She laughed without humor, lost and weary. Then, shaking off whatever regret and sorrow she felt, she once again gave her daughter a brave smile. “They are not my concern right now anyway, you are. Now, come on!” She clutched her daughter’s hand and led her away from the counter.
“What now? Where are we going? More worms?” Arteura asked, but Rhiana just shook her head in mock exasperation and led her into the curtained bedroom. She heaved a sigh, blowing away the last remnants of melancholy weighing on them both. She adjusted her long skirt and threw her daughter a wide smile. This time it was genuine and heartfelt. As she did, she knelt beside the raised bed and pulled out a leather-wrapped bundle, tied like a loaf of bread, but longer. She stood, placing the bundle on the bed and, with a sweep of her hand, invited her daughter to open it. “I had these made for you.”
Arteura slowly untied the bundle, laying back each fold of leather carefully until the gleaming contents were revealed. Arteura gasped.
There atop the soft leather were two forearm-length swords, almost exact copies of the wooden weapons Arteura used when sparring with Marcus, forged in steel and polished to a glimmering sheen. The detail was immaculate, right down to the small pommels and pointed, trident-like cross guards that protected her hands.
She reached out, her palm quivering over the gleaming blades, almost afraid to touch them. “How . . . how did you—”
“Not everyone despises the Denaeus family name, thankfully.” Rhiana smiled. “Do you remember when the blacksmith’s two daughters were laid up with that horrid cough and stomach cramps?”
“Yes. You had me help with the remedies.”
“I did. And they worked.”
“You mean the smith made these for you? No questions asked? Not a—”
“No, no, he had no idea,” Rhiana answered. “But his wife . . .”
Arteura’s jaw dropped. Rhiana smiled, bouncing her eyebrows as she fingered one of the blades. “Miliya is quite the accomplished blacksmith as well, don’t you think?”
“His wife?”
“She was amazed and actually quite impressed to hear of your interest in something so unladylike.” Rhiana grinned.
“You mean, you told her?”
Rhiana shrugged. “Eventually. Mothers will do anything for their children. I helped her with hers, so she helped me . . . with mine.”
“And you trust her? She promised not to tell?”
Rhiana chuckled. “Did you know she was a smith?”
“Umm, no.”
“Neither does her husband, surprisingly.”
“But you can’t really hide—”
Rhiana lowered her chin, looking at her like she was being foolish. Which she was.
“Oh,” Arteura admitted. “I guess you can.”
“Miliya forged them the week her husband traveled to the ports of Talenwood for supplies.”
“But I-I’m,” Arteura looked down at the beautiful craftsmanship. The steel reflected a rainbow of colors along the blade, purples to pale yellows. The handles were supple, leather-wrapped, and dyed a deep crimson, as was the pommel. The trident tips of the handguards were small but menacing. The swords were truly remarkable. Gorgeous. But still.
“I can’t . . . use these,” she said. “I’m not a part of the Þrymm guard. I’m not schooled in military training. I’m just a . . . girl.”
“I know, my love,” Rhiana answered. “And to be honest, maybe it’s because of all that that I wanted to do this for you. Miliya as well.” She searched the air for words. “I remember telling you, long ago, that if you wish to change your circumstances, that it is done by the way of Sigquaya, the way of water. To fill with life, and to nurture and heal.”
Arteura nodded, remembering as well.
“I also remember telling you of a different kind of magic, the way of destruction and fire. The way of Tamatulc.”
Again, Arteura nodded.
“I want you to know something else, my love.” She gestured to the swords. “These are neither of Sigquaya or of Tamatulc. These are simply instruments. They are lifeless metal.” She picked one up, holding it loosely in her hand. “Only when placed in the hands do they take on any semblance of life, any meaning, and then, only that of the one wielding them. These do not show favor, nor prejudice. Only the bias of a person does that. Only the bias of an Empire—those who need a scapegoat. A them to an us. A fault for misfortune. Something to hate so that something of love, of belonging, can be felt.”
“Arteura,” she said, “you can wield these in the way of Sigquaya, the way of peace and life. They can be instruments of healing, in their own way, as much as they can be instruments of destruction. They are weapons, make no mistake, and there is a certain confidence that comes from that—the comfort of their weight and the knowledge of their use. Not to strike first, but to strike with finality, for the good of all. In this way, they can bring together and they can restore, in confidence, and in a kind of bond.” She smiled. “Much like the coming together of a medicine woman and a smith, despite a tarnished name. In this way, they can be weapons of healing, not of destruction. Do you understand?”
The girl was mesmerized by the gleaming sword in her hand, but she answered, “Yes.” Then she looked up at her mother with a sly smile. “You’ve changed.”
Rhiana returned the smile. “So have you.”
Arteura reached for the other sword, holding each in her hands, feeling the weight, so different than the lighter, thinner wood. She held them lightly, just behind the guards with her fingers and thumb. The balance was truly perfect. She held one out at arm’s length, looking down her arm at the cold steel reflecting the candlelight. There was an immense feeling of power, so unlike her wooden practice swords.
