Chapter 8

The training yard was a brutal place.

Swords flying and armor glinting in the sunlight, Edward watched, poised and proud on his mount, as the flashing blades collided. The sound of clashing steel made his ears ring. Mud splattered in an arc as a soldier fell, sliding along the wet, earthen ground as his opponent struck again and landed a blow that would have proved fatal had they not been fighting with thick armour and dulled blades. The man grunted when his opponent's strike sent his face into the ground, and Edward was sure he heard the sickening crunch of his nose breaking.

Emmett chuckled and bit off a chunk of his apple, chewing cheerfully in the early afternoon sun. Emmett always found his new recruits amusing— he and Edward had been trained in the school of hard knocks, and as the leader of the Maronese fighting force, Emmett had fully embraced the curative power of injury on a proud and headstrong youth.

As far as Emmett was concerned, it was a right of passage. It was an integral part of any man's battle training to have his nose broken by an adversary, his eye blackened by a fist, or his ribs cracked by a poorly-executed shield defense.

"They're getting better," praised Emmett, lounging idly beside Edward on his own stallion. Edward watched intently as the wounded man rose again, and, like a true Maronese soldier, he rallied. The victor, cocky in his success, had turned his back on the fallen man and was crowing to his mates when his revived opponent struck, hard, and sent him flying face-first into a pile of horse dung.

And when the victor, his pride wounded more than his body, rose once more, the dance began again. He snatched up his shield and launched it like a stone, raising his sword to hack, swipe, and thrust at the other man's bloodied face.

"They are," agreed Edward, glancing at another duelling pair a little further down. Both struggled to find their footing in the slick mud. "But they're still as green as summer grass."

"We're all green until we're tried," said Emmett wisely. "We were untried too, remember?"

Edward grunted. Like any warrior, he remembered his first battle. He remembered the heady fear, the bubbling, wild excitement, and the nerves— oh, how those nerves had plagued him— as he waited for the horn to sound the advance, to send them into the thick of battle, where better men than he had fallen.

"If all goes well, these boys will stay green," said Emmett, and Edward noted a distinct softness in his voice. "It does not bode well for us if all of our soldiers bear battle scars."

"No," agreed Edward, "but it would make me feel better to know that they're capable."

"When have we ever trained a poor soldier?" Emmett asked sensibly. "Never, that's when. We only choose the best."

"I know." Edward shook his head. "But still, I worry…"

"As you should," said Emmett simply. "It is the king's duty to worry. But it is my duty, as the head of your army, to oversee the training of our men. And believe me…"

Emmett wheeled his horse around to face Edward, his stare so intense that Edward felt a prickle of conscience.

"I do not train the weak," said Emmett. "I do not train the hesitant. I do not train the feeble-minded or the frail-bodied, because our soldiers need to be strong. They need to be fearless. They need to be ready, and able, and confident, because when our enemy comes riding over that mountain?"

He eyed the highest peak of La Cunamo with guarded suspicion, and Edward held his breath.

"We need to be ready," he finished. "When the Alia come trooping through the mountain pass to wreak havoc on our people, it will not do to have a quaking, quivering horde of cowards to defend us. Believe me, Edward… my father did not raise a weak army for your father, and I do not intend to raise one for you."

And as another man was knocked into the dirt, Edward heaved a sigh.

"I do not doubt you," he said gently. "Don't think that I do…"

"No," agreed Emmett, and a hint of his cheeky, trademark smile slipped back into place. "No, I don't think you doubt me."

Only a fool would, and Edward, no matter his faults, was no fool. Emmett continued.

"But I do think you are a worrier."

"I do not like that they are so young."

"Most are no younger than you or I," Emmett said, his eyebrows raised in astonishment, "and none are underage. Besides… I'm the youngest ever leader of the King's Army. Should the people doubt me, based on nothing but my age?"

"No, of course not." Edward shook his head. "I know I'm being foolish… ignore me."

