It had been two weeks since the entombment of Valen II, and 12 days since a memorial service had been held in his honour in the city. Blades rang together like musical instruments in the winter morning, filling the small bailey with ringing steel as their musicians played a striking duet.
Arian fought against an elderly man who, though clearly reaching the twilight of his years, was as spry as a child and whose skill with a sword far eclipsed the prince’s own. Sigered, as he was called, was the Sarkanian court’s Master of Swords, and his grey hair was tied back and his eyes as brown as autumn leaves.
Despite Arian’s own instruction in the swordfighting arts, which during the war against Lavell had earned him some not insignificant renown, there was a painfully clear difference in their abilities. Sigered danced and deflected Arian’s strikes, punishing his every mistake with a thwap of the flat edge of his weapon and constantly calling out improper footwork or movement, or any other imperfection that he could perceive. As it were, he could perceive many.
“The tip of your thumb sticks out beyond your closed grip. Would you like me to cut it off?” The old man chastised him. “And your grip is wrong. Your fists are turned slightly outward, thus your wrists are not straight when you hold your weapon. A skilled swordsman could snap those wrists like twigs.”
“Sorry, Sir,” Arian said, his breath heavy, and only the cold stopping his sweat from pouring.
Sigered thrust his sword again, and Arian knocked it away with a steady sidewards motion and counter-attacked with a thrust of his own. Any normal warrior would have been forced to evade that counter-attack, or would otherwise have greatly struggled to properly defend against it, but Sigered did so with such effortlessness that even after years of training Arian was still surprised by the old man. Sigered relaxed his grip as soon as his sword was parried, then released the pommel with his lower hand and turned his right so that his sword was across his chest. By the time the blade was there, and before Arian’s own counter-attack touched him, the flat of Sigered’s sword was braced against his free forearm, and with this greater degree of movement he raised both the sword and its support to stop Arian’s swing mid-strike.
Arian pulled his sword back, and before he could even ask Sigered began to give an explanation. “You wield your weapon too stiffly,” said the old man, his white shirt nearly blending with the thin layer of snow around them. “A sword is a sharp tool, but not a strong one. Wielding a blade with a tight grip is an important foundation, but what good is that against an opponent who is more flexible, or far more powerful? A true master of the sword can loosen or tighten his grip as necessary and in an instance, and never worry about his sword being knocked from his hands.”
“But you taught me that your grip must always be steady and sure,” Arian complained.
“Sometimes a lie is more useful to a man than the truth, and using that lie a master can temper his student as a blacksmith tempers steel. For instance, a father could tell his son that all those who toy with fire are burned, and that fire can only destroy. This, technically, is a lie, yet through that lie the son is tempered with a healthy respect for the danger of flame. When he grows a little older, and learns the truth that fire can in fact be tamed, he will never be at risk of burning himself or his house, for the lesson imparted by that lie will always be with him. Without that lie, the child would have grown a fool and burned himself in the flames; potentially costing his life.”
“I see,” Arian replied, lowering his sword. Ever since they had returned from Lavell, and Arian had seen his first real combat, Sigered had insisted they only practice with real, sharpened blades. “The art of killing,” Sigered had said, “honed without the risk of death, is like a sword sharpened without a whetstone, or tea made without leaves.”
Arian sat on one of the benches lining the square path that ran through the smaller bailey of the castle. It was set between the buildings of the main hall and the state rooms, and though only a quarter of the size of the main bailey that was separated from theirs by a small wooden gate, it was considered far more beautiful. Silver birch trees, each 15 meters tall and thicker than a large thigh, lined the outside of the bailey just inside the walls, and because of them their practice arena was known as the silver garden.
Seeing that Arian had not made any further acknowledgement of his imparted wisdom, Sigered cleared his throat. “And when will I see your brother again?” He asked. “Your father wished me to train the both of you, yet Caden seems uninterested.”
“Busy, I suppose,” Arian replied. “There’s only a few weeks more until spring and there are plenty of affairs to get in order.”
“So it is true he is leaving, then,” said the old man, a frown growing on his face.
“Not forever. He’s going north for a while, then after his business is done he’ll return.”
“A man does not simply journey north without serious risk, and the return might be wrought with more danger still.”
Something in Sigered’s tone suggested prior experience and Arian looked at him curiously. “You talk as though you’ve been,” he said.
“In a way,” Sigered replied cryptically.
“In what way?”
