Chapter 11
Parliament left the Sanctum. Their loose tongues were soon wagging aplenty. The news rang at court first, where the eager courtiers devoured it whole, and then spat it into the streets. By dusk, every mother’s son in the city had heard: Kydona had risen again. Elessia was at war.
The king stayed ensconced in the Sanctum for the rest of the day. He banished the Council of Highest for the time being; he would summon them again in the days to follow, once he ascertained how many fighting men and how much money to beg them for. Marcus thought it prudent to leave as well. That left the king alone with Lord Marshal Gerant, who had survived the loss of his hand and the fever that followed. Together, Elessia’s two highest commanders sketched out their predicament. They worked quickly. Within half an hour, riders were tearing from the stables with dispatches destined for Arlimont and the other Royal Watch strongholds.
Marcus loitered around the palace, certain that his father would have plenty of words for him soon enough. But soon turned to later, then even later, until the Atrium was empty of courtiers and the chill nighttime air poured in to take their place.
Finally, he gave up waiting and retired to his chambers, regretting his earlier decision to tell Jacquelyn to stay at home. He had scarcely shut the door when a few quiet knocks sounded on the other side. “My lord prince,” a muffled voice said through the thick oak, “the king summons you to his chambers.”
Marcus straightened his clothes and made his way down the hall, with each step breeding new thoughts of how his father planned to punish him. Steeling himself, he rapped on his father’s chamber door.
“Enter.”
Audric’s living quarters were much like his son’s, only the rooms were larger and the decoration more ornate. The sitting area’s table was topped with a sheet of solid gold, upon which one could still see the outlines of the plundered foreign coins that comprised it. The velvet seat cushions were stuffed with goose feathers, which got replaced whenever they started losing their spring. Old paintings—painstakingly restored—hung on the walls, depicting the many great men and women of Audric’s lineage.
“Here,” his father said from the study.
Marcus stepped through the glass-paned doors. His eyes skimmed briefly over the captured enemy standards concealing the walls, and the looted artifacts on the shelves that were meant for books. There was the hated Tsar Sidor’s crowned helmet, a barbarian warlord’s buckled great-axe, and similar trinkets.
And his father. The man sat rigid on a chair behind the desk, staring implacably at his wayward son. Roslene was present as well. She stood with a bejeweled hand on his shoulder, studying Marcus with an impenetrable look.
“You called for me, father.” Marcus should have inclined his head, but didn’t.
“As you knew I would.” The words slipped out in low growl. “You have circumvented me. You have made a fool out of me. Why?”
Marcus glanced at Roslene, hating that she was here. Forty paces away was the bed where she had disgraced his mother. He had refused to look at the thing when he came in. “I’m guilty of the first, not the second.”
“Explain.”
“I spoke to the Kydonians on my own. I admit it. I learned their intention was war. Had I not given them my leave to speak to Parliament, they would have left. They would have started this war and caught our armies unawares. They had terms to offer. I gave them a means to do so. So. I say I spared you from embarrassment. Father.”
The tone had been respectful, but the words were insolent. The latter affected Audric more. His cheeks took on an angry red—but just as he opened his mouth to put that anger to words, Roslene swept in.
“If I may, Audric.”
At her mellifluous voice, the man’s temper abruptly mellowed. He gave her a gentle nod.
Her emerald eyes fixed on Marcus. “There is a more pertinent question: Why did you seek out the Kydonians in the first place?” To naive ears, that may have seemed a gentle rebuke at most.
Marcus knew better. He stared evenly, and said just so, “What makes you think I sought them out?”
But like him, Roslene knew a lie when she saw one. After all, she was the one who had taught him to do it so well. “Do not think for a moment that your actions go unnoticed. There were eyes on you from the moment you left the palace to see the Kydonian, this Evgeny Pronin.” She let that revelation sink in for a moment. “We know him, yes. Perhaps you were confused as to why he was out in a rainstorm that night, when you brought him back to his tavern. Do not deny it, the tavern keeper is in my employ. Perhaps you will do us some courtesy and tell us what you said to the Kydonian that night.”
Marcus didn’t bother answering. She knew already.
She sighed. “He had just come back from a meeting with one of my girls. He told her precisely the same as he told you. Perhaps now you are thinking there is a reason your father and I ignored this Pronin. You would be correct.” Roslene’s eyes were cold with ridicule. “We were buying ourselves time. The longer those men stayed here, the more time we had to make our war preparations. Your father was just beginning to draw up his battle plans. I was attempting to find coin to finance a new campaign. Now you have put events in motion, prematurely. Your haste may well have ruined us, Marcus.”
