Ryswyck

by L D Inman

  She stepped out onto the path toward the officers’ block, pausing to savor the scent of wet stone and wintry soil, and made her way slowly, leaning on her stick, toward Cameron’s door. The blackout had been lifted, and the path was now cheerfully lit. Speir could see the lights over the arena complex doors, blurred by mist; lights now marked the cloister from the outside as well as inside, pricking into relief the dormant ivy stems on the stone mullions. Behind her, in the distance beyond the main block, the mist diffused the tower’s light to a broad glow: a lighthouse by a rock.

  She knocked on Cameron’s door. Reluctant steps; the door opened enough for Cameron to peer out; seeing Speir, she opened it.

  “Are you here on a mission?” she said, warily.

  “No, dearling,” said Speir.

  Slowly, Cameron stepped back, and Speir came in. Speir closed the door, took her stick in her hand, and went forward to embrace her. They stood for a long moment without saying anything; with her arms around Cameron’s waist, Speir could feel her pliancy, like a fighter moving with a landed blow.

  Cameron was still living the moment of the blow, Speir thought. Then she felt and heard Cameron’s voice, and her thoughts must have been running on a similar track, because she said: “You are a better fighter than I, Speir.”

  “I don’t know that,” Speir answered, closing her eyes.

  “I do.” There was a helpless, bitter note in Cameron’s reply, and Speir thought suddenly of Jarrow and his determination not to be thanked. Better to judge oneself harshly than risk the caprice of another. Condemnation and compassion both intolerable. That feeling was no mystery to Speir. Nor did she have to wonder what it felt like to be stripped of that choice.

  “All right,” she said, eyes still closed. “I won’t take it from you if you don’t want me to.”

  Cameron barked a little laugh. “You’re the only one who can say that and make me believe it.”

  “May be. But I’m not the only one who won’t pull your last thread of dignity.”

  Speir could feel her weeping silently. She held her closer, her stick awkward in her hand, and felt Cameron respond in kind. After a moment she recovered.

  “It’s not that I don’t understand,” she said. “I understand everything.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Cameron pulled away and held her by the shoulders, looking at her. Keep touch on her, Stevens had said. “And how do you fare?” she said.

  Speir smiled. Evidently Cameron had had enough vulnerability. “I am well,” she answered. “Tired, but well.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  This was a request Speir was glad to take seriously. “Will you write to me, from time to time? I’m having another surgery soon, and they won’t promise me it’ll be the last.”

  “Yes!” Cameron said. “Tell me when you’re going in, and I’ll come to cheer your bedside.”

  “Thank you,” Speir sighed out. “I would love that.”

  “Consider it done. Are you on your way to bed, or shall I give you some tea?”

  Speir accepted tea, and a seat on Cameron’s bunk, and they talked of trivial things for a short while. Then Speir excused herself to go on to bed. Cameron went with her to the door, with an air of being ready to catch her if she fell. Time was, that would have annoyed Speir. Tonight, she thanked Cameron with a smile, refraining from touching closed hand to heart, and stretched up to kiss her goodnight. The door between them closed gently.

  When she reached her own quarters, she was too tired for the moment to undress for bed, so she sank down into the frayed armchair instead. In addition to carrying her duffel to her quarters, someone had thoughtfully packed everything away, leaving her care pouch on top of the tiny dresser for easy access. Her covers were folded down neatly, and the whole room was suspiciously clean.

  She was still smiling over this when a small knock came at her door. “Yes?” Speir said.

  “It’s me.”

  “Come in.”

  Douglas opened the door and peered in. “Oh, good—you haven’t gone to bed yet. May I…?” Speir gave him a look, and he angled a grin back, shutting the door behind him. “Thank you. I need the respite.”

  “No one will ever think of looking for you here,” Speir said, as he dropped onto the impeccable smoothness of her bed.

  “Ach, Speir. How I’ve missed you.” He lay back against her pillow, with his feet still on the floor.

  “And I you,” she said, softly.

  His eyes were closed, unquietly; his dark lashes fluttered. “Did you see Cameron?”

  “I did. I think you’ve realized she’s best left to fight it out.”

  “Yes. She’s not the only one nursing wounds to the soul. I haven’t forgotten her—but—”

  “You can delegate Cameron to me,” she told him, and he let out a breath that seemed to flatten him on the bed. “And I’ll let you know when to pick up the burden again.”

  “I am grateful. Are you too tired to have me here?” he asked. “I can leave you to sleep if you want.”

  “I’m exhausted,” Speir said. “And I want you here. Stay with me.”

  Douglas opened his eyes and sat up. “Whatever you like. May I doff the admiral?” His hands went to his cravat and waited for permission.

  “If I can doff the war hero.”

  “Excellent.” He took off cravat and tunic and folded them over the footrail, pried off his shoes with his toes, and untucked his shirt. More slowly, Speir did the same, removing her shoes by hand. Then she got up and crossed the few feet to the bed and sank down next to him. Side by side, their arms went around one another, and they rested together in silence.

