They sat in silence, Ari and Claribel, two spirits tethered to one body, as Sir Edwin padded into the garden to beckon Finn’s father for his account.
Outside, the light dwindled. Outside, Hesperus knelt by the horse’s trough, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing and wiping until he gave Finn a nod to refill it with fresh water. The cellar floor was scrubbed clean, until only the smell of blood remained, sunken deep into its crevices. Finn smiled, eyes bright even as the dusk fell.
They sat in silence, in a peace that was merely a scream away from breaking, in a peace that went against her very training.
*
‘A riddle for you, my lovely Agents-to-be,’ Mrs Hart’s smile reached her ghost-thin crow’s feet, but not her eyes. ‘What’s the difference between an Agent and a murderer?’
‘An Agent never chooses to kill or let-live. An Agent merely completes the mission they’ve been given. Once you give in to your own desires, you are on your own.’
*
‘Once you give in to your own desires,’ wrote the Red Raven in an ink that Ari hoped was not blood, though the headless body and the bodiless birds suggested otherwise, ‘you are your own agent. Just like every prime minister, every king, every god. Yours, A Murderer.’
The space between her eyes throbbed. Her heart threatened to bloom through her chest, like a shard of crystal, and she was a creature of mud, moulded from earth and water, moulded around its icy core.
When she set the letter down, her hands had been stained red, like the raven.
*
The tune played again in her head. It’d survived hundreds of years by being catchy. She’d have preferred the screaming vocals and heavy basslines of Trojan Threnody, but it was not to be. Greensleeves was all her joy.
~Which version?~
Claribel squinted at Finn’s father’s silhouette; he was shaking his head again at Sir Edwin. ~There’s the traditional version and the Lycurin version.~
~The book you read must be poorly written. I thought it described His Majesty’s rise to the throne.~
~Well. Yes. Then who was the king before King Leolin?~
~Somebody called Lycurin,~ Claribel said in a voice that might offer to spell it out for her next. ~King Leolin is his long-lost son. Lycurin was… many things, and also a lyricist for a grand total of one song. He rewrote ‘Under the Lime Tree’ for his long-lost lover.~
~He passed a decree that we were not to sing the traditional version anymore, but now that he has returned to the Fated One, we have returned to the old version, because this is how his goes.~ Claribel cleared her throat.
~Under the lime tree,
On the heather,
Where you had named the constellations
In eight different tongues
Though you only
Had one in your mouth and won’t kiss me with it.
Oh you knew all the kings’ names
Even as a baby – my Tamaren –
And all the popes’ names too.~
It had started with some potential, but soon turned as disappointing as King Lycurin’s relationship with his lover probably was.
~I think he actually wanted to emphasise her genius. She was famed for being precocious, for being as wise as a sage at the age of a child, even though her father was a carpenter, but, alas, he wanted to write all the lyrics himself, much like how he wanted to rule his kingdom.~
Sir Edwin finally stalked back, dragging Finn’s father behind him.
The man ducked as he squeezed through the back door, and stayed near it, regarding her with a trepidation usually reserved for Ari, not Claribel.
‘What a merry lot we are!’ Sir Edwin clapped his hands together and rubbed them over the hearth. ‘Old man Sean over there wants your word before we get onto, well, anything really. So, your word please, my lady, upon the honour of House Aquilon.’
Ari tried to yank the incredulous look off her face. Sean was hardly of an age to believe in pinky swears cajoled from unwilling hands. A stranger’s word should be worth less than the dirt under his fingernails. ‘Honour. Yes.’
‘But why does she have to listen to my account?’ Sean refused to meet her eyes, and studied his own feet instead. The light from the hearth cast shadows against the crags of his cheeks and the hollowness under his eyes. He looked far older than Sir Edwin. Was it the days on the slaughter field or the nights alone with his thoughts afterwards?
Stolen novel; please report.
‘It’s because I can’t see outside, and even if I could, I don’t want to sit there quivering with a quill. I’m going to sit by the nice, toasty fire. My lady is also sitting here, most likely because this is the only hearth in this house.’ Turning to Ari, he said, ‘My lady, would you like to step out through the back door and stumble into some lovely, fresh road apples? Perhaps you’d like to go and hover in the kitchen instead? From the wonderful scents as we squeezed through, you’d be in luck for acquainting yourself with some gutted eel. Or… perhaps you’d like to head home, to the comfort of your manor, with its numerous hearths?’
‘No.’
‘No…?’
‘No. But if you want my word, yes, have some.’
‘Yes… My lady of many words, as you can see, Sean, my old man. She’s not going to kill you for yours, unless you are foolish enough to creep into her solar uninvited, or, as some might say, if your name is Tristram. In fact, I think I did say that after our initial meeting. And as a token of apology, I’d like to invite her to stay. See? My lady, this is how much I believe in your innocence. Come, come, sit, my friend, and tell me this: what do you know of Tristram?’
‘Nothing. Never spoke to him. Kept away from him.’
Sir Edwin sighed. ‘How about this then? How did you come to live with Hesperus?’
He coughed out a laugh. ‘Are you asking me because you want to know, or are you asking me because you think Hesperus killed Tristram? I thought you’d just accused Nanny Jesse. Are you trying to pin it on anyone who’s not the lady over there?’
‘I am merely conducting a fair inquest into what might have happened.’
‘Fair,’ spat Sean. ‘Fair. All right. I’ll give you your answer. Don’t tell me you don’t want it after.’
Then Sean painted his account.
