A/N: There is a slight language warning in place for this chapter. Nothing horrendous, but a little worse than usual.
Chapter 24
The Council chamber was still as a grave, the room awash with a roar of deafening, anxious silence. Around the long, teak table sat twelve bent heads, brows furrowed in consternation, eyes glued on the great seat at the head. Wine sat untouched. Soft, white breads and hard, yellow cheeses lay uneaten and unnoticed on platters lining the centre. Grey light filtered in through the high, narrow windows and a breeze ruffled the stillness every few moments when the wind picked up in the East, wafting in hot, sticky air from the castle grounds.
Edward sat unmoving. His Councillors, all grave and still, saw how his pallid face twisted and turned, running through a cycle of nervous energy and stormy anger. He wore his mood like a mask— they saw how his eyes darkened, his mouth set in a stiff, downturned line, before it gave way to nerves. His foot twitched beneath the table. His shoulders, slumped with some unknown burden, did not straighten. He wore a bandage on his arm, thick and white, and the affected hand, bruised and swollen, lay clawed on the tabletop, where he kept it still. It throbbed with each breath he took, and though he knew it would need to be stitched properly before the day was out, Edward tried to keep his mind away from it.
"My Lord," began Lorenzo softly, breaking the tense silence in the room. Eleven heads turned to him and the King, jolted from his daze, blinked hard. "I do apologize…"
Edward, brushing away his tiredness, met Lorenzo's gaze with hard, immovable fury.
"My Lord…" Lorenzo quailed under his anger. "My Lord, I do apologize…"
"No need," Edward ground out, sitting up in his seat. "No need, Lorenzo…"
"Word has reached us of the attack," said another man, Hema, from his place at the end of the table. "Some of the soldiers spoke of it as we entered the hall."
"Yes," Edward said. "Yes, I figured as much. What they tell you is true. Our mourning party was ambushed at Terosankta, while we were in the midst of the Cleansing."
Murmurs rose like smoke from the group, threatening to overtake them, but Edward slapped his hand down on the tabletop and the noise died like the fire from a candle blown out by a puff of air.
"They say that many were killed," continued Hema bravely. "They say that…"
"Fifteen dead," said Edward softly. "Fifteen men, mostly young and untried. No civilians killed that we could tell. Most of the party had already made their way down the slopes back towards the Capital when the fighting broke out. About thirty assailants slain. One of our own castle guards, Samuelo, was felled in the fray."
Lorenzo, who was a permanent fixture in the castle and was friendly with most of the staff on site, bowed his head in silent prayer. Edward saw his lips move and gave him a moment of silence to complete the ritual before he continued.
"But the dead are not what drives us," said Edward gently. "The dead are gone, may the Gods keep them…"
"Peace be," said the men softly.
"I come to talk of the living," said Edward. "The living, who may yet need our help…"
"Of which living do you speak, My Lord?" asked Hema gently. "Do you mean the homesteads on the Western edge of our lands? Is there a danger to them?"
"No," said Edward quickly. "No, not any more than usual…"
"Perhaps soldiers, then?" asked another man, Toro. "If fifteen of our men were felled, it is right to discuss further training options. Young, untried soldiers should, perhaps, be tutored by a more senior fighter…"
"There was no risk!" said Lorenzo quickly, shaking his head in disbelief. "No risk, we thought! This was not an offensive mission, what these men— these boys— were doing!"
"No, I agree," said Toro quickly, "but they were charged with guarding the King, and that is no mean task. Perhaps we should issue an edict requiring that Kingsguards, even the ceremonial ones, must be more senior?"
"How will our men gain experience if we do not give them opportunities to grow?" asked the tallest, broadest Councilman called Corman. "Guarding the King on a low-risk mission to the sacred lands is an excellent way to train them. They were serving under Samuelo, and Samuelo served under Emmett! What greater warrior can our nation boast than Emmett? You must remember his father, Toro, and what a marvellous fighter he was. His son is his image in every way! A credit to the family, and a great leader for our fighting force."
A rumble of approval went around the table, but Edward, worried that the men would lose sight of their goal, shook his head.
"Emmett did very well," said Edward swiftly. "Very well indeed… he deserves your highest praise, but he is not the one who needs our aid."
"Then who, My Lord?" asked Lorenzo in amazement. "Was the Healer hurt?"
"No…"
"The Prince?" asked Toro, turning to face Jasper, who was hunched in the shadows. The Council worried about Jasper— he was heir apparent to the throne, and no one liked to think of what might happen if both King and Prince perished before Edward had children of his own. Jasper shook his head vehemently as Edward spoke, refuting this as well.
"Your Prince fought bravely," said Edward earnestly. "He fought well, though he, too, is untrained, and he was able to keep himself safe in the fray."
Hema and Corman, grinning, knocked their goblets on the table in congratulations. They raised their cups to Jasper, and each drank a mouthful of wine.
"No," said Edward. "No, it is…"
"Surely not the Lady Esme?" asked Lorenzo. His face was white with shock, his eyes bright and appalled. "Surely not she?"
"Esme is well," said Edward, "but…"
The table erupted in murmurs.
