Year 247 of the Bynding
The Kingdom of Salles
Winter, before Solstice
Of all the kinds’ arts, the ancient elven is the most elaborate. Once, our best artists were mages, casting spells to discover stories and art in their dreams.
But such use of magic always costs, and it cost us our ability to create in our dreams. We dream what happens around us as we sleep. What is not true, what has not happened, we cannot dream.
—Endellion
· · · • • • · · ·
“Your stitches are too loose,” I say with as much calm politeness as I can muster, to the spoiled noble-born girl who’s barely learned the basics of embroidery over the past few years.
Rather, Marigold’s learned them well enough, only so she can intentionally do them wrongly. She’s still convinced that she doesn’t need to learn embroidery and that someday King Aldrik will come to his senses and relieve her of my presence. And this despite she and other noble girls hiring me to pretty up their dresses, since I reached subadulthood.
She sniffs. “Mend it. That’s your job.”
“You don’t mend embroidery.” I struggle not to snap at her in my irritation. “Mending is for seams and hems, to keep clothing wearable. Embroidery either works or it doesn’t.”
“If that’s beyond your skill, you can just say so. Or wait—maybe you can’t admit it, since mending is all you’re good for, after all.”
“At least I’m good for something,” I retort. “You can’t even embroider a simple pattern.”
“My lordship won’t have me do such things.”
I laugh outright. “You’re not worth an essere, never mind an attare!”
Marigold shrieks indignation and rushes me, wielding her needle. I stare at her. “Marigold, mage.”
She doesn’t react to those words—I grab her wrist so she doesn’t stab me in the eye. But I’m an elfin-small girl, and Marigold’s blossomed into her womanhood; this isn’t going to last for long. Doesn’t leave me much choice, really. I could mutter some rather distasteful things about this.
The fire comes easily, heating the needle ’til Marigold yelps and drops it, her fingers singed.
William abruptly shoves the noble girl away from me. “Better hope His Highness doesn’t hear about that,” he says sourly. I stumble; he grabs my arm to steady me. Once I’m secure on my own feet, he releases me and bows slightly per Runner protocol before delivering a message. “His Highness would like his favorite jerkin now, if you’re done mending it. He’s in the courtyard.”
Prince Aidan wants me to take him his jerkin now? A subadult girl taking an adult man his clothing in public? I rub my cheekbone. Well, at least it’s overgarb. “Men’s?”
William nods and winces, obviously aware of the impropriety of His Highness’s demand. “A word of advice? Take your sewing basket with you. It’ll keep most from getting the…from thinking you…”
From thinking that I’m there to proposition for a lover. Which is precisely why I’ve never entered the inner courtyards in the four years that I’ve been here and therefore have no idea how I’m going to find Prince Aidan now. “Thanks.”
“I’m on a Run to His Majesty, too.”
So he can’t help me by showing me the way. My avoidance of the inner courtyards means I don’t know which one I’m going to have to enter, now. “East or west?”
There’s a pause, revealing William’s surprise that I’d know that little of the courtyard setup. “East.”
I nod and pick up the embroidery from another failed lesson.
“Oh, Nallé.” I wait for what he wants to say. “Watch out for stray weapons.”
I flinch, knowing full well that he’s only telling me that for fear of my natural clumsiness. “Thanks.” But I think he means it nicely, so I soften my sarcasm with a nervous smile.
I quickly return my embroidery things to the sewing room and grab Prince Aidan’s jerkin from the pile of completed mending. I pick up my knitting bag from near the door; it’s easier to take with me than sewing.
Thus armed, I head for the men’s courtyard. I wonder if King Aldrik would let Prince Aidan’s command stand if he knew of it.
Well, that’s a moot point, now.
Near the entrance to the men’s west courtyard are a few young women of poor repute. I keep my knitting bag and the prince’s requested jerkin over my arm and walk quickly, even as I search for His Highness. I sidestep the young noblemen as I search, unlike the hussies.
The hussies pause, flirt, curtsy with skirts raised far too high and chests dipped far too low, and try to catch the eyes of men they, uh, like. I don’t. You would think that particular detail would make it obvious that I don’t want what those girls do.
“Sweetheart,” one particularly false-looking man croons. To me.
“No, m’lordship.”
“I’m sorry?” he asks.
“I am not ‘Sweetheart’, m’lordship. You must have me confused with someone else.” Before the laughter can grow beyond its faint beginnings, I quickly ask, “Where is the prince? I am told he is in this courtyard.”
“Well!” The man feigns offense to hide the actual offense he feels and struts around his circle of friends; they laugh. “Perhaps we are told that he has no wish to see you, my dear…What did you say your name was?”
They think I’m here to proposition the prince?! Enough of this. “I didn’t. Prince Aidan sent for his jerkin, and you will tell me where he is, that I may deliver it to him.”
“I will tell you? Else what, fair ‘maiden’?”
