8. The Hostler and the Liar Get Better Acquainted
"You see? That is just like you, Harry. You say these things, and you make it impossible for me to hate you. And I hate you, Harry. I really hate you."
-When Harry Met Sally
Art's prediction didn't turn out to be entirely right. In fact, he was completely and utterly wrong. They did not turn out to be great friends. One couldn't even really consider them friends in the most general sense.
Enemies might have been more appropriate, but that wasn't exactly the right word either. True, Helena spurned Art's friendly overtures from that day on. She scowled every time she saw him, and referred to him as nothing but "you" and "boy" and "farm hand." If he ever got a little too friendly, or got anywhere near to being in her way, she'd simply slug him in the stomach and go about her business. And yet it was a one-sided war, and those do not make enemies. Perhaps it was simply Helena warring against herself.
It comforted her a little to know that at least their stations in life separated them somewhat. He always seemed to be there when she went to the stables to visit Champion, and if he wasn't working right at the moment he would hover by her elbow, making annoyingly pleasant small talk or flat-out teasing her. But at home, in the castle, she knew he could never encroach. The servants had their own quarters in the Pataki castle, in the lower levels, and took their meals separately. Only house servants ever ventured into the upper floors, where Helena spent most of her time. So she was safe.
Which made it even more of an unpleasant shock when she entered the dining room one evening and Art was already there, unruly golden hair combed back neatly, his face scrubbed and rosy, talking to her father.
"You're late, girl. Sit down," Lord Robert said brusquely.
She didn't move, frozen as she was in the doorway. "What is he doing here?" she asked, pointing an irreverent finger at Art.
"What do you think he's doing?" her father replied. "He's eating dinner."
"Why here?" she asked, still in the doorway.
"I wanted to get to know him." Robert's voice held a warning note. "It's my decision. I'm the head of this household. Now sit down."
This was common practice with Lord Robert, who was by nature suspicious and unscrupulous. He always ate dinner at least once with a new servant while grilling him to make sure that the servant was loyal. She shouldn't have been surprised to see Art there. Still, Helena held firm. She folded her arms across her chest. "He doesn't belong here. I won't eat with a servant. Let him take his meal with the horses, where he belongs!"
A faint red burned in Art's cheeks, barely visible against the tan, but he held his head erect, nobly. Lord Robert purpled at the insubordination.
"You insolent wench, how dare you speak like that to my guest?" he thundered, half-rising. "You shame the family of Patach. You will apologize this instant to the boy and take your dinner in silence, or I'll take you into the woodshed myself and flay the hide off of you."
Helena knew she had gone too far. Lord Robert cared nothing about Art's personal pride—he'd revealed that by calling him "the boy"—but he insisted that his family follow the intricate dance of manners nobility was expected to uphold. She'd been whipped by her father before for insolence, and didn't relish repeating the experience. Sulkily, she bowed her head.
"I apologize," she said softly. "Please forgive me."
Art's cheeks still burned, faintly, but he looked her straight in the eye, and smiled. "Forgiven, little lady. Please, join us."
It was Helga's turn to burn with shame. Why did she feel that Art made a better noble than she did?
Thus humbled, she went to her place and sat, staring at the table as the servants ladled food onto her plate. Her appetite was gone. Soberly, she picked at her food, listening to her father query Art.
"So you're from Littell?" Lord Robert asked. Helena suppressed a roll of her eyes. Anyone with ears could tell that Art was Littellan—his accent was atrocious.
"Yes, sir," Art replied.
"Why did you come north?" Helena could practically read her father's mind. He was trying to find out if Art was an escaped criminal, a runaway servant, or something along those lines. She listened, interested against her will.
"My father had a small business in the capital city," Art told them. "He broke difficult horses for merchants, or horses that required expert handling. He was training me, but when he died…" He paused. "When he died, I wasn't old enough to take over the business myself."
"How'd he die?" Robert asked through a mouthful of food, clearly uninterested.
"He was thrown from a spice merchant's stallion. He broke his collarbone." Helena was surprised to hear no sorrow in his voice at this, though his voice had been trembling before.
"Why didn't you find a place to work in Littell?" her father asked gruffly, ignoring Art's loss.
"I wasn't eager to stay in Littell under the new king. There'll be war under him soon enough." Was there a hint of bitterness in his voice?
Lord Robert started to ask another question, but he was interrupted by another guest, a baron of somewhere—Helena couldn't remember his name. "Caenor, isn't it? The old king's brother?"
"Yes, sir."
"What happened to the old king?" asked the captain of horse.