Emmett looked for a moment as if he might not heed this advice, but decided against further protest and fell into place beside Edward, both horses trotting away from the training ground as they took their leave. They moved in silence for a long while, Emmett hesitant and Edward brooding, until they came to the gated wall on the outskirts of the village proper. They rode single-file through the guarded gate, the sentry giving Edward a deep bow before the gate was closed again, and the guards continued to peer out into the wilderness from their holdfast.

"So…" Emmett, bouncing in his saddle, glanced carefully at Edward. "How is everything back home?"

Frowning, Edward glanced up at the great, stone castle, silhouetted in the distance against the grey mountainside. It stood high above the rest of the village, its many stories and jutting towers poised atop the sloping valley hill, towering over the flat-roofed, single-story dwellings of his people. If he looked closely, he was sure he would see the flash of a torch in a distant tower on the northern side. He had set up guards in that quarter of the castle, just outside the queen's chambers where he'd put the fallen girl, to give the room the peace and quiet that Carlisle had demanded.

And, if truth be told, Edward had done it for the girl's own protection and his own peace of mind. Word had escaped about the lady's confinement in the royal house, and the people flocked to her like flies to honey. If Edward left the castle gates ajar, as had been his norm until now, people congregated outside her tower at all hours, shouting blessings and prayers until Edward was forced to shoo them out and lock the gate.

"Well enough," he said quietly. "All is just as expected."

"And the prince?"

Edward, suddenly moody, scowled.

"The same," he grumbled. "Always the same. Disobedient, headstrong, temperamental…"

"Angry?" supplied Emmett unhelpfully. "Taciturn?"

"Indeed."

The word left a bitter taste in Edward's mouth.

"That boy needs discipline, Edward," Emmett said after a moment's silence. "The men tell me he runs rampant through the jungle at all hours, like a wild thing."

"He will not heed me," Edward returned, beyond frustrated. "Not when I threaten him, not when I shout, not when I take away his sword or his horse, not when I try to talk to him, man to man…"

Emmett grumbled.

"If he doesn't calm, he's going to get hurt," said Emmett quietly. "You know as well as I do what kinds of things lurk in those trees…"

Snakes and spiders, jaguars and tigers… the list was endless. And if he ventured too close to the dangerous and volatile western end of the island, Edward was positive the boy would be killed.

"I know," sighed Edward, "but I've run out of ideas. The boy will not listen to me… not as his king, or his brother, or his elder."

Emmett grunted.

"Disrespectful brat," he muttered, and Edward fought an unholy urge to grin. Even in their past days of reckless youth, Emmett had butted heads with Jasper, whom he'd always thought too brash, and too brazen. The boy grated on Emmett in such a way as Edward had never seen before. Emmett had always been easy-going and gregarious, ever the balm to Edward's fiery temper and high-strung tension. When the boys in school had teased him, Emmett had simply laughed it off. When Edward had gotten into a fight with the miller's son over a girl they'd both liked, it had been Emmett, all laughter and mirth, who had split them apart before the Master got wind of it.

But Emmett had found a mortal enemy in the unlikeliest of places— from the time Jasper could walk, trailing constantly after Edward with lisping eagerness and clinging, sticky fingers, Emmett's distaste for him had only grown. It was true that he tolerated him— no matter what, the boy was only a child, not to mention the Crown Prince of Marolando and Edward's only heir. But no one— not his mother, his father, his former King, or Edward himself— could make Emmett like him.

"I'll speak to him," Edward promised. "When we get back to the castle. See if I can't talk some sense into him."

"You'd do better to do that talking with a nice, thick switch," Emmett grumbled, and Edward flushed. Emmett's own father had never spared the rod, and Edward suspected that it had always been a small, yet lasting resentment between them. Emmett did not know what it was like to grow up without violence, and Edward— sheltered, gentle Edward— would never know its sting.

"I'll not strike him," Edward said finally, ignoring the scowl on Emmett's face. "Mother and Father never struck us, and I'll not start now."

"He's too headstrong," warned Emmett, "and wild. The boy is like an animal, Edward, living in the trees, and if he is not reined in…"

Edward said nothing, but the grimace on his face must have been enough for when he caught sight of it, Emmett pursed his lips and fell silent.

"I'll leave it at that," he finished finally. "I've said my piece and you know my mind."