I don’t respond to that insult other than to raise my chin and intensify my glare. “Guess,” I say coldly, easily—too easily—drawing life from a nearby flower patch to form purple magic-fueled fire behind the leech. His friends gasp and draw back before he turns to see it, and when he does, he takes a few quick steps away while cursing more harshly than he ought in front of a subadult girl.
“Who are you?” the man demands.
A mage, obviously. I let myself smile faintly, swallowing back the disquiet that this must be how Father feels, how Grandfather and Father and Carling all seek power by the strength of their magic. It’s easy to make others heed you when you terrify them.
“Prince Aidan?” I ask again. If this nobleman doesn’t already know of me, then my identity is none of his business.
“’Kory!” comes the voice of Prince Aidan himself. I immediately release the fire; it vanishes. “It’s your turn! Come, now; you’re not afraid of a little spar—” He enters the ring, sees me, and stops, shifting his grip on the sword he carries. “Hickory, Attare of Richden,” he says in a low, warning tone. “What’s this?”
“This wench is threatening me with—” He turns to point at the fire, notices that it’s gone, and turns back to His Highness. “I was doing nothing that she didn’t ask for by coming here, and there was a fire, right here—”
The prince wearies of Attare Hickory’s defensive and indignant tone before the sleazy nobleman runs out of words. “Nallé?!” he asks sharply.
I curtsy—properly, mind you—and stand erect. “I brought your jerkin, as commanded, Your Highness. The young lordship persisted in offering unwelcome attentions.”
“Really?” Prince Aidan approaches Attare Hickory, circling him, the still-lanky eighteen-year-old prince sizing up the filled-out nobleman some years older.
“No harm done,” Attare Hickory insists with some worry. From the way he glances between the prince and me, I daresay he thinks the prince wants me to himself. I’m not certain Attare Hickory isn’t right.
“Would you agree to that?” Prince Aidan asks me. “No harm done?”
The crown prince defending the honor of a baseborn castle maid. Despite my discomfort, I can’t help but be amused. “Well, I don’t think the flowers would agree with that assessment.”
“The flow…” He follows my gaze to the patch I killed, and he gives a surprised laugh that quickly dies. “’Kory,” he says, voice still tainted by surprise. When the attare looks at him, the prince strikes him in the face.
“Come,” the prince tells me as he promptly leaves the circle.
I glance at Attare Hickory as I do so, not exactly displeased that his nose is broken to mess up his perfectly groomed appearance, but still. “Was that necessary?”
“The men like him shouldn’t bother you for the rest of your years here,” he says with a smile and a wink. “Believe me, you’re not the first.”
Not the first maid he’s defended from the other noblemen? Who else would need…“Geddis?”
He nods. His hand on my arm directs me to stop outside this other ring. He puts his sword on a bench and takes his jerkin from me, pulling it on. He then retrieves his sword and nods at the bench. “Have a seat. Knit.”
I do so, and he steps into the ring for a sparring round against someone I half recognize, in that I know I’ve seen him around but I couldn’t name him if I tried.
As they lift their—dulled, I hope—swords to a starting position, I focus intently on my knitting. I’ve actually never seen swordplay. Father doesn’t value it, preferring to use magic for his battles. The only ones that use physical violence are Father’s gryphons, and they…
They have claws. Which they use. Which I’ve seen enough of that I don’t want to watch this.
Some of the young men watch me, their eyes expressing their curiosity over what I’m doing here. So I try not to flinch too much as the distinct sound of metal striking metal begins—tentative at first, then stronger, with bursts of speed.
Prince Aidan’s grunt makes me look up despite myself, in time to see the swift ending of the spar. I stare and blink, certain I missed something; none of the men have noticed anything odd. Prince Aidan good-naturedly lets the other young man who had just had a sword at his throat pull him up.
He comes to me, stretching his shoulders as he does. “Refreshing! What do you say, Nallé; would you like an escort back inside, now?”
“Why did you…” His quick look is of surprise more than command, but that’s only because he didn’t expect me to notice.
I’m a mage; I’ve spent a few years teaching myself to mentally multitask so I won’t drive myself mad by using magic. Does that make me more observant than most people, too?
As I pack up my bag and head out after His Highness, I think about the little bit I saw. Prince Aidan isn’t a fool. He has reasons, presumably good ones, for why he acts as he does.
But he released his hilt, let himself be disarmed. Why would he let the other man win?
· · · • • • · · ·
I sit outside in the courtyard maze on this clear cold day, letting the plants block the wind that would make the winter day frigid. I use my fire to keep my fingers limber as I work on some embroidery orders I have due by New Year’s.
Silva scowled when I expressed my intentions to work outside, but she’s too busy to protest, since the kingdom’s recovery from the Shadow has brought back the trade and visitors. Many visiting dignitaries demand to meet the Hearer who escaped a bout with ambrosia with her sanity intact.
All the tall bushes used to make the maze are very much alive, so they comfort me as I work. I brought water and some jerky and bread with me. Sometimes I shiver before I remember to heat myself up again, but it’s an otherwise comfortable arrangement.