Edward saw, with exhausted frustration, that his point was not being heard. The men at the table rumbled with suggestions and concern, tossing ideas for soldier training, western defenses, and proactive military movements to prevent further attack, when Mihaelo, who had thus far been silent and still, rose from his seat.
"Forgive me, My Lord…" Mihaelo said in his smooth, saccharine voice. All eyes snapped to him. Edward saw Jasper's head whip around to stare. Edward could not see his face, but he could see the tension in his arms, and how his hands twisted the hem of his tunic in tight, hard fists.
Mihaelo, glancing haughtily around the table, raised a sarcastic eyebrow. Edward waited, unspeaking.
"But which living are you referring to?" he asked quietly. "You speak of aid, and yet we, your humble Councillors, do not know of whom you speak."
"Yes," said Edward quickly. The Council listened raptly. "Yes, Mihaelo, you're right…"
"Then tell us, Lord!" urged Mihaelo at once. The table rumbled its assent, but Edward, staring suspiciously at the man before him, thought he caught a glint of mocking sarcasm in his voice.
"I'm talking about one of our own who needs our help," Edward said seriously. "One of our own who is…"
"Please, My King," interrupted Mihaelo, "but pray, tell. Who are you calling one of our own? Surely not the…"
He trailed off, laughing darkly with disbelief, and Edward sensed a wall of resistance, though the fatal words had not yet passed his lips. At the sight of this stony-faced, belligerent obstinance, Edward felt his resolve grow hard and icy. Mihaelo, though he had not been told, knew exactly of whom Edward spoke, and Edward knew, with absolute certainty, that Mihaelo, as always, would push, and shout, and protest in a vain attempt to stop Edward's mission.
"If I may speak, Mihaelo, then you would know…"
"I do beg your pardon," said Mihaelo curtly, "but I must ask. Are you talking of the woman?"
A murmur went around the table.
"The Lady," said Edward coldly, "is under my care."
Mihaelo inclined his head with a tilted nod, and let out a long breath before he spoke again.
"Forgive me," he repeated, "but where exactly is the Lady? She did not return with the men…"
"She is missing," said Edward. A pang of anxiety— of pure, unadulterated worry for his charge— struck him hard. She was his responsibility, and he had failed her… "Fled into the jungle. I have summoned this Council to inform you of the curfew, which is effective at sundown tonight, and of my efforts to return her unharmed."
"Missing, My Lord?" Lorenzo asked in amazement. "Missing? Our own Lady?"
"Missing, indeed…" rebutted Mihaelo in a slick, oily voice. "Our Lady," he mocked the words, "is hardly missing. But she has been, perhaps, found?"
The table, still rumbling, turned to him in confusion. Edward bit his tongue, listening sourly.
"I spoke to the men, My Lord," said Mihaelo smoothly. "I had already risen when you returned to the castle in the wee hours."
Edward stared at him.
"And she may not be our Lady, at all, Lorenzo," said Mihaelo to his rival. Edward gritted his teeth. His temper, already sharp and barbed from lack of sleep, turned cutting, and he fought to rein it in.
"I expect you're talking of my prisoners," said Edward shortly. "Although I do not know by what authority you question my soldiers?"
"Not questioning, my Lord!" cried Mihaelo in a voice full of insincere solemnity. "Never that! Mere conversation is all… and what a conversation it was!"
The table rumbled with displeasure.
"Is it true," began Mihaelo, "that these men, these prisoners, do not speak Maronese?"
Edward said nothing, his face hard and blank. Mihaelo, smiling grimly with satisfaction, understood the silence as an affirmative.
"And is it not also true that the tongue they speak is the same as your Lady?" He spat the final two words at Edward with scorn. "Tell me, my great Lord, how we can be sure she has not simply gone home to her masters in the West?"
The table erupted at once. Lorenzo, Edward's fiercest and most loyal supporter in the Council, rounded on Mihaelo with disgusted contempt. Hema, a stalwart, steady man, closed his eyes with a tired slump. Ramos, a burly lumberman who oversaw the manning of the Southern Watchtower, rose from his seat and shouted, cursing Mihaelo to the black bowels of Hell for such impudence. Nelsor— kind, wise, elderly Nelsor— slammed his walking stick against the stone floor in protest, what few teeth he had left bared in displeasure.
"You insult me," Edward said plainly, his voice low with disgust. The table fell silent at once. "You insult me, you insult your Prince, you insult your Healer, this Council, and your late Queen's sister, with such nonsensical accusations."
"Nonsensical?" demanded Mihaelo, unmoved by this rebuke. "The woman is a complete mystery!" he cried. "A complete, utter, unsolvable mystery! Who are we to say she is not a spy, sent from the West to gain our secrets?"
The table shouted again.
"She is a slave!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the din. "A slave to the West! She is a traitor!"
"You would call a daughter of the Gods a traitor!?" bellowed Ramos angrily. "You, who insult your King at every turn?"
"That woman is not…"
Mihaelo could not finish his sentence before the noise rose again. Ramos, a firm believer in Bella's divinity, bellowed a curse so abominable that the soldier near the door stepped into view, his hand on his sword as if he sensed impending violence. Hema, who had barely spoken at any other Council meeting, bid Mihaelo to sit and silence himself. Nelsor, whose voice cracked in the din, could not be heard, and he resorted once again to banging his stick on the stony floor, his rheumy fists clenched tight about the wood.
