Grimmwood

Grimmwood

By E.A. Dante

Copyright 2015 E.A. Dante

Smashwords Edition

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Content

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Epilogue

About E.A. Dante

Connect with E.A. Dante

Each year is two seasons: Winter Year (fall, winter: male year) and Summer Year (spring, summer: female year)

Prologue

Dírn pauses a moment to scratch irritably at her armpit, sweat-soaked black linen rough against her skin, before continuing to climb the battlement’s stairs, sparing some energy to curse at the burn in her thighs.  When she reaches the top she leans against a merlon, looking out over yet another conquered stronghold, where corpses still lie in the courtyard, innards strewn across the ground.  Then she swallows around a tightness in her throat she doesn’t feel, not anymore.

People die.  This is a reality, no more inescapable than sunrise or hunger.  People are killed, or they sicken, or they age, and they die.

And then they stink.

Dírn has never much liked the smell of corpses, despite how familiar she has become with it. 

A gust of wind blows north, carries the scent to her, and her gut twists at the cloying sweetness of human rot, magic abruptly snarling in her veins like it remembers what use it had been put to.  Flexing her hands, the skin stretched thin over long bones and pale as the corpses below her, she absentmindedly heals a crack in the stone parapet, watching as people heave the bodies onto wagons, to be taken to wherever is a convenient place for a mass grave.

Don’t tell me you’re going to be sick, not when you’re the one that put half of them there.  Fraeder’s voice rings out sharp behind her, and Dírn turns to watch the woman in question march up the stairs with a fierce sort of assurance, like with every step she takes she is trying to prove that they belong to her.

There’s not much point in that, Dírn feels, now that she’s already taken them, rightful ownership be damned.

There is a difference between the smell of fresh blood and the smell of blood six hours past the killing, Dírn responds once Fraeder finishes strutting and settles back against the parapet beside her.  She grimaces at the sight of Fraeder’s recently acquired armour, plain steel barely visible through its coating of gore and the smell no better than the bodies Dírn had sought to escape by coming to the battlements in the first place.  The aftermath of the battle is Fraeder’s territory, to yell and to pace and to raise morale, and Dírn is only ever needed for that when someone questions Fraeder’s right to lead.  To make a demonstration of them.

Fraeder shrugs and hums, face breaking into a charming smile that’s unsettling in its apparent innocence as she follows Dírn’s gaze out to the courtyard.  I don’t mind the smell of either.

I am aware.  With a sniff, Dírn turns her gaze pointedly to Fraeder’s breastplate.  Fraeder doesn’t bother to follow Dírn’s stare; instead she throws her head back in a laugh, still intoxicated from the fight, still thrumming with energy she hadn’t put into killing.

The laugh fades into silence after a moment too long, and Fraeder leans her broadsword against the parapet to unbind her hair.  It tumbles over her shoulders in soft, golden waves, beautiful and clean, which is enough, Dírn thinks, to justify some resentment.  Her hair hadn’t remained unstained by bodily fluids, and now it’s drying stiff, the black strands glued together by equally blackening liquid.   

You should take better care of your sword, she says, voice still enough that only Fraeder could hope to catch the hint of peevishness there. 

There’s another bark of laughter, much less musical this time, and Fraeder rolls her eyes.  What do you care for the treatment of my sword?  You wave your hands and men are ripped in half.

Dírn shifts again, tilting her weight to her right hip and pressing her lips together.  She wants to say something to that; magic is not quite so simple as Fraeder thinks, for all that it’s an inborn trait, but Fraeder’s stubbornness can only be matched by two things – her bloodlust and her beauty – so Dírn remains silent.

She only counts five heartbeats before Fraeder speaks again. 

Freimhein is conquered.  This is said as she stretches, the last syllable rolling flat from her tongue as she looks beyond the castle bounds, to the sprawling tangle of kingdom that would, walk far enough, lead back to their homeland.

Freimhein is not conquered, a scant few strongholds are, Dírn corrects, muscles tightening against the instinctive flare of unbridled energy that curls under her ribcage at the thought.  A hand squeezes her shoulder, and Fraeder laughs again, drunk on the feeling of victory. 

You call Kraeg, the capital of Freimhein – Fraeder waves her free hand out over the parapet to the rough-hewn city that lies at the base of the citadel "– a mere stronghold?"

A symbolic one, yes.  Dírn shrugs, Fraeder’s hand dropping from her shoulder as she does.  It’s quick to curl itself around her other shoulder, however, as Fraeder wraps an arm around Dírn.

"Dírn, the very fact that it’s symbolic makes it more than a stronghold.  We’ve captured the capital.  That means something to people.  Not all of Freimhein will fight us, I don’t think, now that we’ve proven we can take its heart in battle.  Fraeder winds her words through the air the way hedgewitches weave spell-threads in their looms – Dírn cannot help but see the sense in the picture her words paint, just as clear as she’d see the magic scintillating in the pattern of fabric.  That, and I’m going to marry the king," Fraeder adds after a moment of silence, offhandedly. 

