Chapter 44
At the center of the table like an omen of ill-will, the letter sat unmolested on the tablecloth, casting shadows in the light of candlesticks that flickered and winked in the breezy Council chamber. The vaulted room was quiet. Everyone, save the calling bird perched on the windowsill, was contemplative and disturbed. She could feel the tension pulling at her, tugging at her back like a fish on a line, but Bella did not dare move a muscle. At the head of the table, his chin resting on his fingers, sat Edward, and though it had been he who had taken the letter from his pocket to read it out, no one had touched it after he had tossed on the table to be studied. It sat unbothered in the glow, not a single had outstretched to take it, and Edward, silent and furious, would not so much as look at it. He stared instead at his Councillors, poring over each and every one of them as they glanced first at each other, and then the note, and when Bella shifted her skirts rather noisily in her seat, more than one pair of eyes turned to look at her.
"The men have been buried, My King," said Bralto in the hush. "Just as you ordered. We've taken them down from the mountainside."
Edward ducked his head, his face stormy and downcast.
"Do we know who they were?"
"No, My King."
"Is there any way to find out?"
"Not as of yet."
Bella, her eyes stinging, stared resolutely at the tabletop.
Already, the city had begun to talk.
Down on Market Street, where they had made their entrance into the city proper, Bella had heard the startled, hissing whispers as soon as they'd cleared the gates. She had seen the faces, peeking out from windows and stopping dead in their tracks as the sun began to rise in the distant, hazy east. She saw the sellers at their stalls and women at the water pumps, and before long, as the noisy clop of hooves made echoes on the cobbles, there were hundreds of eyes on them. They had been curious at first, marvelling at this unexpected oddity at such an early hour, but that curiosity had turned to fear when they'd seen the retinue of armed guards that went ahead to clear the road.
Already, Bella knew, the rumors had started to run wild. Already, the people talked. They did not know what had happened. They knew nothing of the note. They knew nothing of the hanged men, killed in the mountains by the flooded, swollen river, and they knew nothing of the threat that hung over them like an axe on the block. They knew nothing about anything but that didn't stop the tongues from wagging and even now, as they sat around the council table, they were one and all replete with gossip.
There had been an assault on the road, some said, and the King had been forced to fight. There had been a bandit in the north. There had been an insult on the Rocks. The Queen, fresh from her royal wedding bed, was already taken with child, and so had returned to her home where she could rest in comfort and in peace. The Council had called the King back. The Commander had lost control of the city. The Prince was lost, the crops had failed, the Queen was ill, and there had been a storm in the north— all and sundry telling tales, and not one of them the truth.
Edward had summoned the Council at dawn, at the very moment of his arrival in the city. Nelsor, travelling with the royal party from the Wharf, had arrived at the castle first. The others had trickled in over the course of the morning, leaving Arman to arrive last just after lunch, and then they had gathered here together with the utmost haste to discuss what they should do and how they might proceed. Bralto had brought news of the flooded river and details about the discovery his men had made but Bella, still ragged with nerves over the seething, angry note, had listened with only half a mind to process as Bralto told the tale.
The river, as it was every year, was flooded from the rains. There was a blockage of rocks— a petty provocation that came from the West each year during the summer deluge. The men of the Northern Watchtower had cleared the rocks. The flood had begun to flow clear.
When the water had receded, they had found them— five corpses, bloated and mottled in the afternoon sun, hanging by their necks from the cliffs at the base of the mountain. There had been evidence of a struggle— wounds on one man's hands, and rope burns on the palms of another— and when they'd been cut down, each falling to the dirt in a heap, the men had noticed the markings on each bare chest. TRAITOR— a single word carved in bloody, raw gashes, some etched so deep that the men could see bone. A word that had made Bralto nervous. A word that had made Edward quiet.
Though no one said it, Bella knew what the men were thinking. Bella knew what they all knew, whether they wanted to acknowledge or not. She did not know these dead men's names, and she did not know their stories, but she was almost certain that she knew just where they had come from, and it made her feel ill.
They were men of the West, she knew, and they had been hanged by some of their own. She did not know what they had done to offend their leaders. She did not know what they might have said to earn their fates. She did not know why they were killed, or why they were so cruelly branded, but the thought of their disloyalty gave her a strange sort of hope that made her feel at once vindicated and terribly, horribly guilty.
"They are most certainly outsiders," said Lorenzo, speaking the words that no one else dared voice. "If we do not recognize them, they must not be from our own stock. We would've heard by now if five men had gone missing. It would have reached us far sooner…"
"There is no one left that far West on our side of the mountains," said Hema. "All of those farms were burned. The Hollow Lands are nearly empty— everyone knows that— and there is no one left close to the river but the rice grower, and he has been accounted for."
Edward pressed his fingers to his lips.
"It is a sign of discord, My King," said Argos, the lord of the ruined Hollow Lands. "It is, perhaps, a sign of goodwill for us."
"Death is never a sign of goodwill," said Edward. "Outsiders or not, it is a tragedy."
"But if they were disloyal…"
"Loyalty is not law," said Edward. "It is not a crime to dislike your leader."
"But it is a crime to scheme against him," said Argos. "That, at least, we can say for sure."
"If they went against their leader," said Edward, "that only means they were acting for our benefit. A traitor in the West is a friend in the East, and although we do not know who these men were or where they came from, it would do well for us to remember just what constitutes treason in that western hell."
At this, the table fell silent again.
"The guards in the city have been put on alert," said Lorenzo. "We've increased patrols in the streets."
"Good."
"There is great concern about the soldiers. The people do not know the details of the note— indeed, they do not know that there has been a note at all— but the increased patrols in the city have caused some disruption and people are growing nervous."
In the center of the table, just where it had been since Edward had tossed it down, the note sat undisturbed between the golden goblets and plates. Lorenzo reached for it, taking it carefully in his fingers, and when he read it over again, Bella saw his brow furrow.
"Do we know who delivered it?" he asked and at once, Bella shook her head. "It was delivered to you, My Queen? And to your rooms?"
"Yes."
"You were alone?"
"Yes."
"The guard saw nothing?"
"Not a thing," said Edward, leaning forward on his elbows. "There were servants' stairs in a side closet about which the guards were not informed. The messenger must have come through there."
"I know nothing of a child matching that description on the Wharf," said Nelsor and at this, Bella saw Edward frown. "I know everyone in the village, and almost everyone on the outskirts. There is not a soul in that district that I would not recognize."
"No one can know all of their tenants, Nelsor," said Jora, taking the note for himself. He read it quickly, his eye lingering near the bottom and when he was done, he passed it on to Bralto. Bralto would not touch it, letting it fall unceremoniously to his unused plate and he crossed his arms to keep it away, shaking his head in disgust.
"I've no need of that," he said and the table murmured. "It is filth, and nothing more. Pure slander, and I'll have none of it."
"Slander and a threat…"
"There are always threats," returned Bralto, "and since the very beginning of this conflict, we have met those threats head on. This will be no different."
In the corner, lurking like a ghost, Bella saw Emmett frown, his arms coming up across his chest.
"They talk of an army…"
"Pure speculation," said Bralto. "We've heard nothing of it."
"They've never centralized before."
"Yes they have."
"When?"
