Chapter XVIII - Brysa
Chapter XVIII
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Princess Brysa Alustate, high-born lady of Elangsia and daughter of King Brastus and Queen Maurelle, stared listlessly out the latticed window of her inner chambers. Her striking features were marred by a turbulent expression that matched the storminess of the outside world. The heavy rain of the afternoon had eventually tapered off but the dark clouds still hovered ominously over the city, intimating that their deluge was not yet finished. Droplets dribbled down from the top of her window to the cold stone beneath it. The Elangsian palace was a well-constructed place, Brysa thought absently, but it was cold. Always cold. There will never be warmth here. Not while my father rules with an iron fist of tyranny and fear.
Her lip curled. He thinks I see nothing, she thought of her father with derision. How little he knows.
When she had turned seventeen, five years ago, Brysa had received her first suitor—a petty lord of Elangsia who wished to make an attempt for the throne. King Brastus had quickly disposed of him and Brysa was glad. She would not have appreciated marriage to such a self-serving, dim-witted oaf. However, since that day, Brastus had carefully restricted which public appearances she made; what men she was allowed to speak to, or even look at from across a room; and which friends she acquired.
Which would be practically none, Brysa thought bitterly. Friends? Does any princess ever have true friends? She had never grown close with ladies of the court, for they were too foolish for her to fathom. They never spoke of anything important, such as why Elangsia was still fighting a war against Aerilya after twelve and a half long years of conflict. All they thought about were clothes, noblemen, and the latest gossip in the palace.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
No, Brysa had no high-born friends. But sometimes, sympathetic relationships could be formed with the most unassuming people, she mused. In an effort to thwart her father’s heavy-handed control over her life, Brysa had resorted to making friends with unlikely people.
“Princess?”
Brysa turned her head toward one such “unlikely” friend with a small smile. “Hello, Rebekka,” she greeted her. “Do you need something?”
Rebekka was a young woman of great beauty. Brysa found her comforting to have close at hand, for Rebekka’s calm, quiet nature was just what soothed the princess’s anger whenever she confronted her father or was thrown into a difficult situation.
“I need nothing, my lady,” Rebekka said quietly, lifting her golden-haired head to look at Brysa. “I came because you told me to inform you if news of spies is heard whispered in the passageways.”
Brysa rose from the cushioned window seat and walked toward Rebekka. “Yes! And what have you heard?”
“A merchantman has returned to the city. He has been here several times before and has been under mild suspicion for many months. They consider him a man who could be a spy for Aerilya and who must be watched.”
“A merchantman?” Brysa questioned under her breath. Absently she fingered the bottom of her waist-length braid of black hair. Rebekka had styled it that morning and woven silken cords through the glossy tresses. “Did you hear where this merchant hails from, or what his name is?”
“I heard the word Meru mentioned,” Rebekka offered, her blue eyes thoughtful, “but they did not mention the man’s name, likely for security reasons. I would not doubt they know they are likely to be overheard when talking in the corridors of this palace.”
“Interesting,” Brysa murmured.
“I did speak with my friend,” Rebekka offered, her voice turning a little hesitant. “You remember her…the woman you bought from my old master when you purchased me? Tryna?”
“Yes, I had her placed in the kitchens, did I not?” Brysa replied absently. She had bought Rebekka to spite her father, several months before, and Rebekka had pleaded so earnestly that Tryna could stay with her that Brysa had acquiesced. She had not the heart to break apart dear friends. The whole slave trade was not quite to her liking, though she did not have enough power to change anything about it.
“That’s right,” Rebekka nodded affirmatively in response to Brysa’s question. “I spoke with her briefly about the rumors of the merchantman being a spy, and she had heard the same. What is more, your father has been notified. There is going to be a contingent of soldiers sent to investigate this very evening.”
My father has been notified? They must be rather sure this merchant is a genuine threat, Brysa thought with surprise. She did not favor the Aerilyans in the war—her loyalties to her country were too strong for that—but she did admire the tenacious spies they sent into Elangsia. They never seemed to give up, despite the enormous odds that were stacked against them.
Many had been caught and executed, but Brysa knew her father would never be satisfied until the Hunter of Mairbrac had been discovered and publicly killed. King Brastus Alustate hated that man. Brysa did not support the Hunter, but neither did she hate him. She did not know enough about him to form her own opinions. All the animosity toward him merely made her more curious about what great things he had done to both endear him to the Aerilyans and so violently alienate him from the Elangsians.