How many days had it been since the war ended? Weeks? Months? It all blurred into one long unstoppable wreck, but no matter how hard he pinched himself, he couldn’t wake, he couldn’t sleep. Sleep. Sleep… Nodding into a waking nightmare.
Cassie.
Morgan.
Lost.
Samuel.
William.
Barty with the Buck Teeth.
Names that’d mean nothing to anyone else, now that he was the only one left.
Lost, lost, lost.
During daytime, sunlight had already bleached away the details in their faces. A crooked smile. A half-arched brow. It slipped away from him, turning into nothing, like a trail of their breath. Gone.
At night, he could taste the sweat that dripped into his mouth, smell the copper that spilled from their blood, watch their final stand, again, and again, and again. They slipped away from him, once, twice, thrice, gone, but never truly gone, gone, gone.
Only one reality remained.
Papa. Papa. Papa.
Finn.
Finn, who’d grow up to forget his mother’s face. If only their hut, their hens, their lives, if only… If only it hadn’t all turned to ashes. If only he’d saved silver enough to pay for a portrait. The boy deserved to know.
The boy deserved more.
So he swallowed what pride he had left and waited. Waited with Finn. Waited outside the gates of Lady Oriana’s manor. Gates carelessly gilded with gold.
Please… Please… You saved me once. Please. Please give me a chance.
My lady had already saved your life. What more do you want from her? Aren’t you lucky to escape with all your limbs? If you don’t piss off, I’ll remove one for you.
At dawn, Finn would lead him past the flowers they laid around Levia’s sun arches. Flowers, red and white. Red, for the blood that had spilt. White, for the innocence lost. Thanks to the heroes who’d won the war. Thank you very much. Heroes. Heroes each and every one.
They queued up, outside the gates of the Cathedral, waiting, waiting, waiting for Cardinal Octavus to give them what others could spare.
Hello. Oh hello. Here you are again, hey?
Old Tom, who’d lost an eye. Pale Lucy, who’d lost a husband and a son. Morty, who’d only lost his mind.
Heroes. Heroes each and every one, clutching some noble’s kind donation: discarded bread that’d once carried their roast pork and peas pottage. Kind, generous nobles, each and every one.
Look, papa, look! Mathis and Bertin are still there!
Lady Claribel’s Chaplain and Almoner. Small chance that the bread they’d scramble for would be fresh out of the oven. Small chance that they’d receive a handful of dried fruits in their pack. Small chance that it’d run out before they’d even caught a glimpse of the bread.
Then they were gone. Gone, back to their manor, back to their clean hearths and their full larders. Kind nobles, going above and beyond.
Please, good sir, I fought in the Battle.
Did he utter those words before his visit to Lady Oriana’s manor, or did he after? Before came an eternity after the inevitable future, full of nothing. An unbreakable loop. Day, by day, by day. Life, by life, by life. But there was Finn.
Please.
He must have worn a thousand holes through that word. And still.
Please. Please, I can serve as Lady Claribel’s farmhand. I know how to keep chicken, mend fences, see? And my boy…
Everyone’s fought in some war or another. It never stops, does it? We’ve just hired two farmhands, I’m afraid. My lady doesn’t need anyone else.
Please…
Look, my lady gives alms to the Cathedral. House Aquilon donates more food and aid than any other House in Eirene already. Go to the Cardinal if you need help.
But…
We can’t just hire everyone who comes knocking, can we? If you were one of Duke Auster’s soldiers, go find his son. He’ll give you compensation if you’ve lost a limb or injured an eye.
Nothing. He’d lost nothing. Whole. A whole man. That’s what he was supposed to be.
His hands shook all the time, from the memories or the need for more alcohol that was meant to drown them, he no longer knew. Present bled into the past. Bleeding. Bleeding.
Then Finn’s hands on his, as he gripped onto the wineskin filled with what was yet to go in, or what had already come out of his body. Did it even matter?
Papa, please.
It was cold on that day, that night, that hazy past.
Please.
Said the boy who’d lost so much.
Please.
Said the boy who wouldn’t let go of his hand.
Please.
His son.
He flung the wineskin with a roar. All that he had.
Lies.
All that he had was staring down at him. Finn.
The wineskin bounced, and spilled the wretched liquid onto the cloak of a passerby.
He prayed to the Fated One for the man to pass by. To leave them be. To leave Finn be.
Sorry, sir, his son was saying.
You have nothing to apologise for. On the other hand… Is that your father?
He steadied himself, and stood in one graceful motion. But the earth was at his teeth again. He rolled over, and stared into the cold blue eyes of the fire mage who’d once graced the front lines.
Hesperus of the blue flames.
The flames crackled over the scritch-scratch of Sir Edwin’s quill on parchment.
The mud that had once clung to her feet chilled her once more, dragging her back, back, to the waters. How could it look so tranquil, so serene, so regal when she smelled of blood? She waited, waited until she collapsed into it, sending ripples across the mirror-still surface.
Claribel opened her mouth in an apology, but Ari clamped it shut; it tasted like an insult on her tongue. She bowed her head and took her leave, like she should have done in the first place.
*
A lone figure was already at the gates when they arrived back at Wingshill House.
The jewels hung heavy around her neck as she hopped down to stand next to the rags that adorned him.
‘Please,’ he was saying, hands stretched towards the guards, as if he was begging for something he didn’t deserve. ‘Please, Lady Claribel said I might collect two moons if I came by. I… I was wondering if…’
‘He’s with me, Bador,’ said Claribel. ‘He’s the man I spoke about the other day. It is already dark. Come in and dine with me.’
The man who’d scraped Malory’s remains from the City Square followed her inside the gates that gleamed with gold-gilt ravens.