Edward, shoving himself up from his seat, banged his uninjured fist down on the hard, wooden tabletop. The vibrations reverberated down the length of the table and one by one, all eyes returned to him.
"Silence!" he snapped and at once, the men stilled. Mihaelo, raising an eyebrow in apparent amusement at Edward's black mood, cocked his head in sarcastic questioning.
"You will not," Edward snapped, "insult my guests in my home. You willnot…"
"I will not be silenced for the sake of that woman!" spat Mihaelo at once. "I will not be bullied! It is my right, as a member of this Council, to point out that which is obvious to all but you, my Lord, who has been blinded by beauty, no doubt!"
Nelsor, unable to stop himself, slammed his cane against the table.
"Fool!" he croaked. "You mad, jealous fool!"
Mihaelo rounded on him at once.
"A harlot beguiles a King— our King!— and we are expected to sit silently and do nothing?"
"Harlot!?" Ramos bellowed with savage rage. "The only harlot here is you, Mihaelo! Like father, like son! Your father was a whore, begging for scraps of attention at the late King's table, and you are a whore, spreading your legs to keep what little power you yet hold!"
"Whore!? You dare call me a whore, bastard!?" Mihaelo wheeled around to Ramos with red-hot fury. "How dare you speak to me in that manner! You, a simple woodcutter, who wouldn't know a real whore if she knelt before you with your cock in her mouth!"
At this insult Ramos rose angrily, lunged over the table, and slammed his fist into Mihaelo's jaw, sending the smaller man sprawling.
Shouting nonsensically with rage, Mihaelo was halfway across the table, his fist scrabbling for the hilt of his blade, before the young soldier by the door had the good sense to yank him back. He bellowed like a wounded beast, his eyes bulging and his face purple with rage.
But Edward, beyond irritation, bared his teeth in angry rebuttal.
"Hold your tongue or you will be thrown out," he spat. "And I mean it this time."
Mihaelo's cheeks paled, and though Edward could see the pride it cost him, he stood shaking, but unrelenting.
"I am an appointed member of this Council," said Mihaelo darkly. "I cannot be removed by the will of oneman, even one so high and mighty as you."
The italics, spat in dark, threatening tones, made Edward bristle, and he narrowed his eyes.
"This Council exists at the discretion of the King!" Edward snapped. "Not at the discretion of its members!"
"The Council is the voice of the people!" shouted Mihaelo. "Your people, whose voices must be heard even though you seem to forget it! You would risk their safety— the safety of every man, woman, and child on this island— and for what? For a chance to make that bitch your bedmate? If it's a whore you seek, My Lord, there are ample stores in your own backyard. I'd be happy to help you find one."
He gestured crudely towards the city, which yet slept in the morning dawn.
"She should be sent back!" shouted Mihaelo. His eyes, still wild with fury, razed over the table in a feeble plea for support. He found none. "She should be sent back, her tail between her legs, to the West, to let her masters know that we are not so easily fooled!"
"We do not cast out innocents!" said Lorenzo, appalled. "We do not banish our women to exile in the wilds, even if they've been tried and convicted!"
"Perhaps we should!" Mihaelo shouted. "Perhaps we should! Laws can change, Lorenzo, and we have the power to make it happen! And that woman— that harlot," he spat the word at Ramos, "is not one of our women. She is an outsider! An outsider with no rightful claim to our lands, our resources, or our hospitality!"
"You are NOT a lawmaker!" Edward bellowed. He was beyond anger now, beyond irritation and dismay, and this time, he rose threateningly from his seat. Mihaelo had gone too far— had overstepped himself in his treatment of his King and his King's honoured guest— and Edward's loss of control showed plainly on his face. He did not have the energy to hide it, to keep his placid mask of coolness and calm in place in the face of such blatant insolence, and as he glared down at the man, he wondered how he could have ever worried over his appeasement. This man had shown his true colours today— Edward saw Mihaelo, now, for who he really was, and the truth of him was as black and ugly as everyone had said.
"I have been in this post longer than you've been alive!" snarled Mihaelo. "As long as your father ever was! I was advising the King when you were nothing but a seedin your father's loins, boy, and I will not be set aside by a child playing house with his daddy's sword!"
"Get out," Edward growled, his eyes flashing with warning. "Get out, Mihaelo, and do not show your face here again."
"WEAK!" bellowed Mihaelo wickedly. "You are weak, and you will bring this entire island to ruin with your folly!"
The words rang like a bell through the cavernous room, which had gone silent. Edward could see Jasper's face now, upturned and white with shock, and as Edward stared into the wide-eyed, consternated faces of the eleven remaining Councillors, he felt his icy anger harden to steel in his chest.
"Get out!" he shouted savagely, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. "Get your filthy words and hateful speech out of my halls!"
Mihaelo's eyes bulged. He shook where he stood, and Edward could see a vein pulsing in his neck.
"That woman will be the death of us!" he raged, snatching his cloak from his chair. The soldier by the door, frowning disgustedly, grabbed him by the shoulder. "That bitch will be the death of you! You mark my words, your Grace, that woman is poison, and if you've all got any sense at all, you'll let her rot in that jungle where she belongs!"