Dírn turns to stare at Fraeder.  She tries to find words as her bemusement steals away into something more unsettling, something that Dírn quickly directs her thoughts away from.  Fraeder is taller than average whereas Dírn is shorter, and she has to wrestle back inches of space from the clasp of Fraeder’s arm to look at her properly.  Dírn frowns.  Fraeder grins back, unperturbed, while she waits for Dírn to sort through her thoughts.  …Why?  

It’s proper, isn’t it?  It will make this – Fraeder waves one hand about vaguely, More proper.  I will be queen rightly, rather than just through conquest.  She grins again after she’s done speaking, like the matter is settled, like she will marry King Radan and Freimhein will forget how bloody her rise to power was.  She distances herself from Dírn to begin braiding her hair, twining the braids on top of her head elegantly, not caring how it will look against her armour.  The sight abruptly sends an ache through Dírn, a bitter one she tries on most days to ignore; yearning for the Grimmlands destroys the point of conquering a country to leave the Grimmlands.  But the vast forest had been all she’d ever known, aside from worn stories passed from person to person about the quarrelling lands outside of it.

The wild forest holds cruelty in it – or, at very least, the people within it do – but comfort clings faster to familiarity than anything else, and Dírn feels exposed here, in all this open air, no trees providing a sense of cover, no game easily hunted.  There is too much room, she finds, outside of the Grimmlands.

…so really it’s not even much of a conquest, when you think of it like that.  Fraeder’s voice wanes just as Dírn’s attention begins to wax. 

What?  This time Fraeder glares at her, sighing.

"I was saying, Dírn – Her name is said pointedly, as much of a rebuke as Fraeder will ever give her, That Freimhein was founded by Grimmlanders, anyway, and they were supposed to claim all of the forest.  By doing this, I’m only finishing what was started, years ago.  So really it’s not even much of a conquest, when you think of it like that." 

I don’t think the first king had this in mind when he founded the country.  And we haven’t even finished gaining Freimhein yet; taming the forest will make this seem… She trails off, meeting Fraeder’s eyes.  There are things in the forest that will resist when they extend Freimhein’s borders.  Things better left unspoken.

Freimhein’s first king had failed at his goal for a reason, after all.

The silence Dírn’s words leave is uneasy, as many are, and Dírn begins to wonder whether she should make an apology for voicing what’s easier left ignored when Fraeder groans, throwing her head back dramatically.  "You do not let me savour one victory before thinking of the next battle.  The next war.  It’s not healthy."

It’s a healthy enough practice when you consider how many times it’s helped us, Dírn responds, stiff.  She gains no comfort from the way Fraeder unwinds, through drinking and dancing and fucking with her kin-in-arms.  Dírn herself is skilled enough at drinking, and dancing is something that comes almost intertwined with towen-magic, but magic has a way of changing a person, if it rides your blood strong enough or if you lack the control to stop it from running wild in you. 

The magic in Dírn’s blood rides hard, and the way it has changed her has left her little in the way of prettiness.  Fraeder, with her beauty, never quite grasps why Dírn shies away from gatherings where most everyone is looking for someone else to rut with, and that was before this, before the campaign for Freimhein.

Things are different now.

Fraeder curves her spine to nuzzle Dírn’s shoulder.  I meant it as a joke, Dírn.  She glances up at Dírn through her lashes, and it would look ridiculous if it were anyone else, but Fraeder makes it look endearing, all wide brown eyes and soft lips curled into something like regret.

Dírn softens.  I know.

Straightening up again, Fraeder rolls her shoulders and walks over to the westward battlements, looking out over where her army has made camp.  She’d built up that mass of people starting with nothing but herself and Dírn, bare more than a year and a half ago, collecting the loyalty of small clans and villages with her charm, with her skill at violence, with her sense of justice that was lacking in most Grimmland leaders.  And the occasional demonstration of power from Dírn, when necessary.  Forest folks’ allegiances are hard won but also hard broken, and when Fraeder had proposed to take Freimhein rather than simply regaining control of the land from the major clans that war over it, their response had been, most of them, to pledge to fight until Fraeder sat on the throne.

They look painfully out of place here, in this open space, most of them scarred, callused, tattooed, continually glancing at a sky that, unframed by branches, remains a marvel to them.  Fraeder grins at the sight of them anyway, grins harder when she catches glimpses of Freimish soldiers in their midst.  Some of them, after the battles were over, opted to join her army, either for Fraeder’s leadership or to be free of a hierarchy that relies heavily on familial bonds. 

Fraeder had made it clear that she would remember those who came to her before she’d finished taking the throne. 

The view gives Dírn a better glimpse of the beginning of the Grimmlands, a smear of dark woods along the horizon.  Something winds inside her, an ache that rolls through her bones like thunder before settling again.  It’s a foreign feeling, not her own magic twisting its way through her marrow but another’s, and she sighs with it, feels it stretch beyond her flesh back to the wild forest.  This has been happening for weeks now, growing stronger each time – Dírn is beginning to wonder.