“What did my father say about the rumors?” she inquired, beginning to pace the room. Her long velvet skirt swirled heavily around her ankles when she turned. “Did your Tryna know about that?”
“He did not say much from what I gathered. He was in conference with the Wild Men again and paid the captain of the guard little attention.”
The Wild Men. Brysa’s stomach churned with revulsion and her hands clenched her skirt tightly. Jaquin.
Prince Jaquin of the Wild Men was by far the most revolting man Brysa had ever laid eyes upon. Like his father, King Naard, he was a great bearded ox of a man, with beady eyes set in a dark-skinned face. He was a barbaric man—Brysa had caught glimpses of the prince’s ever-present side dagger at each evening meal—and had a reputation of killing whoever stood in the way of his ambitions. Not unlike my father, Brysa realized, a trace of sadness fingering its way through the haze of anger and betrayal that seemed to constantly shroud her.
Unfortunately for her, Jaquin, Naard, and Brastus’s ambitions were currently all the same: to become allies and destroy the Aerilyans. The reason this was unfortunate for Brysa was because her hand in marriage was required to secure the alliance.
A chill rippled over her flesh. I would rather die than marry Jaquin. Not only was his barbarism repulsive to her, but she had heard Jaquin considered higher-level education worthless and inane. Doubtless he would rid her of the few books she possessed should they marry. Brysa not only shuddered at the thought of being dragged to Rulaan to become Queen of the Wild Men, but her spirit failed her at the thought of being bereft of her books, for they were one of the only comforts left in a life stripped of pleasures. Her mother, Queen Maurelle, had ensured that Brysa was educated properly by a priest, despite Brastus’s displeasure. Now Brysa clung to her education with all she had within her. I cannot let that be taken from me.
“My lady Brysa?” Rebekka’s concerned voice broke through Brysa’s gloomy ponderings. “Are you feeling ill?”
Shaking herself slightly, Brysa drew her shoulders back and shook her head at her maidservant. “It is merely the chill of the weather that swept over me for a moment, but I am all right now,” she reassured her.
Rebekka did not look entirely convinced, but she did not pursue the matter. Stepping forward, she straightened the pearl studded neckline of Brysa’s dress and commented softly, “It is almost time for the evening meal, my lady.”
Brysa closed her eyes. “Don’t you mean it is almost time for putting me on display like a piece of meat?” she replied dully.
Rebekka said nothing.
“How I wish,” Brysa said with sudden emotion, “that I was a mere slave, like you. Life would be so much easier than this.”
Rebekka’s eyes flew up to Brysa’s face. “Easier?” she repeated in astonishment. “You consider my life easy?”
“You don’t have to worry about a father who locks you away, or a filthy prince who wants to marry you in exchange for a war contract,” Brysa replied. “You’re life is simple and yes, easy. Can you not see the difference?”
“I see the difference, it is true.” Rebekka’s voice had lost its incredulity and turned tremulous. “You are correct, I do not need to worry about the things you listed, and I know that it is not a pleasant fate you have been given.” She raised her face a little higher and Brysa saw that tears shone in the young woman’s eyes. “But I do have to worry about my family back home in Aerilya who still does not know where I am or if I am even alive; from day to day I must worry about retaining what shreds of honor I have remaining, for slave women in the palace are like pieces of meat—just as you are before the lords and nobles at the evening feast each night. I am a slave, my lady. My life is not my own. Nor,” she whispered shakily, “is it easy.”
The unrefined feeling that marked the delicate features of Rebekka shook Brysa to the core, and for a moment the princess and the slave stood as statues staring at each other, their eyes full of glittering tears.
“I’m sorry,” Brysa finally managed, blinking to rid her eyes of the burning tears. “I…beg your forgiveness for my thoughtlessness.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Rebekka replied gently, wiping away her own tears with her slender hand. “We are not unlike each other, you and I. Therefore, I understand your thoughts. As you are a prisoner to your father and your position, so am I a prisoner to this castle and Elangsia.”
“Princess, prisoner,” Brysa murmured in a quiet, sing-song tone. “Indeed, it is so.”
“Come,” Rebekka said quietly. “You must prepare for the evening meal.”