"Indeed, I do."

"Good."

And Emmett spurred on ahead, leaving Edward in the dust as he rode, hard, towards the center of the village.

Moving silently through the busy streets, Edward and Emmett rode, their mounts pointed towards the castle, whose grounds began at the end of the long, winding lane. The street was bustling with market stalls, full to busting with a colourful array of fruits, vegetables, and handicrafts. The horses picked their way carefully through the crowds, always mindful of the children who tore through like wild things, laughing and shouting in their game of chase. These little ones paid little attention to the tentative hooves stepping cautiously around them, and they paid absolutely no attention to the riders themselves. Edward enjoyed the children's games— he loved their mirth, and did not begrudge them one bit when they did not bow to him, as their parents did. Edward was not used to the bowing— the abject reverence of his subjects still disturbed him, though he fought hard to be gracious.

"My King!" a stall owner shouted from her place along the edge of the path. "My King! A blessing for the Goddess?"

She held out her hand to him, and Edward, feeling distinctly awkward, stopped his horse. The woman beamed when he dismounted, and, ignoring Emmett's frown, Edward walked towards her.

"A blessing, My King. A blessing for the lady…"

She held out a bushel of bananas, pressing them into his hesitant hands when he did not move to take them.

"My good madam…" Edward reached into his purse, ready to pay her for such a gift, but the woman balked and shook her head, backing away.

"No, no…" she said. "Take them. They are my gift, and a humble one at that. Please, My King, carry my goodwill forward."

Wondering if he could slip the coins into her stall without her noticing, Edward was taken by surprise when the lady kissed his dirty knuckles, her head bowed over his fist.

"Madam…"

"Please, My King." The woman's eyes were bright. "Take them to her. May they please her, and keep her well…"

"I…"

"Please, Sir."

And Edward relented.

"I thank you," he said quietly. "And the lady thanks you, too, I'm sure…"

The woman bowed to him twice, but before Edward could return to his horse, another petitioner accosted him. When Edward turned back to the road he saw a growing crowd of people, both shoppers and sellers, all staring up at him with bright excitement.

"For the Goddess," said a wizened old man who was nearer than any of the others. "To beg her blessings, and to offer a prayer for her safe recovery."

Avocados, ripe and full, in a bushel basket.

"Please, My King, beg her favour for my boy. My sick boy…"

Mangoes.

"My wife, Sir! My wife…"

Kiwis.

The lineup of people before him grew even longer.

Squash, and rye, and barley, and onions. Potatoes, and pineapple, and sweetbread, and wine. His arms and horse were laden before half the line had dissipated, and though Edward loaded his saddlebags, they were not enough.

"For your own health, My King!" Edward felt a burlap sac of sorely coveted black tea pushed into his hands. "A prayer to the Goddess for the King's longevity!"

The man roused the market to a cheer, and Emmett, always leery of crowds, began to bristle. Edward took pity on him and handed half the horde to him for safekeeping, allowing him to store it in his own saddlebags as Edward swung back into place.

"I thank you!" Edward called. His voice rang over the starry-eyed group, some of which still held offerings. "And I'm sure the lady will thank you, when she is able…"

"Praise be!" called the rousing man. "Praise to the Goddess!"

The crowd cheered again and Edward, his face and neck red, cleared his throat.

"Let's go," said Emmett quietly, glancing down at the children, who were beginning to crowd the horses. A small girl stuck a daisy in the bridle of his mount. "Your poor horse won't be able to hold much more if they keep it up…"

As if to protest this slight, Magnus snorted, stamping his hooves on the packed dirt road.

"Sure." Edward wheeled around, and the horse began to canter. "Back to the castle…"

But Edward and Emmett, try though they might, did not make it halfway down the road before they were met with another obstacle, this time in the form of a wild, whirlwind boy. He was sprinting down the path as if a band of Alia were chasing him, and Edward, confusion mounting, pulled his horse to a stop. Edward would know his brother anywhere— the way his hair flopped into his eyes, and the way his long, gangly legs made him look like a newborn colt. A troupe of soldiers chased after him, cursing and shouting his name as he fled, and Edward, growing suddenly hot with anger, spurred his horse forward, his teeth clenched. The boy had been put on strict house arrest, and well he knew it. He was not to leave the grounds, and he was most definitely not to run from the guards when his defiance was found out…

"Edward!"