“In the way that your memory of a battle changes, little by little each time you recall it, until suddenly you find yourself an old man with an echo of a version of an event now lost to distant history.”
“You’re being purposefully confusing, aren’t you?” Arian asked him. “Well you should speak to my brother. He could use your guidance.”
“Is that not why I am here in this silver garden?” Sigered replied, gesturing around them at the birch trees. “You cannot force knowledge on someone who doesn’t want to learn. At best he’ll not listen, at worst he’ll get it wrong. If he wanted guidance he would be here.”
Arian sighed audibly, and steam accompanied his exhale into the chill morning air. He rested his sword against his thigh and rubbed his hands together to warm them, and stayed in silence for a time until there was a question he wanted to ask. “What is it like? In the north?”
Sigered thought for a moment, resting his chin on the pommel of his sword. “Infinite,” he replied, after what appeared to be some lengthy contemplation.
-
That night, Jaqueline lay breathless on the bed of her husband, and drew the fine crimson sheets up over her still aching loins and lay them to rest around her midsection. It was warm in Caden’s room, and seeing little use for modesty in the private company of her spouse her breasts lay bare as she reached up to untangle strands of her hair. Caden, who sat naked by her side, reached over with his hand and touched the breast that was closest to him.
“What is it?” She asked him, pausing to look at his face. He was looking off into the distance, barely even listening to her, and this made her frown. “Do you want to do it again?”
Caden’s reply came without words and instead in the form of a squeeze of his hand. Jaqueline sighed and rolled onto her side so that Caden was forced to release her, and wrapped both of her arms around his own. “If you do,” she said, resting the side of her head at the base of Caden’s shoulder, “I will need to wash first.”
“No, I don’t,” he finally replied.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“This used to be my father’s room, and his father’s room, and his father’s room. My mother slept in here.”
“Well of course. This is the master bedroom,” Jaqueline replied. “And this is a new bed, so it’s not like we’re in the one that they shared.”
“Yes I know, but it occurred to me that they were all kings and queens. Even you are a queen of Lavell. I am the only one who sleeps in this room who does not legally wear a crown.”
“Then conduct the ceremony,” Jaqueline told him with a yawn of fatigue. “You could have it done at any moment, and you are king even without it. Everyone knows you are your father’s heir, and your claim is so strong that no-one has even questioned that you have not been formally crowned. They simply accept it as fact, just like how a child will still be a year older even without birthday celebrations.”
Caden smiled slightly. “I never saw your crowning,” he told her.
“It was directly after my father’s funeral. We never even left the cathedral.”
“It’s funny. I never even realized it until after the night with the assassin. Someone must have told me, of course, but I never listened. It was only after I woke again in your arms that it occurred to me that you were now queen of a realm that had no king. Your people must truly love you, you know - I think the people of Sarkana would have trouble accepting a kingless queen.”
“I am not kingless, my king,” Jaqueline replied. “Besides, you are the de facto King of Lavell, Caden, as enforced by your armies of Sarkana.”
“They will soon also be your armies,” said Caden, “when you are Queen of Sarkana. And for now, until the people of Lavell accept me, I will refrain from being their king. I will be your prince-consort, and protector of our realms.”
“I should hate your country for what it has done to mine,” Jaqueline revealed. “And yet… Despite Lavell’s loss, I feel like it is a victory for my people. For our people. We finally stand at the precipice of union between them.”
Caden was silent for a moment. Such an opinion had been exactly what his father had wished to create, and the more they reaped the benefits of Valen’s plan the more Caden came to appreciate the ingenuity of it. “... I’m glad you see it that way,” he said quietly.
“Thank you, my love. You should have your crowning ceremony - make it official beyond all doubt. Then, with the strength of Sarkana and Lavell together, we can look to Kedora, and you will become the king who finally united the Southern Realms.”
Caden looked down at her for a moment. “I don’t think I can. Not yet. How can I name myself king of a people and then leave them to rebuild from this war on their own? I could be gone for over a year… Perhaps even longer. I would not be worthy of the title.”
Jacqueline, who was frowning now, reached for the sheets and pulled them further over herself. “You would not only be worthy of the title, but you are the only one who could take it. A realm must have a king, Caden, and you are the only king this realm will accept. Take it before someone else does and tears apart all your work.”
“I’m going to go and get some water. Would you like any?”
“No, thank you.”
Suddenly Caden climbed out of the bed, and Jaqueline found it feeling warm, yet empty. A tiredness came over her, and the candle that was lit beside the bed flickered and danced before her eyes in some exotic and mesmerising manner, teasing them into closing.
