3. Renard #3
Fortunately, the apples in the north orchard have gone early this year, and the wheat this summer yielded thick heads heavy with grain.
My soil remains untouched by the curse thus far because I am outside the boundary of Valehar, but there’s no telling how long it will stay that way.
I wake often these nights, sticky with sweat, heart hammering with the unease that something ill-fated creeps toward my own lands.
When the soldiers are all but licking the crumbs from the serving platters, Millie clears the table like she is removing weapons from untried, unsteady hands.
We exchange pleasantries and enough news about Valehar that I can surmise enough from what isn’t said, and the portrait it paints is dire indeed.
They sit longer than necessary, reluctant to rise, reluctant perhaps to return to a place where bread fills the mouth but not the body.
Or maybe they’re afraid of what Arden will do when they return without me.
“So, you’ll tell him I wasn’t here,” I say to Bjorn.
He hesitates, caught between promising to lie for me and protecting his fellow soldiers. “We’ll tell him… what seems wise, depending on his mood.”
Millie throws me a dark look and bustles back into the kitchen, muttering to herself.
They leave before dusk, their horses better fed and watered than when they arrived. I watch until the last of them disappears over the rise by the river. The sky hangs low and bruised, threatening rain.
I bring Freja into her stall, and she lows plaintively. As I see to her comfort, Magnar leans over and nudges my shoulder. We both stare after the group of soldiers, armor still too shiny in the storm cloud-choked sunset.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “He’ll come himself.”
There are a couple weeks of peace in the interim, and I can almost pretend everything is as it should be.
Crops are fit for harvest, the autumn planting is underway, Millie is hard at work preserving all she can because the dread that nauseates me day in and day out says more will come for food this winter than ever before.
Hunger knows no season, and I have no respite.
When the rasp and clatter of another distant arrival comes, it’s with the steady rhythm of iron-banded wheels rolling over the deep ruts in the road. There’s no clanking of awkward young soldiers in ill-fitting armor this time—it’s with the foreboding surety of fate.
I’m out walking the far boundary of the field that butts up against the Verge when I hear it first, and then see it.
The late afternoon sun spears through the gathering purple storm clouds like some kind of false hope about the inevitable arrival of a man I could’ve gone the rest of my life without seeing.
The wheat I managed to plant three days prior has not yet broken soil, but the rows lie straight and true beneath the dark loam.
Magnar recognizes the sound before I do, but he doesn’t tug at his yoke or offer so much as a nicker.
He simply waits, ears turning to catch whatever scraps of sound he can, his tail flicking as if the incoming guest is but a biting fly.
I rest my palm against the fence post I’ve just repaired and feel the wood grain beneath my skin, solid and splintered.
Before I begrudgingly turn toward the rise, I tighten the iron bracket another quarter turn and hope this one will hold against whatever monstrous thing apparently broke the last one.
The carriage that crests the hill is deep scarlet and lacquered ebony, which I found elegant when the king—my king—made use of it.
Now, however, it strikes me as garish—the color of blood spilled across black soil.
The horses are so well matched they might be two sets of twins, their harnesses jingling with too much ornament for a dusty road on the outskirts of the kingdom.
The riders flanking the carriage are a far cry from the youthful company in hand-me-down armor—they are Arden’s personal guard, and some of the most cruel and efficient killers I’ve ever had the misfortune of serving with.
Bile rises all the way up my gullet and I suck down measured breaths to quell the unpleasant, unbidden wave of emotions.
I grip the wood of the fence hard enough to push splinters deep beneath the skin into the flesh of my palm, and the pain grows from a dull prick to a sharp bite that finally distracts me from my anger.
I don’t move to greet him—a petty triumph that will help to sustain me through what promises to be a most trying visitation.
Instead, I finish walking the fence line, testing each post with my weight before crossing the field.
By the time the carriage rolls into the yard and settles, the air has grown thick with anticipation.
The carriage door opens without sound and it’s all I can do to keep the bitter twist from my mouth. Not even a hinge would dare squeak out of turn for him.
Arden descends as though stepping onto a stage already arranged for him, shiny boots touching earth lightly, the faintest crease appearing at his brow when dust brushes the hem of his velvet cloak.
