You've made sure the men will be taken care of. You've also informed Baron Ciril about the possibility of your search party returning later.
Or so you hope.
The army will be housed and fed. But looking around at the nobility, eagerly preparing for a feast, you feel tired. The men endured the same conditions as the nobility with worse equipment, and as payment, receive worse compensation.
There's nothing you can do. Such are the customs of the land.
Such is life.
Next
You search for Elya amid the present nobility and are easily able to identify her. The entire gathering seems to spiral and revolve around her. A hundred nobles vie for her attention and support. A hundred more try their luck at flattery.
And a hundred more watch the others with envy or disgust.
Velinor is standing a yard behind Elya, keeping a watchful eye on the young queen. The mercenary hunter's primary job now is to keep his eye on her. To protect her from the physical dangers. He's been content to listen as long as you pay him.
Elya is metaphorically left for the wolves. Regardless of her abilities as a ruler, her time as a princess has left her competent at managing the politics of the court.
Baron Ciril, lord of Castle Salutis, stands just to the side of the queen with a goblet in one hand. He's an older gentleman, maybe fifty years of age. You've yet to locate his wife or any of his family.
You've no complaints for the baron. He let your army in upon learning of your and the kingdom's circumstances. In an act of generosity, he offered to feed and house your army for up to a week.
His obligations to the crown are written into the system of feudalism. However, if there's one thing that you've learned in your life, it's that people are greedy bastards at heart. You suspect Baron Ciril has some sort of alternative motive.
But now, you enjoy the warmth and sit in silent contemplation near the fire. Many of those nearby stare and whisper among themselves. The words they speak are hushed and quiet.
You pretend not to notice.
Next
In the morning, after the banquet, there will be much to do. You will have to reorganize the army. You will have to perform a second census. You will have to begin the levying of this poor town.
Ciril has been hospitable now, but will he remain hospitable when you move to bring his town to arms? You're not sure. And you don't like the uncertainty.
Perhaps his loyalty to the crown and faith in the feudal system will allow you to take his men off to die without conflict.
Perhaps he isn't so naive.
You sigh and shake your head, clearing your thoughts.
Tonight, you won't think of the issues of the future. Tonight, you will feast, drink, and recover. You must maintain your strength if you are to lead the army.
You set out from your position near the fireplace and approach Elya. Each step you take on the hard, stone floor sends aching pain up to your core. The numbness has faded, leaving you with a sore arse and tired legs.
Still, it could be much worse. You could be one of the dead. Or one of those whose nose or ears or fingers turn black and fall off from the frost. You could be one of those whose lungs fill with their own blood, or one of those whose skin cracks and bleeds until they die.
You take a stabilizing breath and shake your head violently as you walk, forcing the images to the back of your mind. They still play in all their brutality, but you refuse to focus on them. You refuse to let your broken mind win.
You will not fall into the trap of your own mind.
Elya sees your approach and turns to face you, pausing her current conversation with a very eager young man. He glares at you with annoyance. Your face remains impassive.
Maybe it's a socially inept move to approach the queen uninvited. Maybe it's impolite to interrupt her conversation.
Maybe you just don't care.
Elya offers you a smile as a peace offering. She says, "It's nice of you to join us, Marshal." You notice that her voice seems to raise an octave when she speaks around strangers. Her movements seem much more subdued, much more calculated.
The group around you that could hear your comment nervously chuckles, unsure whether you're telling a joke or not. Others look appalled at your use of strange slang.
You do not answer their unspoken questions.
Elya smirks. "I told you to be more polite around our present company, did I not, Marshal?" By her pleading tone, you can interpret that she wishes for you to play along.
"Of course, gov—Your Highness."
She nods, content at your interpretation. After clearing her throat, she asks, "So… Marshal, do you require something?"
You glance toward Ciril. "I have a question for the baron."
Baron Ciril, upon hearing this, turns toward you, a smile plastered across his face. The smile seems oddly genuine, not a mask. As the master of masks, you know what a fake smile looks like.