What is it?  Fraeder snaps, concern making her voice harsh as she trails sword-roughened fingers over Dírn’s cheek to catch her attention.  Dírn sways slightly, eyes half-mast, and she can’t control the sweep of wind that forms in response to her.  It makes the clan flags scattered throughout the camp ripple, people turning their heads to look up to where she and Fraeder stand.   

Something stirs in the Grimmlands, she says, curling her hands so hard that the nails bite into her palm until the light-headedness passes.

Fraeder stiffens, looking out to the wild forest before returning her gaze to Dírn.  And is it something we need to be concerned about?

I don’t know, Dírn responds, before splaying a hand over her stomach and pressing down hard to quell the coil of nausea there.  More faces are turned up towards the battlements, a sea of murmurs rising from the crowd up to them.  Fraeder has yet to take notice, eyes scouring over Dírn’s features.

Can the forest feel what’s coming?  Can it feel the change?  The words are bitten off with surprising anger.  Dírn shrugs.  Old magic lives in the forest, intertwining so thoroughly with trees and earth that it seems to most the old magic is the forest, but this doesn’t feel –

This doesn’t feel like what resides in the trees. 

I don’t know, Dírn says again, and Fraeder looks like she’s about to ask another question Dírn cannot answer.  Your people seem to expect a word.  Fraeder follows Dírn’s gaze at last, to where a sizable chunk of the camp has gathered, faces upturned and expectant.  My queen, Dírn adds, because they did just conquer Kraeg, and the throne is mere walking distance from where Fraeder stands.  

Fraeder breaks into a smile that is all knives at the title, stepping forward just slightly and hearing the crowd roar in response to her movement.  She is good at speechmaking, Fraeder.  "Dírn, go find a servant and get them to run you a bath and find you a bed near the master chambers.  If magic is as tiring as you tell me, you’ll be wanting for both soon."  The wait for silence is used to speak to Dírn again, and Dírn arches an eyebrow at Fraeder’s impish, teasing grin.

Of course.  Dírn turns towards the stairs. 

And Dírn?  Fraeder calls out again, and Dírn looks over her shoulder to see Fraeder facing the crowd, back to her.  If you think what you feel in response to the forest is hurting you, tell me.

What good would telling you be, Fraeder?  You cannot conquer the forest with a broadsword and a will to win alone, Dírn says, and the unspoken and if it harms me, your strongest weapon against the forest is gone lingers in the air after her voice fades. 

…No, Fraeder says, before hefting up her broadsword and sparking another round of rough cheers.  But I can burn it down. 

Chapter One

Aeolan and Themel are at war, the messenger says, voice grave, and King Sepse of Sigēs sighs, rubbing his temples.  There has been a headache lying heavy behind his eyes most days of late, and stress tends to thicken it. 

They’ve been warring with one another more often than not for centuries, Ingeven, he says, and the messenger, still young and inflated with self-importance at his job, wilts when Sepse fails to react with the appropriate amount of shocked dismay.  Of course, Ingeven, by the looks of him, was born fresh after the peace treaty between the two countries was signed after the last war, so Sepse can forgive him his…enthusiasm.  He’s never lived through a full cycle of the Aeolan-Themel conflict.  What does King Hadned say the Themelian dogs are doing differently this time?

Now the messenger puffs up again, unaware that Aeolan’s exaggeration of a threat and heartfelt plea for aid from Sigēs is merely part of the wartime routine, perfected over the years in an effort to maintain political ties with a country with no army to speak of and a booming trade in spider silk, a commodity popular in Aeolan only to nobility and healers.  Sepse, after hearing this new catastrophic Themelian strategy, will hem and haw for a few days over the bad luck of his neighbouring king, before sending a messenger back to the Aeolanded capital with his deepest apologies at being unable to offer military aid and a decision to lower trading taxes on silk.  Hadned will accept this apology gracefully and subtly order three times the amount of silk he normally would, for healers to use as antiseptic bandages and to make up for the commodities Sigēs will no longer get from Aeolan for the duration of the war.

Sepse resettles his weight on the throne, and waves his hand for Ingeven to speak.  He’ll humour the boy, he thinks, perhaps slipping on an expression of alarmed surprise after Ingeven breaks the news. 

It’s been reported that Themelian forces are attempting to enter Aeolan through the Grimmlands, or Freimhein, should that fail, Ingeven says, and Sepse feels his eyebrows rise in surprise that is not as false as he’d prefer it to be.  Themel and Aeolan had almost developed a code of honour in their ongoing animosity, and one unwritten tenet seemed to be keeping Themel and Aeolan’s war between Themel and Aeolan, bypassing bringing other countries into the mix. 

Oh? Sepse prompts after a moment of silence. 