“He has ruined us!” blared Audric, unable to contain himself any longer. “The Kydonians would have waited until the roads were set to close up before they left. Now they have the answer they wanted, and the roads are still clear. They’ll make Kydona within a week, and their God-damned tsaritsa has a solid month of campaigning weather to make her move.”
“Send out riders,” Marcus suggested, trying not to sound nearly as lame as he felt. It was a difficult task. “Warn the landholders and the frontier forts to be ready for anything.”
Audric raised a fist to pound on his desk with fury, but Roslene added her other hand to his shoulder, and he settled for an aggravated groan. “Do you think we haven’t done that already? We sent riders the day before yesterday. What good will it do? Even if our people in Kydona get our warning, even if they can cobble together some sort of defense in time, they’ll have to hold out until summer at the very least. I’d told them to make for Kamengrad to stage a primary defense but now there’s no time. You’ve seen to that.”
Marcus could almost feel himself withering under the look Roslene and his father gave him. Every word drove home the magnificence of his failure. Men were going to die thanks to him.
“Maybe next time you will think before you circumvent me,” Audric pronounced, lurching to his feet, sighing in exasperation. Every one of his fifty years showed in his tired eyes. Grey whiskers seemed to protrude from his beard as the sun’s waning light silhouetted his face in the window. He looked out over his city and murmured, apparently to himself, “Ruined.”
Solemn quiet ruled the chamber for several moments. Roslene broke it first. “There’s still the question of Marcus. What shall we do with him?”
The prince quelled a fearful thrill.
When Audric did not answer, his consort persisted, “It is only a matter of time until the court discovers what he’s done. They will think him a traitor. If hotter heads prevail…”
“Lie,” said the king.
Roslene thought that over. “Perhaps. He could winter at Aubigne. He would be safe there until affairs have calmed somewhat… but I believe I have a better alternative.”
“And that is…?”
“Your orders call for an advance force out of Fort Ligny—one regiment. Have Marcus volunteer to command them.” The king began to voice his reply, and Marcus’s pulse spiked, but Roslene held up a placating hand. “He will volunteer, but you will kindly turn him down. I will have the rumor circulated that the war to come is insurrection, nothing more, and you see no need to commit your son to some backwater conflict. Your son’s image will not only remain…” She searched for a proper word to describe his reputation. “…intact… but you will also ease fears at court and amo
ng the populace. They will believe this war will be short and bloodless.”
“Which is a lie.”
“Yes. But it will not come from your lips.”
Marcus had to admire the woman’s cunning. Still, he was anything but grateful.
Audric stared out the window as if he had not heard. War gripped his thoughts—and dread. But he listened just enough to give a slight nod of agreement.
It was a dismissal, they both knew. They turned and silently left, neither looking at the other until they had stepped into the hallway. Statues surrounded them, the likenesses of kings and queens better than either could ever hope to be.
Roslene glanced sideways at Marcus. “The things I do for you,” she whispered. With that, the king’s consort strode off with her hips swiveling beneath her skirt, leaving him with only his own imbecility for company.
†††
The remainder of fall passed quickly. Just as Audric had predicted, the rain stopped for a spell. The mud dried and for a few weeks, the roads were clear. Traders took the opportunity to hurry their last caravans of the year out of the city. In the countryside, farmers gave their fields a final plowing, loosening the soil to ease their springtime workload.
And Elessia prepared for war.
Couriers made their rounds from door to door, their satchels bursting with sheets of parchment. Elessia’s men were being called on to fight once again. Soldiers from Arlimont found their leave cancelled. They left the taverns, inns, and brothels sulking and swearing. The city’s men, most of them reservists, watched the hordes of full-time soldiers departing the city with some measure of optimism, hoping that they wouldn’t be needed themselves. Those hopes were soon dashed as the couriers arrived at their doors, brandishing rosters bearing their names.
As the Royal Watch mustered, a giant encampment rose up around Fort Arlimont, built by swarms of requisitioned quarry laborers. Row upon row of canvas tents took shape, from humble triangles that housed pairs of soldiers to the gargantuan command tents from which the officers led. All the tents were soon occupied as the king’s army reported for duty—first the full-time professionals, the true Royal Watch; then the reservists, pulled from their homes to fill the holes in the ranks. The northern campaign had been costly, and there were many fresh faces to be seen. More than a few of the conscripts were lads, only recently Novitiates.
It took still more men to outfit the army. Smiths were yanked from the city to hammer out weapons and armor for the growing army. Leatherworkers, tailors, and wagon drivers were not spared from the king’s roll call either. The army conscripted chirurgeons to keep the men healthy, and cooks to keep them fed. And of course, no supply or aid would have reached any company, battalion, or regiment without the expertise of another veritable army on its own, one that wielded quills and parchment rather than swords and shields: clerks, administrators, logisticians.