"Get out!" bellowed Edward again. "Get out, and don't ever darken my doorstep again!"
Mihaelo slammed the door behind him and Edward stood, incensed and furious, his fist clenched on the table and his injured hand, weak though it was, wrapped around the hilt of his father's sword.
The room was quiet for several, long breaths. Edward's anger, still hot even when he heard Mihaelo's noisy exit from the castle, made his heart pound noisily in his ears. Doors slammed, boots stomped, and when the wide, wooden castle doors were opened for him, Edward heard Mihaelo shouting at his attendants, bidding them home with urgent haste.
The room was silent once again and the remaining eleven Councillors stared at Edward, expressions raging from savage pride to dumbstruck surprise. Edward stared down each of them in turn, pausing only on Lorenzo, whose mouth gaped like a fish out of water.
"My Lord…"
Edward's head snapped down to Nelsor, whose stick now rested quietly on the back of his chair.
"My Lord, the Lady…"
Edward fell back into his seat.
"Yes, the Lady," he said tiredly, his eyes clenched shut. "Yes. I will do whatever is needed to bring her back safe…"
"I trust you've sent out guards?"
"Of course." Edward rubbed a hand over his eyes, which felt gritty and sore. Pushing back his anger for now, Edward forced himself to be calm, and collected. "Of course. I've got fifty men canvassing the trail to Terosankta, and another fifty visiting farms and homesteads for news."
"And what of the prisoners, my Lord?" asked Ramos. "Where are they now?"
"In the dungeons, where they belong," said Edward quickly. Righteous anger pricked him again, tempered only by the memory of those traitorous men, huddled in a cool, dark cell far beneath the earth, held by thick, grey stone and black, rusted iron. "Emmett is taking them in hand."
The remaining men murmured approvingly. None looked towards the empty seat that Mihaelo had vacated, but Ramos, in the aftermath of his sudden fight, poured himself a generous cupful of wine. He took a long drag, staring speculatively at his King when he brought the goblet back to the table.
"For what it's worth," he said, wiping his red lips on the back of his hand, "I think you do right to seek the Lady."
Edward grunted.
"She is not of the dark," he continued. "I know that as surely as I know my own name."
"But how do we know," began Hema gently, "that she has not simply gone home?"
Edward, still prickly, bristled angrily.
"She is not from the West," he snapped heatedly. "I said as much to Mihaelo, and I'll say it again to you…"
"No, My Lord…" Hema shook his head quickly. "No. You misunderstand me…"
Edward glared, his temper simmering.
"What if she has returned home?" he asked again. "Not to the West, but back to the place from whence she came?"
"The Gods would not be so cruel," said Ramos quickly, shaking his head. "They would not give us a Goddess only to take her back in our very moment of need."
Toro, troubled, shook his head.
"There is no proof she is of the Gods, Ramos," he said gently. "Only talk…"
"Where else could she have come from?" he demanded hotly. "If not the Gods, then where?"
"I don't know, my friend, but perhaps we were mistaken…"
"We were not mistaken," said Edward quietly. "She is not of the East, and I'm positive she is not of the West. She is not evil, as Mihaelo would have you think…"
"Not evil," said Toro easily, "never evil…"
"What are you suggesting, then, Toro?" demanded Corman angrily. "Either the girl is of the West, or she is of the Gods! There can be no other way!"
Toro pursed his lips, but Corman continued before he could speak.
"Either way, you call your King a liar," he said coldly.
"I do not," said Toro vehemently. "I would never."
Edward sighed, begging for patience.
"It matters not," said Edward, cutting off Corman's imminent rebuttal. "It matters not where she's from."
"But surely, My Lord…"
"No," Edward interrupted. "It matters not."
"But if she has returned to her family…" said Toro dubiously. "With all due respect, My Lord…"
"She is not returned to her family," said Edward. "She cannot return to her family. Her family is far off, and try though she might, she cannot rejoin them."
"But how do we know she is not mistaken?" asked Hema, his voice low and soft with desperation. "How do we know she has not simply found her people, who have taken her back and now rejoice at her safe return?"
From deep in the shadows, Edward saw his brother rise. Eyes fixed brightly on Edward, Jasper crept closer and closer until he stood at the very edge of the table, his shoulders squared and his jaw set with stubborn determination.
"Because I saw her," said Jasper quietly, and Hema, who had not noticed his approach, started and turned. "I saw her, Hema, when she fell…"
"So we've been told," said Hema gently, "but my Prince…"
"I know what I saw," said Jasper simply. He stared at Edward, his eyes searching and cold. "I know what I saw…"
"But…"
"Unless the West has learned to fly," said Jasper angrily, "then she is exactly as my brother says."
"I know you saw something," said Toro placatingly, "but how can we be sure?"
"You weren't there!" Jasper's voice rose in consternation. "You didn't see! There's no way she came from there, and even so…"
The men all watched him, and for what it was worth, Edward was proud of his brother's bravery. It was no mean feat to speak before the Council.
"She did not speak our language," said Jasper finally.