Yes, and King Hadned was rather insistent on my warning you about the invasion of the wild forest.  He thinks they might try entering from the north, Ingeven finishes, his expression part awed fear, part excitement.  Sigēs is surrounded almost completely by harsh mountain ranges, rendering it near impregnable against invasion of any kind.  There is just one stretch of near unpopulated land in the south-west corner that shares its borders with the northern Grimmlands.  Unprotected land, for Sigēs has never had any need for a military force. 

Sepse’s headache throbs sharply.  Thank you, Ingeven, that will be all for now.  When I have a response for Hadned I will call on you.  It’s edging impropriety, referring to a king without his full title in the presence of a commoner, but Hadned, Sepse is sure, would understand. 

Well, Sepse says to himself once the door to the throne room has closed, listening to how the word echoes strangely against the walls as he stands up.  He’d always thought the castle must have been designed by madmen, or at least those whose sense of logic is weaker than average, for the throne room, arguably one of the most important rooms in any castle, is also one of the smallest – though beautiful, with a crystal ceiling that seems to rise for miles and makes every noise echo delicately.  Pleasantly.  Well, Sepse repeats, and then he kicks the throne.

His wife is working at a loom when he finds her, Geshna’s stained fingers plucking at freshly woven strands of silk still tacky with dye.  Her handmaidens are sitting on short stools near a basket by the loom’s pedals, careful as they keep the threads untangled.  Sepse takes a moment to watch the scene, eyes catching on Geshna’s nimble hands; they are considered intimate within Sigēs, hands are, though Sepse knows this doesn’t hold true in their neighbouring country.  It was her hands that had first drawn him to Geshna, back when they were children.  She’d been blessed with weaver’s hands, made to work tangled things right, to make them beautiful.

Sepse is stalling.  He clears his throat, and watches half-amusedly when both handmaidens rise at the sound, eyes tracking his movements as he enters.

They are childishly protective of their queen, as always. 

Geshna glances at his expression and waves her hands, releasing her handmaidens.  You’re both dismissed for today, thank you.

My lady? one questions – Isa, Sepse thinks, though Ira looks no different.  Twins are one thing Sepse is glad he hasn’t been blessed with.  We’re far from where Your Grace wished to stop. 

Patting Isa’s – or Ira’s – cheek, Geshna smiles, gentle.  They are young, bare over ten, and noticeably slower of wit than other children their age, their features flatter and rounder than their kinsmen.  Geshna makes sure to be gentle.  I know, spider, but today you are dismissed early. 

Ira nods before Isa does, grasping her sister’s hand – it’s a sweet thing to see, two sisters still close enough for hand-holding – and dropping into a clumsy curtsy, first facing Geshna and then repeating the action facing Sepse.  He grins when Isa follows suit belatedly, hard worry in his chest softening at the sight of her cautiously copying her sister’s movements.  Nodding and bowing in return before moving to sit next to Geshna, he listens with something like nostalgia to their whispers and giggles as they patter out of the room.  Geshna raises an eyebrow as she watches him settle himself on one of the low stools, waiting for him to speak.

You made a good choice, taking those two on.  Their minds may be slower than others but their hearts are far sweeter, Sepse starts, after a moment, for he knows what needs to be said and what needs to be done, but he’d like peace with his queen before he must act.

We aren’t having any other children, Sepse.  I’ve borne four already; if you desire another, you may birth it yourself, Geshna responds, dropping a kiss to his cheek before facing the loom again, gesturing at Sepse to take over keeping the threads untangled, as Isa and Ira were doing before.  I recognize that expression.  It’s the same one you had before badgering me into having Valies.

Having Valies was a good decision, Sepse protests, thinking of their youngest son with a flare of affection.  Geshna hums in agreement, keeping her eyes on her work, and Sepse wishes to kiss her.  She’s aware of how difficult finding the right words is for him, ones that aren’t unintentionally cruel or rough, and how the difficulty increases the more eyes are trained on him.

So she keeps her eyes on her work. 

Aeolan and Themel are at war, Sepse says, and sighs, rolling his next words over his tongue.

Again? Geshna frowns, bobbing her head to the loom’s clacking.  While inconvenient, that’s hardly alarming, my love. 

Themel looks to invade Aeolan through us, Sepse winces after he’s done speaking; that news could have been delivered with more tact.  The rhythmic noise of the loom stops as Geshna’s hands freeze, her shoulders hunching.

No, she starts, stops to swallow air.  Geshna was never much suited to politics, to living as royalty, but even she understands the implication of an invasion, should it occur.  Sigēs has no military, no time to gather one, not enough fighters in the country to bother.

They are not a country made to weather through a war.

Did Hadned offer aid? Geshna asks, voice calm.  Methodical.  Sepse smiles grimly.  She’ll come to the same conclusion he did, he’s sure.

Why offer aid to us?  We trade with Aeolan, nothing more, he says, and something in his voice makes Geshna turn to him, scour his face with sharp eyes.  Sepse leans forward and presses his forehead to hers.  It may be time to solidify our relationship with our neighbouring country.

He can feel when Geshna understands his implication, the way she tenses even more, hands half-reaching for his before dropping.  Sepse… she starts.