Comfortable, that is, until after noon passes and Prince Aidan enters the little courtyard. I glance at him; he starts at finding me here. He sees the basket at my feet, the box of needles and threads, and the pile of completed projects folded neatly beside me on the bench.
Prince Aidan hesitates, but he sheathes the sword he bears and decides to join me despite the lack of chaperone. “The bushes are good for breaking the wind.”
I shrug and finish a white bullion along the yellow collar of Marigold’s dress. I mentioned to her that yellow was not an advisable color to wear with her golden hair, but she glared and accused me of trying to make her look terrible when I suggested she wear red. She’ll just blame me when the yellow gets her laughed at and say I never should have made it if I knew how horrible it would look. She’s done that, before.
Marigold’s mother makes sure I’m paid well for my trouble. I think she’s sorry that King Aldrik still has me give Marigold embroidery lessons once a week after four years of the girl refusing to learn from them.
When I look up, Prince Aidan has come around and stands in front of me, studying what I’m sewing. “Do you ever prick yourself?”
“All the time,” I reply lightly, lifting the dress by the shoulders to check my work. It’s as even and neat as I could wish. I fold it and add it to the completed pile. “Do you often let other nobles win when they spar with you?”
Aidan’s friendly expression blanks. “I beg your pardon?”
I give him a pointed look as I pull out the next order, shiver, and heat myself back up. I coax my inner fire to spread to Aidan, too, to heat him—but it touches his magic and goes out. I blink, startled as much by that evidence that he’s actively using his magic as by the sharp look he gives me.
Oh. Guess he’s keeping his magic under wraps, then, like his actual level of skill with a sword. “What’s your element?” It isn’t fire, whatever it is. His magic doused mine—earth, maybe?
Aidan keeps his polite expression as he pulls his sword from its sheath and twirls it in a maneuver I know he does to keep his wrists limber.
“I was just going to warm you up,” I tell him. “I wasn’t going to burn you.”
He doesn’t respond to that, just watches me before turning and going through his sword exercises. I watch him for a few seconds before returning to my work. “Do those trousers have hems, or are they already at full length?”
He stops mid-move and looks at me. “What?”
“Your trousers are too short,” I comment, cutting a length of dark green thread to embellish a crimson bodice. “If there’s no hem to be let out, you need a new pair.”
Aidan looks down at his pants, studying how the leg falls. “These are too short? They hit my ankle.”
I nod. “They need to cover it.”
He sighs, sheathes his sword, and plops on a nearby bench. “Where did you learn to be so observant?”
Neither of us say anything when I start the diamond eyelets Marigold’s mother wants on the bust of her own red satin gown. “Carling’s most polite right after she fails to kill someone. Father tilts his chin when studying you if he’s a hair’s breadth from beating you. Drake…” I decide I don’t wish to describe my half-brother and shudder. I’ve heard that Drake and Carling practice their killing spells on Drake’s baseborn get.
Aidan’s eyes close. He draws a slow breath. “You learned it first to survive your family, then.”
I shrug. His sympathetic tone makes me uncomfortable.
“Some families are discontented with my family’s foreign line. I’m my father’s only heir. I’m a lot safer from assassins if I’m presumed to be hapless and therefore easy to dethrone.”
I blink at his abrupt forthrightness. I hadn’t actually expected an answer. “Your family’s foreign?” Wait. I knew that.
“Grandfather was a foreign conqueror, and Mother was from the Pardys islands. The only Salles blood in me is from my grandmother.” His lips quirk with wry humor. “Emperor Vance’s daughter. She killed him.”
Him being? “…Her father?”
Aidan snorts. “My grandfather. She wasn’t happy about marrying him. Father’s first action as king was to preside over his mother’s trial.” He smiles at my blankfaced shock. “And you thought your family was messed up.”
“My family is messed up,” I retort. It even has the murder, though Father was the one to murder his parents because they wouldn’t let him have Mother. And then Father killed Mother after all, and Carling wants me dead.
Well, better that Carling gets what she wants than Drake get what he wants. I shiver.
Aidan scans me, and he scowls. He abruptly perches on his knees beside me. I jerk and bury my needle well into my hand. I yelp and blink back tears from the pain.
I flinch when Aidan takes my hand and smoothes out the skin to see where the needle is. He grimaces. “Sorry.” He tugs the needle out and applies pressure to the puncture in my palm with his thumb. “That has to hurt.”
I glare at him through the tears. “You think?” I manage to squeak. My attempt to yank my hand away fails. “Do you mind?”
He smiles a little and raises his thumb away from the puncture before dropping my hand. I study it and the wound that’s not bleeding. I frown. “What…?”
Aidan smirks and flexes his hands, and I suspiciously reach into my magic and poke at the wound. Something’s already there, and it doesn’t want to move so I can cauterize it. I frown at my hand.
He covers it with his. “Don’t. Let it heal from its own scab. Burning it will only make it scar more. There’s no reason to mar yourself like that.”