"Neither do the men…"
"Yes, they do," said Jasper quickly, his voice waspish and sullen. "They understand us just fine. They speak in the other tongue to keep their own secrets safe."
"But how can we know?" asked Toro again. "I understand your argument, my Prince, but…"
"Go and see for yourself!" said Jasper. "Go to the dungeons and see! Emmett's got them all in cells, and they understand him just fine. One of them even said…"
Jasper told them just where the prisoner had directed Emmett to go, and the Councilmen bristled at the brashness.
"I'm sure Emmett took that well," chuckled Ramos. Ramos had known Emmett's father well, and was more than familiar with Emmett's fiery temper.
Jasper blushed, but said nothing.
"The Lady is not of the West," he said again. "I don't know where she's from, but she isn't from here."
The Councilmen were silent once again.
"I do not want it spread that the Lady is a spy," said Edward finally, when it appeared that there would be no more argument. "I do not want it spread that she is a secret infiltrator from the West, come to wreak havoc…"
Hema, looking abashed, bowed his head in apologetic agreement.
"I am sorry, My Lord, but I had to ask."
"Indeed you did," sighed Edward. "It is the duty of a good advisor to cover all possible angles, no matter how unsavoury."
No one spoke.
"But I want the word spread that she is missing," he continued. "I want my people to know that she is in danger. If she is seen, or if she is found, word must be sent to the castle at once."
The council murmured its assent.
"I'll put out an edict at midmorning," continued Edward. "The city gates will be locked."
Surprise rang out, clear and sudden.
"Locked, my Lord?" asked Hema, astonished. "For how long?"
"Until the danger is passed," said Edward easily, "and until the Lady is found. My citizens will move unmolested, as they always have, but I want to know who is coming and going from my city. The guards have orders to make note of any people who cross the threshold."
"I see…"
"And no one will be admitted after dark," said Edward sternly. "The gates have always been closed at sundown, but now they will be barred. Anyone wishing to enter must wait until sunrise."
"But my Lord…"
"No exceptions," said Edward, with a tone of finality that silenced any possible debate. "My people will be safe."
"And what of Mihaelo, my Lord?" asked Ramos quietly. "What about Mihaelo, who will surely run to tell stories?"
"If he chooses to slander," said Edward cooly, "then he will face the consequences. Slander is not legal under the King's Law, and well he knows it."
Ramos nodded grimly.
"He is a free man," said Edward quietly. "He may no longer be welcome at my Council table, but is not under arrest. There is no law against insulting your King."
The table bristled.
"But nevertheless, his advice is not sound," sighed Edward. "I cannot condone an advisor who refuses to advise, but chooses instead to run wild with unfounded fears and prejudice."
Jasper, looking grimly satisfied, nodded encouragingly at his brother.
"So," Edward finished, reaching for his goblet. There was a mouthful of wine at the bottom, and he brought it to his lips.
The men copied him.
"If there are no further queries or concerns, go forth and tell the word," said Edward, drinking the red, heady spirit. "Tell the people of our curfew, and tell them of the missing Lady, who should be sought and found before she comes to harm."
Eleven goblets rose, and eleven goblets slammed to the table in unspoken approval.
They filed out, buzzing like bees in a hive.
Jasper sat silent, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Edward, with a face so still and sombre that Edward, gingerly unwrapping the bandage from his arm, paused, raising an eyebrow.
"You look troubled," said Edward roughly. "What's eating you?"
Jasper pursed his lips and looked down at the rug. Edward watched him for a moment longer, but saw nothing there, and so continued.
His arm, swollen and bruised, had finally stopped bleeding. Carlisle was on his way— the healer, who had been utterly insistent when they'd first arrived back at the castle by the light of the moon, had pushed for Edward's arm to be tended at once, though more grievously injured men lay in the infirmary, howling with pain and pale with sickness. They'd had to bring them home on the oxen carts, where just hours before, the bodies of the dead had lain. Edward was sure, though he had not stopped to check, that a bloody trail marked their way home, over hills and valleys, through forests and fields. Carlisle was concerned about the wound— concerned that the blade which had struck him, of unknown make and origin, might bring infection, which in turn, might do great harm.
But Edward had been hellbent on summoning his Council. He would not sit, still and patient, while Bella was lost, imperiled in the wild. He would not force his men to wait— not those injured, crying, bloodied men who'd done a great service to their King, who deserved the best possible care. He'd sent Carlisle away, bidding him do all he could to soothe the wounds of the injured, and Edward had gone, arm still throbbing with pain, to the Council chambers where he'd waited for a long, silent hour before his Councillors had arrived.
Jasper had been immovable. It was not unusual for a Prince to sit in on Council business— especially when that Prince was heir to the kingdom— but Jasper, yet a boy, was considered very young for such an honour. Edward himself had not begun sitting on Councils until he was sixteen summers old, steady and quick enough to bring meaningful contributions to the table.
His father had been a master speaker— a true politician, born and bred— and Edward, try though he might, had still not quite mastered the art of talk.
Edward peeled the bandage away from the wound with one final tug and glanced, with slight disgust, at the gaping, raw wound.
Jasper stepped up beside him, pale and nervous.
