Solace Shattered (20 page)

Chane.

Wearing a dark suit and short cape, he loomed in the parlor’s doorway. Arvana grimaced as she saw again in her mind the arc of the sword, the way Nan’s head snapped backward, how he crumpled to the ground. All over again, she went frozen with the terror she had felt when he didn’t rise for so many minutes.

Musette’s jumping up and curtsying brought Arvana back to the parlor. The dressmaker was scurrying to collect the dress box and her sewing basket. At Chane’s saying, “I’ve come for a word with my sister’s tutor,” both women backed from the room, Musette closing the door behind her.

Chane could only be here for one reason. Arvana went to the door and turned the key in the lock. “I saw the match.”

“I know.”

“Your skill and generosity—”

He paced before the couch. “My generosity? I have a confession. You’ll think it low of me, but I had to know,
know
without doubt that my will is stronger than his. At Summercrest, I was intentionally ill-mannered to him to make him dislike me. And, the packet that was part of his wager was a love letter. I wanted to know he was fighting for everything.”

Dear Maker, did Chane know the letter was from her? She tightened her arms across her chest. “A love letter?”

“I couldn’t take it. Defeat is enough of a humiliation. I just wanted to know—”

“That you won over a man fighting for everything.” And he wanted me to know, too, she thought. Chane was gloating, but he had a right.

He nodded. “Just so, though I never would’ve wagered such a thing.”

“Even when so much was at stake? What would you have done?”

“What would I have done?” Chane stopped pacing, thoughtfully turned, and set a piercing gaze on her. His eyes were full black and narrowed at the corners with remembered pain. “Do you think I’ve not learned the terrible price of not honoring what one loves?”

“Perhaps the letter meant little to him.”

Chane took to pacing again. “Then my triumph would be sorely diminished. But I was there when he received it and when he lost it. I assure you that wasn’t the case.”

Not the case. Oh, Maker. She flattened her palm against her heart, and then slid the heel of her hand down, down to where the relic lay. “The sword. You gave him back his sword. Why?”

“Once upon a time I would never have considered it. Assaea belonged to my ancestor and it would be a fine thing to have two swords to pass to my sons. But I have learned our own notions and wishes alone don’t unfold fate—a hard lesson for a prince. I have Artell. Most would say it’s the luckier of the two blades. Fate gave the Sarapostan Assaea, and he’s used it well. We’ll work together or each take a battlefront to defend against the draeden until I can find The Scyon.”

“You mean to be like Lukis and Paulus,” Arvana said quietly.

“He’s a brilliant swordsman and, I hear, even a better commander. In Orlandia, when I discovered what the sword was, I dispatched Keithan to find out about him. Petty politics keep him from higher command. I can’t have us going to war with him being constrained by another’s orders. If my wish has any sway in Sarapost, he’ll soon be a general. I don’t want him knowing he’s beholden to me, though.”

The generalship for Nan. She crossed the room and eased onto the couch.

“I feared he wouldn’t accept Assaea after losing. For that, I respect him. I never had to earn Artell. It was my birthright. Yet...I hope I proved my worthiness to carry it.” Chane stopped before her. His eyes searched the shadows flickering across the ceiling. I’ve spoken my piece. Everything else is yours to decide.”

She folded her hands in her lap. Dear Maker, there was no other choice. He’d done everything she could have asked, and more, to prove himself. Still, the past was unalterably there. He couldn’t change the past; he could only regret it. The depth of his regret had shown honestly in his eyes when he said he knew the pain of not honoring what he loved. It seemed he had spoken of more than his love for her. Not honoring his ancestors. She looked on him. He wasn’t broken-spirited or humble, but was newly respectful that not every decision was his to make. Most were. But not this one.

“Prince, I can’t give it to you.”

Chane, voice steady, without anger or resentment, said, “I understand.” He turned and headed to the door.

He
was
a changed man. His hand on the door, Arvana said. “Chane, wait.”