When she opened them again the candle had almost burned to its base, suggesting it was past midnight. She looked around, but Caden was not there, and she called out his name only to hear silence. She sighed and groaned, pulling the sheets from her and stepping out onto the carpeted floor beneath her bare feet. She reached her arms up, stretching, and walked over by a dresser and sat down on a chair to examine herself in the mirror.
Stolen novel; please report.
She had always been known as beautiful, and she had never doubted it, but as she looked into the mirror each of her subtle imperfections came to light in her eyes. She examined her naked body, her face, her unbrushed hair, and began to wonder if Caden had noticed those small things that she disliked about herself, and if he had noticed, she wondered what he thought of them. Perhaps, contrary to her own opinion, those small things were those that drew him to her in the first place.
She shook her head at the thought, and decided to brush her hair. She tried to open one of the dresser drawers to find a brush, but noticed that it was locked. She looked around the dresser for a key and, when she could not find one, assumed that Caden had kept the key somewhere in one of his coat pockets. She walked to where they hung, slipped her hand into one of them and found nothing, so she went to another pocket, this time on the coat’s inside, and slid her hand down past a piece of parchment until she found a small key.
She withdrew the key, unlocked the drawer, and began to carefully brush her hair. As she did so, her mind traced back to the parchment she had felt, and unable to contain her curiosity she went back to the coat and took it. As she began to read it, her hands faltered and it fluttered out of her grasp and to the floor.
Just then Caden entered the room, and looked at her and the letter she had been reading as he closed the door quietly behind him. “This is some… Uncertain timing,” he said, his tone dead.
“I had wondered where this letter went,” said Jaqueline, her voice anything but steady. “How did you get it?”
“I have my ways,” he replied as he walked up behind her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked.
“If you knew that I had this letter, we would have never married.”
“That’s not true. This letter, it’s-”
Jaqueline’s voice was interrupted as Caden placed his hands around her waist and laid them to rest gently over her groin, then pulled her back into him until they could be no closer. “Nothing?” He finished her question rhetorically, lowering his head to place his chin on her slender shoulder.
“You were my enemy, Caden. You had invaded my country, my chateau.”
“Who is A.L, Jaqueline? Alaric Laurens?”
She nodded. “We were going to marry, before the war started.”
“And so you had him hire assassins.”
“No, that is not what I asked!” Jaqueline said, her voice becoming frantic and fearful. “I have no idea who those assassins were, or why they were there.”
“The poison, then.”
Jaqueline went silent, eventually answering with a nod. “We wanted to turn Lord Gray and Wulfsurd against one another,” she finally said, “and create a rift that we could exploit. Alaric was supposed to bring men to take back the chateau in the chaos, but those assassins? They were not part of our plan, I promise you. Why would I try to kill my own father?”
Caden placed a gentle kiss on her neck, and Jaqueline murmured as though suddenly scared for her life. “Why are you frightened?” He asked. “I will not harm you. I do not blame you for your actions.”
Droplets began to fall down Jaqueline’s cheeks, and as she looked at Caden in the mirror by the dresser she saw how the candlelight reflected off his white eyes to create a fierce, otherworldly glow. Yet the man behind those eyes was a shadow, and it was as though a darkness wrapped its arms around her. “You will have me killed, won’t you?” She asked, trembling.
“No,” Caden answered. “But I will kill Alaric. Where did he go?”
“The mountains, I think… Through to the north.”
“For what reason?”
“He went to hire mercenaries to help free my father, but that letter was the last I heard from him. I know nothing else.”
Caden sighed deeply, then released Jaqueline and crouched to pick the letter up off the floor. “Forget about him. He has tried and failed, and now nothing he can offer you has as much value as what I have already given. I understand, really I do; you are smart, and willing to go to great lengths for your country, and your heart was moved by a fleeting romance with a man who must have been as charming as he was beautiful. But now your country will join with mine, becoming one under our joint rule… And a fleeting romance pales in comparison to our marriage.”
Jaqueline took a step away, and found a robe on a nearby table that she wound around herself. “I am not deaf, Caden,” she told him, wiping her eyes with a finger. “I can hear the meaning hidden between your words. You’re threatening me - as subtly as you can, but threatening still.”