Alwen is almost thirteen, and the Prince Royal’s younger brother is near twelve.  We met at a younger age, you and I, Sepse starts cautiously, and Geshna leans away, withdrawing from him sharply.

You would marry off your only daughter so casually? she hisses, pulling back when he reaches for her.  To a country about to go to war?

What would you have me do? Sepse spits back, temper abruptly rising, and he’s aware that this is not something they should discuss angrily, that he should leave and allow both of them to gather their thoughts and enter this with clear minds.  But Geshna was born common, and there are times when her unwillingness to see things from the angle of one born into this life and the expectations it carries makes his teeth grind.  Marry off Kaiman, my firstborn?  Or my youngest, for he was here for the shortest amount of time?  Or Niam, sickly as he is?  I have only four children, as you said, and only one of them is suited to marriage outside of her country.

He throws the words back into her face and watches as her shoulders hunch, wishing briefly that he could swallow them out of the air again.  Geshna makes a frustrated, hesitant noise in the back of her throat as she steps forward, reaching her hands out for Sepse’s.

Sepse only pauses for a moment before grasping her hands tightly, dragging her closer and pressing his lips to her forehead.

They are fighting the same feeling of helplessness, after all.

Geshna opens and closes her mouth – he can feel the heat of it and its loss against his own lips – before she squares her shoulders and leans back just enough to catch his eye, keeping their hands linked between them.  You have a niece, Geshna says at last, her voice sad but firm.

She knows how much she’s asking of him, with that unspoken question tucked behind her words.  Sepse sighs in frustration, in grief, because he knew, somehow, that it would lead to this.

Keldawe is my sister-daughter.  More to me than niece, he starts. 

Geshna squeezes his hands and nods.  She was never overly fond of Laseyal when his elder sister was alive, but she respects the love Sepse still feels for the woman, as well as loving the child Laseyal’s death left them charged with. 

But not as fiercely as she loves her own.

Does Keldawe’s coldness outweigh Alwen’s immaturity? Geshna asks damning questions all too easily, and Sepse growls.

"You know that answer."

And yet it never occurred to you that Keldawe was the best option?  Her voice is tired and chiding.

She’s woman-grown, and not my bloodchild, I have no authority –

"But if you were to ask her to marry, to help her country, her family…" Geshna’s voice trails into another harsh sigh.  Loyalty runs deep in Sigēsan blood, and Keldawe’s blood is purer than most.

That, damn it all, is true.  If Sepse were to ask her to marry Atros, the Prince Royal of Aeolan, she’d simply ask if it was necessary.  He would answer truthfully – like Laseyal, Keldawe demanded every inch of the truth from everyone, despite knowing that it was a hard way to live, with honesty in place of a well-timed lie, brutality instead of comfort – and she’d take a moment to gather herself in silence, perhaps turning away from him for a moment. 

She had picked up the threads of this habit from Sepse; like him, Keldawe feels uncomfortable baring emotions in front of others.  Unlike him, she hadn’t yet found this comfort in another person, nor is she planning on doing so – Keldawe, when Sepse had asked, had only said that she could find contentment in herself and felt no need to find another that could give it to her. 

Keldawe, he’s sure, would recognize the need for the marriage without help, and after a few breaths of silence she would straighten her shoulders and raise her jaw in a way that gave her a peculiar sort of distant look, before turning to him and nodding once. 

Choosing to fulfill the role of an Aeolanded wife would mean giving up silk farming, giving up the quiet, columned-and-raftered room and the spider colony that graces it, the calming practices that allow her to pattern their webs for an easier collection.  Aeolanded wives were for breeding strong, beautiful children and raising them stronger, all the while loyal to father, family and country.  There would be no room in Atros’s castle for a silk farm.

But she would do it.  If he were to ask.

Which Sepse knows that he will, looking at Geshna in her fierce, saddened love for the children she mothered, forced as she is to wrangle them into an order of priority within her heart.  There are times, he thinks, when she wishes she hadn’t married into royalty, when monarchy’s customs can be so cruel.

Damn it to the First One, he curses tiredly, wishing again that Laseyal was alive still, that she, as is firstborn’s right, were queen now.  The same decision might have to have been made, but he would not have to be the one to tell Keldawe, if Laseyal was an honourable queen.  Geshna hears the phrase beneath the blasphemy, the quiet, defeated I will ask her, then twined around the spaces between words, and smiles, grim and miserable and triumphant.

Sepse kisses her then, tastes the bitter victory on her tongue before squeezing her hands and leaving, unwilling to let the silence break.

He finds Keldawe outside, watching from the bleachers as Kaiman wrestles carefully with Niam in the castle’s empty horse track, calling out in a cool voice when one of them cheats.

She is often calling out, and it leaves Sepse half-smiling.  His children act with honour with everyone but one another in most matters, and it seems that wrestling is not one of the few exceptions. 