"Uncle should see to that," he said anxiously. "It looks bad."
"A scratch," said Edward again, though every nerve on his left side told another story. "Just a scratch, Jasper. Nothing to worry about."
Jasper bit his lip.
"Fetch me that water, would you?" asked Edward, nodding to the pot near the fire. Boiled water, Carlisle always said, was the only suitable thing to clean a wound. No one knew why it was so, but water that was boiled seemed cleaner and purer than water straight from the stream. Jasper, jumping at the chance to help, brought the pot over with both hands, resting it gently on Edward's desk.
The King's chambers, where they now reposed, were still strange to Edward. His father's rooms before, Edward had been reluctant to take up his place within, even once he'd been crowned and anointed as King of Marolando, Second of His Name. It felt wrong, somehow, to take his father's place, though he knew that this was exactly what he'd been born and bred to do. A Crown Prince's destiny was to take up his father's mantle, and Edward had done so with great approval from the people and the Council, though none of this was helpful when it had come time to sort through his father's personal things. Edward still felt prickly with shame when he thought of it— as if he had been prying, uninvited and unwanted, in his father's personal business.
Edward took the cloth resting on the pot's edge and soaked it, wringing the water onto the cut with a hiss. It flared like fire, spreading up and down his arm without mercy, until he dropped the cloth and Jasper, concerned, nudged the pot away.
"Wait for Uncle," he said softly. "Does it hurt badly?"
Edward grunted noncommittally.
"I've had worse," said Edward honestly. "Remember that wound the winter before last?"
Jasper, frowning, shrugged quietly. Edward knew that he did remember. It had been the winter before his parents' death, and Edward, foolhardy and headstrong, had gone to the training yard with sharpened blades and only a thin mail shirt used for sparring.
The wound on his belly had made him ill, and it had been his mother's voice, shouting and railing, crying and loving, that had drawn him out of his stupor. For two days, Edward had slept in his bed at the other end of the castle, wild with fever, and for those two days the Kingdom had been in fear for his life. His mother had tended him endlessly, and in the end, only Carlisle's careful salves and tinctures had brought him back to health.
The scar— long, white, and ropey— was a lasting reminder of his folly.
Jasper bit his lip and hovered nervously at Edward's side, his eyes flickering between the wound, the water, and his brother's pale, pinched face.
"Is…"
Edward raised an eyebrow. Jasper, catching his eye, blushed and fell silent.
"Go on." Edward sat back in his seat. With the toe of his boot, he kicked a stool from under the desk, gesturing for Jasper to sit. He did so with careful slowness, bouncing his knees once he had.
"Is the Council always so… testy?" he asked quietly. "I mean, that was a lot of shouting…"
Edward chuckled.
"No," he said at once. "No, not so hostile. I've never dismissed a member before," he said wryly.
Jasper's head snapped up.
"He deserved it, Ed," he said angrily. "What he said? He's wrong."
"I know," said Edward gently. "I know, Jasper. He did wrong to speak so crudely."
"I'm glad Ramos punched him," grinned Jasper. In that strange, mercurial way of his, Edward saw his brother's anger melt to savage glee in an instant. "I thought I'd like to try it, but I've no doubt he'd have won."
"You shouldn't think on such things," Edward reproved softly. "It is not your place to strike anyone, much less an elder…"
Jasper was unabashed.
"There was no harm, in the end," he said. "Ramos did it for me, and what a good shot it was!"
Edward forced back a grin at the boy's impudence, knowing it would do no good to indulge him. Jasper, without missing a beat, continued to speak.
"And I thought that whoring was illegal in the city," he said quickly. "I mean, I don't know, but father always said…"
Shocked, Edward let out a loud, booming laugh. Jasper jumped in surprise, but shrugged shyly, his open, honest face alight with genuine curiosity.
"What do you know of whoring?" chuckled Edward. "You shouldn't know a thing about it! I'm sorry they brought it up today at all!"
"I do know nothing, which is my point!" said Jasper. "Is it, or is it not, illegal?"
"Not entirely," said Edward softly, "though I understand why some might think so."
Jasper waited, eyes rapt.
"It's not illegal to… sell yourself," said Edward delicately. "What a woman does with her own body is her own business, and it is hardly the place for the Council's meddling."
"But?" prompted Jasper.
"But… there is a law that forbids the willful spread of disease," said Edward. "And disease, which I'm sure you know, is very common among women in that, uh… profession."
He tried to be as delicate as he could.
"Hm…" Jasper furrowed his brow. "But if she does not have diseases, then…"
"Then she is free to do as she pleases," Edward said. "In the eyes of the law, at least. The courts of public opinion, however, might say otherwise. Barbed tongues and nasty neighbours can sometimes be more daunting than a court-ordered sanction. Once a man— or woman— passes through our courts, he or she is free to go. Public opinion has no such rules, and as thus, a bad reputation can cause social ruin, if one isn't careful. If people don't like you," Edward summed up, "they might not frequent your family's business or join their family to yours in marriage. It can mean poverty and ruin for such a family, especially if there are few sons to carry on the name."
Jasper considered his brother for a moment, head cocked curiously.
"Do you often discuss these matters at Council?" he asked. Edward nodded.