He must read the suspicion in my stare, because he scowls and leans back. “Look, I’m sick of pretending I’m stupid, okay? We both know you’re King Darnell’s bastard and will draw men’s attention when you finally grow up. Yes, you’re a servant now, but you won’t always be.”
“And what will I be?” I snap. “Your mistress?”
Aidan flinches and pales. “Creator help me, I hope not.”
“You hope—”
“So I don’t think I’d mind marrying you,” he snaps back. “Is that a crime? William’s open to the possibility, too. I suppose you snap and scold and flee him, too?”
I can’t make myself move from my seat. “Yes,” I admit.
Aidan raises his eyes to the sky. “Creator, help me,” he prays in exasperation. “What is wrong with you, Evonalé? Do you have any idea how many noble bastards would give their maidenheads to be where you are?”
“That’s what worries me,” I mutter.
“Oh, holy Creator.” Aidan doesn’t even try to follow me as I manage to shove myself up and flee. At least, I don’t think he does.
· · · • • • · · ·
Rain paints my hair to my face, and mud oozes between my bare toes. The sky was clear until I fled Aidan. I’d wanted to saddle my mare Rowan, but Fael Honovi was nearby and upset the horses too much.
She’s still nearby, I wager, and I look at the sky. “Would you rather I be his mistress?” I ask Fael Honovi, and in reply she turns the rain cold. I shiver and glance around for something to burn.
The trees are gone, I abruptly realize, and I’m not sure when I left them behind.
Creator, please tell me I’m not in the marshes. I meant to go just enough north with my west to avoid the dwarven passes.
A wailing starts promptly after my quick prayer, and I groan. Yie. I’m barefoot and without a horse to flee a haint. Either I find my way to safety on foot through the marsh, or I have to stay up all night and use my magic to protect myself from possession. Fantastic.
I mentally grip the magic around me, but magic has been used far too much, too strongly here. The feedback from the latent magic forcibly tied into these marshes quickly gives me a headache. It’s unpleasant, but at least I can defend myself.
I stumble in the mud, my usually uncanny night vision negatively affected by all the magic. Or maybe that’s just a side effect the budding migraine.
Of course I fall on my face. I cough, spitting the mud from my mouth. And the rain had to stop now that it might’ve actually been useful. After digging my fingers into the cleanest part of my skirt, I wipe the dirt from my eyes and look up.
A wisp darts towards me from my left, and I yank the fire that dwells in my own magic to burn it. The flame’s purple due to its purely magical fuel until it ignites the wisp and turns orange. The wisp promptly leaves.
Wisps are the appendages that sprites use to test their prey, so I don’t apologize. I raise my chin and hike my skirts as I slowly circle, seeking the sprite that sent that wisp.
I whirl around as magic surges near me, and I smack into a faceful of water. I sputter and cough on it.
“How did I know I’d find you out here?” Aidan asks from astride Teivel. “Never mind.” He clicks his tongue to Teivel to get him to kneel, and he offers his arm to help pull me up.
I look from Teivel to him. “That’s your stallion.” Aidan gives me an exasperated look. “You know what people will think if ride him!” I add hastily before he interrupts.
“Well, that’ll certainly reduce the interest you get from anyone else if they think you my mistress, now won’t it?” His tone bites with irritation. “You don’t trust me; I’ve gathered that. Fine. You’re the one who ran into the middle of nowhere where you’re very likely to end up hurt as well as sick. Now get astride so I can get you home before something worse befalls you than that pneumonia.”
I squint against the wet hair and water in my eyes. “I don’t have pneumonia.”
Aidan mutters something I can’t hear, then sighs. “Just get up, will you? I know you can handle yourself, but I’d rather be gone before another sprite shows up.”
“Then go.” I take a few steps towards him, wagering that he came from the direction of the castle. “I’ll walk.”
He mutters something else, loud enough that I can tell it’s likely uncomplimentary even though I can’t tell what he said. He hops off Teivel and leads him by the reins. “Come along, then.”
I look away from him and squint out into the night. My head hurts. “No, thank you,” I tell him. “I think I’ll stay out here.”
Aidan curses audibly, this time. “Evonalé—” He stops himself and scowls at me. He then shakes his head and turns away. “Fine. Try not to get yourself killed.” He mounts his stallion and doesn’t look back.
I stare after him, surprised that he’s giving up that easily. But I have little desire to kick a gift horse in the mouth, and I…
Notice just how many wisps are coming out to play. Yie! “Aidan?!”
He stops Teivel but doesn’t turn. I splash and stumble through the mud to reach them. I keep myself from falling by grabbing Teivel’s tail. The stallion snorts but doesn’t kick. “There weren’t near that many wisps a moment ago.”
He clicks at his stallion, and I don’t protest this time but climb up behind him. He waits until I’m secure before he has Teivel get up. “The more magic you have, the more powerful a host body you’d give them,” he says nonchalantly.