A smile crept onto her face. The feel of the grip’s soft leather against her thumb was so wonderfully satisfying; she flexed and released her hands as if they and the swords had always been meant for each other. A sharp metallic zing of steel on steel resounded as she ran the blades together. Like music to her ears.
She grasped them firmly, stepping back, assuming her ready stance and planting her feet. There was no holding back now. There was no need to. Her mother knew, and she approved. It was time for Arteura to display her true form, with true weapons.
Arteura thrust out her right hand with a quick slash then drew it back.
She held out the sword of her left, twirling it between her fingers before gripping it and jabbing out ninety degrees toward some unseen enemy’s throat.
She cocked an eyebrow as her lip curled to a confident grin.
Rhiana stepped back, crossed her arms, and laughed.
That too was music to Arteura’s ears—a song unheard in too many years, but a song never forgotten.
She adopted her ready stance once again.
Stepping through, she jabbed with another wicked left thrust. As she did, she raised the other sword, holding it aloft above her head. Suddenly she brought it down with a quick, deadly slash. Then another with the left. Another, and another. Right. Left. Right. Her hands a blur. Her face a grimace of concentration. Her eyes narrowed and focused.
Rhiana flinched and gasped, sitting on the edge of the bed as her daughter danced around her. Yes, she had become aware of Arteura’s stealthy practice sessions with her brother. But even she hadn’t fully known how accomplished her daughter was: the determination, the will, the strength.
Arteura continued her moves, spinning and whirling around the room, focused on a foe between herself and her mother that only she could see. After another minute she stopped, steadying her swords at chest height, crossed in front of her and rock solid. She was breathing heavily, sweating with exertion and adrenaline. A wide, unadulterated smile had split her face.
“I think you like them,” Rhiana remarked.
“Yes,” Arteura answered, panting. “Very much so. The weight and balance are amazing. Better tha
n I’d even dreamed.”
Rhiana bent over the bed, reaching under and pulling out another bundle, this one larger, wrapped in burlap and tied with a loose cord.
“I have one other thing for you.”
Arteura lowered the blades, interest piquing within her. What else could even come close to this?
Rhiana stood and reached into the bundle. She drew out what looked to be an ordinary, somewhat oversized pair of tanned cloth pants, shaking them out and holding them up for her daughter to admire.
“A gift,” Rhiana announced, “from the tailor’s wife. She too admired your moxie.”
“Pants?” Arteura asked in surprise, a hint of disappointment trailing into her voice, almost but not fully masked.
“Yes,” Rhiana answered with a sly smile. “You’ll see. Put them on. Let’s see if they fit.”
Puzzled, Arteura drawled, “Umm, okay.”
She slipped them on under her plain tunic, cinching them tight with the looped, leather rope woven through holes at the top hem. She held the tunic above her waist and looked them over, cocking her hips one way, then another. After another moment, she looked up to her mother, shrugging as if to say, “Okay, now what?”
Rhiana came around the bed and took hold of one of Arteura’s new swords. She smiled, looking Arteura in the eye as she slipped the sword into a hidden pocket sown at her daughter’s hip.
Arteura gasped for a second time.
“There are pockets on each side, reinforced with a sturdy scabbard and completely hidden. You see how the fabric billows out a little from your hips? No one should ever be the wiser.”
“I didn’t even feel them!” Arteura exclaimed, then wiggled her hips. “I still don’t.”
“And you shouldn’t,” Rhiana said. “They were custom made to the swords’ exact measurements. They are, quite literally, made for your swords.”
Again, Arteura’s jaw dropped. She stood, reaching for the second sword and stowing it in the other pocket. The cinch binding her pants at the waist held the weight of the swords, giving away nothing. It truly looked and felt as if she were merely wearing loose-fitting pants, which was nothing unusual for a young woman like herself. Dresses and fancy smocks were more for the rich and noble of Brynslæd. She was from a working family, never more proudly so than at this very moment.
“How do they look?” she asked, turning this way and that.
“How do they feel?” her mother countered.
“Amazing,” Arteura marveled.
“Confident?”
“Very much so.” As she moved, she now sensed the weight of the swords brushing against her thighs as she shifted. It felt anything but heavy or burdensome. It was oddly comforting. Arteura rushed back to the bed, sitting and throwing her arms around her mother, hugging her with a fierce intensity.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“No,” Rhiana said into her daughter’s shoulder. “Thank you. You are the hope of this family, Arteura. Marcus’s path may be set, and he will make a fine Þrymm guard. But you, you have the world in front of you. In spite of being just a girl. You have become an amazing woman, even in the face of all that has happened to you and to us.”
There was a commotion outside, startling mother and daughter from their tender moment. It sounded like it was just down the street. They rose and went to the kitchen area, looking out the window. Someone had just rounded the corner. Actually three someones. The one in the middle appeared to be carried by the other two, his feet dragging along the ground and yelling loudly as if he were drunk, “Hands off me! I know where you’re taking me!”
Then a second voice, strained in patience, said, “Home, Father. We are taking you home.”
“Marcus?” Arteura gasped.
“Remè?” Rhiana whispered, and she threw the door wide, her voice loud and clear now. “Remè!”
