King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (16 page)

“Do you want a new dress?” she asked Ibhaen, as they walked. Porthan’s eyes darted about the market, as the merchants’ cries called for his attention, and for Ostre’s, but she ignored them. She saw the shimmers of dyed silks from Odryg and Xie Tsen, in the shop that belonged to Talwyck; she admired them so. Just like his father before him, he’d seen to bring in the finest quality fabrics, wool or otherwise. Ostre wagered that his mother’s Xie Tsen heritage helped with the acquisition of the silks, for certain.

“Come,” she said, gently tugging on Ibhaen’s shoulder, “Let’s look at fabrics. There’ll be something you like, I guarantee it.”

Ibhaen glared at her. “I don’t want to,” she said. “Not with you.” The stiffness of her voice dismayed Ostre; her daughter had already picked a side. It shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Never had she outright refused before.

“Will you go about naked, then?” Ostre said, as she glanced back at Porthan, who’d no doubt heard the call of the sweet-cake man, and eyed the booth hungrily. Ostre was forced to intervene. “No, Porthan, we’ll be having dinner soon. There’ll be no room for it if you fill up on sweet-cakes.”

“Please?” Porthan said. “I’m hungry.”

“No,” Ostre said. “We’re going to look at fabrics. Ibhaen needs a new dress.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Ibhaen said, arms crossed, her body rigid, her eyebrows arcing downward with defiance. “And I don’t need a new dress.”

“Of course you do,” Ostre said, with a pleasant smile. “There’s still plenty of summer left to enjoy, and you should want to look your prettiest, don’t you?”

“If we’re not going anywhere,” Porthan asked, as he bounced on the balls of his feet, “Could I have a sweet-cake?”

“You’re not getting a sweet-cake,” Ostre replied. “That’s out of the question.” She turned back to Ibhaen, who had the beginnings of a wicked smile on her face.

“If you buy him a sweet-cake,” Ibhaen said, “I’ll come look at fabrics with you.” Ostre felt her face flush with anger. Her daughter had learned to manipulate rather well; or rather, she knew when her mother had become desperate, what points were vulnerable, and where to squeeze. Ibhaen had already embarrassed her once this past week, and she seemed apt to do it again.

“Please? Please?” Porthan said, oblivious to Ibhaen’s game. Ostre grimaced. She’d not wanted to push Porthan away further, and Ibhaen knew it. She was waiting on Ostre’s response, testing her limits… Ostre knew she was no Captain of the Guard, like Kells, but she had steel and iron in her. She was full-blooded Barrish, after all, and the people of the Mountain were not to be trifled with.

“No,” Ostre said. “I suppose we’ll look at fabrics another time. Let’s head home.” Porthan groaned, but Ostre flashed her daughter a sneer; Ibhaen’s evil smirk quickly became dour. She’d lost this round.
I’ve many more years of this than you,
Ostre thought.
You can’t beat me at that game, little girl.

She was too busy reveling in her small victory to notice the horses that trotted through the street, and almost walked in front of them. She jumped back, startled, but not far enough; a horse’s hoof stopped on her dress, and threw her off balance. She fell into Porthan, who was walking right behind her. As the two of them fell to the ground, she heard someone stop their horse; when she looked up, Minister Marrol was there, standing over her, clad in his sharply cut Minister’s doublet. And to his left, Ibhaen.

“Ostre, are you all right?” he asked. She wasn’t surprised that he remembered her name; she was, however, surprised to see the concern on his face. The man was a consummate warrior; rarely ever had she seen something approaching a moment of tenderness. Still, she felt the weight of her son under her right shoulder, and she lifted herself up; he scrambled out and away, but made no noise.

“Yes - My son,” she said, “I was startled, and - I fell on him.” She glanced downward. “I… I wasn’t paying attention. I should’ve seen your horse.”

“Let me help you up,” he said. She took his hand; it was larger than hers. Tougher, by the calluses. And yet, there was a gentleness to his touch that she didn’t expect. He pulled her up, onto her feet, and she was thankful for it. She could’ve done it on her own, but after Kells’ distance in the days prior, there was something that warmed her about having a man’s help - feeling a man’s touch.

It was then that she realized that she was still holding his hand, and still staring into his eyes. She pulled it away, nervously, but perhaps too late. “Thank you,” she said. “That was very kind of you to stop.”