"King Miles? Died, not too long ago." The Baron of Wherever was obviously quite pleased to show off his knowledge.
Lord Robert joined the conversation. "What happened?"
"Took sick, they say. Although some suspect foul play. That Caenor has made trouble in the past."
"Didn't Miles have a proper heir?" the captain wanted to know.
"Don't know. If he did, the boy must have been too young. Miles was still a young man when he died."
"Will this Caenor make war up here?"
"It's too early to say, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."
Talk continued, but Helena tuned it out. She was a girl. War affected her very little, and she cared nothing for the doings of royal families in other lands—or her own, for that matter.
As she ate, mechanically, she glanced up through lowered lashes at Art, sitting directly across from her. He was silent and sober, an unfamiliar expression on his usually cheerful face. She supposed the talk of his father must have upset him. She wondered what it was like to love one's father.
She couldn't read his eyes, which were lowered, but she watched his lips move as he ate. She'd hoped that he would spill something, or make some huge social gaffe, but his manners were impeccable—better than hers, as a matter of fact. She scowled. Score another point for the stable boy.
Suddenly, he looked up and met her eyes. Caught by surprise, his emotions were displayed for all to see—pain, anger, grief. A moment of vulnerability than struck a resounding chord in Helena's soul. He was lonely, too… She trembled, and hated herself for trembling.
Quickly, the masks dropped over their faces. She scowled again; he winked, and went about his dinner more brightly. She kicked him under the table.
He looked up, surprised. Then, without warning, a foot shot out and kicked her back. She bit back a yelp.
Looking up at Art's face, she glared at him, and kicked him again, harder. He raised an eyebrow, and his foot made contact with her shinbone again.
And so it went, for the rest of the evening. While the men argued and swore over beef and ale, two children brutalized each other's shins, each one desperately trying to hold on to a mask that was their only defense against the real world.
* * * * * * *
Helena slunk into the stable, hoping to saddle Champion and get away before Art saw her and started pestering her. It was over two months since his arrival, and yet he still managed to pop up like a weed in spring every time she made her way down to the stables. This time, however, he was nowhere to be found.
She let out an enormous sigh of relief, trying to hide the tiny, niggling traces of disappointment in her stomach, and saddled Champion. She led him out of the stables, and mounted, heading for the upper meadows.
They started out at a walk, but as the hard, beaten road gave way to lush meadow Helena let Champion move into a canter, and then on full-out gallop, giving him free rein over where they went. He thundered past the deep green meadows where the cattle grazed, his gait flawless, his speed unflagging. Lord Robert might not love his youngest daughter, but he knew horses, and pride prevented him from purchasing anything but the best, even for an unruly and temperamental girl-child. And Champion was the best.
Helena leaned over her pony's neck, tears streaming from her eyes from the wind. Riding Champion at a full gallop was like being on a very tiny boat in a very stormy sea, but she loved it. She whispered words of encouragement in the pony's long, hairy ear, which flicked back respectfully to hear what she had to say. Her mouth was open; she let out a wild war cry, tasting the wind as Champion fought to outrun it.
Before long, though, she reined Champion in, back to a canter, and then a walk, letting him cool down. Helena of Patach loved no man or woman alive, but she was ever good to her horse, and she didn't want him to overexert himself. Horses could go fast, but galloping at top speed for an extended period of time was beyond them.
As they walked, they crested the top of the high meadows and came upon the fallow pastures, where the grass was being allowed to grow so that the land would be fertile come next year. A figure was standing by the low wooden fence, doing something with a stick. As they drew closer, Helena could see that it was Art.
She fought the temptation to turn and gallop away. He would know that she had run. Instead, she sat very tall as Champion walked slowly by him.
"Is that you, little lady?" he asked in that warm voice as she tried not to look at him. "I thought I heard someone yelling like a savage."
She stopped Champion and looked at him, trying to keep a flush from her cheeks. "What are you doing?" she asked, looking askance at the stick, and was gratified to see his ears turn red.
"Oh, this? I…uh…well…" He sighed. "I'm practicing the sword."
"That's not a sword."
"I know that. But I don't have a sword, do I? So this will have to do."
Helena raised an eyebrow. "Why do you bother, anyway? Commoners aren't permitted swords."
He didn't flush this time, merely held his head higher. "I know. Well…I suppose it helps me with the staff, and the axe, or the spear, or pike, or whatever I'm permitted to use. And it's fun."
"So who cares if you can fight?" Helena wanted to know.
He shrugged. "Hillith will, when the war breaks out."
"What war?" Helena scoffed.