Niam is gasping as he heaves against Kaiman, attempting to push him back, and Sepse glances worriedly over the boniness of Niam’s clavicle for a moment.  He’d only recently recovered fully from an illness of the lungs, and he’d lost more weight than advisable.  But Kaiman’s posture is gentle, his hands steady where they hold Niam back, and there’s a meatiness rippling beside his spine that wasn’t there two weeks prior, so Sepse says nothing. 

Keldawe catches his eye and nods understandingly at the scene, her shoulders carrying a very slight tenseness that belays a worry that, like Sepse’s, is not great, but is constant and cautious.  The dual twinges of grief and guilt strike in the hollow of Sepse’s chest again – they are close, Keldawe and Niam; she loves him as the younger brother Laseyal never had a chance to bear her, and Niam looks to her to find both a second mother and a friend.  Separating them will be a cruel thing, and Sepse wishes again that it wasn’t necessary. 

She smiles at him when he sits down, a small thing that accompanies a hand squeezing his forearm, one of the few gestures of affection that Keldawe feels comfortable with in public.  I hear that Aeolan and Themel are at war.  Her smile twists into a smirk, dark eyes filled with darker laughter.  Again. 

Rubbing his temples, Sepse groans.  Ingeven has loose lips, then? 

He is fifteen, Uncle.  It would only be unusual if he didn’t.  Keldawe pushes her black hair back from her face before tensing at whatever she sees in the track, eyes flashing.  "Niam, knees are not meant to come into contact with groins.  You are a prince; you are not in a drunken brawl at a tavern."

Sepse lets out a harsh breath.  Damn that boy.  The words are forced past gritted teeth, and Keldawe raises an eyebrow at him, knowing whom the curse is directed at.  In the background, Niam groans as Kaiman crows, the both of them taking a moment to quarrel before stepping back into the rhythm of tussling.

There’s no need to be cross with him.  You would have had to make an announcement come the day’s end even if he hadn’t spoken, and it isn’t the sort of news that worries anyone.  Waving a hand in a dismissive manner, Keldawe shrugs.  She was only four when the last treaty was signed, with no real memory of wartime and its little differences to comfort her, but she’d been raised in part by Geshna and in part by the servants of the castle, and all of them have lips that love to forge stories in the heat between.

My sister-daughter… Sepse starts before trailing off, and there must be something in his voice to indicate the nature of his next words because Keldawe breaks focus on the play-fighting between her cousins to turn tight, cautious eyes on him.  Themel looks to invade Aeolan through the northern Grimmlands.

But – Keldawe bites off her voice, eyes widening as she understands.  Through the Grimmlands and then through us.

Pressing his lips together, he nods. 

She rolls her shoulders back, nodding.  Fuck, she says, and it sounds more like a comment on the weather than anything else, an arching ‘sunny today’ or ‘raining hard, isn’t it?’.  What are you going to do?

Turning towards him and smoothing her skirt across her knees, she squares her jaw as she catches his eyes, a pre-emptive warning against lying to her.  He raises his hands in surrender, palms facing her and fingers spread.  It’s…  We require a more solid bond with Aeolan, one dictating that Sigēs will have Aeolan’s protection.  Our country was never made for military action. 

There’s a moment of silence, Keldawe’s shoulders beginning to hunch as she follows that thread of thought. 

We require marriage, Sepse finishes, voicing what Keldawe will not want to.  She starts to nod, her expression twisted into forced agreement.  It’s not hard to realize that she understands where this will end.  We require marriage, and you… 

Keldawe raises her hand, silencing Sepse.  She nods again, breathing in harshly through her nose and looking to the side, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

They sit in quiet air, Keldawe looking away from him and Sepse looking towards the grey-blue sky, the sight cleaved in half by the mountain range the castle is built on.  The entire structure – built partly out of stone, hollows carved into the mountain making rooms, partly of wood long petrified, and partly of crystal – is surrounded by harsh silvery-green winter vegetation, currently flowering grey-tinged, lavender leaves.  It gives the air amongst the entire castle and the sprawling, tiered city below it a sharp scent not unlike the mint leaves Keldawe chewed.

It clings, to hair and cloth and memory, and Sepse thinks that he won’t be able to enjoy the smell of it as he once did, seeing how thickly it mingles with the sorrow in the air.

Atros, then?  Or will I wed the eleven year old? Keldawe asks wearily, and Sepse glances over to see her following his gaze, tracing the jagged line of the mountaintops.

Atros, if Hadned agrees to the union, Sepse answers, keeping his voice neutral.  There is no doubt between the two of them that Hadned will.  He is a good king, a logical one.  I wish this wasn’t necessary.

Keldawe rolls her shoulders, combing her inky hair back with one hand.  I know. 

Hesitantly, Sepse reaches out and pats Keldawe’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.  She doesn’t lean into it, but nor does she lean away, so Sepse keeps the contact steady for a moment longer than he would have otherwise. 

Uncle? Keldawe asks. 

Sepse hums. 

I’m going to ask you to leave now.  Her voice has the slightest wisp of a tremble clinging to its edges, and Keldawe sucks in a lungful of air, releases it slow.