I pale and shiver and don’t let myself freeze because that wouldn’t be kind to the horse. “So using magic attracts them?”
He snorts as we head back towards the castle at a pace that’s more leisurely than I’m comfortable with, with all the wisps, but I have to trust that Aidan knows what he’s doing. He isn’t stupid. At eighteen, he’s been an adult for two years.
“Vicious cycle, that. The only way to counter them is with magic, but if they know you can use magic, they’re more likely to target you. Some trackers swear by letting the creatures ride them until they get back home, trusting that they’ll keep enough control to get there and the mages they have back home can handle whatever haints they pick up while out tracking.”
I gulp. “I—I wouldn’t do that.”
Teivel pauses in one step as he seeks sure footing. Aidan leans away from his mount’s motion, which pushes me the same way. “Me, neither,” he says.
The castle appears on the horizon before I gather up the nerve to say “Thanks. Can you drop me off outside the wall?”
“I’m still escorting you in.”
That will still give others the wrong idea, but not as much as me riding his stallion would. “Fine.”
· · · • • • · · ·
Aidan is right. I do end up with pneumonia. I embroider my commissions while sitting on a stool in the stable because it’s almost as warm as the kitchens and doesn’t have Geddis trying to knock me over. “How did you know I’d get pneumonia?”
He glances at me from where he grooms Teivel. “You had fluid in your lungs.”
…Listening for such signs of illness is the job of healers, not princes, and certainly not crown princes. With his work of managing Saf and hobby of breeding hunting dogs like Plun, it’s a wonder he has time to work with his horses, much less associate with me or learn things that are unnecessary for his station.
“Would you like some more tea?”
He is not playing servant for me, nor is he ordering one of the others to fetch something for me.
He smirks at the look I give him and puts up the brush he’s used to groom Teivel. “More tea, then.” He heads out.
“Wait!” I call, triggering a coughing fit. Aidan waits until I’ve gotten control of it and can say hoarsely, “Don’t fetch anything for me, please. You know what people think already.”
“You aren’t even a woman yet,” Aidan points out, and it’s a detail I’m well aware of and that I thank the Creator for every time I catch him studying me. “Anyone who thinks that thinks of me as a deviant more than they think of you as defiled, and most believe I’m making you comfortable with my presence so you won’t think anything of me making you my mistress when you reach your majority—assuming you’re a woman at that point. And we both know you will be.”
On that birthday, yes. Unfortunately. Elfin girls become women on their sixteenth birthday. It looks like it’s painful, but admittedly the women who I saw experience it were doubly worried about Father or Drake finding them old enough to play with. That alone might’ve been what made them wail.
Aidan sighs and draws up a bucket to sit near me. “Should you be working on those while sick?”
“I’ll wash them before delivery,” I say primly. “Shouldn’t you be judging between irate property holders from Saf or something?”
He flinches and leans back. “No, I’ve taken the week off. Hopefully the wait will make at least a few of the petitioners rethink how much they really want what they’re harassing me for.”
“That bad?”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, you have a reasonably wealthy old man die who was a noble’s younger son, so he had to build his own fortune as a businessman. He did well enough, though not better than a clever essere might gain from his lands.
“His three sons are all Daddy’s boys and are doing well for themselves with their own money. So the man leaves his entail to his daughter, to give her a dowry, since she can’t work without losing prospects.”
“And the sons are contesting it?” I guess.
“Precisely! Because how could she possibly know how to handle all that money…Never mind that the poorest of the three sons has perhaps double his late father’s assets. Their sister is a woman and can’t possibly manage her own estate by herself, because everyone knows that women can’t handle figures.”
“Can she do math?”
“She can cook. I certainly hope she can do the math for that herself and didn’t need to ask for help with it.” He realizes how his words sound and grimaces before explaining, “She brought a pie to the first hearing in apology for wasting my time.”
“Not a bribe to encourage you to rule in her favor or anything.”
“No. Well, maybe.” Aidan shrugs. “She’s engaged to a stablemaster, I think.”
“The stablemaster?” I frown. I thought our stablemaster called himself a bachelor and proud of it.
“A stablemaster,” he repeats, and I realize he doesn’t necessarily mean the one in his own employ. “He works for an inn. One of those enormous ones that’s popular with visiting merchants.” He stretches his shoulders. “I haven’t verified it, but I think it’s actually an inn her eldest brother owns.”
Oh, that will go over well with her brother. I wince. “Does he know of her engagement?”
He shrugs again. “Not really my business either way, is it?”
“It could influence the way you handle the ruling, though, couldn’t it?”
Aidan snorts. “If I were inclined to meddle, but I’m not. Who she wants to marry and how she wants to convey it to her brothers is her business. Who inherits their father’s estate is mine.”
“…And her marrying down doesn’t influence your preference to give her the inheritance at all.”
The cross look he gives me says that he recognizes my reference to his disdain for women who primp themselves to marry up. “Her father willed it to her, Evonalé. It’s hers. I just have to set it in stone before her brothers will accept that.”