"At the very beginning," said Bralto, and this, it seemed, made Emmett even more agitated. "They had armies enough back then…"
"Aye, and there were lives lost, if you'll recall. There were heirs lost," said Lorenzo. "A Crown Prince dead and a King gone mad…"
"So the legends say."
"So our history says," retorted Nelsor who, with his face screwed up, looked very much like a character from those tales of old. "Those legends are rooted in truth, Bralto, and we would be fools not to heed them."
"There is no army."
"You might be wrong."
At this, there was a ripple around the table. It was, Bella knew, a great impertinence to interrupt the Council's proceedings, and it was only by the grace of the King himself that Emmett had been been allowed in to observe the meeting in the first place. He was not expected to speak— even here, with his best friend at the helm, there were customs to be observed— but instead of a reprimand Edward only stared at him, his brow furrowed as he sat back in his seat.
"What makes you say so?"
"Your Grace," protested Bralto but Emmett, immovable and stubborn, stepped closer to the table. "If the Commander desires an audience, he should reach out when we are through…"
"He is here to listen, and to share in our wisdom," said Edward and Bralto, irritated, sat back in his seat. "We will hear him."
"There might very well be a centralized force in the western stronghold," said Emmett. "We have it on good authority that—"
"Been there, have you?"
Emmett spared Bralto only a passing glance.
"No," he said. "No, of course not. But…"
"It is foolishness," cut in Ramos, who, like Bralto, commanded one of the formidable Watchtowers that overlooked the Western end of the King's territory. "There can be no army, because there is no government. A militia, maybe, but…"
"They've rallied around their leader," said Emmett. "As they've always done. The hierarchy is quite well-established, I assure you."
"You cannot make such assurances."
"No, but Rosalie can," said Emmett and at this, the table rippled with discontent. "She's spoken quite freely, and…"
"Forgive me if I do not trust the word of an outsider," snapped Bralto and Emmett, going suddenly surly, closed his mouth with a huff. "I know you are close with her, but she is not from our lands. She does not have our interests…"
"Your own Queen is not from our lands," Emmett snapped back and Bella, feeling her cheeks flame red, looked away from the guilty glances of the men. "If that is your sole protest, Bralto, then it is a poor one."
"She is married to the enemy."
"She was married to the enemy…"
"She has two children by him!" snapped Ramos and Edward, frowning, held up a hand for peace. "She has two young children fathered by the enemy, and you expect us to trust her word?"
"I expect you to trust my word," said Emmett crossly, "and I expect you to show respect."
"Respect is earned, boy."
"I've earned it three times over," said Emmett. "I may be young, Ramos, but I am not a fool."
"You have the ear of the King, and so you've risen high," snapped Bralto. "Your father was a formidable leader. We have yet to see if you'll be his match."
"Tread very carefully, Bralto," said Edward and at once, all twelve Councilors turned to him, instead. "You come dangerously close to rudeness."
"If rudeness is what's required, Your Grace, then…"
"It will not be upheld here, in this Council chamber. This is official business, My Lord, and if you cannot respect the witness I've asked to share his wisdom with the table, I will have to ask you to leave."
"There is no army…"
"Rosalie says they've a force of hundreds," said Emmett, "and that they are rallying more with each passing spring. There are at least five thousand people living beyond the mountains. It is not so wild to think that their young and able men have rallied together."
"Their women fight too," Lorenzo pointed out, and at this, there was a grumble. "We've seen it, in the Hollow Lands…"
"Their women raid," said Emmett. "They pillage fields and barns. They do not engage in battle."
"We don't engage in battle," said Lorenzo, and at this, the table bristled again. "We haven't fought a real fight in nigh on fifty years. We've quelled skirmishes in the Grasslands, nothing more. We have almost no battle training."
"Our men are strong," said Emmett, "and growing in number. We've new recruits coming every week."
"How many total?"
"About a thousand," said Emmett, "maybe a few more."
"A thousand," Edward repeated and Bella, feeling her pulse begin to race, saw the worry settle on his brow like a weight. He pondered for a moment, saying nothing whatsoever to ease the tension, and when Emmett spoke again, his words fell heavy.
"We are training more," he said, "but recruitment is low. If what Rosalie tells me is true…"
"A big if…"
"If it is," Emmett went on, "then we must raise more."
"They have no weapons," said Ramos. "They don't have the resources to forge steel."
"They've been creative with stone and what little iron they've managed to mine," said Emmett. "Their blades are not as sharp as ours, it's true, but they've got no shortage of axes and arrows."
The very thought made Bella sick.
"You saw what they did in the Grasslands," Emmett said and at this, Bralto hung his head. "You saw the devastation they brought with them."
"Devastation on defenseless families," said Bralto. "Not soldiers… they wouldn't be so lucky if they assaulted seasoned fighters."
"No, and that's exactly the point," said Emmett.
Bralto stared at him.
"If they want to hurt us, they will go for the common people first," said Emmett. "They will want to ruin our army— have no doubt of that— but first, they will disable our farmland. If we cannot eat, then we cannot thrive…"
"They'll never make it to the Village," said Mirka. "There's no way in hell they'd make it that far East."
"If they burn along the way, they might."
"Our forces would stop them."
"We would try…"
"Try?" demanded Mirka, outraged. "We'll do better than try."
"We are scattered," said Emmett. "We have platoons in every corner of the island. We've taken men from the Watchtowers and set them up in the Grasslands to guard against another burning. We've got increased surveillance and security in the far east. The Kingsguards who are not in the castle are patrolling the streets to keep the peace…"
"And so?"
"And so we have a thousand men," said Emmett, "but only a hundred or so in any given place. If they come upon us, as they've threatened to do, we'll meet their hundreds with only one tenth of our defenses."
"We cannot leave the island unprotected," said Lorenzo and beside him, Rohailo nodded his agreement. "We cannot leave people to fend for themselves…"
"No," said Emmett. "No, we can't."
"And so what is the solution?" demanded Nelsor, looking up and down the table with righteous indignation. "What more can we do, other than maintain our continued efforts to recruit?"
"We can incentivize."
Thirteen heads turned to stare at her. The words had slipped free almost without her permission and she felt her embarrassment rising with each passing moment, but when no one spoke or argued back, she continued on.
"We can offer them something in return."
"Service in our army is an honour, Your Grace…"
"Honour won't feed families," said Bella and Edward, grinning only slightly through his troubled, tired frown, sat back in his chair. "Honour won't keep families safe."
"Men will keep our families safe, My Queen… men in arms," said Bralto. "Such is the way it's always been."
"It's a dangerous job," said Bella.
"It's a necessary one."
"Hardly a consolation, then, for families left behind," she said. "Hardly peace of mind."
"Peace of mind is a luxury not afforded in times of strife," said Nelsor. "There can be no assurances when the enemy is near."
"Frightened men do not make good fighters."
"Is there any other kind of men?" asked Ramos and Bella, frowning, bit her lip. "All men are frightened when war comes knocking. They'd been foolish not to be."
"They do not want to leave their families," said Bella, "and really, they've not got a good reason to."
Bralto balked at her.
