Solace Shattered (18 page)

Though the music passed in marked measures and ended, the sense of youthful hopefulness existed outside of time so that when the last ringing note faded and she looked from the strings, she wondered how had she come to be in this magnificent house. Who were these people in fine clothes? What did they mean to her?

Nan, holding two glasses, was standing behind his chair and watching. The house and the people in fine clothes faded into a blur of otherness around the clarity of a single thought. He was the indistinct future she had longed and hoped for
.
Her life that had really passed—what happened to her father, going to Solace—seemed only random imaginings of her future.

Who was the stout man hovering over her? Oh yes, Teodor. She sat the kithara down. His words floated around her like his powerful Acadian perfume. “I have never heard such and doubt I ever will again. The first pieces were technically perfect, but the last...beautiful, beautiful. Such delight. I’ve found I always hear the best music by asking musicians to play their favorite.” Red-faced with pleasure, he kissed his fingertips and then blew the compliment to her as she stood to accept his gratitude.

“Hera, I thought you might like to try this,” Nan said and thrust one of the glasses between her and Teodor. “Master Teodor, I believe Prince Fassal awaits a word with you.”

“Of course, of course.”

Nan nodded after the departing Teodor. “You have an admirer.”

Did he covertly mean himself?

He swirled the amber-colored liquid in his glass. “Try it.”

She held the goblet to her nose. It smelled like flowers but headier, denser.

“It’s a brandy from my home. My grandfather casked it.”

She sipped it. Its warmth seeped into throat and chest. “It’s lovely.”

“I thought it the right thing to drink tonight.”

It did seem the right thing to drink tonight. She held up the glass to take another sip. Through the amber liquid, the room, Nan, everything glowed golden.

“Degarius, join us,” Fassal called.

After a reluctant bow, he was gone to discuss contracts with Master Teodor. Without a notion of moving, Arvana drifted toward the settee.

“Shall we play cards?” Lady Martise asked.

After the meeting, Fassal toasted Teodor with another round of drinks, then sent him away in a pleased state of drunkenness.

His aunt, nursing her glass of wine, was patting the place on the settee beside her. Good Aunt Martise had endured Teodor’s obsequiousness with unfailing grace. What didn’t he owe her? She’d made things smooth over Jesquin with the king. Yet, flush with the success of his plan, it seemed natural all should make things smooth for him, so he felt a surge of magnanimity in sitting beside her.

“Gregory, before you send for my carriage, tell me the results of your negotiations so I can send them to Marslan with the morning carrier. Or, Captain, would you prefer to give the news to your father?”

“Be my guest, lady,” Degarius said.

“Aunt, whatever glowing things you say will be true. We’ve reached most excellent terms.” To the Solacian, who had also played her part in his plan most excellently, Fassal said, “When the many thousand men take shield in hand against the Gherians, you can be sure I’ll tell them their protection was bought for a song.”

“It was my...” She began when his dog trotted across the room to her and riffled its nose into her dress. She tried to gather her skirt in front of him, but he poked his muzzle deeper between her legs.

Oh, damn that dog. Fassal was sitting comfortably and just as he realized he loathed getting up, Degarius was grabbing the dog’s collar, yanking him back and scolding him.

“He probably wants to go outside.” As soon as Fassal said it, he noted the Solacian blushed at her rescuer. Whatever was between them wasn’t solely on his friend’s side. It was the sweetest thing, Degarius and a Maker’s woman. Still brimming with the generosity of success, Fassal wished to bestow it. “Degarius, why don’t you take him out while I tell my aunt the contract details? He only obeys you. Show Hera your spyglass. The moon is quite spectacular through it. Blinding, really.”

Arvana wanted to laugh. Everything was wonderful. How she had played, how Fassal praised her, how Caspar trotted beside Nan, then sat and waited patiently as he opened the door. Though he acted as if the dog annoyed him, the animal intuited his secret fondness and delighted in winning it. Once outside, he gave the dog an approving rub, then it loped over the pavers, down the steps, and into the grass.

A box sat on the veranda wall. Nan’s fingers made quick work of the locks. He folded the sides away from a spyglass on a stand. He swiveled it in the direction of the half-moon, looked into it, the stepped aside, and motioned for her.

She’d never looked through a spyglass that would show the heavens large, bring them closer to the limited human eye. Looking into the sky had always made her feel more connected to the Maker, though she knew the Maker was not far off amongst the sun and stars. It was the beauty of the sky, how despite its vastness it reached down to touch the earth, that spoke of the Maker. And now to peer at it closer would be to look deeper into the heart of the Maker. How funny it seemed that all her life had led to this one glorious moment of discovery. As she eased to the eyepiece, unworldly, shining whiteness filled her eye. It wasn’t like the whiteness of snow, glittering in sunlight or ghostly in the night. Or, the glossy white of milk. She squinted. Vast gray swathes appeared, and toward the bottom of the moon, a gray ring surrounded by light. “Dear Maker,” she whispered.

His voice was quiet, almost in her ear. “I will get my sword back.”

His sword! It meant everything to him and was the world’s hope against the draeden. She turned from the spyglass. “Oh, Nan.”

She hadn’t leaned toward him.

Somehow, she was in his arms.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said the truest of words into his chest.

The gentle pressure of his hand against her waist gathered her closer; his other hand swept her cheek and drew her head into his shoulder. Her palm rested over his medals. With her every exhale, her body molded more perfectly to his. With his every exhale, the heat inside of him spread over her.

She closed her eyes. The moon’s image, burning bright red, seeped beyond her eyelids and spread into the vast blackness of her being, setting it aglow.