"Marshal… Arthur Hornraven, is it?" he asks, voice polite and cheerful. He offers you a hand, and you shake it.
Ciril takes a sip from his goblet and studies you for a moment. "I must say, Marshal, I haven't heard much of your exploits before today. Her Majesty was just telling me that you fought through The Border Wars?"
"I did."
"I appreciate your service to Kanton."
You don't get this often. The compliment genuinely takes you by surprise. Noticing your shock, he says, "You must not get that much, Marshal." At this comment, the spectators let out a round of polite laughter.
"I don't," you admit.
"Well," the baron says, "it isn't every day I'm graced with the presence of such beauty…" He gestures to your sister. "…and such skill." He gestures to you.
Elya smiles in response to this compliment. "You flatter me."
Those around you can clearly notice the tension in your comment. They shuffle uncomfortably at the sudden silence. After a pause, Ciril collects himself, regains his smile, and replies, "I'm a married man, Marshal, I assure you my intentions are pure."
You relax once again, releasing tension you never even realized you were holding. Your hand, which instinctively drifted for a blade, shifts back to resting on your belt.
After he makes sure you won't assault him, he turns back to Elya. "But perhaps you'd consider a union with another member of my clan? My second son is yet to be wed."
Elya must have been expecting such an offer. As a young queen, her consort could hold great political sway and influence over Kanton. Without missing a beat, she replies, "I'm open to all propositions, my friend."
Ciril nods, seemingly satisfied. He turns back to you. "So, Marshal, was there something you had to ask me?"
"Aye. Do you have some sort of baths?" you ask.
He lets out a hearty, good-natured laugh. "That I do, good sir." He points toward a man standing off to the side, near one of the exits of the great hall. The man's head is slightly bowed as he surveys the feast being prepared in front of him.
"That man is my head servant, Terfel. Give him your request, and he'll take you there."
You nod. "I appreciate it, gov'nor."
He smirks at your use of slang, finding it foreign and amusing. "Of course, Marshal."
You turn around and set out for the servant.
Next
You find the halls of Salutis to be different from those of Wrido. They're more compact, less ornate, and much warmer. You suspect the warmth may be explained by the freeze you just endured, however.
The servant doesn't make much conversation as you walk. He hardly even looks in your direction. You're okay with this.
After a minute or two of walking, he makes a right into a shorter hallway. At the end, you see a closed wooden door. The servant says from behind you, "Water is heated. Do you want a maid?" This is the first time you've heard the man speak. His voice is shockingly deep, with a heavy accent you easily recognize.
Southwestern. By the man's age, there's a serious possibility he may have served under you.
You shake your head. "No maid." You're not going to forsake this moment of privacy for a maid.
"Aye, Marshal," he replies. Hearing this brings back an alarming amount of memories. You shake your head to clear your mind once again, refusing to break down in the middle of the hallway. Save it for the baths, you tell yourself.
You just nod in reply, stepping forward and opening the door, obscuring your face from the servant.
As you enter, the servant calls out, "And… Marshal?" You pause. "Thank you."
Thank you?
You look over your shoulder, but the servant has already started back down the hall.
You shrug off the encounter and enter the bathing room.
Next
After making sure the room is clear, you quickly shed your clothing. You slip the knife out of your boot and place it on the edge of the large wooden tub. The low ceiling and insulated floor make the room much warmer than the unheated hallway outside.
You dip a finger in the water, testing the temperature. It's hot. Much hotter than the baths in the Royal Palace of Wrido. You note that this whole castle seems warmer than Wrido, despite the freezing weather outside.
Perhaps they have the new systems of vents and fires known as the hypocaust. Such systems have been introduced to the newer castles. Wrido's palace, being built half a millennium ago, lacks such luxury.
You enter the tub, letting out a sigh of contentment as the water soothes your frozen and aching muscles. It almost hurts, shocking your cold body with this sudden burst of warmth.
Content, you lull your head to the side, enjoying this rare moment of relaxation. There is much to do soon. There is much bloodshed ahead. But it all seems so distant here. It all seems so quiet.
