Solace Shattered (13 page)

“Surely the prince wouldn’t be upset over a bit of singing,” Arvana said.

Miss Gallivere laughed. “It would depend on the song and how it was sung, would it not, Hera? But, I suppose you have no understanding of such things. Oh, look. They’re holding hands. I do hope all’s well between them. I warned her against going any farther with Stevas after I saw how Gregory reacted last night.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Arvana said.

“It was selfish. I don’t know how I’d like being in Sarapost without Jesquin. From what Captain Degarius says, it’s nothing to Acadia, but I feel I might make something of it with the princess.”

Arvana clutched the front of her habit. It was as if a horse had tossed her, and she was lying on her back without a breath in her chest. Hadn’t she prayed for happiness for them? Shouldn’t she rejoice the Maker heard her prayer? She looked for a place to sit, but there were rose beds to each side. “When do we lose you to Sarapost, Miss Gallivere?”

“Much sooner than the princess, most likely. I’m of age.”

“I wish you joy.”

“You’re so good,” Miss Gallivere said.

“I give you joy.”

“You already have, Hera. Maybe you should give it to them instead. Quick, pretend not to see. They want to slip behind the tree to kiss.”

Arvana granted the princess and prince the moment of privacy to reconcile—and afforded herself a second to wonder why she had to hear of Captain Degarius’s engagement from Miss Gallivere. Couldn’t he have told her? She rested her hand on her stomach, over the sash where the medal was secretly pinned. He had many opportunities to announce it during his visits to the archive. Ah, the answer was obvious. Theirs was a professional association. It was only in her wishful thinking that it was a true friendship. He told her not to walk alone because it was a gentlemanly duty. Whatever the case, Arvana knew she must walk alone. She couldn’t face him in an hour’s time.

Miss Gallivere slipped a handkerchief into Arvana’s hand. “You’re quite affected. It’s hard for you to think of the princess leaving. You must account yourself something of a mother to her. I know she feels that way about you.”

Arvana unfolded the handkerchief. It was large, certainly not a woman’s, and edged in black and silver thread. “Forgive me.” She returned Captain Degarius’s handkerchief, unused. “I knew this was coming. Yet, one is never quite prepared.”

“I promise to look after Jesquin for you.”

“Will you for now? I feel unwell and wish to leave.”

Fassal snapped a flower stem and held the bloom to Jesquin. “Will you be my wife?”

She brought the flower to her nose. She never looked as beautiful to Fassal as at that moment when her full lips opened slightly and she whispered, “Yes.” It was impossible for him not to kiss her. The taste of her still lingering so sweetly on his tongue, he said, “I know we can’t announce anything quite yet. But you must know how happy I am. You have relieved all my pain with one word.”

“Pain? Don’t make me think you suffered. How could you when I have been thinking about my wedding dress for weeks and weeks? Would you like to hear about it?”

Much rather wishing to hear her profess her love for him, Fassal remarked, “I am sure you will look stunning in anything.”

“It shall be lavender silk, with the neck done like this.” She traced a scooped line across her chest. “And the sleeves will be slit like so. What do you think?”

“Delightful.”

“I drew dozens of pictures of it while I was supposed to be writing lessons. Sketches fill the margins of
Acadian History 350 to 500
. Do you think lavender goes well with my hair?”

“Jesquin, my dear!” Fassal laughed at her concerns. They were refreshingly petty after his wrenching worry.

“How I wish I could tell everyone today. But we have to wait until I’m of age, don’t we? You know it’s less than three weeks to my birthday. Time has gone so quickly as of late. But these next weeks, I fear, will be intolerably slow.”

“Intolerably.”

Lady Martise’s house, later that day

T
he dreadful clanging from the bell in the Saviors’ Gate roused Arvana from playing a melody she’d known so long by heart that she didn’t have to peer through the candlelight at the music or think about how to move her fingers and which strings to press. It wasn’t the steady toll of the hours. She drew the kithara close to her body. The bell kept sounding. Something was wrong. She laid the kithara on her bed and went into the hall.

Musette, who was also just coming from her chamber, flagged a servant. “What is happening?”

The servant shrugged.

“Is Lady Martise home yet?” Lady Martise was dining at the Citadel this evening.

“Not yet, Hera Musette.”

The bell kept ringing.

An awful premonition filled Arvana. Had The Scyon somehow guessed where she was because of her opening the relic for the “game” on the Feast of the Saviors? Was it sending the fire draeden for the Blue Eye? Or for Lukis’s sword? Everyone in the Easternland knew it was in the Citadel. She flew downstairs, burst outside onto the front drive, and scanned a sky that glittered with thousands of stars. Was the one with a faint red twinkle a distant draeden? Had a watchman with a spyglass looking for Orlandian pirates spotted it? If they didn’t stop ringing the bell, it would be a sure lure for the creature—as well as the thousands of lanterns the sound was summoning into the streets.

Musette grasped Arvana’s arm. “Let’s find out what’s happening.”

It seemed every citizen of Shacra Paulus was headed to the main street running to the docks. It was the area below the Saviors’ Gate. A full-grown draeden could destroy the population of the city in one easy breath. But, as they went, the prevalent notion in the crowd was that Acadia had won a great contest in Orlandia, and Prince Lerouge had returned to proclaim it. A victory procession would be winding to the fortress. A little boy drew a circle of adults by insisting he had seen the king’s open carriage leave by the Saviors’ Gate an hour ago.

Chane.

