choked moan from his victim—and then kissed higher. Bit at the little places he was learning, on belly and chest. Spread himself over this skyman’s form, catching that need between their bodies, and absorbing the urgent roll of pleasure that rocked up Janez’s body. Held caught at it, caught at him, and they moved together as though tangled together in a calm sea. For all Janez had been urgent, Held wished for calm, for time to see the beauty escalate into divinity when Janez reached his peak. When he did, it was exquisite. Unfathomable. Still so utterly beautiful and utterly alien—the sweat at his temples, the rasp of air in his chest, the blank stare of the blue abyss…and then Held’s heart broke as the bliss dissolved. The fair brow creased. Janez covered his face with one hand and let out a wrenching sound of pure agony.

  Held let go as if he’d been burned—but it wasn’t pain, or at least not something physical, for Janez clutched him, seizing him tight once more and taking another reeling gasp from Held’s shoulder.

  “Don’t be sad,” Held begged, utterly at a loss of how to convey it. He dragged the furs around them, clutched fistfuls of hair and cloth, begged his body to show what he couldn’t say. “I’m here. You can’t be sad if I’m here. You just can’t.”

  It wasn’t allowed, or it ought not have been. How could Janez—handsome, wonderful, kind, generous Janez, who owned Held’s very existence and held it like a delicate treasure in the palm of his hand, who could snuff him out with so much as a whisper of love to another—how could someone that utterly central to another’s world possibly be sad?

  It took a while for the grip to ease, but when it did, Janez’s eyes were red-rimmed. He rose clumsily, but rather than leave, he sank to the edge of the bed and sat with head in hands. His posture was of such pure misery that Held dropped to the floor between those long legs, resting his hands on Janez’s thighs, and peered up hopefully into a lost and empty gaze.

  “Tell me,” he whispered, and Janez frowned faintly—then gestured at the desk and asked for parchment. It was one of Held’s many new words, and he rose to fetch it. A single sheet, old and dusty, had been left in the desk. The inkwell was near dry, the liquid clotted and thick, but Janez appeared to have no need to write eloquent prose.

  Instead, he drew a king.

  A crown and a round head, a scratchy little beard, and lines for limbs. He drew a queen, with the crown and a huge round skirt. He drew himself, with a tiny crown and tail of hair, and then he drew the lines—above for himself and the king, and below for the king and the queen.

  Held watched curiously, waited patiently, for little Ingrid to appear, but she did not. Instead, Janez touched each figure and said its name, waiting until Held nodded to continue. And then he touched the line between king and queen and whispered, “Verheiratet.”

  Held frowned in confusion.

  “Verheiratet,” Janez repeated softly and then pointed to his picture. Circled the empty space to its left with his finger. “Unverheiratet.”

  He repeated them again several times until Held thought he, perhaps, saw it. The line was this…‘very-tat,’ or whatever it was Janez had said. The king and queen had this ‘very-tat.’ And Janez did not.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  Ingrid had come from the line. From the very-tat. And the king and queen—

  Married! Janez was saying they were married, and he was not.

  But then Held frowned. Why was this a source of sadness? Or needing explanation? He had—well, he’d assumed Janez wasn’t married. Ever since Ingrid had transpired to be his niece, not his daughter, Held had assumed Janez had no wife, no princess.

  And then Janez drew a maid. A big skirt. A little crown shaded in another colour—a queen, maybe. But not like his brother was king?

  And a line. From Janez to the new queen.

  “Ich muss heiraten.”

  The words. Three of them, by the way he sounded them out. I. The next one Held didn’t know. And one so similar to—to—

  He touched the new line, still wet.

  “Du. Verheiratet?”

  Janez nodded.

  The look of pain on his face was so intense that Held felt his very ribs caving in. There was no air in the room. No. No! Janez could not—must not—married? He would be married? He would—he would have a wife, and—and children, and he would—oh, he would love her, love them, how could he not, and—

  Held seized the parchment from him and tore it in two. “No!” he shouted, and then, “Nein!” The grief poured out in a burning rush. His vision blurred, and hot salt water rained down his face. He struck out and caught Janez across the cheek; the prince flew up, catching him firmly and crushed them together in a hug so fierce it could never be broken—

  And Held broke.