Chaos seemed to rule. There was so much to be done, so many preparations to be made—and everyone was trying to do it at once. Officers bickered among themselves, each convinced that his unit had the greatest need for armor, food, or whatever. Administrators got harassed from every quarter, their expertise constantly needed. The linemen, the ordinary soldiers, often got overlooked. There were simply too many thousands of them to supervise. Every morning, there were gaps in formation. Some men snuck off in the night to visit their families. Others could be found sleeping in one of the many whore tents that had sprung up around camp, having drunk themselves senseless the previous evening. Gambling grew common. Fights broke out with alarming regularity.
When King Audric inspected the camp with his son, he made a dry comment to the lord marshal on the state of his army. The lord marshal calmly advised the three generals—Somervell, Dupisre and Deboer—to get their divisions in order. The generals rounded on their regimental commanders, who yelled at their battalion colonels, who went apoplectic on the company captains. The captains might have murdered the lieutenants in their all-encompassing rage, but instead they screamed until the young junior officers were practically shitting their pants. The terrorized lieutenants passed the news to their sergeants, who each called the fifty soldiers of their battle line to formation. There, the sergeants informed the men that the king had singled them out as the single worst battle line in the whole fucking army, that they were a shit-awful disgrace, that they ought to execute every one of them and wouldn’t feel badly about it. The sergeants were more prudent than to follow through on such threats. Rather, they gave the very worst soldiers five lashes, then consigned the remainder to latrine duty, reduced rations, and like punishments.
Chastised, the Royal Watch gradually came to order. The same kind of scene would be playing out at Forts Ligny, Trescott, and Ingold. A fortnight after the Kydonians delivered their terms, the king’s army numbered fifteen thousand men, most of them at Arlimont. That number could well triple if the high lords kept their promise and supplied men from their provinces. But a month into the war preparations, only Vernon’s father, Ronold, had contributed soldiers—and only a few battalions at that. Marcus couldn’t blame him; Muegette was a small province, sparsely populated. The other high lords had no such excuse.
Then again, Marcus wasn’t that much better. Roslene’s plan worked flawlessly. Marcus offered his military service, Audric politely declined, and Roslene made it known that the king saw no good reason to involve his son in such a minor conflict. The nobility was happy to accept their king’s supposed line of reasoning; now they could avoid the war in good conscience.
Marcus’s own was in turmoil. He watched families bidding their men tearful farewells and thought himself the vilest shit on earth, knowing that when they marched off to Kydona, he would be safe at home. The fact that he had hastened the start of the war only deepened his guilt. He could take some tiny comfort in the fact that his father could have prevented conflict altogether, had he bothered with negotiation. Instead, Audric’s pride had gotten in the way. He would rather accept a costly war than peace at the price of honor. In the end, this war was not Marcus’s fault.
But a small comfort that remained.
Jacquelyn and Vernon saw his melancholy state, but neither understood what had caused it. They did their best to cheer him up anyway—individually at first, and then as a pair once they realized their goals were one and the same. They got together and threw him soirees, with plenty of fine drinks and company to distract him. In the process, they became fast friends. Jacquelyn loved Vernon’s endless stream of ribald jokes, and Vernon quickly discovered that when she sang his praises to girls he liked, they became much more willing to sleep with him.
Marcus watched their friendly banter smilingly. The two of them took that as a good sign. What they didn’t notice was that his smile had a wooden quality, and he never once refilled his glass. He pretended to enjoy the soirees because Vernon was his best mate, and Jacquelyn was…
Well, that was the problem: he didn’t know how to describe her anymore. They had crossed a threshold, although Marcus hadn’t the faintest clue what that threshold was or where it lay. All he could say for sure was that they were no longer mere lovers. His world had become filled with uncertainty—and his dalliance with Jacquelyn was just another worry to add to his already-tall pile.
Mercifully, she didn’t notice. She made love with all her usual enthusiasm, fell asleep contented on his breast at night. When she was away from him during the day, he knew he preoccupied her every thought. He haunted her dreams and nightmares; she had a new one to tell him about every morning. Often she asked him, “Did you dream about me?” Each time, he lied and said yes, he always dreamed of her. Jacquelyn wanted to be his foremost concern—only she wasn’t. As the forests shed their last leaves and winter finally came on, Marcus found that he was deceiving her with startling regularity.
Realizing that, he began to question himself. Finding no answers, he started questioning him with Jacquelyn.
With the onset of winter, the lands froze. Elessia’s
capital seemed to do the same. Trade came to a standstill as the roads became impassable with ice and fallen tree limbs. Snow turned the white city whiter still. The narrow streets channeled the wind into icy gusts that shocked the breath from people’s lungs. Ice clung to the cobblestones, breaking many an ankle. It was the worst winter in living memory—so cold that the Esteemed Mediator complained to the king that he presided over an empty mass on the Lord’s Days. To that, Audric simply shrugged, “It’s chilly outside, heavenly father.”