I can tell he wants to shake it off—to return the pristine green and gold to its unblemished state, but he catches my eye and resists.
He likely doesn’t want to appear as though something as small as a dusty cloak bothers him.
He’s leaner than when I last saw him at court, but not with the gauntness of famine.
Rather, his thinness gives off the air of sharpness in the same way that his sleek, shining carriage does.
His coat is deep green, nearly black in the shadows, cut close to his body in a way that suggests he expects to be looked at and admired.
His gloves are pale doeskin and too clean despite the long, and likely uncomfortable, time on the dust-choked road.
He smiles when he sees me, but no one would ever mistake that kind of a smile for friendliness or warmth. It’s the sort of smile that encourages fear rather than familiarity.
“Renard,” he says, voice warm and carefully modulated.
“Arden.” I wouldn’t call him Regent if it would stay the ax from my neck on the chopping block.
He gaze drifts past me, surveying the fields beyond and the yard between us—the kitchen garden abundant with herbs and vegetables ripe for harvest, the apple crates stacked in waist-high towers, the steady ribbon of smoke from the kitchen chimney.
He inhales, and though the pause is brief, it is all calculation.
“Your little farm thrives,” he observes.
He means it as an insult, but I’m not yet ready to rise to the bait.
“It does,” I reply. My knee begins to ache with the rain that’s certain to fall, but I resist the urge to shift my weight and appear uncomfortable—despite the fact that I am, of course, incredibly uncomfortable.
Arden’s eyes flick briefly toward the boundary stone by the river, the old Valehar sigil worn smooth by years of weather and touch. Something unreadable passes through the sour twist of his expression—irritation, perhaps, or assessment.
“You haven’t returned any of my letters. Even when I sent a group of soldiers to better see to your comfort on a journey to court, you refused to come. You’ve been disobedient to me and to Valehar. I might call that treason, if I didn’t know you better.”
Anger snaps within me and I can’t help but grind my teeth at the suggestion of treason, yet I know he is attempting to draw my ire. We both know the weight that word carries.
I snort. “We have very different ideas of what constitutes treason.”
He continues as though I hadn’t spoken. “And yet, you were generous,” he says lightly. “My men reported as much.”
“You failed to supply them properly. They were hungry. Ravenous, in fact.” If he means to peck at me like an overset rooster, I am happy to return the favor. Arden cares not for the welfare of his soldiers, so long as they point their weapons at whatever he commands.
“They are always hungry,” he replies, clearly meaning more than food.
“They are starving, Arden. If you heed a single lesson from me, trust that armies march on their stomachs and nothing will turn them against you faster than hunger will.”
I almost miss the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth before it’s quickly smoothed away.
“Yes,” he says, teeth clenched. “So I am told.”
The yard has gone unnaturally quiet—even the chickens have retreated to their coop. The wind moves through the orchard and the leaves whisper against one another, but the sound feels distant, as though muffled by something unseen.
“May we speak privately?” he asks, lowering his voice. Looking up, I can see Millie eyeing us from the kitchen window, giving Arden a look that suggests she’s considering slipping some petaldown into whatever she serves to him and his men before sending them away.
I shake my head in warning at her and lead Arden to the barn.
Inside, the warm air smells of hay dust, manure, and horse sweat. Light filters through the wooden slats in long bands, catching drifting particles that glitter like gold. Magnar shifts in his stall, the wood creaking softly, and his ears flatten for a beat before lifting again.
“That animal has always been suspicious of me,” Arden remarks, thinking better of his move to stroke Magnar’s velvety nose.
“He has good judgment,” I say.
Arden’s sudden scowl gives away his frustration and disgust. “And yet you hitch him up to plow your muddy fields! He was born and bred for the battlefield—for true glory. The glory of Valehar! What a waste.”
“The glory of Valehar was never on a battlefield, Arden. It’s always been in its people. I wonder how you haven’t learned that yet.”
Rage bubbles to Arden’s face in blotches of red, but before he can vent his spleen at me, I continue.
“And anyway, Magnar was never as high-strung as the other war horses,” I say, leaning forward to stroke his glossy neck. “And we both tired of wading through blood and broken bodies. He’s as content with farm life as I am.”