"They leave their families to serve the realm, Your Grace. To serve you, as it were…"
"These men you will recruit might die to serve the realm," said Bella. "They might die fighting an enemy that they do not know. They might die alone, and in pain, and all the while knowing that they've failed…"
"Death in battle is a great victory," said Hema and Nelsor, nodding sagely, murmured his agreement. "It is a sacrifice that many choose to make…"
"Very few would choose death," said Bella, "but it is made all the harder knowing that it's not only themselves that they destroy."
"Your Grace?"
"What of those they leave behind?" she asked. "What of th families who are left without their fathers and husbands?"
"You mean the wives?" asked Bralto and Bella nodded.
"What of the widows?" she asked. "If there is to be a fight— which everyone seems certain there will be— what will happen to the widows of those honourable men who go to fight? What will happen to their children?"
"The King's coffers…"
"Provide only basics," said Bella. "They will not starve, and they not go naked and homeless, but that alone will not make for an easy life. Any man worth his salt would not want to leave his family destitute. Unless the woman has a trade, they will be begging at the castle gates in droves if their husbands and sons are lost."
"They may remarry," said Nelsor. "Such is the choice of many in hard times…"
At this, Bella scoffed.
"I don't know much about war," Bella said, "and I certainly don't know much about economics, but what I do know is that any man you'd want on your side will not go willingly if it means the ruin of his house. Give him something to work for. Give him something to bring back home to the people he loves. Reward his honour, instead of just acknowledging it, and perhaps you'll have a better crowd come out when Emmett puts forth his request."
"We pay our soldiers, Madam, as is the custom," said Ramos but Bella, frowning, shook her head. "We pay them well…"
"While they are serving, yes," said Bella. "While they live, yes… but what about after?"
"We cannot pay a man who does not work."
"You can pay a man who has served his King," said Bella. "You can provide for families, if and when they are in need."
"Men must work if they want to earn."
"Some men can't work," she said, and at this, she saw Edward's smile widen. "If they are injured, or dead, there is nothing they can do."
"How do you propose to pay for such a thing?" asked Ramos, and at this, the others sat up a little straighter. "If we are to discuss it at all? The people will not support another tax— not so soon after we raised one to grow the army in the first place— and while we are not destitute, we do not have gold to spare."
"Is there no reserve?"
"For emergencies, yes."
"Families in need are emergencies…"
"Floods," said Bralto. "Storms. Fire, drought, sickness…"
"And violence?" Bella asked.
"There is not enough," said Rohailo. "I manage the ledgers myself. There is not nearly enough to support a new project of such a scale…"
Bella glanced at Edward, instead.
"We can look into it," he said. "Perhaps we will find something…"
"I have my own coffers now, do I not?"
At this, Edward blinked.
"The Queen has funds, yes…"
"How much?"
Edward frowned at her.
"Twenty thousand gold," said Rohailo and Bella, startled, turned around. "About fifteen thousands silver. An assortment of bronze, and some very fine jewels. I also believe there is some property, currently tenanted out between the city and the northern coast, and though the lands are small and the plots modest, they fetch about fifty a year altogether."
"How much does it cost to keep a family?" Bella asked. "How many gold pieces?"
"One gold would keep two families for a year," said Rohailo and Bella, grinning, sat back in her seat. "It would keep them rather comfortable, I think…"
"So there you have it," Bella said, sitting back in her seat. "If the kingdom will not pay, then I suppose I will."
"You cannot possibly think to…" Bralto stared at her, astonished. "You cannot possibly want to spend your money on… that."
"It is mine to do with as I please, or so I've been told," Bella said and Bralto, red in the face, let his mouth fall closed. "Try it out. See how it works. If it does not increase the yield, then you will hear me admit my defeat from my own lips."
"What am I to tell them?" Emmett asked. "When I go?"
For the answer to this query, Bella looked to Rohailo.
"I would give them five years, if you're giving anything," said Rohailo before Bralto could say another word to protest. "Two and a half gold apiece."
"Up front?" Edward asked. "For each fighting man?"
"Upon the completion of service," said Bella. "For every man who joins your force and is honourably discharged from your service, there will be a payment of two and a half gold coins for himself or his widow."
The table was silent.
"There will be talk," warned Bralto. "We will be accused of bribery…"
"It is not bribery," said Bella. "Not even close."
Bralto only stared at her.
"It is kindness," said Bella. "It is… security. It is one less worry for a soldier on the front lines, who has enough to trouble him without wondering if his children will go hungry if he does not come home."
"My Queen…"
"It is a mercy, Bralto," she said, and though he sighed, he did not argue back. "It is one, very small mercy. They deserve that, at least."
At the end of the table, Arman tipped his glass to her.
"We will send a messengers," said Edward, "with the details. Emmett will follow, to recruit."
"Let them know that their King takes care of his own," said Bella and at this, Edward shook his head. "Let them know that they will not be forgotten. That their families will not suffer…"
"Let them know their Queen takes care," said Edward and though his voice was steady, he looked at her with a curious wonder that made Bella blush. "Don't affix my name to this fund, Emmett, for it is not mine to give. Let them know that their Queen has done this kindness for them. Let them know that it is she, in all her goodness, who has done this great deed. Let them praise her, Emmett, not me."
"So be it," said Lorenzo, and with a beaming smile he raised his cup. Bella, following suit, raised hers in return. "So be it…"
All twelve men— reluctant Bralto included— brought their cups to their lips. Edward counted the vote in an instant, tipping the wine into his mouth, and when he brought it down, the rest of the Councillors followed suit. The wine was sweet and heady— altogether too strong, she thought, for so early in the day— but she relished the warmth in her belly, and the burn in her throat.
"Go forth and spread the word," said Edward and together, the men set their goblets down on the polished wood of the table. "Go forth, my friends, and tell the people our good news."
The Stony Shore — Summer
Bastian had never known the smell of grass.
High on the clifftops of the Stony Shore, there was a hut. Small and mean, crafted from the precious wood that grew in copses along the northern shore, the hut had been the seat of his house for as long as his family had been living. It was a small hut, it was true, with only two rooms and a shed, but it was in that hut that Bastian had been born and from that hut that he had grown from child to a young man. He was eleven now— a ripe old age— and such a wonderful age it was, for while his father had entrusted him with the care of the goat, he was not so old that he could not still find joy in the playing of pretend on the cliffs behind his home.
When he played, he pretended there grass here, where there was really nothing left but stones and mud. He made beds of it in his daydreams, plucked it up to weave his mother a green, fragrant basket in his games. He rolled in it, he tasted it, he imagined its prickle on his neck with each passing minute, and when he would return to the hut, filthy with mud and wet with salty seaspray, his mother would only scold.
He had seen grass only once on a long and lonely trip to the northern coast with his father years before. They had ridden for two days to reach it, bringing with them the meager wares from their feeble harvest, and when they had sold what little they had for what little their buyers could give, Father had taken him to see the river. Bastian knew the sea like he knew his own self— he knew the ebb and flow of tides, the white-capped waves that broke like crystal on the shattered rocks below the cliffs— but he had never seen the river and it had filled him with wonder. He had seen it rush and he had heard it trickle, and beyond, where the mountains ended and the East began, he had seen the great, green expanse of a field, so unlike anything he had ever known that he had stopped and stared, frightened by the ripples in the wind.
