Solace Shattered (16 page)

The two stood a staff-length apart, bowed, then waited with wooden weapons held vertical until the redcoat gave the word.

Degarius soon understood Lerouge’s win at Brevard wasn’t solely by the reluctance of a subject to defeat his lord. Though stout, he was quick. His command was consummate, his anticipation of moves uncanny. The prince easily blocked every thrust and countered with agile swings.

After ten minutes of docile, well-mannered exchanges, Lerouge laughed and took a step back. “What do you say boys? Was that pretty?” He balanced his staff against his shoulder, straightened his cuffs, and then took up the staff again. With a snarl, he resumed the sparring. His next blow hit Degarius’s staff hard.

If Lerouge wanted to make more of this, fine. The prince having Assaea had been enough to plant the seed of dislike. Degarius returned with a quick, firm strike that the prince countered with a dismissive laugh.

Lerouge drew his staff back to make a level swing. Degarius positioned his perfectly to block the blow. Lerouge hit. Degarius’s staff snapped. One moment the wood was splintering with a bright crack, the next, his side zinged with pain.

“By the Maker, you still stand.” The prince laughed, but nodded in respect.

Though his ribs stung fiercely, Degarius wouldn’t flinch, not in front of this bastard. Nothing more than a wicked bruise would result from the hit.

“You’re good, Sarapostan. We’ll finish the contest another time.” The prince neatened his collar, put on his coat, and took his horse’s reins. He was about to mount when he turned back to Degarius. “Wait. We’ll finish at Brevard. We’ll have our own event. No forms or sparring. Nothing to hoist a flag over. Just a full-dress demonstration of one former champion against another. We could give these young ones something worth watching and end our careers as swordsmen knowing exactly how we rate.”

Degarius saw again his sword’s hilt and his chance. This was far better than simply trying to tempt Lerouge into a trade. “Call me a mercenary, but I’ll only fight for a prize.”

The prince, leading his horse after him, came toe to toe with Degarius. “What prize?”

“The sword you now carry for an 800-year-old Gherian Cutlass from the old country.”

A slow smile spread across the prince’s face. “You want back what’s yours. I’ll consider it, Sarapostan.”

The prince remounted and rode around the stand of trees.

“Come on,” Degarius said to the boys, their eyes still wide. “That’s enough for today.”

By the time they came to the lawn, all of Summercrest’s guests and servants had gathered there to greet the prince who was embracing his sister, father, and Lady Martise.

Fassal came and clapped Degarius on the shoulder. “Brother, where have you been hiding? I scarcely saw you last night after you bolted from dinner to change your breeches. We must go and be introduced to the prince.”

Degarius touched his tender side. “We’ve already met—and sparred.”

“Sparred? You are doing quite a bit of that lately, but I thought it confined to Miss Gallivere over dinner,” Fassal said in reference to the miss’s reaction to Degarius setting her straight about his intentions. She’d dumped a glass of wine on his breeches. “Perhaps you’re ready for a respite. I wish you to write a few letters for me. At breakfast, Aunt Martise and I came up with a plan. Master Teodor and his wife will be dinner guests at Sarapost House next week. The invitation must be sent with haste.”

“A dinner for a tradesman with Lady Martise? You’re bribing the man with what money can’t buy.”

“And given our guest’s fondness for the kithara, I thought we might have music, too. Exceptional music. A private concert. Do you think it possible?”

“I have no idea.”

“Write to her and ask. I want everything in order.”

“Shouldn’t you entrust that to Lady Martise?”

“Asking the honored guest to invite the entertainment? Honestly, brother, I thought you would be eager for the excuse I give you.”

“What?”

“Look. Miss Gallivere is there, sending a furious glance your way.”

Degarius didn’t turn to look.

“I always thought she was a bold one. Those fine features name her a hawk.” Fassal whistled a low note. “Yes, brother, there are gentler birds than the hawk. A mourning dove would be just the thing for you.”

“I have no interest in ornithology,” Degarius said smugly.

Fassal laughed. “Any fool with ears or eyes can tell a hawk from a dove.”

Lady Martise’s, that evening

Arvana, kneeling beside Hera Musette in the small upstairs sitting room they used as a chapel, recited the evening prayer she knew by rote. But last night and tonight, she’d prayed it with the same awe, tenderness and earnestness as when she was first a novice. Why there was this new fervor, she couldn’t say. It simply was. She came to the last, most beautiful lines, and the corners of her eyes ached with joy.

“As I go to sleep I am already asleep, my dearest one.

Awaken me with your mercy.

Awaken my spirit in due time to your glory.”

Just as Hera Musette’s knees creaked as she rose, the downstairs maid came in. She must have been listening, waiting for them to finish. She held a letter to Arvana. “This came for you from Summercrest. A response is expected. A messenger will return in the morning to collect it.”

“Summercrest? Is it from Lady Martise?” Musette asked.

Arvana went to the window and held the letter to the last rosy bit of daylight. Instantly, she recognized Nan’s hand. “Yes, it’s from our lady.”

“What could she want?”

“I have no notion.” Arvana clutched the letter to her chest and started for her room. “Perhaps it is about the princess.”

“I hope all is well,” Musette said in parting.

Arvana shut the door behind her. “Forgive me, Maker,” she muttered as she lit a candle and sat at her dressing table. She ran her finger under the seal to break it. There, at the top, was her name. For a moment, she couldn’t read on past “Dear Ari.”