  After a while Speir grew drowsy, and she lifted her head to suggest they lie down. But she changed what she was going to say when she saw his face. “You look worried,” she said, touching his cheek. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” he said softly. “I’m terrified.”

  She stirred a fingertip in the hair at his temple. “Look at this,” she said. “You’re getting silver threads before your time.”

  “Ryswyck gives me a new one every week.” It wasn’t really a joke.

  “It suits you.” She meant not just the silver threads but the weight of the insignia on his shoulders, the Ryswyckians responsive to his command, the whole perilous enterprise in the balance of his calm hands.

  “Yes.” She didn’t have to elaborate; he knew. “I finally figured out how to use the chapel,” he added.

  She broke into a smile. “Did you? Then you can help me relearn.”

  “I’d only be giving you back your own gift.”

  “With added riches. My dear friend,” she said.

  ~*~

  In the end he tugged up the folded blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it over them as they curled together. They dozed and woke, with the bedside light burning through the night; sometimes talking, sometimes silent.

  When it approached first watch, Speir woke first. She eased herself apart from Douglas, who inhaled suddenly and turned over on his back, struggling to open his eyes. She sat on the bed’s edge and gathered strength for the first painful steps of the morning. It was a good day; she only bent to the floor to steady herself once. And a hot shower always helped. When she came out, robed, to retrieve her comb, Douglas was shrugging back into his tunic and rubbing sleepily at the stubble on his chin.

  “Can you wait?” she asked him.

  “Aye,” he yawned. “Still time for me to shower and change before the senior council meeting. You’re invited.”

  “I’ll come,” she said, and he touched his closed hand to his heart.

  By the time she was dressed he was fully alert. She watched him in the act of reaching for her stick, caught in another of those compass moments. A hospital of souls, he had called Ryswyck last night as they drowsed and talked. The word made her flinch inwardly. She was not, now, afraid of the shrapnel that would inevitably work its way to the surface of her own soul,
or afraid of the pain that still came back to claim her now and again. She was not afraid at this moment, but she knew that in future times she would be. Her service, too, was going to change its nature; and she was afraid of that.

  “Douglas,” she said, and he paused before picking up the stick to hand to her.

  “Yes?”

  She clasped and unclasped her hands a moment, trying to figure out how to say it. Finally: “I’m going to need a hand free, when I go back for surgery. Would you—be able—to take my fear for me, come the time?”

  For a moment he stood looking at her, silent. Then a slow grin took over his face, from his eyes outward: It’s about time you asked.

  He held out his hands to her and turned them palm up, to receive her offering. She ducked her head, drew a shaky breath, and touched them with hers.

  Douglas handed Speir her stick, and they went out of her quarters into the cold mist. Across the field of rain, in the deep predawn light, the tower carillon chimed the change of watch.

  finis

  Acknowledgments

  Unless one lives on a remote island far from all direct communication, writing a novel is not really a solitary activity: and possibly not even then. In any case, I conceived this story while digging up an overgrown flowerbed in the relative isolation of my community’s retreat house; and so I must begin with my gratitude for the flowerbed, the community, and the retreat house. Primarily, of course, I must be grateful for my companions’ forbearance—it’s not easy to live with someone who is often space-cadetting about writing dialogue in their head, who subjects them regularly to natterings and neuroses and a thousand little omissions of consideration. Most of what I know of courtesy comes from being the beneficiary of it.

  I have also been the beneficiary of the kindness and encouraging assistance of friends old and new, as I moved to the city and this story continued to develop. Die-hard beta readers Erica H. Smith, Sarah Heim, and Sara Siegmann each provided their inimitable expertise and priceless support. Someone once said that a novel worth writing is one that almost breaks your will to go on at least once. These three comrades supplied the almost of that statement; there would be no Ryswyck without them.

  Other friends and readers provided invaluable advice and material assistance: Sandra Ryals Alig, Erin Bow, and Samantha Herdman are just three whose impressive brains I picked for help with the process; Mark Wickersham provided me the benefit of his wide-ranging technical and martial experience, not to mention server space; and various members of my book club, fencing club, workplace, and parish lent a listening ear at need. Beth Leggett did a hero’s work making the cover art, and I am grateful she made space for Ryswyck on her easel. Tori McDonald graciously expanded her portfolio to draw me a map.

  And finally, I owe a debt to Charles Williams, from whom I shamelessly stole the principle of substitutionary love; Dorothy L. Sayers, who was a master at drawing small communities teeming with interest and intrigue; Lois McMaster Bujold, for whom anything worth doing is worth doing well; and all the other authors whose books have kept my soul company in bright hours and dark. To offer such companionship to others is a worthy aspiration and ultimately its own reward.

  About the Author

  L.D. Inman is an essayist, lay preacher, habitual lurker on fannish social media, and sometime poet, who answered a stunning variety of reference questions in a long and checkered library career, before going into nonprofit communications and marketing. She lives, works, fences, and serves as cat staff in Kansas City.

  You can connect with the author on social media via ldinmanbooks.com, or email at ldinmanbooks@gmail.com.