è è è è è è è è è
The Hall of Kings was a vast room inside the Elangsian palace and graced with a large, vaulted ceiling. Long, heavy tables with benches lined the place, filled to capacity with laughing, half-drunk men and laden with trays of food. Tapestries covered the stone walls, some large and depicting a historical occurrence, others the blue-and-silver banner of Elangsia: a hippogriff rearing upright over a sword. High above in the rafters and crevices were nests of doves and other birds that would occasionally swoop low enough to disturb a guest, providing a constant source of amusement. An enormous hearth was built into the farthest wall and a roaring fire was kept up throughout the evening, giving a source of heat in the huge room. Slaves had laid new rushes over the floor to soak up the inevitable spilled drinks and to ensure that the cleanup process late that night would be finished more rapidly. Already the rushes were trampled and limp compared to their original crisp freshness.
Brysa picked at her roast pheasant, her appetite small. She was usually a healthy eater, but tonight her stomach could not handle the atmosphere. All she wanted to do was get away from it all. Forever. With a sigh, she forced herself to put her mind away from such foolishness. Escape was impossible.
To her left sat her mother the queen, and beyond her, King Brastus. To Brastus’s left was King Naard and his rough-looking councilors from Rulaan. Prince Jaquin was not seated beside his father, however, but occupied the seat on Brysa’s right. He had taken that spot the first night after the Wild Men’s arrival in the city, a week before, and had continued doing so each night since. His gaze made Brysa’s skin crawl, and his attempts at conversation proved him to be an uneducated man, built for wielding a sword and crushing insurrections through sheer force. Brysa felt with certainty that even her resolute pride would quickly be flattened beneath his heavy fist as soon as she left with him for Rulaan.
“You look comely tonight,” Jaquin muttered through his bite of lamb. “I’ve scarce ever seen a more fine-looking woman than you are.”
Gritting her teeth, Brysa managed a cordial nod. “I thank you, sir.”
“Can you not call me by my given name, woman?” he growled with startling vehemence, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and turning his head to face her. “I told you two nights ago to call me Jaquin, not sir, or prince. I am Jaquin.”
“Yes…sir,” she replied coldly, turning her head regally aside. He cannot hurt me while I am here in my own country, in my own palace, she thought, closing her eyes briefly.
Instead of growing angry, as she assumed he immediately would, a raspy chuckle came from his throat. “You have spirit, that is certain,” he muttered, picking up his goblet and swallowing half his wine in one quick gulp.
She chose to ignore his quip and focused on finishing a bite of cooked carrots. That was another thing she didn’t like about this Prince Jaquin: he was so unpredictable. She was never sure what emotion would rear its head when she spoke with him—anger, sarcastic wit, amusement…the list could go on.
The scent of roasted meat and stench of sweat and unwashed bodies permeated her senses, mixing with the loud echoes of raucous, drunken laughter. Brysa’s stomach heaved and she bit her lip hard to keep the small amount of dinner she had managed to eat from coming back up.
Turning toward the queen, she whispered, “Mother.”
Queen Maurelle turned toward her daughter, her dark eyes studying Brysa. “You feel unwell, Brysa?”
Brysa merely nodded. She felt cold and clammy, and she was sure her face was pale. She knew her mother would understand what she felt. Brysa and Maurelle had never had a close or very loving relationship—especially since Maurelle’s mental functions seemed extremely stressed in late months—but they understood each other better than anyone Brysa had ever met. She knew it stemmed from their similar lifestyles; both were repressed by Brastus and neither appreciated it.
The queen turned to the king and murmured in his ear. Brastus’s face darkened, and he shot an angry glance toward Brysa. “You are sick?” he demanded in a blunt undertone that only she and her mother could hear.
“Yes, father,” she murmured, all her bravado disappearing beneath Brastus’s stare.
“Bah, away with you then,” he said harshly, waving his hand. “Regain your health quickly, daughter. I do not wish you to grow sick and languid.”
“I understand, father,” she murmured, slipping quickly from her chair. She turned to make a quick getaway but was stopped by Jaquin’s hand closing around her wrist. Whirling on him, she sent him a harsh glance. “Unhand me this moment.”