“And if there hadn’t been a will?”
“I would’ve split the estate traditionally. That’s what would’ve been wanted—it’s the traditionalists who can’t imagine that anyone would possibly want to do things any other way.”
I eye him, wondering if he’s trying to tell me something else by telling me things that are really only the business of the governor of Saf—him. But he eyes me back, brows raised in a silent ‘What?’ “Why are you telling me this?” I ask directly.
He frowns, studies me, and shrugs. “Making conversation with a friend?”
My laugh doesn’t sound right. “Friend. I’m not a friend.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I shouldn’t be. Crown prince and baseborn castle maid? No, no, that’s not—”
“Who else would I be friends with, Evonalé?” he interrupts quietly. “One of the noble children whose families will be seeking reasons to dethrone me as soon as I get it?” At my look, he rolls his eyes. “My grandfather conquered Salles. My father had to prove himself to keep his crown, and he was known to be an expert swordsman. Whereas I’m generally deemed an unfortunate impediment, too politically and militarily inept to get away with continuing my father’s evenhanded enforcement of the law.”
“Why let them think that? Why not—”
“Reveal just how capable I might be as a ruler and give enemies reason to seek my assassination before I can get the crown and the protective wards inherent therein? I think not.”
Salles doesn’t have protective wards for the heirs? I eye him. “Your father has to die for that, too.”
“…No. I marry, then I get Father’s job and he gets mine, per the agreement with that new constitution everybody ratified three years ago.”
“…Then someone assassinates your father?”
Aidan’s snort is probably intended as an incredulous laugh. “I doubt it. You’ve obviously never seen my father in action.”
True. I remember something I heard years ago. “Lallie told me…you had a brother.”
He dons the polite mask he wears when holding nonsensical conversations with his fellow aristocracy. “Forgive me; what did you say?”
“Never mind.” My swallow sticks in my throat, and I feel an itching as my peppermint tea wears off. I pack up my work into my basket. “Pray excuse me, Your Highness.”
“Wait—I can call Geddis to fetch you more tea,” he says quickly, but I don’t heed him. I leave to fetch it for myself.
· · · • • • · · ·
I bury my fingers in my thick pumpkin orange yarn. It’s an ugly color, but that’s why the yarn was so cheap. The weather’s turning cold, and I need a sweater. This little second-story workroom is generally used by Runners, so the head matron Morgana doesn’t think to look for me here when she wants to harass me.
William sits on a stool, whittling something for the nice girl from Saf he’s come to like.
“Your Highness, a moment of your time.”
The brisk winter day brings the nobleman’s voice clearly through the window. I’m not sure which noble it is.
“Yes, Essere Carraway?” Prince Aidan’s firm tone comes easily through the window.
Marigold’s father. I flinch. He doesn’t like me, and maybe he’s finally figured out who originated the order for his daughter to learn embroidery from me and wants to have it overridden.
“Your sweater’s unraveling,” William says.
I pick it back up and notice that I’ve dropped several stitches. I shake my head as I recover them. “Thank you.” I force myself to be more careful.
“I must protest!” Essere Carraway whines.
“Protest what?”
“Your deportment towards the housemaidens!” Essere Carraway’s voice expresses extreme distaste. “One in particular. My daughter must take lessons from the wench, Your Highness. I will not have my daughter taught by a—”
Prince Aidan’s mind has evidently followed the nobleman’s line of thinking faster than I have. “By a what, essere? A telfin girl?”
Essere Carraway gulps loudly enough for me to hear it. He tries again: “I know she is of lesser blood—”
“Hold your tongue!” I shiver at the harshness in the prince’s tone. “If you insist on speaking so foolishly, it would do you better to say naught at all.”
“You would do well to mind your own tongue, Your Highness. I am no dotard. I speak on behalf of much of the council when I remind you of your place. What will your betrothed think when she hears you prefer another, and the preferred a servant?”
“I hope she minds,” mutters Prince Aidan before snapping, “You and the council would do well to mind your own business! If you expect all your sons to act so—so shamefully, small wonder men fear letting their daughters be servants.”
“Of course they fear for the comely ones. And your little…friend…certainly is that.”
I quietly set my yarn and needles down, and I step over to the window and peek out. Aidan’s tense posture suggests that he’s glaring at the nobleman, though I can’t see either man’s face.
Prince Aidan glances my way, and I duck out of view. He huffs, and I hear his boots hit the cobblestones as he strides towards his dog pens.
His vehement reaction to the expected accusation confuses me. It doesn’t surprise him, surely? I return to knitting my sweater.
· · · • • • · · ·
“Good evening,” I say politely to Prince Aidan when it becomes obvious that he’s not about to interrupt my knitting needles’ clacking.
My sweater is working up well, promising to be about as warm as it’ll be ugly. Even the pretty diamond-patterned fabric I’m making thanks to the double seed stitch doesn’t change the sweater’s ultimate lack of appeal. Perhaps I should have paid the more for a nicer yarn.