"Such is the succor, and such is the bounty," Father had said and Bastian, moving beyond his father's reach, had taken one step closer. It was miles away— even from so far out, Bastian knew that— but he felt that if he reached out far enough, he might be able to stroke it with the tips of his fingers. Bastian had never seen the East— he knew only what he had heard in the tales and the warnings— and though there was not a soul in sight he felt a curious mix of excitement and the fear. The East was a mystery to him— a place of utter fascination and complete and total terror— but when his father spoke again, his voice was soft with a strange, unfamiliar yearning. He gripped Bastian's shoulder, his fingers digging in tight, and Bastian listened, curious and wary.
"One day, son," his father had said, "we will see that great field for ourselves. I will bring you to that grass and we will both fly free, like birds in the wind. We are not meant to be bound by rocks and trees, Bastian. When the time is right, we will bathe in light of sunrise on the eastern shore and when we do, we will know the taste of heaven."
Heaven— that was a word his father used often, and Bastian had begun to wonder if that's what he was plotting with the strangers in their kitchen.
Bastian had seen the men who came and went from his father's homestead like bees slipping in and out of a flower blossom. He had seen the gold— what little they could give from the sale of their wares— as it slipped into a stranger's pocket. He had heard the whispers, had watched the faces alight with hope, and though he had never quite figured out just where that hope had come from, he had watched it, and he had wondered.
They did not speak of it— not even when he and father were alone together hunting barnacles on the rocks. Bastian did not ask him who those men were or what it was that they wanted, and his father did not tell. They did not talk of grass again. They did not talk of heaven. They did not talk of freedom, and they did not talk of hope, and though Father knew that Bastian had seen these secretive transactions in the very dead of night, there had not been a word said about any of it. Not even Mother, in all her idle chatter, had said a thing.
But when the soldiers had come, Bastian had felt a squeezing terror deep in his belly.
He had heard the noise first— the racing hooves of horses, so scarce out on the humble, deserted rocks— and then he had seen them, flying like bandits across the flat, barren plains. There had been three of them, all tall, and armoured, and strong, and when father had pushed him down into the deep trench of a drainage ditch, Bastian had listened, and he had waited.
There had been noises that had frightened him— shouts of anger and a desperate plea for mercy. There had been a crack against the stone. There was a holler that echoed down the craggy cliffs. Slowly, with all the quiet lurking of a snake, Bastian had wiggled his way up the steep embankment to look and when he did, he saw just what the men had done.
The three newcomers stood tall before a figure that Bastian knew to be his father. That figure was hunched, its head bent low, and as he listened, he could hear the rapid breaths against the wind. Two of the men were faceless— they had turned away from him to stare out into the marsh— but the third man, their leader, was as vivid as a painting.
He was tall, Bastian saw, with hair of light yellow flax, and while his face was not ugly, it was marred by gouges and scratches. One long scar ran from his ear to his chin and when he bore his teeth, Bastian saw that one was missing. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken, and his boots were caked with mud, but the cloak he wore was fine, and the great, iron sword at his waist made Bastian tremble with fright, wondering just how the man had afforded such a rare and dangerous luxury.
"You lied to me," said the man and Bastian saw his father shake his head. "Don't you dare try and deny it! Tell me the truth!"
"I don't know…"
The man slapped his father with the back of his hand.
"You conspired with her!" cried the leader and Bastian saw his father quail. The man struck again, this time hard enough to make his father fall over. "You traitorous bastard! You supplied her!"
"I've never met her, Rojce!" cried Father. "I never touched her…"
"You paid for her!" shouted the stranger and when he stepped closer, Bastian saw the silver glint of that great, heavy sword. The sound of it, rattling in its scabbard, echoed across the rocks like a bell. "You gave her money, you rat bastard, and you'll pay me back in kind…"
"She is her own woman!"
When the man brought the blade down, Bastian heard his mother scream.
Huddling down in the long weeds of the ditch, Bastian closed his eyes and blocked his ears as that great sword found its mark. Blood pounded in his ears as his hands began to seize with the force of his grip. He could taste metal on his tongue where his teeth had pierced clean through. He was shaking from his head to his toes, and he could feel the cold, sea wind on the gooseflesh of his neck, and when the rushing died down, his hands falling to his sides, he heard his mother wailing and smelled the acrid smoke of fire.
Bastian did not move a muscle until he heard the men depart.
Peeking, slowly and carefully, over the edge of the deep, mossy ditch, he saw what they had left behind and as if the ground had dropped right out from under him, he felt a queer, sickening jolt.
Their hut had been burned, and with it all of their meager, worldly goods. Their goat had been slaughtered. Their chickens had been culled. Their crops— their meager, sorry plot of roots that had grown small and wormy over the spring and summer— had been pilfered. They had taken the tools and the mule. They had left a corpse behind.
On the rock, huddled over a figure that Bastian could not quite make out, he saw his mother's form, her cries carrying on the wind as she cradled that bloody, oozing thing that stained the rocks red. Her dress was covered in it, her frantic face splattered with the gore, and when Bastian came out, his eyes wide, she had held her hand out, her head shaking.
"No," she said, and Bastian halted at once. "No, baby… no…"
Bastian stood, still as a stone with shock and terror, as the hut beside him burned and his mother wailed her grief. There was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do, and so he simply stood, motionless and stricken, until the smoke rose higher and he heard another sound from further north.
By the time his Uncle, mounted on his stallion, had made his way into the yard, there was nothing left of their home but a pile of smouldering, sizzling ash. He swept the scene with one scrutinizing turn of his head and when he saw the boy he froze, turning instead to face the mother.
"You must go now, Paolo," said Mother and his Uncle said not a word. "Like we talked about. Take him now."
"Maisi…"
"Please!" Mother's voice cracked and he saw his Uncle's face fall. He did not look at his brother— did not look at the ruined, bloody corpse that his mother guarded so jealously— and when Mother shouted out again, his Uncle hung his head.
"Please, Paolo!" She cried. "He must go!"
"There is yet time…"
"They will kill him, if they find him!" she sobbed. "They will kill him outright! You know what they are like! You know what they've already done!"
Uncle stared at her, his face unreadable.
"Bid him farewell, then," he said gruffly, "and give him your love. I cannot linger here, Maisi. They will not be far away."
"Baby…"
"Mother?"
When she came to him, Bastian felt the sticky warmth of the blood from her hands on his cheeks. The smell of it was rank— he held his breath to stave off the nausea— and when she kissed him it was quick and full of a desperate longing.
"Do as Uncle says," she whispered, and when he only nodded, she stepped away. "Do exactly as he says, Bastian, do you understand?"
"Yes…"
"Be a good boy."
"Mother?"
"Come," said Uncle, and with a dreadful jolt he found himself pulled up. Uncle, gripping him under the arms, had hauled him onto the saddle, laying him down on his front with his head on one side, his legs on the other. He was covered by a thick wool cloak. "Stay there, and don't make a sound. I don't want you seen."
"Mother?"
"Be good, Bastian," she said. "Be safe…"
"Mama?"
"Go!"
And with that, the horse was off.
They rode, hard and long, through the great, flat plains of the island's barren West. Bastian's ribs were bruised by the punishing ride. His head ached with each new bump. His face was caked with mud, and his belly ached with hunger, and only when twilight had set in, the brilliant blue of the sky fading to a sharp, ruby red, did his uncle stop and pull the cloak away.