The memories threaten to invade the silence, but your sheer exhaustion keeps them at bay.
You hadn't realized just how tired you were before. Just how much tension was resting on your shoulders.
Your eyelids start to droop. You allow the act. You tell yourself you're strong enough to resist the temptation of sleep.
Your gray eyes close. And they do not open.
Your tired mind fails you.
And you drift off to sleep.
Next
------
Duke Rade Mozoroff watches the snow pouring down in sheets just outside of the chapel's stained-glass window. He remains transfixed by the constant rhythm of the snow, blotting the rest of the world out with white.
The rebel army shelters in a fort two weeks' march northwest of Wrido. Rade deliberately skirted the edges of the Atiming River's surrounding forest, following the winding dirt trails in order to throw off any pursuers.
The chapel is a modest thing. The small size of the fortress restricts its size. Worse still, only a few thousand of his eight thousand, strong army could fit within the fort's walls.
It is much, much better than nothing.
He keeps his men on a constant rotation, trying to give every soldier at least some time in the heat to prevent hypothermia. Even still, many will succumb to the cold. Mercifully, the new supplies should prevent starvation.
We used to be twelve thousand strong, Rade notes grimly. The fighting at Wrido cost many lives. And the snow will take more.
Then for a moment, Rade idly wonders where the Marshal has taken the loyalist army.
Did they even survive the cold?
For the sake of his rebellion, he wishes for all of the loyalists to have frozen in the snowdrift. But for the sake of his former comrade's life, he wishes that at least he survived.
He chuckles to himself, the only noise in the near-silent chapel. His hands, folded together in prayer, rest upon his knees, his head bowed, but his thoughts are anything but in prayer.
But the chapel still relaxes Rade. He's not sure whether he even has something to pray for.
His own life? Perhaps, but death would bring release and peace.
Darin's life? Perhaps, but they had their falling out years ago.
The life of the Marshal? Perhaps, but his death would bring Rade victory.
His cause? Perhaps, but God would not grant him victory against his countrymen who follow the same faith.
Rade sighs and looks up at the silver crucifix at the front of the chapel. He knows that God answers few prayers.
If God even listens anymore.
Next
You awaken to your own sputtering cough. Your eyes fly open as your body shudders, desperately forcing water out of your lungs. Your right hand scrambles to seize the side of the tub to stabilize yourself, but all you manage is to knock the dagger across the room.
You reflexively sit up, bringing your knees to your chest. For a few moments, you sit there, coughing up water and violently shuddering. Finally, a single lucid thought hits you.
A dagger to the ribcage, to be exact. Had it not been for your coat of plates, you would have been killed instantly. But even with the armor, the blow nearly killed you.
It ached for weeks.
You shakily place one foot outside of the tub, testing your weight on the leg. Both legs feel unsteady after the freeze outside and being cooped up in a tub of water for…
For how long?
You're not sure.
You idly note that you're starting to develop a habit of dozing off before banquets. You frown at the thought and take shaky steps forward. You reach for a towel but stop yourself.
Instead, you look up and scan the room for a mirror. Spotting one in the corner, you approach and stand before your reflection.
You don't like what looks back.
Next
The first thing you notice is that you look exhausted. There are heavy bags beneath your cunning eyes. You've clearly lost weight. Your face appears more gaunt than before. The pruney skin from your long soak in the water isn't helping things, either.
I look like shite.
You sigh, then retrieve the towel and dry yourself off. You slip back into your damp, dirty riding clothes. You curse your past self for not thinking to bring a change of clothes to the bath.
You suddenly realize that your clothes, as well as the rest of your equipment, including your journal, were left with Aurora inside the stables. You made sure to tip Darin off to this fact. He'll watch over Aurora. He's yet to fail you.
You allow yourself a small smile at this thought. Darin's there for you, and he will never, ever not be.
Unless he…
The smile falls from your face, and you move back to the mirror. You look… about how you expected. You're clean of grime, but your clothes aren't. Your hair is still jumbled and chaotic, your face coated with a mask of exhaustion.