Instead of attending mass, people sat huddled around their fires. Elessa’s priests found themselves wandering door to door, their teeth chattering as they politely demanded alms from their parishioners. Scowling, the people handed over coin which they had likely planned to spend on firewood.
The nobility was little different, although it was the Esteemed Mediator who bothered them for alms, not the lowly parish priests—that, and nobles weren’t actually required to pay the tithe. It was a newer law as well, a source of great pride for the Council of Highest because finally, they claimed, someone had had the courage to undertake the long-promised separation of church and state. So the nobles courteously told the Mediator he would be getting nothing from them. Having achieved their main goal of staying rich, they quickly turned their attention back to their second priority: staying warm.
Wooden, straw-stuffed palisades came up around the Atrium’s columns to keep the freezing air out. Servants installed great braziers, which they kept lit day and night. Against stacked odds, they succeeded in keeping the enormous space warm so that when Midwinter’s Eve arrived, Roslene could throw the customary ball without having to worry about enormous holes in the guest list.
It was a lavish affair. The nobles came in all their finery, which was even more ostentatious than normal, since winter had kept them indoors and they had a lot of showing off to make up for. Women came with their hair bundled in golden nets, and their dresses in bright reds and greens, all in anticipation of the coming spring. Many of their husbands and sons had commissioned new swords to display their support for the war, as if any of them would be participating in it.
Roslene had no intention of allowing her guests to top her in splendor. Gigantic silk drapes hung from every column, and pine wreaths the size of wagon wheels. Every delicacy on the tables had a golden trinket hidden inside—tiny chevaliers, angels, snowflakes, stars, and similar charms—and whoever found one took it home as a gift. Overhead on roof galleries, servants tossed silver tinsel down onto the audience all night long while the musicians cranked out their stirring melodies. Wine flowed freely. Best of all, it was warm. When Roslene’s courtesans paraded in, a number of them were stark naked, just to flaunt their mistress’s conquest of winter. Marcus thanked God that Kaelyn was not among the unclothed. She’d even dressed modestly, although that did nothing to dim her beauty. She greeted him good evening, but apart from that, she left him alone—another blessing.
All in all, it turned out to be a fine evening. Marcus, Jacquelyn, and Vernon wallowed in the entertainment and got merrily drunk in the process. There were no worries. No one looked daggers at him, occupied as they were with the war and the frolicking courtesans. One of the naked ones sidled up to Marcus and inquired if his lady companion would fancy sharing him later on. Jacquelyn overheard the question. She was not entertained. In fact, if she had had a knife on her person, Marcus imagined she would have run the woman through right then and there. He and Vernon shared a hearty laugh over it, even though Jacquelyn sulked for the next half hour. Vernon drew her good mood back out when he leapt up and started conducting the choir, shouting along made-up lyrics to their slow dance tune until they gave up and played a faster one.
After that, Marcus didn’t remember much. The night wound down, the people left, and Vernon managed to procure a willing courtesan at a remarkably good price. As his best mate left for the guest wing, Marcus retreated to his chambers with Jacquelyn. There, she stumbled around as she undressed, recounting the night—especially that naked whore and how much she had pissed her off. He lay back in his bed, watching her amusedly. Sighing, she flopped down onto the mattress beside him.
“I had something to show you,” she mumbled into the pillow. Another sigh. “I’ll show it to you tomorrow… when we aren’t this drunk…” With that, she was asleep.
Marcus had to maneuver her to get the blankets out from under her, then again to draw them over her. He moved the pillow under her head.
There, where it had lain, was an envelope. His name was written there in Jacquelyn’s round script. Against all better judgment, he opened it and began to read.
Marcus,
I could not sleep last night. I need to be honest with you. The past four months have been the best months of my life; I have experienced happiness I never dreamed I would. I want you to know that I will do anything, anything to stay this way. I know you think I cannot cope sometimes. I admit it has been hard adjusting to this new lifestyle. I know I can be jealous, especially where Kaelyn is concerned. I understand why you have been holding back your true feelings for me because I worry you. But I can cope. I can respect your duties as the Crown Prince, and I know I must place my personal needs second. I will. I promise. I love you, Marcus. I have known it from the first moment I met you. I could not envision a life without you if I tried; I would not want to. I know I can be honest with you because I know you feel the same way. I love you.
-Jacquelyn
He folded the letter. “Oh, Jacquelyn,” he whispered to her sleeping form, his voice thick with regret.
He watched her for a long time.