Something wedged between them, then whimpered. Against her will, not wanting the moment to end, she opened her eyes. Caspar. Nan released her, stepped back, and the dog lumbered away.

Her heart tore to see shame on his noble face.

He turned away and went to the veranda wall. “Hera, that was inexcusable.”

“No, it’s a time to be happy,” she said, trying to cling to the sensation of his embrace.

Firmly, he said, “About my sword.”

“About your sword.” She buried her hands in her sleeves. His happiness this evening was all about the sword. Of course, he had brought her the brandy to drink in honor of it. What a grand, terrible fool she was. No. That wasn’t true. As much as he cherished his sword, his embrace wasn’t filled with the exuberance of celebration. She would be a fool to pretend it was, to pretend the joy in his bounding down the step of Lady Martise’s hadn’t been for her, that he came to the archive only to study, that he drew her picture only to pass time. Yet pretend, they must. How had she forgotten so easily what she had told herself on the way to Sarapost House not a handful of hours earlier? “How did you persuade Lerouge to return Assaea?”

“We’re to have a prize match at Brevard. I offer my grandfather’s Gherian cutlass. He offers my sword. “

“A match? Against Lerouge?” What could Chane mean by fighting Nan for the sword? Surely, Chane knew what it was.

Nan faced her and said grimly, “It’s nothing I haven’t done a score of times before.”

“Not against Prince Lerouge.”

He flashed back, “I know my own skill. It hasn’t failed me yet.” Had her expression been that doubting? Then his shoulders sank, and he stared out at the lawn again. “Lerouge wouldn’t take just my grandfather’s sword as my part of the bargain. He wanted your letter.”

Her throat tightened. “My letter? Why?”

“I don’t know. We got into an exchange about something I can’t even remember.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Lerouge misunderstood what the letter was. He thought it was from...” Nan’s voice changed, sounded strangled. “He thought it was from my sweetheart. He said he wanted to make sure I was fighting for everything. It was a misunderstanding.”

Her eyes throbbed with suppressed tears, but she wouldn’t let them sound in her voice. “Yes, a misunderstanding.”

“I regret you’ve been caught at the beginning of this and now at the end.”

“Getting your sword back is what’s important. My letter was only to say I would play tonight. Besides, the prince won’t have occasion to read it.”

“I knew you’d understand. I’m going to have to practice a great deal for this match. I won’t have time to work on my winter campaign study.” Into the darkness, he shouted, “Caspar.”

Because, too, of what happened between them he wasn’t going to come to the archive anymore.

The dog leaped the steps. Nan grasped his collar. “We should go in.”

Arvana lifted the sides of the box around the spyglass. The locks closed with a snap. This was how it had to be. It was too hard to pretend. She supposed it was a mercy, the removal of temptation. Why must mercy always mean the end of things?

Citadel schoolroom

C
hane set one foot in the Citadel schoolroom and Willow, leaning over Jes as they studied a book together, raised her gaze to his. He’d made a map of her face and kept it in his memory. The woman before him wore the same contours but was different. There had always been a simmering spark in her, ready to come to life over simple things. It was gone. He had taken it from her. By the Maker, he would give her reason for joy again.

His boys, waving the paper boats he’d folded for them, ran to Jes and cried, “We’re going to the garden. Come on.”

“Chane,” Jes said flatly. That she didn’t want him here was plain. Had Willow told her what happened that night at Summercrest? No, Willow was too proud. Jes, who’d never approved of his courtship of Willow, wasn’t going to start approving now. But he needed no one’s approval and besides, he wasn’t going to court Willow. He had to prove himself.

“Jes, remember how father used to make boats for us?” he asked. Summoned by his curling finger, she reluctantly rose. “Hera, you must join our armada.” He took a small stack of paper from his inside coat pocket. “I promised the boys a fleet.”

In the Garden of the Saviors, the boys raced to the reflecting pool between the statues of Lukis and Paulus, clambered onto the ledge, and set their boats afloat. “Jes, go watch them while I build the fleet.” He divided the stack of paper in half and gave a part to Willow. “Help me fold. I’ll show you how.”

They sat on the end of the pool shaded by Paulus’s shadow. In the space between them, he laid a paper. Willow placed one of hers next to it. “Fold it so.” He edged his nail over the crease. Silently, exactly, she followed his instructions. Their boats done, he called to the boys. They raced to him. He put a boat in each one’s outstretched hand, then shooed them with, “Sail them at the far end with your aunt. There are too many leaves here.” Their short legs churned in a competition to reach Jesquin first. Everything was a contest between them, except who would inherit Artell if Acadia survived what lay ahead. The knowledge of that was something that had not yet poisoned their hearts toward each other.

Chane started another boat, as did Willow. Her fingers eagerly folded and creased another paper, as if grateful for the occupation. Of course, she was ill at ease. What he’d done... “No words can form a sufficient apology. I’ve had much time to mull what happened.” She kept folding the paper. “For the first weeks, all I saw of Orlandia were the four walls surrounding the governor’s compound. I like to think I was more a hermit there than you ever were in Solace. Isolation leads one far down within oneself, doesn’t it? That is why they fill every moment of their time,” Chane gestured to a row of mansions whose facades towered above the garden’s walls and trees, “with parties, outings, and obligations. To avoid self-examination. Because when one looks inside, it’s not sunlight and paper boats one finds, but the unwholesome things that thrive in the dark.” He set his boat in the water, so bright white against the dark water, dingy with floating leaves. His soul had to be that white. “Am I too late?” He removed his hat and held it on his knees. She stopped folding. “The Sarapostan captain, the man who killed a creature in the northlands, his arrival earned your notice. It was you who translated the script on his sword for my father.”