Marcus was carrying Remè on one side, his face strained with both effort and anger. On the other side was the Captain of the Þrymm guard.
Rhiana caught up to them midway. “What’s happened?”
Marcus simply shook his head. “He’s . . .” He drew a pinched sigh and just shook his head.
Suddenly, it was as if Remè snapped awake. “Rhiana! Oh, thank the gods! You have to help me. They’re trying to kill me!”
“Remè?” she pleaded, holding his face.
“They’re taking me to the Gildrom, Rhiana!” His face swung from one side to the other. It was painfully clear that he didn’t recognize his own son. “The guards. The Rectors. They’re trying to kill me, too! Just like our son!”
It was like an electric shock jolted through him. He gained his feet and shook off the two holding him. He wheeled on the Captain with a guttural cry, grabbing him by the throat with both hands and shaking. “You killed my son!” he cried. “You killed Tristan! All of you!”
Marcus grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away.
The Captain clasped both hands together and thrust upward, missing Remè’s chin but breaking his hold. He reached for the arm Marcus held, wrenching it free and whipping Remè around, pinning his arm behind his back. Remè cried out with pain and anguish as the Captain wrestled him to the street, placing a knee at Remè’s back, grabbing his other arm, and pinning them both together. Remè squirmed and shrieked beneath him, unable to free himself.
“Father! Stop!” Marcus yelled.
Rhiana fell by his side. “Remè!”
“Rhiana, don’t let them take me!”
“They’re not taking you anywhere, Remè,” she cried. “See? You’re home. They’ve taken you home.”
Remè turned his face and looked down the street to his home. He saw Arteura there, her hand balled at her face and fear in her eyes. And, just as quickly as it had started, he dissolved into heaving sobs, continuing to spout gibberish and collapsing into a heap beneath the weight of the Captain holding him down. Candlelight began to appear at a few of the windows surrounding them.
“Captain?” Marcus pleaded. “Can we—”
“Let’s get him inside, son,” the Captain said. “Before the whole damn neighborhood is out here.”
They hauled him to his feet and dragged him the rest of the way to the house.
Rhiana stepped aside as they carried him in, heaving him onto the nearest chair. Remè slumped forward. As he did, the Captain spun the chair with his foot so that it faced the small dining table. Remè’s head hit the wooden table with a thud. After that, his only movement was his occasionally shaking shoulders as he continued to weep.
“Should we tie him?” the Captain asked.
Rhiana shook her head. “He will be fine. We’ll be fine.”
Marcus wheeled to his mother with a burning, silent hatred in his eyes, then turned to his Captain. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what—”
The Captain pursed his lips. “This never happened, son.”
He nodded curtly but politely to Rhiana, who thanked him before closing the door gently behind him. She turned her back and leaned heavily on it with a huge sigh, her emotions warring within her—the high of Arteura’s gifts; the low of Remè’s madness;, and it hadn’t been lost on her that the Þrymm Captain had just called her youngest, “son”. She looked at Marcus, who was staring her down. His face was livid.
“Don’t!” Rhiana said, rising from the door and shaking her head. “Just . . . don’t. I know. Okay? I know.” She looked at the collapsed form of her husband. “Can you just . . . help me move him to his desk?”
“Mother! I—”
She silenced him with a withering look.
“Is he drunk?” Arteura asked.
“No,” Marcus spat then added with a dismissive wave, “he’s Father!”
“Marcus!” Rhiana growled.
He bit his lip but held.
“I know,” she repeated.
“It’s getting worse!” he argued through gritted teeth.
Rhiana only nodded, then went to Remè.
Marcus fumed, but walked over
with her. He heaved an arm while Rhiana heaved the other, and they moved Remè to his desk, slumping him over a pile of papers and closing the curtains. There they left him in his quiet anguish as tears and spittle soaked the crumpled papers beneath him.
Rhiana turned and faced both of her children, eyeing each in turn, calming herself and willing them to calm as well, especially her young son. Finally, she said, “I love each of you very much. And you have both endured so, so much over these few years.
“This”—she pointed to the closed curtain—“does not define you.” Then she pointed in the direction of the Gildrom. “Neither does that.” Her voice rose with a sweep of her pointed finger. “None of this—none of it—defines you! I hope to the gods you can understand that!”
She stepped up to Marcus, putting a finger right to his nose. “I know how you feel about your father! I’ve known for years. I do not hold that against you. But DO NOT let it discourage you, or embarrass you, or anger you.” She growled, “Do you understand?”
She waited until he reluctantly nodded before adding through gritted teeth, “Let it motivate you to do better!”
She paused, stepped back, and spoke to both of them but looked directly at Arteura as she said, “You know what you need to do!”
And with that, she turned and disappeared into her room.
Arteura waited a long moment before looking to Marcus, back to the closed curtain of the bedroom, then to the counter where the once-enticing bread still cooled.
“Mother made bread,” she said half-heartedly.
Marcus looked at his sister, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He shut his eyes with a sigh, then slowly nodded. He reached for a plate and serrated knife to dig in, but Arteura grasped his arm.
“Marcus?” she asked. “What happened?”