"Sometimes," he said. "Mostly we discuss the goings on of the day… I hear complaints from the various regions, and do my best to mitigate them."
"Complaints?" asked Jasper. "What complaints?"
Edward grinned.
"Well, as a more commonplace example, there was a complaint from the fisheries in the north last summer," said Edward. "Boats were in disrepair, but there had been no funds allocated in our budget for replacements or improvements."
Jasper listened.
"So, together with Nelsor, who is their elected representative, we rearranged our funds to give the fishermen twelve new boats. Fish are important to our health and our economy, and so, must be sustained."
"It's very interesting," admitted Jasper, his face alight. "I never knew Council could be so… entertaining."
Edward laughed again.
"It's usually not," he admitted. "On a regular day, everyone is very composed and polite."
Jasper grimaced.
"But I suppose now, it will be a mite more interesting," he admitted. "Now that Mihaelo has been removed. The western half of the city will need to elect a new representative, and the Gods only know who it might be."
"Why?" asked Jasper. "Surely there are others?"
Edward glanced at him sharply.
"The western half of the city is richer than the east," explained Edward. "The merchants trade in the west, and there is often conflict there that goes unreported to the Council."
"How do you know about it, then?" asked Jasper at once. "If no one reports it?"
"I didn't say no one reported it," said Edward dryly. "I said no one reports it to the Council."
"Why not?"
"Because to report an issue to the Council," said Edward, "would mean going through your region's representative."
"And that representative is…"
"Mihaelo," said Edward. "He is… or was… a difficult man to get along with. His family is prominent among the wealthy, and I've received a number of reports that he has been… less than willing to bring forward complaints from his riding."
"So…" Jasper's brow furrowed, "then…"
"Those in the west who fear Mihaelo and his influence have chosen to appeal to Lorenzo instead, who represents the East. This, strictly speaking is not a complaint to the Council proper, but rather a well-sourced word-of-mouth story brought by Lorenzo to me in quiet moments in hallways and in the grounds."
"Is that legal?" asked Jasper quickly. "If Mihaelo is their elected official?"
"Any man, woman, or child in the realm has the right of appeal to any member of the Royal family or the Council," said Edward at once. "Even if that person does not explicitly represent them. It is what made Mihaelo so angry with Lorenzo. Lorenzo is a kind man— he listens, and in my mind, he wants to do right— and so he is not afraid to interfere with events in the West if it is right for the people who live there."
Jasper grinned.
"Could the people," he began, "appeal to me?"
"Yes," said Edward honestly. Shifting in his seat, he reached for the pitcher of ale on his desk. He poured himself a generous measure before hesitating, and after a moment of consideration, poured a smaller cup for Jasper.
The boy, while perhaps too young to get drunk, was not a toddler. He accepted the cup with astonished relish, grimacing when it touched his tongue.
Edward laughed.
"The people may appeal to any member of the family," said Edward easily. "They used to appeal to Mother all the time."
"I know, but…"
Edward raised a brow.
"But what?" he prompted. "Has someone come to you with a request?"
"No," Jasper shook his head, "but…"
Edward waited.
"Why would they come to me?" he mumbled. He buried his face in his tankard again, grimacing. Edward stared, confused, before he spoke.
"Because you are the Prince," he said slowly. "The Crown Prince, at that, until I decide to find a wife."
Jasper reddened.
"But…"
"But what?" asked Edward again.
"But I've got no power," he drawled slowly. "I can't do anything for them."
Edward sat back in his seat, astonished.
"You have immense power, Jasper, though you don't seem to realize it," he replied. "You are a Prince of this great land. That is not nothing."
"I know," Jasper sighed, "but what can I do? I have no armies, no soldiers, no money…"
"You've got the ear of the King," said Edward gently. "Isn't that something?"
"I suppose."
"And once you're older," he continued, "you will be given duties and responsibilities to match your status."
His brother eyed him, speculative.
"What kinds of duties?" he asked. "Real duties, or pretend ones?"
"Real," said Edward indulgently. "Real duties that matter. Duties that play to your strengths, and that bring you joy."
Jasper frowned at him.
"I do nothing now," he hedged carefully. "I've not got a single duty in all the world that means anything to anyone."
"No, I suppose you don't," agreed Edward with a sigh. "But once you prove yourself steady and reliable, we will speak again."
This revelation made Jasper flush pink. Edward knew his brother well enough to understand that Jasper knew how flighty he was, how headstrong. Edward also knew, or rather, hoped, that this was merely a pitfall of youth— one that his brother would outgrow and overcome if given proper time and space.
"I don't mean to be unreliable," said Jasper sulkily. "I just…"
"I understand." Edward's good hand, which rested on the tabletop, squeezed Jasper's, hard. "I understand. You're young, and still grieving…"
The boy's eyes flashed.
"But…"
Edward waited. Jasper, seeming to think on his words before he spoke, chose them carefully.
"But I want to help now," he said slowly. "I want to help you find her, because I do not want her to be lost."
Bella, Edward thought. He is talking about Bella…
"I know you do," Edward soothed. "So do I. I want her found safe, and I've got many men out looking for her."