A mounted redcoat Household Guard who Arvana recognized was riding past, up from the docks. Arvana waved frantically, but he seemed not to see her. She darted to him. He must stop.

The guard yanked on the horse’s reins. “Whoa! Hera, I nearly ran you down!”

“Is it true Prince Lerouge has returned?”

“Not the prince, Hera. The governor.”

No draeden. No Chane. Just Keithan home to celebrate a triumph.

The bell had stopped tolling. Their gray habits afforded Arvana and Musette a swath through the crowd. There hadn’t been so many people in the road since the king’s birthday when traveling jesters came with their cages of pacing panthers and sleepy Orlandian alligators. Midway through town, in the canyon of what in daylight showed as the brightly painted two and three-story homes of wealthy merchants, the crowd abruptly hushed, parted, and condensed onto either side of the street. A solid line of soldiers advanced. The king, Lady Martise, the princess and Prince Fassal, were seated together in an open carriage that led a procession of nobles and dignitaries. The carriage stopped for the soldiers to clear the street. Arvana pleaded to the nearest guard, “I must speak with Lady Martise.” The guard, not of the household, didn’t recognize her.

“Lady Martise,” Musette shouted.

Hearing, Lady Martise shrilly reprimanded the guard to let them in. As Arvana passed through the cordon of soldiers, she saw behind the carriage a gardenia-strewn red-draped pallet, borne by six soldiers. Those in the carriage had looked sober but not carried away by grief. It couldn’t be Chane.

Lady Martise leaned over the edge of the carriage. “It’s Keithan dear. I’m sorry.”

“Not Keithan.” Disbelief froze Arvana. “I pray for him.”

“Prayers don’t stop arrows. An
assassin
.” Lady Martise spat the word with bitterness. “A coward put three arrows in his back. Orlandia will regret this brazen show of impudence. Lerouge will send an armada and every spare man to hold them accountable.”

Musette cried, “Murdering an official of Acadia! It’s unheard of.”

The carriage lurched forward and the pallet followed. Arvana’s stomach turned from the potent, sickeningly sweet scent of the flowers. Keithan. He’d been like a brother, a good brother to her. What good had her prayers been against arrows? What good had they ever been? They were unworthy. They didn’t return her father’s sight, save his life, or bring her brother home. They didn’t keep Keithan safe. The Solacians would say her consolation must be that he was with the Maker now, existing in a fuller love, but the words seemed hollow creed. The red of the shroud and the white of the flowers blurred into a watery haze. The mourners in the procession, their forms as insubstantial as spirits to her bleary vision, floated past.

Arvana blinked her eyes clear. Before her in the procession were Captain Degarius and Miss Gallivere. Merciful Maker, no. Couldn’t her sorrow be a pure thing, even for a moment? Must she see them together? She’d not gone to the archive today to avoid him, to give herself a chance to find joy in their union before facing him. Dear Maker, no tears. She must only cry for Keithan. Shoulders brushed past hers. Everyone was moving, but she couldn’t.

“We’ll be pushed down if you don’t move,” Hera Musette said. “Either we walk with them or move from the crowd.”

He had to go to her. He didn’t know what he would say or do, but it was necessary. Degarius disengaged from Miss Gallivere’s arm. “Carry on. I’ll catch up.”

“Are you going to tell your acquaintance how unseemly it is to mourn in public? “

Degarius stopped. “What?”

“Someone must tell her before she disgraces herself.”

Degarius looked back at the throng of people at the procession’s edge. Where had she gone? He searched, but the crowd seemed to have swallowed her.

“You’re too late. Lady Martise’s other Solacian took her away. At least some of them have more than the appearance of goodness. I believe Hera Solace fooled even you. She was the undeserving recipient of your nobility more than once.”

“I was fooled but not by her.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

By only the strictest sense of honor did he hold his arm stiffly out to Miss Gallivere.

Teodor’s workshop, Shacra Paulus

M
aster Teodor’s stomach preceded him from behind a towering stack of cut oak boards waiting to be fashioned into shields. He didn’t look like a man who ever used a shield, Degarius mused. Hopefully, he knew how to make one, or better yet, the promised three thousand.

“Prince Fassal and Captain Degarius, come.” Teodor led them past a row of men sewing leather bindings with curved needles. “These are yours. Mostly lowland oak. I had to use ash on a hundred or so when we ran short.”

Though Degarius might find fault here and there, the speedy methods of Acadian manufacture were impressive. He hadn’t believed Teodor’s promise to deliver three thousand shields, but that was before he saw this shop and the hundred men working it. In Sarapost, a shield shop undertook nearly all stages of the work, making it a slow process. Acadian guilds were highly organized: one tanning and cutting leather to specification, one hammering the bosses, another supplying the wood. Everything came together for assembly at Master Teodor’s.

Teodor ushered them into his office. “Sit, sirs.” Carpets and tapestries dulled the noises of the shop floor. Most curiously, three kitharas embellished with ivory, jet and rosewood inlays, rested in stands. “Seeing as how the governor general came back on a plank, everyone expects Lerouge to be hard-fisted.” Teodor cracked his knuckles. “I honestly cannot promise you more than what I have already completed.”

“What would that number be?” Fassal asked.

“A thousand.”

Degarius emitted a low whistle. “Our contract calls for three thousand.”

“What incentive is there for me to fill your order?” Teodor raised his bushy brows. “I’ll certainly be called upon to arm my fellow men.”

“You signed a contract—” Degarius began.

“Contract? No magistrate in Acadia would bat an eye if I disregarded it for the time being, given the circumstances. I might owe you a percentage fine.”