Prince Aidan stands awkwardly. He shifts again where he stands, a bit away from me but still near the fire, and replies, “Evening.”
He’s usually not this reticent. Perhaps the nobleman’s accusation earlier this morning has made him rethink how he treats me. The silence resumes ’til I near the end of a row.
“I think I’m going to vomit.”
I don’t glance at him. “There’s a bucket behind the door.” He’s not really sick. He’s just mocking my knitting. Or more accurately, the sweater I’m making.
“That color is disgusting.”
I end the row. “It was cheap. And it’s warm.” I pause before bothering to start the next row of stitches, recognizing from Prince Aidan’s sidestep towards the fire while watching me that he’s about to continue speaking.
“Might I show you something?”
That question concerns me. What might he want to show that he, the prince, must ask? I try to frame a response.
In the time it takes me to think, he evidently decides to not care what I answer. He takes my right hand while taking away my knitting from the other. He has the decency to put it carefully in the basket so it doesn’t drop any stitches, which can easily ruin a project in very little time.
“Oh, come along!” He yanks on my hand, gently but still strongly enough to pull me up. Then he grins and takes off running, making me stumble along behind. I wince at the long-suffering looks other servants give the eighteen-year-old prince as he drags me behind him.
At least he slows up the stairs. I still trip, though, and split my lip on the stone floor in my fall. I blink back tears as it stings and my left wrist hurts sharply from having to catch myself.
“Proctor!” he calls. “Some ice for the lady!”
Lady? I’m not liking this. I try to pull my right hand away, but he keeps a vice-like grip on it, still grinning a mile wide. Does he have no one but me to tease?
He shoves me into a room. “Put that on, and don’t come out until you do!” he warns.
I sigh at the too-familiar jest. He’s learned something from the nobleman’s earlier abuse of my reputation, surely? His teasing doesn’t help.
…Unless he’d rather I be thought his mistress?
The thought makes me shudder. I don’t let myself think through the implications of that, and I turn my attention to obeying his command.
The dress he referenced hangs atop a mannequin. It’s a familiar-seeming foreign style, but I don’t look too hard at it as I change into it. It doesn’t fit quite right. I fold my dress and put it neatly on the back of the single chair in the room.
As I leave, I catch a glimpse of myself in the stand-up mirror behind the door. I freeze. Am I really—do I really look that…regal?
I’ve known for as long as I could remember that my parents were royalty. I’ve never suspected that someone might guess my parentage at the sight of me.
I’m still frozen when Prince Aidan appraises me. “It’s perfect! Doesn’t fit right yet, but you should fill out on your sixteenth birthday—am I wrong?”
I only stare at him.
“You need something for my Scoreyear ball. You’ll pretend to be a faery godmother.”
“A faery?” Is he mad?!
“You know a lot of foreign lore. Everyone will love it. Here’s the ice for your lip.”
I use it, mind racing about how to get out of this predicament…“But I have no faery blood. True faeries might take offense.”
He frowns at me. “You have a faery godmother, Evonalé. They wouldn’t take offense at you. “
The prince is right. And he probably got the idea to begin with simply because some of the more superstitious castle servants still think I am one, at least in part. But still…
“Why a faery? Pardon me, Your Highness, but I’m but a housemaiden, and not even a part-faery one at that. Let one of Elwyn’s daughters—let Geddis—play faery.”
Prince Aidan eyes me thoughtfully. “…That would be more appropriate, perhaps.” He shrugs, smiling a bit. “I still like my idea, more.”
“I believe His Majesty and his prophetess would prefer mine.”
His smile widens a little. “True.” His brown eyes twinkle as he eyes me. “It is a nice dress, though, isn’t it?”
Now I look at it—it and its crisp wrinkleless fabric of pale blue, beaded with sapphire at the hems. High-necked and modestly cut, the fabric even the backs of my small hands. The flowing skirt and its train somehow lack air resistance when I take a step.
“This is a faery dress!” I gasp. I’m not sure I believe it, though; so I clap—twice briskly, and it magically reshapes for a perfect fit at that standard command. “Yie!”
The prince grins. “Your faery godmother told you about that, too?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” I bow my head to hide my blush as heat flares through me. I mustn’t call attention to myself like that! And ‘yie’, again! How many non-elves say that? Yie!
He waves at the door to the room I’d found this in. “Well, go change. You need to start planning what you’ll wear, though.”
“I have two years, Your Highness.”
Prince Aidan pointedly ignores my intentional reminder of his station that unfortunately also acts as a tease. “And, since you refuse my suggestion, you’ll doubtless want to make your own gown.” His face is straight as he makes his order. “A gown with a bodice—you’re too old for pinafores.”
I prefer my pinafores. I keep my eyes on the floor and curtsy. “I understand.”
He heads away, and I turn towards the changing room.
“Oh, and housemaiden.” I look over my shoulder at him. “Feel free to play with the style. Telven garb would become you.” He nods and strides off.