†††
Some weeks later, a lone horseman came through the North Gate. He was a haggard sight, to be sure. His armor was so filthy that the guards had to look twice to make sure he was Elessian, and when he arrived at the palace doors, the chamberlain refused to let him in at first, convinced that his appearance would offend the court. It took some heated argument and the intervention of the guardmaster himself, but the rider got admitted at last.
“We’ve promising figures so far, your highness,” Lord Marshal Gerant was saying in the Sanctum, where he, the king, the crown prince, and the Council of Highest were gathered around the map table. The lord marshal made to push a script-laden parchment across the table, only to remember that he no longer had that particular hand in his possession. Swearing under his breath, Gerant handed the king the parchment. “Twenty thousand men mustered. We’ve furnished most with weapons and armor; a few thousand are missing one or the other. Our rations should last us through the winter. By spring we’ll have stocked enough to make Kydona, and there should be plenty of foraging to sustain us there. There’s one concern, your highness, and that’s sniffle wear. We’re short on blankets, jackets, and so on. The men are cold. They’ll be illness spreading soon if we don’t—”
“Blankets?” Lord de Martine said derisively. “How is this army to subdue Kydona if they can’t cope with a little chilly weather? They are men. They will cope.”
“Not to mention the cost,” added de Villiers, anxiously twisting a button on his tunic. “The treasury simply cannot afford a coat for each and every soldier, not on top of all other expenses.”
Gerant scowled at both the men. “Let me remind you that cold as our country is, Kydona is far worse. We must endure at least one winter there, it’s a certainty. If our men are not adequately equipped, I promise you—”
“Promise nothing,” snapped de Isnell, cutting the lord marshal off. “Were you not involved in the northern disaster this past year? I find myself questioning your competence as deputy commander of this army. I am certain that I am not alone in that regard.”
Gerant turned pale with rage. He seemed certain to unleash a tirade on the lot of fat old men, none of whom had ever known a cold winter or a military campaign, yet deemed themselves wiser all the same. Marcus thought he might well join in, though the men were barely tolerating his presence as it was.
Just the
n, the great doors blundered open. The guardmaster bowed on the threshold, took three steps in, and bowed once more. A man slouched in after him—hollow-cheeked, shivering slightly, his clothes torn and his armor streaked with grime.
“What is this?” Audric asked. It was the first sign of life he had shown in over an hour.
“Indeed,” Jaspar’s father sniffed. He might well have just been told to devour a cartload of snail shells, such was the disgust written on his expression. “Evidently the state of our army is sorrier than we presumed. I apologize, lord marshal.”
As the rest of the high lords snickered, the guardmaster announced, “I beg your forgiveness, your majesty, your highness, my excellent lords, but this man brings urgent news from the east.”
The man swayed visibly, his lusterless eyes speaking of a week or more deprived of sleep, and his bent stance indicating that he had spent nearly all that time in the saddle. Only willpower kept him upright—and it was obviously hanging by a thread.
“You.” Marcus pointed at a servant. “Get this man a loaf of bread. And ale.” As the servant scurried off, the soldier gave him a tired but grateful smile.
“My thanks, my lord prince.” He forced some strength into voice and delivered his news. “I’ve come from the Southern Pass.” There were only two narrow passes through the Utmars and into Kydona; the Southern Pass was one of them. “There’s been a massacre. A regiment dead, at least. Captain Blake sent me straightaway, I’ve been riding all week—”
“Slow down and speak sense, whelp,” Roberte spat. His eyes smoldered with distaste.
“Be quiet, de Martine,” said the king, which stunned the man into a furious silence and tugged a grin onto Marcus’s face. “Start from the beginning, soldier. Take your time.”
The servant had returned with a foaming mug of ale and a still-steaming bread loaf. Taking the mug, the soldier upended it in his haste to guzzle it down. The high lords’ lips curled, though Ronold de Gauthier masked a grin. With the mug drained, the man breathed a refreshed sigh and started to speak with new vigor.
“The 22nd Regiment came through Fort Desmoine ten days ago. We restocked their feed and water and we sent them on into the pass.”
“It was an advance force,” explained Gerant at the Council’s blank stares. “They were the first regiment to muster at Fort Ligny. Their orders were to reinforce Kamengrad. Two thousand men was the best we could do with the time we had.”
Marcus felt some guilt at that but kept his face rigid.