But Art was serious. "Oh, there'll be one, sooner or later. With Caenor on the throne… And if there's war, men who already know how to fight will be put in command."
"And that's your big plan?" Helena sneered.
He shrugged. "Maybe." His eyes were unreadable as he returned to move the stick around in vague patterns that looked nothing like fighting.
Uncomfortable, Helena changed the subject. "Where did you learn this stuff, anyway?" she asked.
Art was concentrating on the "sword." "Sometimes nobles came to us to work on their horses. If they had time, they'd show me a few things—them or their sons. I'm a fast learner." He was silent for a moment, going through some more patterns. Then his eyes slid sideways towards her. "Do you want me to teach you?"
Helena was taken aback. "What? Me?"
"No, Champion," he replied with gentle sarcasm. "Why not?"
"I…I'm a girl!" Helena said, still surprised by his offer.
He raised an eyebrow. "I had noticed."
She ignored the jibe. "What would I need sword-fighting for, anyway?" she demanded.
He shrugged. "Well, if you don't want to learn…"
"I didn't say that." The words sprung unbidden to her lips.
Art smiled. "Well, tie the reins to that post, and I'll show you." He gestured to a pile of sticks by his feet. "I brought a few, so I could practice with different weights."
Helena found herself dismounting, leading Champion to the fence, tying him so that he could graze, and picking up a stick. She came to stand next to Art, holding the stick awkwardly.
"I don't know why I'm doing this," she muttered. "Like this?"
"No, no…like this." Dropping his own stick, Art adjusted her grip. Helena flinched at his touch and looked up at him.
"I hope you know that this doesn't mean I'm going to be nice to you or anything," she said bluntly. "You're still just a stable hand."
He laughed. "And you're still my little lady, and I wouldn't expect anything less." He rapped her knuckles with his stick, sharply.
"Ow!" she cried, jerking her hand away.
"But that doesn't mean I'm going easy on you," he continued with a smile.
She looked up at him, rising to the challenge in his eyes, and mustered up a defiant smile.
"Fair enough."
How do you like it? Is it really confusing? Do you have no idea who these people are? I think it'll get clearer as things go on (like after Book I is over, which will be a handful more chapters) but if it's really bewildering let me know and I'll put in an explanation of some kind.
Anyway, thanks to everyone who suggested time periods! (I forgot to do this before.) I wish I could use all of them, but…well, it would get old. At least what I'm planning. So I chose three…but all of them were awesome! If you see inklings of The Princess Bride in here…uh, that's because I put them there. Major inspiration. Also The Song of the Lioness Quartet and all the other Tortall books by Tamora Pierce (if you haven't read them, do so IMMEDIATELY. This is a COMMAND).
Rachael West: Well, I don't have to declare my major for a while, but I'm probably going to be an English major with a creative writing or film concentration. So yes, I am going for writing. Oh, and I read "Love Song For No One" and loved it.
DropsofJupiter: I will keep you guys updated on what's happening with real-time Arnold and Helga, I promise…in fact, my whole grand master scheme will come out eventually, and all will be clear…but not yet! And I love Shel Silverstein…I cried buckets when he died, and I have all his poetry.
HazelIris: I've been through Mists several times, and I plan on reading it again…there's more to it every time you read, I find. And I've always loved King Arthur stories…it's an amazing book.
Everyone else, thanks so much for reviewing! I'll try to have the next chapter up soon (that's where it gets dramatic, so I'm excited to write).
Oh, and…I really regret I have to do this, but…well, I read most of the stories that get posted on this section, or at least parts of them, and I have noticed one…or two…that very, very closely resemble some of the things I've written. I don't want to be a bitch about this, but I just want to say that I notice when something hits a little too close to home, and I don't appreciate it. Maybe what I've seen was not intentional, and I don't want to accuse anyone, or insinuate anything, but…I've had writing stolen from me in the past, and it did not work out well for me (I mean, like, therapy sessions and the loss of a long friendship, you have no idea. It was a very, very bad situation.) so I'm just saying, at the outset…plagiarism is bad. Sorry I had to subject you guys to that, but I felt I had to do it.
Anyway, on a lighter note, if anyone's looking for a good action series with a Helga-like character, try the Fearless series by…um…I forget the author. Francine Pascal, I think, although I could be wrong. Anyway, I was just rereading a couple of the books (I'm a big rereader…I used to follow the series, then I stopped) the main character, Gaia, is, basically, Helga at 17…well, minus Arnold, which may be the best part of Helga. Still, it's a good series. Just a recommendation.
So, to conclude unoriginally (because I must conclude—this Author's Note is longer than the story), R + R, gang! J