You will forgive my intrusion on what must be a week of respite from the obligations those absent impose upon you, myself included. I am taking a moment of liberty and the liberty of addressing you. Prince Fassal requests I write to ask if you would honor us, Lady Martise, and Master Teodor of the Weaponry Guild, with your presence and skill at the kithara for an evening at Sarapost House this coming fourth day of the new moon. Lady Martise gave her approval of this request. Your appearance would be to Sarapost’s aid. Master Teodor is a dilettante kitharist who threatens not to fulfill the terms of a vital contract. While you owe no allegiance to Sarapost, I know you understand the far-reaching implications of the Gherian war. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have countenanced Fassal’s appeal for your assistance.

May I impose upon you to answer directly? The courier will stop at Lady Martise’s before his morning ride to Summercrest. Fassal wishes to have the arrangements settled.

Of course, he had only written at the prince’s direction. And yes, she would help.

There is news from Summercrest that may tangentially interest you. This morning I saw my blade again. It is back from Orlandia along with Prince Lerouge. The prince appeared here much to the surprise of everyone, except perhaps, his father.

The hand holding the letter fell to the desk. Chane was back.

You know what my hope is and now it seems possible with Lerouge’s return.

How is it possible, Nan? Could Chane not know the sword’s true name? Oh, Nan, take care.

We return to the Shacra Paulus early. Do not imagine I have numbered the three days or am in any rush to depart. What is there to miss in Shacra Paulus?

Yours,

M. Degarius
.

The last lines swam before her eyes. Did they imply he missed her? At one reading, they seemed to despise Shacra Paulus but at the next, to say the opposite.
Stop!
The letter’s ambiguity didn’t matter. Chane was back. Nan—he was only Nan these last days—hoped he could get Assaea. What must she do with the Blue Eye? How could she return to Solace without a savior when the Gherians were poised to release a draeden this very winter? Keithan said Chane was a different man, better suited for his birthright. And Chane surely knew Nan’s sword was Assaea, yet he’d taken it to Summercrest with him. A hundred kinds of doubts about Chane clouded her mind, still beneath all these worries, her heart clung to the last lines of the letter. Was it so wrong of her to hope that he missed her?

Yes.

What was the matter with her? After refolding the letter and setting it upon the desk, she pressed her palms against her eyes, inhaled deeply once, and then sat straight.

Just answer the letter. But how?

Summercrest, next morning

Degarius gave his fishing tackle to the servant and joined the other anglers who were following Prince Lerouge into Summercrest’s game room for lunch.

“Your kind of day, eh, Degarius?” Fassal took an apple tart from a platter. “Up early. Early lunch.”

“It would have better if I had a chance to cast in the shady pool at the bottom of the shoals,” Degarius replied.

Sebastion wedged between them.

“That was a magnificent trout you took,” Fassal said to Sebastion of the fish he’d caught, the biggest of the morning, in the pool of which Degarius had just spoken.

“But it’s not the most magnificent thing I’ve taken,” Sebastion said and darted away with a tart. During dinner last night, the king had announced that Sebastion was to be the new governor of Orlandia. The title sat so well upon Sebastion that Miss Gallivere not only offered her best wishes, but also insisted they be card partners. Together they took every match.

After the lunch plates were cleared, the prince called for coffee. Sebastion, who sat beside the prince, took pipe and a silk bag from his pocket. With a tempting wave of the bag, he said, “This, gentlemen, is Della Sitran, an outstanding kind of altartish. My Prince, would you care to do the honor? In celebration of my new position?”

Lerouge took the bag. “’Tion says he’s glad to go to Orlandia. Escaping a bad bet.”

Sebastion laughed. “Actually, yes. A very bad bet. But, my luck has turned.”

Lerouge packed the pipe with the sticky leaves, lit it, took a chestful of the smoke, and passed it to Degarius who was on his right.

Degarius took a draw, relaxed into his chair, and handed the pipe to Fassal. The Della Sitran had a woody, earthy taste, slightly sweet and old, like the aroma of wet fall leaves and worn boots.

When the pipe came around a second time, Fassal paused before smoking. “How does this compare to Sarapostan altartish?” he asked Degarius.

Lerouge leaned on the arm of his couch toward Degarius. “You’re an expert?”

“He is,” answered Fassal.

The fools were giddy already, Degarius judged. “Though I’m no expert, I venture to pronounce it an uncommon cultivar.”

Fassal laughed and mumbled about cultivars.

A servant carrying a tray of letters bowed to Lerouge. “The messenger from town has arrived, Prince.” He made his way around the room, giving Fassal a single fat packet and Degarius three letters.

“From my sister,” Fassal said and related to Degarius who had married, died, and been born in Sarapost.

Degarius arranged his small stack of correspondence. The first letter, redirected from Sarapost House, was his father’s instructions for the transfer of silver. He rapidly scanned it, knowing it wouldn’t demand attention until he returned to Shacra Paulus. The next, on bleached linen with a gold seal, was from the master of the Metal Worker’s Guild. He waved it loosely at Fassal. “Teodor accepts, but his wife regretfully declines. She is near due with their fourth child.”

“Excellent,” Fassal replied. “That will leave him all to my aunt. The cook shall be beside himself with the list I am sending for the dinner. You must recommend the wines.”

The last letter Degarius detained. Ever since the courier took his request to Hera Solace, he regretted not strictly writing the business at hand. By what failure in judgment had he smoked altartish while writing and composed those odious closing sentences? They seemed a rather charming puzzle during the writing, though in his defense, he did regret losing the time to work on his winter tactics treatise. The pipe came around again. He took another long draw and broke the seal. Ah well, what was done was done, and she’d think nothing of it.