"I could look," suggested Jasper suddenly, and Edward froze. "I know those jungles, and I could go…"
"No," Edward said softly. "No, listen."
For the boy had opened his mouth to argue.
"I don't doubt you know the wilds," said Edward. "With all your exploring, I'd be surprised if you could not draw us a map of the entire jungle."
The boy grinned proudly.
"But you must understand… as Crown Prince, you cannot be put in significant danger."
"I'd be careful!"
"No," said Edward again. "No. But you are right."
Jasper stared at him.
"You should be able to help, if you want to." Perhaps it would keep him out of trouble, Edward mused. "I'll see what I can do, and perhaps, if you are with a group, you might be able to accompany a search party on patrol."
The boy perked up, his face alight with eagerness.
"It'll take some time to organize," said Edward quickly, but the excitement did not die down. "It won't be today, at any rate… you and I are both grey with exhaustion, and not in our proper form."
"I'll find her," he said swiftly. "If anyone can, I will."
That childish hubris— that sure, unmovable confidence— was enviable. Edward did not refute him, did not crush that dream of salvation, and so said nothing at all.
A knock on the door rang loud and Jasper jumped up to answer it. The ache in Edward's arm increased again when he turned to see, eying Carlisle with his medical pack and Esme, pale, but alert, at his shoulder.
"Gods above, Edward!" she gasped, shoving past her husband when she saw his unwrapped arm. "Gods, Edward, that needs more than a stitch!"
"I'm fine, Esme…"
But his aunt, stern-faced and worried, took his cheeks between her hands. Sighing heavily in defeat, Edward permitted her inventory of him. She pounced on him, pressing her hands to his head to check for fever, tilting his face to see his eyes, and pressing her fingers, soft and cool, to the pulse point on his throat.
"That will do, Esme," said Carlisle swiftly. Esme, moving quietly out of his way, hovered anxiously at Edward's side while Carlisle took up Jasper's abandoned seat, his eyes fixed on the wound.
"Not so bad as last time, eh?" he laughed gently, and Edward, despite himself, threw Jasper a knowing grin. The boy, put at ease by his Uncle's presence, winked back.
The smile was wiped from Edward's face in an instant when Carlisle, gripping the pink cloth from the water pot, began dabbing at the raw edges of the cut. He swore like a sailor and blushed, glancing apologetically at his aunt. It was not respectable to curse before such a woman, but he could not help it.
"No matter, Edward, no matter…" she murmured. "I've heard worse words from worse men, I assure you…"
His uncle opened his pack.
"It'll need a wash," said Carlisle grimly, "and stitches. You'll need to keep it wrapped for at least a week."
"A week!?" Edward demanded, outraged. "I'll need to move, Carlisle… I can't be bedbound for a week!"
"I did not say confined for a week, Edward," admonished Carlisle. "I said wrapped."
Edward scowled.
"I cannot be confined," he said again. "There is important business that needs tending. I must search…"
"You will not," said Carlisle sharply, his hands halting. "You must rest, Edward, or you risk infection."
"I can't…"
"You must," said Carlisle simply. "You cannot be gadding about the wilderness, sleeping rough, without medical supplies."
"Carlisle, you can't be serious…"
"I am completely serious," said his Uncle. At that moment, he poured a large measure of clear, stinging fluid over the wound and Edward, feeling his entire body flare in pain, bellowed like a wounded boar.
"If it becomes infected," said Carlisle, dabbing it gently with a cloth, "you could lose the arm entirely."
Edward stilled.
"It's only a scratch," he said, his voice small. "Just a scratch…"
"Aye," Carlisle said, "a scratch… but it has taken far less to fell able-bodied men before you."
Edward was speechless.
"You must delegate, if there are tasks to be done," said Carlisle gently. "You've got men aplenty… use them."
Jasper sat up straighter.
"She is gone, Carlisle, and I must…"
With a sudden anger that Edward rarely saw in his uncle, he slammed the empty bottle of alcohol down on the table. The remnants splashed out and marred the desk's stain, settling deep in the wood. His uncle stared at him with open irritation and Edward, wisely silent, bit his tongue.
"You will not deprive this family of another child," he said lowly. "Not now. Not when we've already lost so many…"
Esme, frowning at Carlisle, bit her fingernails into Edward's good shoulder.
"Your parents are lost, and Bella is lost," he said. "We will not lose you too. You may leave your bed, Edward, for you are not an invalid, but you may not, under any circumstances, stray beyond the city walls. To do so would be unbearable folly, and such behaviour cannot be tolerated from a King."
Edward, feeling small and rebuked, continued to say nothing. His arm, throbbing with pain, felt tight as a bowstring.
"Please," Esme said, speaking only once her husband had gone silent. He turned away, rifling through his pack. "Please, listen to him, Edward."
Her tearful face made him pause.
"You've lost blood, you're exhausted… you're not thinking straight," she pleaded. "Rest, and recover. You are of no use to her if you're half-dead."
Of no use, Edward thought. Jasper continued to stare at him. He was of no use to her…
But perhaps, he thought, there was someone else who could be.
As if he understood Edward's mind, Jasper grinned widely, his eyes aglow with anticipation.
A/N: Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoyed hearing from Edward before we head back to Bella and Rose.