Telven? A shiver travels my body. Even if I knew what telven garb was, I think not. It’s too risky, and with Grehafen allied to Salles, my family will be at that ball.
· · · • • • · · ·
The benefit to having peppermint tea and garlic soup as a meal when I’m ill is that I can’t taste enough to fully appreciate the utter clash in flavor. I might get a faint enough sense of the flavors to experience a slight increase in nausea, but little more than that.
Unfortunately, Ygrain also commonly prescribes them for people mildly enough unwell that the tongue merely adds a slight color to foods. If there isn’t any nausea to augment into vomiting, the taste conflict makes me wish there were.
Geddis sets the tray with the tea and broth and bread beside me on the bench. I catch a whiff of the foods prepared for me and grimace, nearly damaging the tension on the embroidery I’m working on for Miss Trelanna. I keep working.
Geddis taps her foot for a few seconds. “You need to eat,” she sing-songs in her ‘I’ll-go-tell-Silva-if-you-don’t’ voice.
I pause long enough to meet her gaze. “I’m busy.” I resume working. “I’ll eat when I’m done with this motif.” Something pilfered from elsewhere, preferably, but that’s none of Geddis’s business.
She huffs and leaves, sure to complain to Silva on her way back to the kitchens. I finish the motif, then eat a little of the bread after dipping it in the garlic soup. I leave the tray by my embroidery bag and head towards the dog pens.
Aidan sees me almost before I spot him. He nods my way while he plays with his dogs, rolling on the ground and ruining a tunic after a fashion that I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed another nobleman do while following the very respectable pursuit of dog breeding. I linger well away from the pens so Fael Honovi doesn’t upset the dogs.
It doesn’t take him long to extricate himself from the many dogs, something I’ve heard praised as a sign that he trains them well. None try to dart out the gate, either. Even the people I’ve heard scoff at his tactic of playing with the animals will begrudgingly admit that his animals heed him better than most do their trainers.
I’m not exactly comfortable hanging around Prince Aidan like this, but he sympathizes with my plight of not being sick enough to be able to down the ill person’s fare. He goes back behind the pens and returns with a tray bearing two bowls of stew. One he gives to me with a bow. “M’ladyship.”
I pointedly don’t react to his jest as I take the stew and eat it readily. “Thank you.” It’s difficult, forcing myself to relax enough to accept his teasing as he claims to intend it. I’ve tried reminding him that I shouldn’t be his friend, but that only makes things worse.
He shrugs. “All that play makes me hungry. Not as young as I used to be.”
I look at him with incredulity before I snort at his intended irony. “You dally far too much.” I fear my grin hinders him from realizing that my accusation is serious.
But “Only with girls I like,” he replies, and my amusement vanishes.
I finish my stew quickly and return the bowl to him. “Thank you,” I say with a curtsy, and quickly walk away.
Aidan huffs. “Oh, come, now!” He hurries after me. “Evona—”
“Thank you, Highness, but I’d rather not have Attare Hickory proven correct as to my availability for certain pursuits.”
He sighs loudly and long enough that I’m sure he’s rolled his eyes. “’Like’, as in, ‘like their company’, not ‘lust after’…You’re not even a woman yet; that would just be wrong. I tease Silva’s friends, too; even the married one.”
“Lallie,” I remind him tersely. “Her name is Lallie. And her husband died of the Shadow, years ago.”
Aidan’s flinch is the only acknowledgement of his gaffe. “I even tease Geddis—”
“Then maybe you should confine your banter to her, Your Highness,” I say formally enough that even he gathers that I’m trying to add the distance that for some reason has always been lacking between us. “I’m sure she provides more lively repartee than I do.”
My glance back catches that he stops, expression incredulous at my suggestion. “I…” For some reason, he can’t seem to grasp why I’d rather he dally with Geddis than me. “I’m not going to flirt with Geddis…”
Before he can continue, I’ve left him behind. I walk quickly back to my embroidery, barely hopeful that he’ll agree with my idea. Geddis is the prophetess’s sister; people wouldn’t assume the worst if he paid attention to her. I, on the other hand, am no one, and therefore fully available to gain a reputation as a woman who shares her bed.
I sigh and pick up my now-cool tea. I easily conjure some fire to heat it.
Something’s wrong when a baseborn maid understands certain aspects of propriety and court protocol better than the crown prince does.
——————
I hope you’ve enjoyed this section of A Fistful of Fire. It’s up here on Wattpad in its entirety, and feel free to read it all here. (Note that all the sections of this book are of uneven lengths. I’m sorry for that. This was the first title I posted on Wattpad with long-term intent, and I was focused on dividing by timeline sections, as the book is, rather than considering what would make it convenient to read.)
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• The sequel, A FISTFUL OF EARTH, is also available both on Wattpad and for sale in e-book and print formats. It's on Wattpad at www.wattpad.com/story/6039622. Links to purchase it can be found at http://bit.ly/showcase-AFoE, or you can search for it on Amazon or your preferred vendor.