“I mean to pay a visit to my brother in law,” he said. He glanced down, and his brow furrowed. “Your dress is torn.”

It was; a large scrap lay under the horse’s hoof, stamped into the mud. It was not so great as to be immodest, but still, inconvenient. “Goodness,” she said, fighting the urge to curse in front of the children, “I rather liked this dress.”

“Come with me,” he said. “Talwyck will have someone mend it for you. It was my horse that tore it, after all.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Ostre said, politely refusing, hoping he’d insist.

“It is,” Marrol said, firm. He turned to Porthan, who was marveling at his armor and sword. “And what is your name, young man?”

“Porthan,” he said. “My father’s the Captain of the Guard.”

“I know him,” Marrol replied. “He is a very brave man. Like you’ll be, I imagine.” Porthan beamed. He glanced over at Ibhaen. “And you are becoming every bit as lovely as your mother.”

“Children,” Ostre said, “Please show Minister Marrol the proper respects.” Porthan’s eyes widened at the mention of his title, and it had long been Ostre’s worry that he might follow in his father’s footsteps. Ibhaen curtsyed, and smiled, but did all she could to not verbally accept the compliment; in Ostre’s eyes, that would have meant admitting her mother was attractive to a man. She shot Ostre a mean look; Ostre allowed herself to enjoy that.

“Please,” Marrol said, “Come this way.” He placed a gentle hand on her back, and he ushered her towards Talwyck’s shop.

She looked behind her; Porthan had started after her, but Ibhaen had stopped him, and was whispering in his ear. He wriggled away from her, and ran towards Ostre, to join them, eager to know more about the Minister. Ibhaen kept her distance, but was clearly disappointed that her brother’s affections were won so easily.

“Come, Ibhaen,” Ostre said. Her daughter glowered, but eventually, joined them, and followed Ostre and Marrol into Talwyck’s shop.

Savor the little victories when you have them,
Ostre thought, and smiled to herself as Talwyck greeted them. A handsome Minister had treated her with respect, her embittered daughter had joined them in the shop - where she’d purchase her daughter a new dress - and Porthan had found something infinitely more interesting than sweet-cakes. She glanced over at Marrol, and stared perhaps a bit too long; but it was long enough that he held her gaze, and she felt a bit flustered.

Goodness knows how long little victories last.

CHAPTER THIRTY

For Caliandra, the weeks following her father’s death were filled with misery. She hardly knew how she bore the pain of his funeral, so close to Valric’s; or the news that Royth would be allowed to live, imprisoned in the dungeon for the rest of his days. She made sure Fenwyn heard her outrage in person, but he said nothing more of who or what had prompted it. But there were whispers, passed on through Bevi, that Royth’s life was bought with silence about the secrets of the Council - and that her mother was the one who asked that Royth be spared.

Caliandra had tried to ask her if it was true - Eliya said it wasn’t possible, but a doubt buried deep in Caliandra’s heart compelled her to know - but their mother hadn’t taken meals with them in weeks, and made herself scarce. The Duchess had absorbed herself entirely with the arrangement of her late husband’s affairs; it was only late at night that Caliandra had seen her. And she hadn’t the heart to ask her mother why.

It was the mirror image of Caliandra’s childhood, when Caliandra’s little feet pitter-pattered up to her parents’ door, and her tiny hands clamored for entrance; her mother let her in, and so Caliandra snuggled tight against her mother’s familiar warmth, and her father’s strength, and was protected by brave arms until the morning came. She heard the crying in the dark hours before dawn, and the knocking at her door - and found her mother, red-eyed with lingering tears. Caliandra thought to confront her, but decided against it. She said nothing, and let her mother inside.

Caliandra felt it an odd reversal - to find herself comforting her weeping mother, and to find those same arms bereft of bravery and strength. To feel the creeping fear and weakness, of seeing her mother brought low. Knowing neither of them had the strength the other sought.

In the morning, she found her bed empty - as if her mother were a dream. Or a passing nightmare.