There's not much you'd be able to do, anyway. You turn away from your reflection and head for the door.
And back to reality, with all its problems.
Next
The atmosphere of the main hall is much different from when you left it. Most of the troubles of the outside world and the suffering you just witnessed have been forgotten. For now.
You don't entirely fault the nobles for trying to push away the horrors witnessed only hours ago. One can only endure so much before the mind breaks and refuses to come back together.
But one cannot forget what happened hours ago. Especially you.
You still remember what happened half a decade ago. Vividly.
You envy those who can so easily disregard war. Who can so easily end life.
And you wonder why you're always the outlier. Why do others come back from war with smiles and loot when you came back with a damaged mind and forgotten accomplishments?
You shake your head to clear your thoughts. As you always have.
And as you suspect you always will.
Next
The smell of rich, fatty foods makes your mouth water. Try as you might, you can hardly resist the sweet smell of food. Real food. Not travel rations or snow hare trapped as you march. But real, hearty meats.
As the servants bring the food out to present to the rich, your starving body carries you forward subconsciously. You earn suspicious glances and comments as you walk further into the great hall, dressed poorly as you are.
You clearly stick out. Most of the nobles who followed you from Wrido likely recognize you as the Marshal, further drawing attention to yourself.
Your mind drifts to the soldiery outside the walls of Castle Salutis. They will receive no where near the luxury you see before you. You feel a pain of guilt eyeing the food, knowing that their rations won't be nearly this pleasant.
You stroll even further into the great hall, stopping just at the edge of one of the long wooden tables that travel the entire length of the hall. The chair in front of you is unoccupied, however there are neighbors on both your left and right.
Both of them offer you a strange look as you pull the chair out and sit down, waiting for the food to be revealed. The table opposite from you is a flurry of activity as servants bring out an assortment of food that makes your mouth water.
You've never been so excited to eat in your life.
Next
You can hardly restrain yourself as the first portion is placed in front of you by a silent servant. It appears to be some sort of smoked and cured meat, probably stored for the winter months.
It's probably not entirely fresh, but to your body, three days without food, it's the finest thing you've ever tasted. You wolf it down, earning a collection of amused, disgusted, and fascinated looks from those around you.
A few bites in, the starving nobility around you indulges in the same manner.
For nearly an hour, the hall is filled with nothing but the sounds of men and women sating their hunger. Not the simple hunger most of the rich are used to, but rather the deep-seated hunger of the impoverished. Or the soldier.
The hunger of the unlucky and unfortunate.
You're sure that those around you are most likely regretting their decision to join alongside the army. The promised wealth and glory has not been delivered.
What is glory, anyway? you wonder. There is none in war. Just suffering.
Most would disagree with you.
Next
As the hunger of the present company is sated, conversation begins to start up once again. Even nearly a hundred miles from the Royal Court, politics cannot be avoided.
You're starting to tire of politics.
You scan the hall and let out a weary sigh. There's much to witness and much to do here.
The duke and his sister. A pair of wild cards, for better or for worse. And now those wild cards are beyond the walls of Castle Salutis, freezing in the snow.
You're not sure why they chose to volunteer themselves for such a mission. Perhaps altruism? But Lada was the one who brought it up. It begs the question of why Milon chose to go with, and why Lada chose to go at all.
Milon is landed. He has a future ahead of him. It seems strange that he would risk himself.
Then you remember just how often you risk yourself. Practically every day, you place your life on the line. On the walls of Wrido, you stood in mortal danger. You never had to, per se. You could have evacuated the walls and waited for reinforcements.
But you didn't. You stood and fought and killed.
And now both Milon and Lada are doing the same.
Because more are going to die. And you know this.
The idea of more men dying hurts you. Not just mentally, but you feel a powerful pang of nausea at the thought. You hear the statistics. You hear fifteen or thirty or five hundred dead, and all it is to your mind is statistics.
But those are lives ended. Those are fifteen or thirty or five hundred broken families. A hundred grieving widows and two hundred grieving children.