"Sit up, boy, and listen well," said Uncle and as he obeyed, Bastian looked around in surprise. "You know where you are?"
Before him, raging and frothing, was the great, coursing river that came in from the East. It was swollen now— bigger and deeper than Bastian remembered— but there could be no mistaking it.
"Yes."
"You must go, Bastian," said Uncle and the boy shook his head. "Yes, you must. Don't argue."
"Go where?"
"East," said Uncle. "Through the pass… you will follow the river. It will guide you true."
"East where?" demanded the child. "And with whom?"
"You will find the women by the pass," Uncle said, and when he pushed Bastian down from the horse, the boy felt a thrill of terror. "Keep to the lowlands. Don't let anyone see you. The women will take you in with them, once you reach them. They know you're coming."
"Where's Mother?"
"Forget your mother."
Bastian never could.
"They'll come for me, next, now that they've found your father," said Uncle. "They know I'm involved."
"Involved in what?"
His uncle ignored the question.
"Go, boy, and whatever you do, keep walking."
"Walk where, Uncle?" the boy pleaded. "I don't know where to go…"
"East."
"To find what?"
"The city."
In his belly, Bastian felt the sting of nerves like biting beetles.
"I can't go alone."
"You must."
"What will I do?"
"You've got food enough for a week," said Uncle, handing down a wrapped sack of hard bread and cheese. "The cloak is warm." He handed down the length of wool, which had made Bastian's arms itch. "Walk, child, and keep on walking, and when you reach the city, tell them what has happened to your father."
"The city?"
"The King's city," said Uncle. "With the great keep."
Bastian felt a thrill of terror.
"The King is a tyrant!" he replied, and his Uncle looked away. "Please, Uncle… The Eastern King is a tyrant! He will cast me out…"
"Keep your voice down!"
"I cannot go East alone, Uncle," the child begged. "I cannot go…"
"It is our King who is a tyrant, child."
"He will turn me away!"
"You must go."
"Uncle, please."
"For your mother's sake, and for mine," said Uncle, and Bastian saw with absolute horror that there was a tear on Uncle's hard, weathered cheek. "For our sakes, child, you will go. Don't look back. Your father wouldn't want that."
"Father is dead…"
Uncle hung his head.
"He left us you," said Uncle, "and you are our future. The soldiers will come for you, too, if they know you're here. They won't stop until they've ended us."
"But why?"
Uncle only stared, his sad face drawn and piteous.
"It matters not… not to you. Go, child, and take my blessing with you."
"Uncle…"
"Tell me where you're headed. Tell me so I know you'll be safe…"
"I don't want to go."
"Tell me, now, boy… where will you go?
"The city…" Bastian's voice was high. "With the castle."
"And what will you find there?"
"The King?"
"Good lad."
"Please come with me."
"The others are waiting," said Uncle, and with a nudge, Bastian was pushed away from the wild stallion who stamped his hooves. "Keep to the ditches and follow them east. You'll meet the women at the mountain. Don't let them catch you. Stay low to the ground…"
"Don't let who catch me?"
"The soldiers."
The words sent fear through every cell of his body.
"I love you." Bastian's voice was thin and reedy. "Will you tell Mother I love her? I never did before we left…"
Uncle's face fell.
"I will."
"I'm frightened, Uncle…"
"I know. Now go."
Uncle turned the horse away.
"Uncle?"
He paused.
"Will you come after me? You and mother? Will you come too, once I've gone through?" asked the child and at this, his uncle froze. Turning back to see him, to lay eyes on the child that was his brother's image and his light, he tasted the lie like acid on his tongue. It flowed like poison from his lips, easy and smooth, and if any sign of the falsehood showed on his face, the boy did not see it.
"Of course I will, Bastian. Now go, before you lose the light."
"Goodbye, Uncle…"
"Goodbye."
In the blackness of the night, under a shroud of silence so thick that he could taste it, the King lay awake beneath the covers of his bed, his eyes wide open and his hands damp with perspiration. His heart was racing in his chest— he could almost hear it in his ears— and his face was flushed with the exertion of his dream. It had jolted him awake, had come down upon him with a purpose and a vengeance, and as he worked to calm his breathing and wipe away the fear, he took in a shaking, trembling breath.
The blood had not been real, he knew, and the terror had all been false. There had been no clash of swords and shields. There had been no bellows of dying men in the fields. There had been no fire and there had been no flood, and though he felt the ache of fingernails digging deep into the flesh of his hands, there had been no wounds. There was no danger yet, and there had been no call to arms, and so as the memory of the dream buzzed around in his head like a fly he could not catch, he listened to the noise and tried, in vain, to cast it out for good.
The fear was driving him mad.
They had made threats before, the brutish Lords of the West, and many times those threats had been violent. He had lived under the threat of that violence his whole life, constantly wondering when it would be his turn to take on the fight. His grandfather had gone to battle— even Edward, who had been only a child at his father's coronation, recalled the excitement and the tumult of that final confrontation— and his father had done his bit, too. His whole life, Edward had been waiting, and his whole life he had thought himself ready, but now that the threat had finally found its way to him and his own, he found that he was unprepared. He had not readied himself for it, had not gathered his wits to take it on, and though he lay awake now, in the safety of his bed, he found that there was no calm, and there was no peace.
There was no way Edward could have known, before that note had come, just what it would mean to have his life come under threat. There was no way he could have understood. A threat against his person was one thing— he could defend himself and he could do it well if the violence came to him, and more than anything else he was ready to do it when the enemy came knocking. A threat against his people could be met with fire and with fury. His army could defend the city. His walls could house the farmers. The districts could rally, and the mountain passes could be blocked, but all of it would mean nothing if he could not protect her.
He had not understood the fear, the terror that had come like a wild beast to make its den in his heart, just as he had not fully understood the love that had grown in him like a weed. He had always cared for her— ever since she had first spoken to him— but he had not understood the depth of his love until it had come under fire. He had not understood just what she had come to mean to him, or just how fiercely he would defend her, and the very thought of that note they had received made him ill as if someone had punched him in the gut.
Your false Queen for our rightful one, they had written. Your little princes for our stolen ones.
The thought made his mouth go dry.
She slept beside him now, blissfully still and unaware of his sudden, anxious waking. She did not stir when he sat upright, did not shift when he threw the blankets to one side. When he stood, jostling the mattress, she did not so much as sigh. When he walked instead to the window, where he could sit and not disturb her, she only nestled a little deeper into her pillow. Her cheek pressed to the soft, fresh linen, was still, and her delicate fingers curled around the sheet. Edward watched her for a moment in the feeble, dim moonlight before he turned instead to look out through the south-facing window, his eyes scanning the streets and his fists clenched around the warm, stone sill.
The city, dark and quiet, was still asleep. There were no lights in any windows, save perhaps two or three, and where the long, dark strip of Market Street ran straight to the gates in the far distance, there were no torches or candles to light the way. The houses were black, their doors shuttered and barred, and when he heaved a sigh he glanced instead towards the west where he could see the torches lit in the round, tall watchtowers.