  Broke apart, right there, and howled. Screamed grief, agony, pain, death, fear, hatred into Janez’s shirt. Yet he knew, he knew by the look of such agony, by their shattered coupling, by the way his hair was wet where Janez had pressed his face, that Janez didn’t want this. He didn’t want this. The king—the king—that vile, angry, suspicious king had done this. He had done this—

  Held worked his arms free from Janez’s hold, put them around his chest and clung tight.

  To—death.

  Janez would marry. He would love her, because that was what husbands did, love their wives. He would love her, this princess with the shaded crown. There would be no more kisses, sky or mer. No more love, either shining in his eyes or pressed into Held’s skin from his hands. And Held—

  Held would die. Would burst into sea foam, and die.

  Janez was whispering, “Ich liebe dich,” over and over into Held’s hair. Held knew not what it meant, but it didn’t matter.

  Janez was going to get married.

  And Held was going to die.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  THE BALL CAME too soon.

  A thousand years would have been too soon, but two meagre days—

  It was torture.

  Janez kept to his rooms as much as possible, under the guise of allowing their esteemed guests time to settle in and enjoy Mother’s company, and without the need to put on airs and graces for diplomatic negotiations. In reality…

  In reality, it was as though his heart was breaking. Held looked much the same. His violent reaction to the truth had been crushing. After, he had seized Janez by the hair and kissed him, kissed him so fiercely it ought to have branded them both in bruises, and refused to be parted for the night. So the following day, Janez stayed in his rooms with Held always within arm’s reach, and yet— They did not touch.

  Part of Janez wanted to take and be taken until there was no life left in him, no energy to think and mourn this loss. Another part of him was so sunken in depression that he could do little. Held, for his part, seemed to mourn. He brushed Janez’s hair every hour, until ribbons carpeted the floor, and then would undo h
is work by combing his fingers through the curls, holding them out straight and releasing them in a hypnotic, repetitive study. The sun sank, and rose again. As it dipped towards the mountain peaks yet again, Janez knew he must move. But it felt like drowning.

  Mother sent a veritable army of servants as the sky deepened to a rusty copper, and although Held guarded Janez’s hair jealously, the others were grudgingly permitted to wash and dress the man, until—until he was no man at all, but a prince on display. The shirtsleeves billowed; the stockings suffocated his legs. The boots had been polished until they seemed to emit more light than the sun itself, and his collar was so starched Janez sourly thought he could have shaved upon it. And the shave itself, by God! Any closer, and it would have removed skin and bone. He was puffed and powdered to within an inch of his life until a feminine man, forged in grace and elegance and wealth, eyed him back from the looking glass with a cold and calculating countenance.

  It was not himself, and Janez sighed.

  “I suppose we ought to get this over with,” he murmured.

  He wanted very much to kiss Held goodbye, as though he was going off to war. But servants gossiped, so he contented himself with gripping his hand tightly before letting go and sweeping out of his chambers, looking for all the world like he were perfectly eager to meet his future bride.

  The ball was in its infancy, lords and ladies only just starting to mingle and exchange news and rumours. Hushes followed him through the great hall as he made his way to Mother, nodding and smiling to those whom decorum insisted he must. When he reached her, he bowed deeply in a public show of respect that overrode his private wish for affection.

  “Your Highness,” he said gravely. “My compliments on such a fine showing.”

  “Prince Janez.” Mother’s voice was the same cool formality of public, but her eyes showed sympathy, and the upturn of her mouth was entirely false. She could read him—had always been able to do so. “I trust you are well?”

  They exchanged pleasantries, and Janez sucked down several glasses of rich wine. His side felt cold without Held pinned to it as he had been these last two days. The perfumes and powders lurking about his person felt dirty.