Such is the cost of war, the place worse than hell. But the only place where you truly feel alive. The moments in combat are the only times your mind doesn't wish to hurt itself, to claw your body or hang from the ceiling.
The only way you can live is to take the lives of others.
You chuckle to yourself. It sounds grim and broken.
You really are a piece of work.
Next
At your seat, you sample more of the food laid out in front of you. You swore you were full earlier, but your weary body accepts more without any protest.
Your hunger is much deeper in you than typical hunger.
After a few minutes of eating and drinking, ignoring the stares and whispers of the suspicious, you glance back up and consider your next option.
The baron and your sister do not notice as you stand up from your table and start toward them. Elya sits listening with a polite smile on her face as Ciril continues to speak. A large assortment of nobles, particularly younger men, watch in on this exchange.
Baron Ciril sits at the head of the table, Elya on his right, and what you assume to be Ciril's son on his left. You assume it's a tactical move to make his son and the queen face each other. It appears father dearest is playing matchmaker, you note.
You approach from the side, staying out of their sight, preparing to eavesdrop. Velinor meets your eye, and you offer him a nod. A thin smirk runs across his face, and he gestures with his hand in an inviting motion.
You move close enough to hear the baron's proud tirade. "I always knew it, Your Majesty. I knew Duke Mozoroff was up to trouble. We've had our differences, him and I. I never trusted him."
You raise an eyebrow and step closer, not wishing to miss this confession. Ciril continues, "When your father invited the realm to a feast to celebrate a half decade of peace, I never attended."
Elya replies, her voice much more quiet and subdued, possibly from her exhaustion and fraying patience, "Is that so?"
The Baron nods. "My cousin, well… he didn't listen." He sighs. "Claimed I was paranoid, he did. He was trapped with the rest when Wrido was placed under siege. His wife just arrived today. Claimed he never made it."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Elya replies evenly.
The baron drowns these memories out with a sip of his wine. "Ah, enough about me and my troubles. Perhaps I could learn about you, Your Majesty."
"I'm afraid there's not much to know, my friend," Elya says.
"I appreciate the humility, Your Majesty," Baron Ciril replies. "My question, however, is rather specific."
"Do tell."
"What is your… relationship with the Marshal?"
You take a step closer. Velinor meets your eye, expression now dead, and mouths, Careful. You nod in reply.
Elya is clearly taken off-guard by the question, but she recovers quickly. "It's professional. He helps me with aspects of warfare I have yet to experience."
"Of course," the baron replies. His son has clearly long since lost interest in the political discussion and instead drifts off, half-staring at your sister. The kid looks around Elya's age, perhaps slightly younger. You're not sure what stake he has in this gambit, if any, or if his father dragged him here out of obligation as the second-born.
From your angle off to the side, you can only see Elya's back. You're unable to see her expression. You cannot tell whether she's uncomfortable with all this attention, or if she's reveling in it.
You know that it would make you nauseous.
"This Marshal does not appear to be the most proper or well-mannered of people, if you did not mind me saying, Your Majesty," the baron says.
Elya nods. "No. He's not. But he's my brother. The circumstances of his birth and life are troubled, to say the least."
"Brother?" the baron asks.
"Half-brother," Elya clarifies.
Ciril nods, seemingly to himself. "And that's all he is?"
By the sudden jerk of Elya's head and tone of her speech, she seems suspicious as she asks, "Are you insinuating something?"
"What might I be insinuating, Your Majesty? I assure you, my words are honest."
You sigh. It's what you hate the most about these formal events, this constant social fighting. Not a single noble, if they're smart enough, will let their true intentions and their true thoughts free.
It's not a fault against them. It's simply how the game is played. The great Game of Politics. War is the game you play, and war is brought about through this game. The game played by the powers that be for goals beyond the understanding of those who fight.
You're here because of politics, after all.
Next
You listen to the back and forth of this baron and your sister for a few minutes longer. You listen as two people speak so much, yet say so little. When the topic drifts away from yourself and The War and toward marriage, you walk away.
There's no point in listening to an old man's flattery.
Next