Edward did not like the sight of the gate and its towers— not anymore. Not since that time, so long ago, when the two people he'd loved most in the world had disappeared through them like ghosts in the night. Not after they had closed, locking his parents out in the wilds of the West, and certainly not after they had opened again to let those corpses back inside.
He had seen what the West had done when his parents had fled through those dark, unyielding gates. He had seen what it had cost them— what the promise of peace had cost, when the violence had come to a head. He had seen just what his father had been willing to pay for the chance at a better life, and Edward had felt most keenly what they had given up to get it, but when he thought of his mother, Edward felt a pang of absolute despair.
Edward Senior had loved his wife— Edward had never doubted that— but until he had felt that love for himself, he had not known how much. He had not understood what must have been his father's anguish, watching his wife attach herself to him and his doomed, impossible mission. He had known that his life would be forfeit— there was no way that they would let him live— but he had hoped, Edward knew, that his loss alone would be enough to end it. He had hoped that through him, the gap might be bridged. He had hoped that by his own sacrifice, the wounds of the past could be stitched up.
His mother had not been made to follow. She had not even been asked. His father would have slipped away unheard, if he'd had his way. He would have disappeared into the black of night all by himself had she not woken up and caught him, and Edward could only imagine what he must have felt, seeing her stubborn, terrified resolution.
If it was for the greater good, Edward knew that could ruin himself. If it meant safety and security for his family and his friends, he would gladly give himself as tribute. If it meant they would be happy, and it meant they would be free, then he would sacrifice what little he had to give, but what he could never do, could never fathom, was the destruction of her.
In the bed, Bella sighed, and Edward was distracted when she rolled over into the empty space he'd left behind. Her feet shifted beneath the blankets. Her hand reached out to the place where he ought to be. He watched her squirm and he heard her sigh, and when her fingers closed on empty air her eyes cracked open she stared, bewildered, at the empty pillow where his head had been.
"Edward?"
"Just here, love."
At once, her head snapped up.
Even in sleep, with her hair tousled and her cheek creased, Edward could not help but wonder at this little wife he loved so dearly. Her face was pale in the darkness, even paler than it was in the day, and it almost glowed when she moved into a beam of moonlight from the open window. Her lips were full and swollen— he had kissed them more than once before they had settled down to sleep— and her nightdress was thin and loose. When she sat up on her knees he saw a long stretch of creamy, white thigh, and a hint of her shoulder when the sleeve slipped down her arm.
"Are you alright?"
"I did not mean to wake you," he said. "Go back to sleep, if you can."
"What are you doing?"
"Just taking the air," he said. "I'm quite alright, Bella…"
But like she always did, she saw through the lie at once.
"Come back to bed, Edward," she said, and when she reached her hand out it took everything in him to turn it down. "Come back to bed…"
"Not quite yet."
She let her hand fall to the mattress.
When she rose from the bed Edward did not stop her, and when she took a tentative few steps towards the window, he did not protest. He watched her from the corner of his eye, letting his gaze rove over her long, slender form, and when he felt her at his side, her warmth striking against the chill of the night, he sighed, leaning his head back against her chest. Her fingers came up at once, as if on instinct, and he felt them tangle in his hair, and when she pulled her fingers down from root to tip he let his eyes fall shut with a low, appreciative groan.
When she kissed his cheek her lips lingered, and he felt the soft, sweet exhale of breath on the bridge of his nose.
"You're troubled," she whispered, and Edward did not refute her. "You're… unhappy."
"I'm never unhappy when I'm with you."
Bella only stared.
"What's the trouble?" she asked, and when he did not answer he felt her fingers still. "Everything was fine before bed…"
"I have an overactive imagination, Bella, and nothing more."
"Oh?"
"Don't worry about me."
"I always worry about you."
Edward chuckled.
"We make quite the pair, then," he said. "A pair of worriers. We'll both be grey before winter."
"Don't joke, please."
"I'm sorry."
She sat beside him on the window seat, her feet curled up to keep away the breeze. She watched him carefully with those wide, dark eyes, and when she pulled her legs up to rest her chin upon her knees he heard her sigh, her teeth worrying her lip as she tried to make sense of it.
"Is it the note?" she guessed and at once, Edward looked away. "If it is, don't think on it, Edward…"
"I will think about it for the rest of my life, Bella," he said and her eyes welled up with sudden pity. "I will always think about it… either until the threat is mitigated or until we're both dead."
"We're safe here."
"Yes," Edward replied. "As safe as we can be."
"No one can ask any more of you."
"I can."
"Well I won't," she said and she reached over to twine her fingers with his. "You can only do so much. Even you, Edward, are not invincible."
"I wish you were."
"I'll be fine."
"They didn't threaten my life, Bella," he pointed out and at this, she gave a squeeze. "They don't want to kill me."
"They always want to kill you."
"I can defend myself."
Bella ducked her head.
"I wish you didn't have to."
"It is my duty and my purpose," he said, and with this, she closed her eyes, "to keep myself alive. At least until there is a child to come after me. I must protect my people, Bella, and I must protect you…"
"Then I will do it with you."
"You already do enough."
"I will get better at it, then…"
"You're already more than good enough."
"Then imagine how helpful I'll be when I continue to improve," she said and when she grinned, he could not help but smile back. "I want you to share these things with me, Edward. Don't burden yourself unduly."
"They are not your troubles."
"Everything that is yours is mine now, too," she said. "Didn't we say so in the temple? I don't only want the good things, Edward. I want all of it. I want to know if you're worried, or if you're angry or frightened. I want to know if you're upset. Wake me in the night, if you have to, but don't sit in the dark, brooding and alone, and let me sleep beside you. Let me share your life with you. Let me be a part of it."
"You are more than just a part…"
"Then let me see it," she whispered, and with this, she wrapped her arms around his middle. Her cheek, warm and soft, rested on his shoulder and he breathed her in. "Let me see it, Edward, even when it's not pretty. Where you go, I go. No matter what."
"Have I told you yet that I love you, Bella?" he asked and she grinned against him. "Have I said those words to you today?"
"Not yet…"
"Then I love you," he said and she kissed him— just a peck, a sweet and soft caress against his lips. "If I ever forget to say it, remind me. I want you to know it every single day."
"I'll know it anyways," she replied, "even if you do forget."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
They sat in silence for a moment longer.
"Do you think you can sleep?" she asked, and though he knew that he could not, he rose to his feet anyways. "Do you think you can close your eyes?"
"I can try."
"That's all I ask," she said, and together, they moved towards their bed. She pulled him in after her, letting him slip beneath the covers before she pulled them up high, and when she turned to face him, letting her cheek rest on his pillow, he touched her, letting his hand run over her arm and all the way down her side to rest on the swell of her hip.
"Close your eyes," she said, and he let her settle against him, her body flush with his. "Close your eyes, Edward, and try to go to sleep…"
When he obeyed her, letting his heavy eyelids fall shut, he felt the soft touch of her hands as she stroked them down the tense muscles in his back. The pressure was divine, the ache it brought a mercy, and when she had worked her way down from his shoulders to his tailbone, she brought them back up to begin again.