“And if it was not for your attempted betrayal, I would not need to. I’m reminding you that it is to both of our advantages to work together, not against each other, and that when I am away I am leaving the care of our realms to you, my brother and our high lords. While I forgive you for what you tried to do, you must understand that I cannot allow you to undermine what has so far been accomplished. What I’m saying is that… If you try again, this letter is solid proof of a conspiracy against your king and husband.”
“Do not worry, husband,” Jaqueline told him as she tied her robe and climbed into the bed. “I will not try again. After all, how can I? I am trapped here, a prisoner in all but name, and a pawn in the greatest game there is.”
Caden folded the letter carefully and placed it into his pocket, and as Jaqueline covered her body and head with the crimson sheets, Caden opened the door and stepped out of the room.
-
The next day was cold and harsh, and a blizzard blew across Sovereign that was so harsh that only those with dire business left their houses for morning errands. The sky was a blinding winter white and snow and ice swept across the city in heavy winds, threatening to suck away the warmth of hearth fires even through the thick stone walls.
By the time it was approaching mid-day the storm had lulled, and Arian had been called to the castle’s chapel which lay on the opposite side of the Great Hall to the Silver Garden. When he got there he found that the thick black door was being held open by a lesser priest of the cult, and was invited inside to find a gathering of some of the most illustrious men in Sarkana.
He immediately recognized Wulfsurd and his brother, and several high-ranking knights and nobles, and commanders from the military, and even some of the lesser nobles drawn in from the surrounding city. He knew some of them, but not many, and many of those he would have expected to find at such a meeting, such as Lord Gray or Lord Colbert, were absent due to their business in Lavell.
Those who were there were seated on benches in rows of five either side of the main aisle, and at the back of the chapel by the altar stood Pontifex Talsin, with the great hanging banners of the Eye Cult falling from the ceiling behind him. Arian looked at those seated, and several turned to give him nods of acknowledgement, or sweet smiles in the case of the few ladies present. “What’s happening?” Arian asked, before the Pontifex urged him towards the front where he was made to take a seat opposite the aisle to his brother.
“A crowning, lad,” came the whispering voice of old Sigered, who sat directly besides Arian. “We’re making it official at last.”
“I wasn’t told about this,” Arian murmured.
“None of us were. There was no preparation,” the swordmaster replied.
“Please excuse us, Lords and Ladies. We still wait for the arrival of Her Majesty, Jaqueline of Lavell,” the Pontifex said, now standing in such a place that he blocked Arian’s view of the small statue of Arfeyr that stood atop the altar. He could still see the great eyes painted on the crimson banners though, and for a moment Arian wondered if Arfeyr was actually looking through them.
“Where is Jaqueline?” Arian asked, turning to look at Sigered as those around them began to talk quietly between themselves.
“Late, I assume,” came the answer.
Arian sighed, turning to once again glance at those present. His brother sat beside Wulfsurd and Sir Anselm on the other aisle, and behind them were Ethelyn and Arthur and some others he did not know. Beside Wulfsurd were Lords Kingston and Boleyn, and to Arian’s own side sat the elderly Lord Dunstan, near deaf and blind and yet still full of a child’s youthful anticipation. And behind them were others - servants of the castle, garrison and army officers, knights and ladies, priests and pontiffs, many seeming to have been invited purely to ensure a respectable audience rather than true merit.
Eventually, when Jaqueline entered the chapel escorted by a Sarkanian lady-in-waiting, those gathered in the chapel all stood. “What is this?” Jaqueline asked. She wore a beautiful blue dress, with a winter cloak of fur coloured in patches of brown and white around her shoulders.
“Come, Majesty,” said the pontifex, gesturing for her to approach the altar. The Pontifex turned then, the hem of his violet robes sliding over the stone floor. From behind, the tall hat he wore made his head seem far bigger than it was, and the gold ornaments that were fastened to it must have been worth as much as a farm. The Pontifex bent over the altar, until the fur rim of his robes made him look like some headless animal, and took two wooden boxes that were each large enough to contain a head.
Jaqueline walked down towards the altar, and Caden joined her and greeted her to find that she did not answer him. An awkward silence fell across the room in acknowledgement of Jaqueline’s own, but Caden smirked it off as though there was some joke in it, and he turned with her to face the Pontifex as the rest of the crowd stood from their seats.
“Caden, son and heir of King Valen, and Jaqueline, wife to Caden,” said Talsin, opening each of the wooden boxes in turn to reveal the crowns within them. On the left, where Caden was, the crown was of silversteel with spikes around the top like thorns, and the band had inlaid jewels of red and white. On the right Jaqueline’s crown was far more dainty, a goldrose tiara decorated with hundreds of the smallest and clearest diamonds. Each crown sat upon a red cushion, and they drew the eyes of all in the chapel.