Edward squinted into the sun, quickening his pace at the urgency in his brother's tone that could not quite quash the anger. Emmett, hard and cold, stared down the lane, his eyes fixed on the wayward child.

"Edward!"

"Get over here!" Edward called back, and the boy all but crashed into Magnus' flank. He braced himself against the beast, his chest heaving as he reached up and grabbed Edward's hand.

Reprimands and rebukes died on his tongue as Edward took in the sight of him. His face was red and sweaty— no doubt from his long sprint— but there was a bright terror in his eyes that Edward rarely saw. He looked disturbed— madder and more frantic than was normal— and his grip was strong, but shaking.

At once, Edward knew something was amiss.

"What is it?" Edward asked, resisting the insistent tug on his arm. The boy grunted with exertion but his strength did not fail him as he pulled, hard, against his unmovable brother. The boy continued to tremble.

"What is it?" Edward repeated, more sternly this time. Taking pity on the boy as the angry, surly soldiers caught up with them, Edward dismounted and took his brother by the shoulders, but the boy shrugged him off, grabbing his sleeve and giving it a sharp tug.

"Come!" Jasper pleaded, his eyes bright with some anxious excitement. "Come, Edward, quickly…"

"Where?" Emmett spoke curtly and Jasper, leery of the guard, swallowed thickly. He stared up at Emmett and seemed to debate with himself for a moment before he turned away and spoke instead to his brother.

"Come!" he repeated. "You must come! Uncle Carlisle…"

"Is he hurt?" demanded Edward.

"No. No, it's the lady."

And at once, Edward's stomach dropped. Emmett, heaving a sigh, looked troubled and sad as his horse pawed nervously at the ground. Dread, as hot and sticky as bubbling treacle, seemed to seep up through the ground to fill Edward's chest, anchoring him to the spot as those words— and the unspoken implications— hit home.

He should have known it would happen. He should have known that she would not heal. He had seen her with his own eyes, deathly pale and still. He had watched her, so thin and wasted beneath the furs as she faded day by day. He had seen the way she had fitted, twitching and shaking like a mad thing, and the way his uncle had held vigil by her bedside, silver spoon in hand, to check whether her resultant stillness came from slumber or death.

Edward had known that it was only a matter of time before she slipped away. He had been a fool to think she might come back to them, and how could he have been so cruel? The girl had been in pain. The girl had suffered. And he, the Leader of the People, had allowed it to happen. He should have begged Carlisle— commanded Carlisle— to end it, to ease her way without the torment of trauma …

"Come!" Jasper insisted again. "You must come! Uncle has asked for you!"

"Why me?" The heaviness in Edward's heart— the weight that spoke of regret, and sorrow, and guilt— kept him still. "I cannot help her now, Jasper. No one can help her now…"

Angry and frustrated, Jasper reached up and punched Edward on the shoulder. Edward relished the ache, the sting of his brother's knuckles etched on his skin in a burgeoning bruise.

"Come on!" insisted Jasper. "Come on!"

"Very well," said Edward finally, taking up the horse's reins with numb, clumsy fingers. "Come, Emmett."

The weight of his saddlebag— of those hopeful and desperate gifts from his people— felt heavier than ever.

"Hurry!" Jasper pleaded, shoving at the horse's flank. Edward lifted himself back into the saddle with clumsy awkwardness, and Magnus stamped his displeasure. "Hurry, Edward! Uncle Carlisle has asked for you!"

"Why?" asked Edward, and Jasper stared at him with incredulous disbelief. Had Edward not been so aggrieved, so distracted by this sudden and abrupt shift in temperament, he might have realized his mistake.

"Because you are the King!" Jasper replied. "You are the King, and the lady is waking up!"

Translations:

La Cunamo
The Tsunami — the name of the mountain range in Marolando

Alia
Others