Sleep, elusive and fickle, danced just out of reach on the edges of his mind. He kept his eyes closed, his body calming as those warm, familiar hands kneaded the knots from every muscle…
But just as he began to relax— just as her hands had risen back up to press down for the fourth time— he was jolted at once from his peace by the loud clang of the great, tolling bells. She jumped in the bed, startled and surprised, and when Edward wheeled around she blinked, but as she spoke again he felt a terror in his heart. Bella was bewildered, cringing with each knolling tone, but Edward knew at once what they must mean for even if she did not understand from whence the sound had come, Edward surely did.
"What in the world…?" she asked, protesting when he scrambled out of bed. "Edward?"
He did not answer her.
"Is that… bells?"
"Yes."
"From where?"
"The gates."
She stared at him, her face blank with surprise.
"Which gates?"
"Stay here, Bella…"
"Like hell I will."
He watched with a terrible fear in every pore as she rushed towards the window, peering out into the night. Over her shoulder, he looked too, checking first the south, which was quiet, and then the west, which was not. He could see the hive of activity from here, though the figures down below were little more than ants in frantic motion, and when he saw the fires spring to life he knew at once that there was trouble. The first beacon flared to life from the tower in the west and soon, all the way down the western wall, there came the others. Within two minutes, during which Edward watched with wild, rampant worry, every pyre on the walls was lit and the world was aglow with the blazing white of oil fires.
"What in the world?" Bella asked again and this time, they could make out some detail from the city. Down below, in the alleys and the streets, there was a flurry of activity. Candles began to light in windows. Doors opened and faces peered out. Out in the grounds he saw his own soldiers balk, and when Edward reached for his tunic, Bella gripped his arm.
"Where are you going?"
"I must go down, Bella…"
"What's happened?"
"I have to go."
"Take me with you."
"Not a chance in hell," he said. "Not on my life, Bella. There is only one reason the bells are rung. There is something— or someone— trying to breach the gates."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"You can't go out there…"
"I must go out there," said Edward. "I must find Emmett and rally the men."
"Take me with you."
"No."
"I won't stay here…"
"Bella please."
"Where you go, I go," she said, and at this, his mouth fell shut. "You cannot leave me here alone, Edward. Please. Don't leave me here."
"I won't have you in danger."
"I'll keep myself safe…"
"You may not have that option."
"Please."
"Don't beg me…"
"I am begging."
"I must go, Bella…"
"Then I'm coming with you."
There was a stubbornness in her, and a fierce and able protest, and though Edward felt the sting of fear in his belly like a blow, he could do nothing to stop her. She threw on her dress, its fastenings only half-done up, and by the time they emerged from his rooms to flee down the stairs, the entire castle was in an uproar.
They met Marta in the hall, who ran with them to tuck in Bella's loose ends and fasten her skirt at the back. There were frightened footmen on the stairs. Several of Bella's ladies had begun to weep. Jasper, his face pale with shock, watched them go with a wide-eyed worry. There were soldiers up in arms, and Edward was quickly given a breastplate and a shield, and when they the horses came with haste from the bustling royal stables they were off, riding like thieves through the buzzing city streets.
People shouted as the King rode by. People called his name. People reached for Bella, though her horse moved too fast for them to touch her, and there were civilian men with knives standing guard at doors and gates. The closer they got to that fateful western wall, the thicker the crowds grew. There were families fleeing homes to hide in city squares. There were merchants, woken from a dead sleep, bellowing at servants packing wagons. The riverbank was overloaded, running wild with fleeing children, and by the time they reached the thick of it, where the great, iron gates stood locked and barred, Edward was at once accosted by his soldiers who shouted in riotous, frightened droves.
Behind him, her face pale with nerves, Bella sat tall, and though the men balked at her, she did not say a word.
"Your Grace…"
"Ruben!"
The boy stepped forward.
"The Commander has just arrived, Your Grace! He has gone inside the tower…"
"Bring him out to me."
"Bring the Commander!" hollered the boy, and at once, he ran off through the parting crowd. In a minute or two, Edward saw the tower door creep open, and though it was difficult to see clearly, he was almost certain that he saw the shape of Emmett. All around him the soldiers bustled, and when they began to move between Magnus' flank and Kora's front, Edward reached out and snagged Bella's reins.
"Stay close," he said, when he had pulled her near. "Try to stay close to me, Bella…"
"Form a line!" Edward heard Emmett holler and from a stoop beside the tower, Edward saw his friend's face flush with anger. At once, the men began to organize. "Get in line, you filthy dogs, and find some dignity, for God's sake!"
Slowly, and in more time than Edward would have liked, he watched as the men began to line themselves up in a semblance of order. They stood shoulder to shoulder in three, long lines, and when Emmett shouted again, they moved a little faster.
"Go!" he cried, and the last few stragglers fell into place. "Gods above, you'd think you were all frightened boys! Stand your ground, men! Stand your ground!"
The men stood still, their pikes and shields at the ready.
"Your Grace!"
At once, Edward turned. Emmett came towards them, mounting his own horse that stood by the tower, and when picked his way through the lines Edward let go of Bella's reins.
"One hundred strong," said Emmett and Edward felt his heart race behind his ribs. "They were spotted in the field."
"Men?"
"Perhaps."
"Armed?"
"We don't know." Beside him, he saw Bella shift uncomfortably. "We have no idea, Edward."
"Who rang the bells?"
"Ruben did."
"Where is he?"
"Ruben!"
At once, the boy came running.
"Your Grace…"
"What did you see?"
"I saw them descend," said Ruben and Edward glanced at what little he could see of the hill that came down to the city from the Grasslands. "They are many, Your Grace. Too many to be simple farmers…"
"Have they spoken?"
"We've sent no one out."
"Who lit the fires?"
"The Commander ordered it."
"We needed the light, Edward," said Emmett. "We were trying to see."
"And what did you see?"
"Nothing yet. They're too far out."
Edward fell silent.
"Do we send a scout, Edward?" asked Emmett and at this, Edward was at a loss. "Do we send a man to look, or should we simply guard the gate?"
"Look again," said Edward. "Tell me what you see…"
Atop the walls there were archers crouched behind crenels to keep out of the line of fire, their helmets glinting in the blazing light of the beacons. Emmett shouted up, his voice carrying on the stone, and when the men peered out to look, the answer came back quickly.
"Nothing!" Emmett cursed. "I see nothing, Commander…"
"I swear to you, they're there."
"No one's doubting you, Ruben," said Emmett. "You did well. I do not think it wise to open up the gates, Edward. We should wait for daylight, at the very least, and then…"
But what exactly they should do in the daylight, Edward never heard, for at that very moment, with a holler and a shout, there came the angry, warning cry from the leader on the walls.
"Halt!" One of his own Kingsguards, in his cloak of red and gold, gave the command that rang clear across the wall. "I said halt!"
The men began to bristle.
"Ready yourselves…" Emmett's warning was low and threatening. "Shields up, men!"
"I said halt!" cried the Kingsguard. "Stop where you are!"
There was a flutter of nervous anticipation.
"Knock your arrows!" The shout came down loud and clear and Edward heard Bella gasp, her face gone white. "Draw!"
The Kingsguard brought his hand up. Edward knew that he would not hesitate— knew that if whoever lurked outside the gates did not heed the order and the warning that he would bring that hand down and the arrows would fly. The bowstrings were pulled tight, the sharpened tips of arrows perfectly poised to strike…
"I said halt!"