“Will each of you now kneel before Arfeyr, to receive from his rule the right of rulership?” Talsin asked. Slowly Caden and Jaqueline lowered themselves to their knees, with Caden taking Jaqueline’s hand and helping her down. “To be King, and Queen, of Sarkana in his name? His representatives and regents in this land?”
“I will kneel,” said Caden, and lowered himself so far down that the neck of his white shirt almost touched the stone ground.
There was then a pause in the ceremony, the Pontifex watching Jaqueline carefully. It was only when Jaqueline realized they were waiting for her own reply that she spoke, saying, “I will kneel.”
The Pontifex continued: “You two, who are both of royal blood, and thus descended from Arfeyr, are now tasked with the burdens of protection and leadership. Yet, with his blood and wisdom, those burdens you shall have the strength to endure, and the aid of those who would call you majesty.”
The Pontifex took a small vial from his robe, opened it and flicked a liquid; a thick, copper-smelling red that landed in specks across the faces and hands of the two kneeling. “Do you both accept this burden?” Talsin asked.
“I accept this burden,” said Caden. Jaqueline repeated him.
“And are there none here who have reason to doubt the legitimacy of their claims, or know of another who have greater?” Talsin asked, looking down the chapel at each face in turn until satisfied that no-one would answer him. “Then, under the watchful eye of the Stormking, I accept you on behalf of the Furan, and of the people, as King Caden I of Sarkana, and Queen Jaqueline of Sarkana.”
The Pontifex placed each crown on the respective head to which it now belonged, and when secure he helped Caden and Jaqueline to their feet. They both turned to face the spectators, who bowed to them, and then began to clap and cheer in unison when Caden gestured for them to rise.
“Long live the king! Long live the queen!” Came the cheers, and both rulers smiled at them and bowed their heads in thanks. Caden took Jaqueline’s hand then, and led her down along the aisle to where the dark wooden doors had shut out the cold. One of the priests opened it to reveal gently falling snow covering the harsh ice of the earlier blizzard, and the King and Queen of Sarka stepped out into it wearing their new crowns.
“I decided to do as you suggested,” Caden told her in a whisper as soft as the snowflakes.
“I can see that,” Jaqueline replied. “I just wish I had been earlier informed.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. That was my mother’s crown, by the way.”
Behind them the spectators trailed out through the chapel doors, and Caden and Jaqueline turned to greet each of them in turn. They all bowed and paid them pleasantries, and some kissed Jaqueline’s hand while others shook Caden’s own, and eventually they filtered out of the castle until only Caden’s closest associates and most powerful nobles were there. With the Lords Caden expressed his plans for future strength, and Jaqueline of the union between their peoples. With his friends, Caden laughed and joked - hugging his brother and Wulfsurd, shaking the hands of Sir Anselm and Arthur, and promising the swordmaster Sigered that he would join him for further instruction.
“I would be honoured if the King sought my guidance,” the swordmaster said before he left to return to his training hall, leaving Caden feeling slightly guilty at his lack of attendance.
Eventually those close friends trickled away and only Jaqueline remained there in the courtyard, standing a cool distance from him as though he could no longer give her warmth in the winter chill. They did not speak, and though Caden had words he wanted to say, he could not find the strength to say them. After a minute or so of this silence, Jaqueline removed her crown and handed it to Caden, then wrapped her fur cloak around herself and turned away from him, and walked through the snow towards the castle kitchens.
“You told her about the letter, didn’t you?” Asked Ethelyn, her red hair like a flame against the white backdrop of the snow-covered chapel.
“I had to. I couldn’t risk her trying to betray me again - I had to make her know that I knew, I had to make her feel trapped so that she wouldn’t go against what my father built,” Caden said, his voice carrying softly on the wind as snow fell onto the crown in his hands.
“And did it work? Is she trapped?” She asked, walking up to his side and looking at what he was looking at.
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she thinks she is.”
Ethelyn smiled. “Then is it really her that’s trapped, or is it you?”
Caden turned to look at her, but as was her fashion she had disappeared. He was alone now in that courtyard, with not so much as a soldier on duty in sight. He stared off into the distance, where the falling snow created a blinding canopy of white that obscured the horizon… And suddenly he felt the weight of his father’s crown. It was heavy.