She’d never wanted to marry.  Never held interest in childbearing or mothering.  Sepse is not a woman; he cannot understand the gravity of bearing a child, not fully, but he understands enough to know what Keldawe has accepted as a loss, what she will gain instead. 

Of course.  Sepse nods, though Keldawe cannot see it.  He opens his mouth as words he cannot fully taste lodge themselves in the back of his throat; he wants to offer comfort, but comfort is hard given when you can find none within yourself to provide. 

Pressing his lips together, Sepse stands, turning his back to his niece and giving her the only thing he can – a sense of privacy.

They both pretend that he cannot hear Keldawe’s breathing hitch with the beginning of a sob as he leaves. 

It’s exciting to be betrothed, isn’t it, m’lady?  Ranes, Keldawe’s handmaiden, gushes with that particular pride most well treated servants get when their ladies or lords advance in life.  Underneath the dressing table, Keldawe clenches her hands, anxiety festering in her chest cavity.  The walls feel much too close together, now, like they’re pressing in on her purposely, changing from a haven to a cage. 

Keldawe smiles as loose and as large as she can manage, humming vaguely in a way that could mean anything.  Ranes chooses to take it as an agreement, lighting up with another smile.  She is one who takes joy out of these sorts of things – weddings, name days, births.  It’s no real surprise that her reaction to the news would be an excitement so bright it blinds her to Keldawe’s response. 

I’m not betrothed yet, Keldawe says, after one beat too many of silence between them, the phrase awkward in the air.  We’ve just sent the request out tonight, King Hadned hasn’t even read the… she stumbles, searching for a word.  Sigēs, till now, had been a country so self-sufficient it had bordered on isolated, the only real interaction it had with another country being the casual trade of goods with Aeolan.  There is no word for something like this; not, she imagines, how it is in Aeolan, where marriage is less of a devotional statement as it is a political one.  Or so she’s heard.  Offer.

Ranes must hear something in her tone, for she stops brushing out Keldawe’s hair – a constant terror to her, as Keldawe lacks the skill to braid her own hair the intricate way most Sigēsan women do, and frequently lets it go loose when Ranes is too busy with her young children to badger Keldawe into at, the very least, tying it back. 

There’s no question to how he’ll respond, my lady.  He knows what an honour it would be to have you as the Prince Royal’s wife.  Her tone is cautiously uplifting, and it makes Keldawe smile, if not happily.  Ranes would mistake Keldawe’s tone for worry, over herself or over Hadned’s response.  You are certainly beautiful enough to be queen. 

With another giggle, she begins brushing Keldawe’s hair again.  Her words set off another vicious twist of disquiet in Keldawe’s chest, and Keldawe turns her focus to her own reflection, scouring it with critical eyes.  She’d never spent much time ruminating over her appearance – there didn’t seem to be much point, since she had no interest in men beyond a night and women stirred her fancies less.  It had gotten her cruel monikers over the years, petty gripes of cold cunted and the like from those who felt they were slighted by her, but that too hardly seemed important.

It seems important now.  Keldawe runs her eyes over her features, trying to see herself as someone separate, the reflection another person entirely.  She’s pretty enough, she supposes, in the average way most Sigēsans are: blue-black hair and matching elliptical eyes, broad cheekbones, rounded chin, full lips.  Bluish-white skin that speaks of her race’s history as a people living so far up the mountain that they are legend to those who live below.  Her arms are littered with old spider bites, from when she was still inexpert at silk farming, and her hands have taken on a rough-hewn look from the tools and grumes necessary, but they are not so obvious that they make her ugly.  

She is pretty enough, Keldawe supposes, if nothing hard to find here.  Ranes’s words are a kind exaggeration, and Keldawe hesitates for a moment before reaching back and covering Ranes’s hand with her own.  Thank you, Keldawe says, for although Ranes brought little comfort, she tried, in her own way.

Ranes smiles uncertainly, turning her hand up and squeezing Keldawe’s palm.  There’s nothing to be thanking me for, my lady, she says gently, keeping Keldawe’s uncharacteristic display of intimacy from becoming awkward, as it would otherwise.  "But, if you want to show your gratefulness, you’ll begin tying your damn hair back.  With another giggle, she tugs lightly on Keldawe’s hair.  It’s not proper to leave it so loose, my lady." 

In Sigēs, yes.  I hear it’s fashionable to do so in Aeolan.  Keldawe has heard no such thing, but she says it to see the look of horror that spreads across Ranes’s face.  Ranes had become Keldawe’s handmaiden when she was twelve and Ranes was four months along with her first child, in anticipation for Keldawe’s monthly bleeds, and Keldawe thinks that if their stations were the same, they might have been friends.  As it is, Ranes is too aware of her assigned duty to aid and educate Keldawe in feminine matters, and Keldawe is too aware of the eight years Ranes has on her, of the knowledge it gives her that Keldawe does not have. 