"Wait!"
From the other end of the wall, there came a different voice.
"Wait!" It cried again. "Sir, please, wait!"
"For what?"
"Look!"
Edward watched as the Kingsguard peered into the darkness.
"Lower your bows!"
At once, though Edward saw the tumult of confusion, Edward saw all fifty weapons lowered in tandem.
"Open the gates!"
"Wait!" Emmett shouted and the men at the lever stood still. "Wait!"
"Open the gates, Emmett!" The Kingsguard shouted down. "Open them now!"
"What is it?"
"Open the gates!"
And though Emmett did not say a word, the gate began to rise.
In the darkness and the quiet, standing so still they looked like statues, Edward watched over the heads of the soldiers lined up in rows as the gate slowly clinked its way up. He could hear every chain link, could almost feel the grinding of steel on stone, and when the gate was half way up, high enough to clear their heads, he saw at once just what it was that had made the Kingsguard hesitate. Behind him, Bella gasped, and when she spurred her horse forward Edward reached out to keep her still. Kora stopped dead, making Bella sway, and when she turned on him with a furious outrage, Edward held her back.
"Just wait…"
Still outside the city gates, the girl began to cry.
In the circle of light from the flaming beacons along the city walls, there stood a lone, trembling child. Her face was wild with terror, her eyes positively bugging as she took in the shields, arrows, and pikes, and though she trembled in the dirt, her shoeless feet caked in filth, she managed to reach up her hand to unpin a scrap of parchment that was affixed to the front of her dress. She held it out in her little hand, positively quaking in the gusty, chilly night, and when there was no movement in the grass behind her, Edward heard the Kingsguard on the wall shout out.
"Come forward!" he cried, and the child took one tentative step closer to the gate. "Keep going!"
She walked, speechless and white, until she stood beneath the iron spikes. Her mouth moved without sound, her face pinched and petrified, and when a soldier near her reached out to take the paper that she held, she collapsed in the dirt with a whimper. She did not rise when the soldier walked away, curling her fingers in the sand, and behind him Bella moved again as if she would ride forward.
"Edward…"
"Just wait, Bella."
When the note came to him, wrinkled and ragged, he unfolded it at once. There was only one line of text, hastily scrawled in what looked like greyish ink, and it was so faint and shaky that he had to hold it up to a torch to read it.
We number ninety and six. We are unarmed. We do no harm. We seek safe haven.
Edward stared down at the crying child in shock.
"Stand her up!"
"Edward!" Bella's hiss was furious.
"Wait, Bella, please…"
"Oh my god."
When the soldiers pulled her up, Edward saw the child struggle to keep her knees strong beneath her. She was hyperventilating, her chest fluttering with absolute terror, and when he spurred Magnus forward between the rows of staring soldiers, the child backed away. She cried out when she saw him, her voice bouncing noisily off of the stone, and when he lowered himself to the ground she quailed, her little voice pleading.
"Don't shoot me," she said, and Edward felt a stab of pity. "Please don't shoot me…"
"No one's going to shoot you."
"I want my Mama…"
"Do you know who I am?"
The girl shook her head.
"Can you tell me your name?"
"Surri."
"Can you tell me who came with you?"
"The Mamas…" said the child, and on the walls, Edward saw the Kingsguard stiffen. "There are Mamas. And there are children."
"Like you?"
"Yes…"
"Where did you come from?"
The child began to weep.
"From the mountains," she sobbed, and Edward heard the surprised whispers at his back. "We walked from the mountains…"
"The mountains?"
"Yes…"
"Who is your leader?"
"The Mamas brought us…"
"Back home," Edward said. "Who do you answer to?"
When the child spoke again, Edward felt a sudden, anxious thrill.
"The Lord Jamos," said the girl and behind him, the men grew restless. "We answer to the Lord. He came to our farms. He took away our Papas."
"How many?"
"I don't know…" The child began to cry in earnest. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know…"
"It's alright." The girl wrapped her arms around herself and held on to what was left of her tattered dress in two, tight fists. "Hush now, child… it's alright…"
From behind, he heard the pounding rhythm of Kora's hooves. Bella broke through the line of soldiers, her face dark with absolute fury, and by the time she reached him, she had thrown herself down from the saddle. She glared at him so hotly and with such a terrible, furious accusation that Edward had the sense to feel ashamed, but he did not apologize for his scrutiny nor did he offer any words of explanation for his questioning.
"What is wrong with you?" Bella demanded and the words were spoken through tense, gritted teeth. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Bella…"
"Don't you dare try to placate me. You've terrified her!" Bella snapped back. "Just look at her, Edward. She's a little girl!"
"We have to know, Bella…"
"She is a child!"
"She says that there are others out there…"
"Come here, darling," said Bella, turning away from him in disgust and at once, the child pulled her head up. At the sight of Bella— sweet, kind, gentle Bella— the child tottered forward on sore, unsteady feet. When Bella caught her, filthy and ragged, the child began to sob, and when she glared at him over the child's head with furious outrage, Edward did not say another word in his own defense.
"You're alright now, love," he heard his wife say, and though the girl had to be at least six years old, she hauled the child up into her arms. The girl wrapped her legs around his wife like a spider. "You're safe, sweetheart. Please don't cry…"
When Edward sent two soldiers out into the darkness, there was no noise at all but the crying of that lonesome, petrified child. The footsteps died away when they hit the grass. There was no sound but the girl. It stayed like that for a long, tense moment but when the soldiers returned, their blades drawn in warning, Edward saw exactly what had alarmed his watchmen in the very dead of night.
Including the child that Bella held, they numbered ninety six, just as the note had said, and at the head and foot of the party stood the women. There were five at the front and another six at the rear, but between them, trembling with cold and fright, there stood dozens and dozens of children. Like the girl in Bella's arms they were all weary and frightened and though some stood with siblings, a good number of them stood alone with small parcels of food and ragged cloaks of grey wool. They ranged in age from infants to teens, and though some were lucky enough to possess a pair of hard-soled shoes, the greater number still had nothing whatsoever on their feet.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" asked Edward and the woman at the front— a hard-faced, severe woman with a crooked nose and vivid blue eyes— ducked her head. When she lowered to her knees, scraping her legs on the sharp stones beneath her feet, she laid herself out before him, her voice muffled and thin.
"You are the King," she said, and at once, the children began to squirm. "You are the King, and I throw myself upon your mercy."
Behind her, like puppets with their strings cut, Edward saw the rest of the group— children included— sink to their knees in the dirt.
"We beg your mercy, King, and we ask for your goodwill. We bring you news of the West, which has risen up again. I will tell you everything I know, Your Grace, and everything I suspect, if you'll only give us shelter, and keep these children safe."
Behind him, in the darkness, the girl continued to cry.
A/N: I said it on Twitter, and I'll say it here too... YOUR GIRL IS ON A ROLL. I have no idea how long it will last, or when we'll see Chapter 45, but this beastie was written in two days. That's over 25,000 words for this story alone in the last 4 days. If I keep this up, we might see the end of this marathon story by the time all this COVID-19 bullshit is finished.
As always, don't hesitate to leave a review if you feel so inclined! Stay safe, stay inside if you can, and I'll be back as soon as I'm able with another instalment of our tale.