He paused, his back to her.

“You’ve passed my test. There is but one other. Snuff the candles.”

As he went from candle to candle, she removed her headband, veil, and ring. By the moonlight coming in through the tall parlor windows, he threaded back to her, and she made room for him beside her on the couch. “My testing you is a formality. I know you’ll be able to use it. But, the first time is difficult, and it helps to have someone close by to remind you of the living world. As you know, once you are in Hell, you can look back into the Blue Eye and see the draeden and The Scyon. Do nothing to betray who or where we are. Open your hand.” She looped the chain over her head and placed the relic in his palm. How strange, almost feminine, the large locket looked in his broad, fleshy hand.

He pressed the latch and gazed into the stone. His broad shoulders slumped.

Arvana leaped up, threw her arms around him, and leaned him back on the couch so he wouldn’t pitch upon the floor. His eyes rolled into his head, and drops of sweat glistened in his sideburns. Guttural sounds gurgled in his throat. His hand holding the Blue Eye fell to the couch.

He’d been in Hell long enough. “Look at me,” Arvana said.

He didn’t respond.

“Look.”

She planted one knee on the couch beside his thigh and leaned over him. Cradling his face in her hands, she pressed her thumbs to the bones at the edge of his eye sockets. His eyes rolled disconcertingly.

“Chane, look at me.”

His focused on her for a moment, and then his eyes drifted up under the lids. She held his jaw in her hands.

“Look at me.”

Finally, his gaze steadied. She took the Blue Eye and held it for him to see The Scyon and the fire draeden.

His eyes narrowed, searched the stone, and opened wide. His jaw worked.

He saw.

She snapped the cover shut.

Chane nodded forward as if he was falling asleep. Arvana let his head come to rest against her chest. “It’s over,” she said.

“No, it’s only just begun,” he whispered. “What I saw...”

“What?”

“No.” He raised his head from her chest. “You’ll never have to witness what these things have become. This I swear.”

Arvana drew the relic’s chain wide and placed it over his head. “Solace names you our champion. May the Maker’s mercy be upon you. May you be the new savior.”

After the front door closed on Chane, Arvana took a lantern and went to the stairs. Her hand trembled on the railing as she thought of Chane’s words, of what he and Nan would soon be facing. Even when she’d seen Nan’s feet, the danger always had seemed a distant possibility, as remote as the images in the Blue Eye. Now it was imminent and inevitable.

As she turned the landing, there was Musette, sitting on the top step. Her stern, questioning expression halted Arvana. Dear Maker, did Musette suspect her and Chane of something untoward? Arvana couldn’t bear a lecture now.

“Is it over? Musette asked.

“I—”

“You’ve decided. You think him worthy?”

Arvana rushed up the stairs to pass her.

“All along I’ve known why you’re here,” said Musette.

Arvana stopped beside her. The lantern cast deep shadows down the sides of Musette’s drawn mouth.

“I knew as a precaution, if something should happen to you. Not because the superior didn’t trust you, though I confess, I’ve wondered at her wisdom. Now, though, I rejoice this wasn’t my choice. Forgive me.” She took the bottom of Arvana’s sash in her hands and pressed them together. “I’ve prayed that your decision would bring you and the world peace. What a trial being here has been to you. What a relief it will be to go home.”

Home. “Yes, a relief.”

Musette smiled. “Go. I’ll bring you some tea.”

Arvana shut herself in her room, put the lamp on the dressing table, and sat. For so long, she’d expected this moment to bring her joy, bring her closer to being a shacra. But how could she feel joy in the terrible battles that awaited the two men she’d grown to know so well? It had been selfish expectation that this duty would make her a shacra. She removed her headband and veil and then leaned forward to untie her new sash. She smoothed it flat across the table to fold it. There was no medal to unpin. She hadn’t worn it for weeks. She opened the drawer where she kept it hidden and took it out. At touching the medal’s mother-of-pearl moon, her body tingled with the remembered sensation of his arms pulling her ever closer.
Oh, Ari
. She must either return it to him soon or give it to the superior.