Well, then when we go there, we will show Aeolanded women how beauty is supposed to look, Ranes says with a sniff, dismissive as she braids Keldawe’s hair for sleep.  Keldawe lifts a hand to hide her smile, both at Ranes’s casual slight against Aeolanded culture and at the easy certainty that she will be going with Keldawe.  Catching the sight of Ranes’s answering grin in the mirror, Keldawe traces light fingers over her braid, thanking Ranes and releasing her to go tend to her children, currently cared for by another set of servants who watch over the children of those whose duties disallow them from doing so. 

Good night, my lady.  Ranes squeezes Keldawe’s shoulder before she leaves.  And try not to worry.  These threads will not remain tangled forever. 

Keldawe nods once in agreement, before crawling into bed and slipping into sleep quickly, as she always had.

She dreams of nothing.

Chapter Two

Hadned looks, for lack of a better description, apoplectic.

Atros very seriously considers leaving the throne room, but, due to the fact that he just entered the throne room, he feels that this may not help to diffuse Hadned’s temper.  Beside him, Fraine makes a low noise of distress in the back of his throat.  Jabbing Atros’s ribcage with his elbow, he gestures with a sharp jerk of his chin towards his father, a clear message for Atros to fix this. 

And Atros has just returned from fighting off Themelian forces at the south-eastern border – a weak attempt at invasion, most likely a distraction to keep their eyes off the Grimmlands – he and Fraine both are covered in blood and sweat and dirt, and Atros would rather be off to bath, eat and sleep then deal with his angry king, despite it being his duty as heir.  Groaning, Atros rubs one shoulder as he steps forward, his other hand held out in a placating manner.  Similar to how one would approach a dangerous animal.

Uncle… he starts, and it’s only then that Hadned looks up from the scroll he’s reading, whatever written there causing his anger.  Atros takes a closer look; it is a messenger scroll, sent by falcon when the messenger themselves cannot move as fast as they feel theirs news should.  With a slight coil of unease in his stomach – Hadned is slow to get angry, hard pressed to be shaken, but when his temper burns, it burns hot and slow – Atros nods at the scroll.  What does it say?

Freimhein has been overrun by a band of Grimmland savages, Hadned spits, his tone vicious.  We will gain no help from them now.

They gained little help from the Freimish people in the last war, but Atros doesn’t mention that.  Behind him, he hears Fraine herding people out of the throne room, muttering placations when they protest that they have yet to have an audience with the king.  This is not news that should be announced to the people when the announcer’s hands are shaking with anger. 

Ah, Atros murmurs.

If the new king doesn’t hold Freimhein’s borders strong, it will make Freimhein an easy point of entry for an invasion by Themel.  Atros runs his tongue over his teeth, gripping the hilt of his sword at his hip in an unconscious reaction to the thought. 

"They call the leader of the army the Iron Queen, and it’s said that she has a witch at her heels acting as her attack dog.  A rabid one, Hadned huffs.  They conquered Kraeg nearly two months ago and have since then taken control of the rest of the country, but for one stronghold still loyal to Radan they are heading to as we speak.  Breathing in sharply, Hadned pinches the bridge of his nose.  And this Iron Queen has made it clear that when this last stronghold is good and conquered, she will marry King Radan." 

Ah, Atros says again.  There is not much else appropriate to say.  It seems, however, that Hadned is not finished, and Atros’s vocalization was all the encouragement he needed to continue.

"I knew, when Radan didn’t respond to my letter requesting aid, that there was something amiss, but I’d hoped it was something like political treason or an assassination attempt.  At least then the Freimish armies would still be available.  They are brutes, the Freimish, but they are strong ones.  And now they’re as good as lost to us."  Hadned purses his lips, cracking his fingers as he clenches his hands. 

Atros waits a moment before stepping forward, placing his hand on Hadned’s shoulder.  It looks out of place against the red silk Hadned favours, grime-encrusted and skin just a few shades too light to match his king’s, his blood not as pure to the royal line. His uncle leans into the grip, lips downturned. 

Taldar never had to deal with things like this when he was alive, he mutters, filled with all the resentment a little brother can have towards his older sibling.  Damn the Fade.  The sickness that killed Taldar is mentioned with ever-present grief, still strong despite the years that have passed.

Smiling sadly at the talk of his father, Atros squeezes Hadned’s shoulder.  This Iron Queen doesn’t sound entirely unreasonable, Uncle.  Wait until she’s settled on the throne and send out another request for aid.  If she’s smart, she’ll see the benefit of an alliance with a country much larger and stronger than hers. 

The war will not last forever, Atros thinks about adding, and Aeolan remembers what it owes and what is owed to it both.  There is a glint in Hadned’s eyes where they meet Atros’s that says he heard what Atros left unspoken anyway, and he nods once, grimly.

Yes, that…is a good plan, my nephew.  Now Hadned shifts, abruptly going awkward and tense.  On the subject of alliances… Clearing his throat, he waves his hands to attract the attention of the guards.  Leave, go, spend an evening at the tavern. 

The guards all frown warily.  Deskra, the captain, steps