Nodding, the ragged soldier continued, “When a unit marches through, they’ll send back a pair of riders with a report. For the Watch’s records.” Apparently he had realized that he had to frame his words, seeing how many in the chamber didn’t know a damned thing about the military. “This regiment didn’t. Captain Blake waited two days, then he sent a scouting party in after them. We got about three quarters of the way through before we found them. It was a slaughter. A good number of fellows were still in marching column, they’d died so quick. The rest were bunched up in two great piles—half a mile apart, I’d say. Whoever did it, they knew what they were about. They lined up archers on the high ground to either side. When they started loosing arrows down at them, the Captain figures the 22nd tried to advance up the slopes, seeing how we found so many bodies there, but they couldn’t gain it, so they tried pushing on ahead through the pass. There was someone waiting for them. Someone with some hard bones.
“It was a slaughter,” he repeated. “We found a lot of dead fellows there, about a third of their strength. Once they figured out it was hopeless, they tried retreating. There were arrows coming at them the whole time. The ones who survived, they only made it half a mile before they ran into another enemy group. There were tracks on the mountain slopes so we think the enemy waited at the top until the 22nd passed them, then they came down and cut them off. That’s where we found the other big pile. Dead, every last one of them.” The man swallowed. “A lot of—a lot of them had their throats cut. They killed the wounded. And their battle standard was missing. So were their name bracelets. We couldn’t even find their officers—right down to the lieutenants. We—”
King Audric stopped him with an outturned hand. “Has your captain secured the pass?”
“Yes, your majesty. Both ends. Captain Blake already requested reinforcements from Ligny. They ought to be there by now.”
“Good. Do you have anything else to report?”
The soldier retrieved a half-soaked parchment roll from his satchel. “A full report from Captain Blake, sir. That’s all.”
“Very good. You are dismissed,” said the king as a servant deposited the roll on the table before him. To the same servant, he instructed, “See that this man is fed straight away. Give him a bunk in the guard’s quarters, and a strike for commendable effort.” As the servant led the thoroughly-exhausted soldier out, Audric sank back in his chair. The double doors thumped shut. “It’s worse than we feared,” he said to no one and everyone at once.
“A regiment, a whole regiment,” a high lord whispered.
“How could this happen?”
Audric’s eyes flashed. “Is it not obvious?” he snarled. “We are at war, a war for which we are ill-prepared. Our enemy is not. He is well-led, well-organized, well-disciplined.” He stood and leaned over the table, his eyes rooted to the map of the known world—Elessia, Kydona, Lyria, and the North. “This is only the start. He has been planning this for many years—before the last war was even over, more than likely. He’s sent us a message. He is taunting us. Daring us to come on.”
“And face the might of the Royal Watch? We’ve twenty thousand men, your majesty,” reminded de Guiscard, pointedly. “We’ll have fifty thousand by the end of winter.”
“But they have this,” murmured the king. His spread fingers traced a circle over Kydona. Without even counting the unexplored eastern reaches, the territory was massive. It utterly dwarfed Elessia—three, maybe four times the size. There was a gilded icon marking Kamengrad, the old capital; half a dozen crossed swords representing Watch forts; and three-score or so small dots denoting towns from which Elessian landholders governed. There were other dots, too—hundreds of villages. And only the larger ones were marked on this map. In the space between, there was nothing but open, trackless plain—nearly a thousand miles of it.
With exceeding calm, Audric said, “Mark my words, lords: there is a war raging beyond the Utmars, at this very moment. When we march in spring, we will not be moving to defend our territory. We will be attacking a hostile nation.”
†††
The winter was harsh but brief. By mid-February, the weather was already warming again. The regular snowfall became sporadic before ceasing altogether. As it began to melt, the roads once again turned to muddy quagmires. Overeager traders sent out caravans, only for their wagons to get bogged down and stranded. Amid their mighty cursing, one could hear the laughter of children, who had quickly rediscovered that mud was just as fun as snow—mostly because it pissed their mothers off so much worse.
“Remember the old twenty-two!” The cry could be seen and heard at all quarters, from the army encampments to the country hamlets to the city streets. The regiment’s standard may have been captured, but many more had taken its place—countless banners draped from the outer walls, from the monuments and statues of revered heroes and ancient martyrs, each bearing a shield and gauntlet: the 22nd Regiment’s insignia. On the street below them, people had placed clay statuettes, candles, and strips of parchment bearing scrawled prayers. Elessia remembered, and with one voice, they vowed retribution.
Suddenly, Kydona had given the country a cause—precisely as they had done by burning the border villages eighteen years previous. Men mobbed to the street side recruiting desks, seeking the chance to serve—the same men who had so recently prayed that their names were absent from the king’s mustering call. Many a noble-born son lined up to see Lord Marshal Gerant, demanding officers’ commissions. What
he had was a disappointment: to most, he offered lieutenancy, and with it the command of a fifty-man battle line—a meritless position, for lads who dreamed of leading whole regiments to glory. Others, he offered places in the ranks of the esteemed dragoons, under the condition that they provide their own horses and armor. Except for a few-score brave—or foolish—souls, the noble lads turned their backs on Gerant’s offer.