As she had for every evening since the dinner at Sarapost House, she pulled her dress up and fell to her bare knees. They burned from the hours spent kneeling long into the night. She bowed her head.

Dear Maker, have mercy. I am the weakest of your servants. I could ask you to blot his memory from me, but I couldn’t bear it. I’d rather live with my shame than lose the joy of these moons, though there is no hope of happiness in it. That must be my penance.

Relief to be home. Oh, if Musette only knew the wound she rubbed. I promised to be with you through rules I well understood, and Solace, with its simple life, is so dear to me. I can’t even imagine not wearing this gray dress. It reminds me to love you with all I am, however imperfect my love. But how can I carry this heart of mine into Solace and dishonor the sacrifice of the Founder? She let go of her love of Paulus. Shall I secretly suffer there, or resign and suffer the pain of seeing my brother, of begging him for a place that I may live out my days with my failure exposed to the world? I must either be false to my vows in keeping them, or false to them in breaching them. Tell me, where is to be home?

Chane was right. Nothing has ended. Not even for me.

Hera Musette’s knock ended her prayer but not her indecision.

Sarapost House, four days later

D
egarius pushed away his dinner plate and took his pipe from his pocket.

“Oh no, not yet,” Fassal said. “You’ll be asleep or delirious by the next bell if you smoke. Remember, we’re going to the club to celebrate my last night as an unengaged man.”

“I remember.” Degarius stashed the pipe and rubbed his stubbly chin. He hadn’t felt like shaving, and he didn’t feel like going to the club, but he had to oblige Fassal. Tomorrow night would be yet another obligation—the princess’s Coming of Age party. Fassal was going to propose during it. The ring cost four years’ rations for a regiment. As Degarius reached for the wine decanter, a servant came in to announce the arrival of a Sarapostan express rider.

The weary-eyed rider was coated in road dust and clutching a wooden travel case. “For Captain Degarius from the king and chancellor.”

Degarius sat down the decanter. Such a package, sent by express rider from the king
and
chancellor, could only mean one thing. Why didn’t the messenger’s fingers work faster unlashing the case bindings? Degarius could have done it himself already by now, but he had to sit with a great man’s requisite composure.

Fassal’s dog, roused by the messenger’s arrival, trotted to Degarius and hung his drooling jowls over his leg. “Not now,” Degarius said and scowled. This was supposed to be a moment of dignity, but the damn dog stood fast.

First, the messenger withdrew a polished black-lacquered box. Next, he presented a plain, paper-wrapped parcel.

“Open them, man,” cried Fassal. “The box first. I long to see what’s inside.”

From the box came a gold oval broach stamped with a buck in midleap. Degarius took it in his fingertips. He’d waited so long, and now it was his.

He was general.

“By the Maker,” Fassal cried and was around the table in a flash to wring Degarius’s hand. “Let me be the first to call you
General
Degarius. What does the scroll say? Read it.”

Degarius laughed. “If you let go of my hand, I will.”

After removing the ribbon and unrolling the scroll, Degarius paraphrased King Fassal’s letter. “I am appointed General of the Mounted Third. I’m bestowed the title with this letter. A formal ceremony will be held upon my return to Sarapost at my earliest convenience.”

“I give you joy, brother.” Fassal shook his hand again. “Tomorrow is not your earliest convenience. You must stay for my engagement.”

“Of course.”

“Good, good. What’s in the parcel?”

By weighing it in his hands, Degarius guessed the contents of the package from his father. He unwrapped a general’s coat with the requisite double row of buttons and a profusion of gold lace and picot ribbon trim. The card said the tailor had run up the coat in amazing speed to the measurements of an old garment.

“Try it,” Fassal said.

Degarius slipped the coat on over his peasant’s blouse. It fit perfectly.