He looked at her, his lip curled, for a long moment; she felt her face growing crimson with anger and embarrassment. She was royalty, so she had been seated at a prominent place of the Hall of Kings. Everyone in the room could observe the shameful scene. Finally Jaquin’s fingers released her slim wrist and she fled from the room. Rebekka quickly appeared at her side, sheltering her from the many glances that were sent her way. Rebekka wrapped an arm around Brysa’s waist and guided her through the doors that led toward the wing of the palace that the princess resided in.
Halfway back to her chambers, Brysa lost her supper in a nearby chamber pot. When she was finished, she wiped her mouth and stood to her feet a little unsteadily, rejoining Rebekka. Neither of them said anything, but Brysa knew they were likely thinking the same thing: Princess…prisoner.
That is all I am, Brysa thought listlessly. A prisoner locked in a golden cage.
She was so lost in her own thoughts, she did not hear the sound of booted feet approaching down the corridor. Rebekka had the presence of mind to seize Brysa’s wrist and drag her into a nearby doorway, where the shadows would conceal their presence. Even though Brysa was the princess, it was not pleasant to be caught unaware by her father’s soldiers. She winced as they marched closer and almost ceased breathing when the five men stopped directly across the hall from her and Rebekka. She cautiously turned her head and eyed the quintet, wondering what they were doing. It was unusual for soldiers to patrol the palace hallways, especially during a mealtime.
“Know you even where this merchant lives, Montel?” one of the men whined. “And must we go now? I was just enjoying some of the roast lamb when you dragged us off.”
“Are you paid to be slovenly drunkards or respectable members of King Brastus’s military?” a bearded man snarled at the complainer, who promptly wilted with shame. “Of course I know where the merchant lives, fool. Cormac Alstair has been under suspicion for some time; we’ve watched his house so we know where it is. I’ve just been given orders from one of King Brastus’s personal advisors to confront him, so that is what we shall do.”
A merchant… Brysa’s mind raced. Oh! Cormac Alstair must be the name of the spy who supposedly is here in Ruma. These are the men who are going to apprehend him, then.
“Fine then,” another of the soldiers muttered in a deep voice. “Let’s just get it over with. Are we arresting him?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Montel replied sourly. “We haven’t enough proof against him. He may be a merchant who does honest work, but his constant presence here at pivotal moments in the war—such as now, when an possible alliance with the Wild Men is possible—raises flags of warning that we cannot ignore.”
“If we’re not arresting him, what are we doing, then?”
“Intimidating him,” Montel said, smiling grimly. “All men can be intimidated by power; he will be no different, I am sure. We have a restraining order for him, too. He will be unable to leave the city until we give our permission.”
The men rumbled with laughter. Brysa stood perfectly still, hoping against all odds that none of the men would spot her or Rebekka. To her relief, Montel gave a couple more orders and then the group marched down the hallway toward the front of the palace, quickly disappearing around a corner. Brysa released the breath she had not realized she was holding and Rebekka did likewise.
“That is the merchantman I was telling you about,” Rebekka whispered with wide eyes. “They are going to do something to him, I just know it!”
“Other than yelling and threatening him, they will do nothing,” replied Brysa firmly. “They cannot arrest him, so torture or enslavement or death is all out of the question. If he is a spy…” her voice trailed off.
“If he is a spy, he is a symbol of hope for all the Aerilyan slaves in Elangsia,” Rebekka said in a strong voice that surprised Brysa.
The princess studied her maid. “You are lucky I am not in favor of Aerilyan enslavement,” she said warningly. “I could have you flogged for such words.”
“I know, my lady,” Rebekka replied with poise, giving a nod of assent. “But you are kind-hearted and would not do that to me. And you must understand my loyalties lie with my homeland.”
“Yes, I do,” Brysa said. A wave of weariness swept over her and she swayed slightly. “But now I must return to my chambers or I really shall become badly ill. Help me please, Rebekka.”
Rebekka nodded and offered her arm to Brysa, who gratefully took it. A few minutes later, the princess was wrapped in a warm coverlet in the center of her large bed. Rebekka stoked the fire in the hearth, coaxing it back to life, and Brysa relished the heat that emanated from it. It might be mid-summer, but she grew easily chilled. “Thank you, Rebekka,” she murmured, closing her eyes and lying back against her pillows. “And Rebekka?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“I do hope, if the merchant truly is a spy for Aerilya, that he makes it out safely.”
“As do I, Brysa,” the slender maid whispered in reply, smiling wanly. “As do I.”
posted by Emily Nelson at 11:50 AM
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