Among the volunteers was the crown prince.
Before, Marcus had seen some merit in the Kydonian cause. But what they had done in the Southern Pass was little better than murder. The doomed regiment had been hemmed in, butchered like animals, shot full of arrows as they fought to escape. No one deserved that.
He wanted to make the enemy pay.
A surprised tremor ran through the court at the news. People speculated that the king would grant his son command of a division—even the whole army, with the lord marshal as his deputy. But inside the king’s chambers, the scene was entirely different from what they imagined. Marcus argued his case for an hour and more, but his father would not be swayed. He would not send him east. Even more infuriating was that he wouldn’t give any reason for the denial.
The palace was full of excited court-goers. Spread among them were young men, their splendid blue uniforms decked with a bewildering array of accoutrements: gold-threaded lanyards and fourragère, merit medals, silver throat gorgets, and dangling epaulets. Conspicuously absent was their regimental insignia, since they hadn’t yet been assigned to their units, but the lads wore their rank prominently, and they returned many a congratulatory bow with boisterous pride.
An embittered Marcus was there to commend them as well. Though his gorge rose with every word, he politely thanked his peers for their service. Most seemed pleasantly surprised. A few decent souls offered him sympathy.
But as a matter of course, there were a number of noble lads who delighted in the prince’s bad fortune. Jaspar was one of them.
He wore a colonel’s rank—as if Marcus needed any proof that there was no justice in the world—and stood grinningly at the center of the Atrium with a flock of cooing girls surrounding him. Marcus refused to look at him. He deliberately skirted the area as he made his agonizing circuit, praising spoiled lord’s sons who had no right in hell to lead men in battle, hating every moment…
“Are you avoiding me, your highness?” Jaspar taunted his back. He had a sneer in his voice.
Marcus stopped carefully in his tracks. He shut his eyes, teeth clenched.
The space around them went deathly silent. Even the girls stopped chattering to watch. Jaspar’s mocking voice rang out again, “Ah, I see. You must be saving me for last. I understand. You may continue.” Gasps.
That did it. In the space of two seconds, Marcus had crossed the space between them. “Congratulations to you,” he snarled through his teeth, wishing a painful death with each syllable. “May your soldiers win victory.” Them, but not you.
Jaspar made a shallow bow. When he rose, his arrogant grin was wider still. “A whole battalion of them, yes. A battalion. It’s amazing what some quality will get you, isn’t it?” He paused for a reply. Receiving only a frosty smile, he needled on, “And what of you, your highness? What will you command?”
Marcus had never wanted to murder someone as keenly as he did now. Only a lifetime of instruction kept his expression blank—and just barely, at that. His fingers twitched. “The marches.”
“The marches,” chuckled Jaspar, casting a superior look around him. “So while I’m off razing Kydona to the ground, you’ll be here chasing down brigands? The crown prince—doing militia’s work! That’s disheartening to hear.”
“No, no, I’ll tell you what’s disheartening to hear, de Martine,” Marcus uttered. He knew his next words would echo, that everyone around would hear, but he didn’t care worth a damn. If he was going to be made a fool of, he was going to do it on his terms. “It’s disheartening that an arrogant sod like you gets to lead at all. If you treat your men half as badly as you treated Estelle, I feel nothing but pity for them. Quality, is that what you said? Here’re the qualities you’ve got: an old name and a rich father, that’s it.”
Jaspar had turned a deathly sort of pale. Outrage struck him speechless.
“You bought your commission, de Martine. You can deceive everyone here, I can’t blame them for being fooled. But to deceive yourself—now that’s a feat. For that, you have my congratulations.” With that, he turned on his heel, denying Jaspar the chance to salvage his pride. Except for his clicking footsteps, the chamber was still as a tomb. Shocked eyes followed him. He and Jaspar had always managed to conceal their enmity; now he had made it plain for all to see.
In his cold anger, he only dimly realized that he had made a mistake.
When he reached his chambers, he rested his forehead on the door, willing his temper to cool.
“That might’ve been unwise,” Gail told him quietly.
Marcus looked at his longtime friend—the man who had guarded his life since he was twelve. The old veteran had taught him much in their eight years together: how to kill with a sword rather than entertain; how to wrestle and fistfight even when the tutors thought it unchivalrous; how to lead through self-denial rather than self-aggrandizement. Evidently he had not learned quite enough. “Might’ve,” he agreed wearily.
“If I may speak freely, your highness…”
“Don’t bother, Gail. I know.”
“As you say, then.” Gail settled into a chair. “Gonna be a long night for us.”