Eliya, too, took it badly. Caliandra did not see her about the castle with her friend Hanne; Eliya stayed in her mourning blacks, and rarely left her room except to eat. Caliandra checked in on her from time to time, and brought bits of good news: their mother had been able to secure an additional three weeks of grace before they all were moved to Baernswood, so the King Regent could live in the castle until a suitable King were found; and a letter from Mas, Eliya’s betrothed, that announced his arrival at the Barrish border, and proclaimed he would be at Castle Claine within several days’ time. Eliya had written him shortly after their father’s demise, and he set out from the Kersikki capital immediately to comfort her. Caliandra would have given anything for him to be present for Father’s funeral, but he would have needed to grow wings. And as far as she was aware, No one alive could do such a thing. Not even a Kersikki Prince.

In the days before his arrival, Caliandra did her best to keep Eliya involved, and in good spirits. She herself was hardly capable of a smile, but Caliandra was the oldest, and without their mother, it fell to her to take care of her little sister. Janni and Mae did what they could; they played the harpsichord, and led rounds of songs, in between mischievous raids on the kitchen. The earliest days after the funeral were only filled with questions, and discussion; Eliya could not believe that Yom could be so cruel, to take both the Feor men in one fell swoop. “Why us?” she asked, on one bright day, as the women sat in Caliandra’s room. “What have we done to merit such suffering?”

“Yom has reasons,” Janni said, from the window, looking outside. “We don’t know his thoughts because our ancestors can’t speak the tongues of the living. But he does not give suffering without great reward for your sacrifices.”

“Valric was too soon for this world,” Eliya said, as she looked to Caliandra for reassurance. “He had his flaws, but so would any man. I am glad that he changed towards the end, but he should not have been taken so soon. He… I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

“I called him a monster,” Caliandra said, her voice pained. Eliya looked at her, stunned, but the tears began to flow from Caliandra’s eyes. “He died well, and I called him a monster, because he wouldn’t say goodbye to Father, and he - he only wanted to cure Father to stay a prince. I… I wish I could have taken my words back,” Caliandra said. “I wish I could have said anything else.” The weight of her words brought a glum, guilty expression to her face.

“You didn’t tell me that,” Eliya said, surprised.

“You mustn’t be hard on yourself,” Mae said to Caliandra, her gentle hands atop Caliandra’s. “Your words helped him change his ways, in his last hours. The evidence is in the lives of those that lived. Six men still draw breath because of him, Callie. Sometimes, the truth is bitter medicine, but I think you must find heart in that your words made him change who he was, and helped him become a man of virtue in his last hours.”

“Thank you,” Caliandra said. The words struggled to leave her lips. “I know… I know I have to think of it as such, but… he was my brother,” Caliandra said. “And those were the last words I ever said to him.”

Caliandra saw the way that Eliya looked at her; there was sadness, and sympathy. Caliandra wanted none of it. She wanted only not to feel as if life had abandoned her.

“You did a good thing, Callie,” Eliya said. “Remember the good. He would want you to remember it.”

Caliandra nodded, her eyes still wet. “Of course,” she said. Eliya’s hand squeezed hers, and for the first time in weeks, she saw her sister approach a smile.

“Riders!” Janni shouted, as she turned to Caliandra and her sister. “They bear the Kersikki flag.” Caliandra watched as Eliya’s smile grew wider.

“Mas is here,” Eliya said, as she started to get up. “He’s finally here. We must be first to greet him,” Eliya said, as she walked to the window, to see the silver flags of Kersik, and the sizable train of soldiers, servants, and horses laden with trunks. At the front were a triumvirate of galloping chargers, bearing Kersik’s standard. “There,” Eliya pointed to the first of the three advancing horsemen, “There he is.”

“So stop dallying about here, and go see him,” Janni said, with a friendly nudge. “He’s come here for you, hasn’t he?”

Eliya’s eyes darted over to Caliandra. “Will you join me?” she asked.

“Of course,” Caliandra said, as she dried her eyes. “Let’s greet your husband-to-be.”

As the Kersikki procession passed under the portcullis, Caliandra was able to get a better look at Mas. He looked stern, yet handsome, with an aquiline nose, a wide jaw, and piercing blue eyes. Clad in blue and silver, riding tall in his saddle, he looked every inch the hunter that Caliandra remembered him to be - serious and attentive. But when he laid eyes on Eliya, she saw that same smile, tempered by sadness. Mas dismounted with a leap, landing deftly on his feet; he took Eliya in his broad arms, and tightly embraced her. The train of soldiers, servants, and horses slowed down, stopping just behind him.