Blaxley shrugged and moved toward the far side of the hall. Kelly frowned down at his feet. “He might be a cocky bastard,” he muttered, “but least he’s going.”
Gail shot him a warning glance. “What’s that you just said?”
Kelly glowered back at him. “I say that lad wasn’t the only one with an important dad. And his dad wanted him to fight. I see no problem there.”
Now the older soldier was standing. Beneath his graying beard, his throat muscles were taught. “You’d best be heading home, quick-like,” he growled. “Else there’s a drubbing in store for you.”
Kelly met Gail’s hard stare for a few tense moments. Then, muttering under his breath, he settled his sword in its scabbard and walked off, scratching furiously at the ugly crease on his scalp. With a final challenging look over his shoulder, he was gone.
Gail deliberately sat back down. “It was me he was after, not you, your highness.”
Marcus sighed, straight-lipped. “I’m not so sure, but I hope so.”
“It was so. Give him ‘til tomorrow. He’ll come back around.”
“I hope so,” he repeated. Then he stepped into his chambers. There, he flopped down on his bed and stared sightlessly at the ceiling, ruminating on the events of his day. He spent the remainder alternating between restless napping and distracted reading.
Until that night, when Jacquelyn joined him. A servant notified him of her arrival, so he had time to make himself presentable—though in truth, he wished he had told her to stay home. The past few nights had passed awkwardly between them. After seeing the broken seal on her letter, she had looked at him with some anticipation. But soon it became evident that he wasn’t going to return her sentiments. Her excitement turned to anxiety, then to distress.
When the servant let her in, she was something else entirely. “Is it true?” The quiet way she spoke made her anger all the clearer.
Seeing no use in deferment, he answered, “That I tried to volunteer? Yes.”
Jacquelyn’s eyes burned. “Why?”
He gestured toward the sitting area. “Come sit down.”
“No, I don’t want to sit down. No.” Her voice quavered. Her chest rose and fell quickly, nostrils flaring. “I want you to tell me why. Why is it so important that you leave?”
He saw the accusation lying behind the words, but he wasn’t ready to address it. What kind of man would have been? “I wanted to fight. I want to make Kydona pay for
what they did.”
She shook her head vehemently. “You’re lying.” She took in an incensed breath and let it go at length. “I guess it’s better than saying nothing.”
“You’re talking about the letter.”
“Yes, I’m talking about the letter!” she cried. “Is that what you were trying to do, Marcus? Are you trying to get away from me?”
He could have denied it—but the words would have been only half-true. He settled for, “I need time to—”
She slapped him across the cheek. The blow was light. Still, it hurt in more places than one. She meant it to. “You’ve had days to think! You’ve had four months! And I didn’t need half that to know how I felt.” The tears were on their way. He could hear them clogging her voice already. “Am I really that stupid?”
“You aren’t stupid.”
“Then tell me what this is! If you aren’t playing with me and you don’t love me then what are we?”
“I don’t know!”
Jacquelyn shut her mouth. She looked at him through glazed eyes, her occasional sniff punctuating the silence between them.
Marcus paced to the window, aggravated, then back to the sitting room. The critical moment had arrived at last. He had known it was coming ever since his father’s warning. A match with that girl is no match at all. Well, those words were true, and it had taken a heartfelt admission from Jacquelyn to make him realize it. “Shit!” He swiped a vase off the low table. Glass shattered. There was a commotion in the hallway, and the door latch came undone, but Marcus barked, “Stay out, Gail!” and the door quickly shut again.
He raked his hair. He had made up his mind. There was no point to prolonging this. Facing Jacquelyn, he told her, “I don’t know what we are. That’s the honest truth. Maybe it’s love, but how the hell am I supposed to know? I’m not past twenty. I have no clue what love is. And then, what would it matter if I did? I couldn’t stay with you anyway.”
Jacquelyn froze even stiller. She covered her mouth as if that would stem the flow of tears. It didn’t. They came on regardless. She stood trembling as comprehension took hold.
Marcus steeled himself. He hated himself, he hated what he was doing, but he had to get it done sooner or later. Better sooner. “It was a fairy tale, Jacquelyn. I’m sorry.”
Contrary to his expectations, she didn’t bawl. She just dropped her hand, her eyes rooted to the floor. With a sober nod, the girl turned to the door. Her hand on the latch, she looked halfway over her shoulder and said softly, “I’m sorry too.”
That hit him harder than any tears could. He could only stand, transfixed by the growing realization of what he had just done—and before he could address it, Jacquelyn had shut the door behind her.
Marcus sat. His gut had taken on that hollow feeling again. There was no comfort in the sensation, despite the familiarity it held. He stared down at his spread hands—weapons that he knew how to wield, whether by knuckle or blade—and he wondered at the harm he could do without ever having to use them.