Magic.
Almost a week had passed, and we soldiers did little more than wait.
We waited for the rain to stop so we could sit outside; then we waited for the pot on the bonfire to boil so we could cook potatoes; and finally, we waited for daylight to fade, retreating to our barracks to wait for sleep.
I knew that once we were trained and thrust onto the battlefield, I would yearn for days this mundane.
Yet, as Arthur retold the same story—how he could have been a great jouster if not for an injury sustained climbing a flagpole—I found myself begging for war to begin.
On the sixth night at Cambas, I awoke to darkness, trembling from the cold.
The warming alcohol from supper had worn off, leaving the night as bitter as the last dregs of ale I’d drunk.
I quivered, wide awake and desperate for the warmth of daylight.
The straw sack I called my bedstead did nothing to soften the hard earth beneath my bony back, and the linen sheet provided was thinner than a handkerchief.
Though the night was pitch-black, I sensed someone stirring beside me.
“Smith, are you all right?” Bash asked, his voice trembling.
“I-I’m c-c-cold—I think I might die,” I stuttered, shivering so violently my limbs ached.
Bash shuffled closer, his teeth chattering as he rubbed his hand up and down my arm. “Do you want to sleep back-to-back? We can share each other’s heat,” he offered, desperation lacing his voice.
I nodded before he could finish speaking. Bash flipped over, and I followed, pressing my back firmly against his. Around us, soldiers huddled to share heat—even Arthur and Fletcher shivered side by side most nights.
After a while, my teeth finally stopped chattering, gradually finding warmth, before slumber found me.
A loud snore snapped me awake. As I stirred, I realized Bash was cradling me from behind, his deep breaths blowing against the back of my neck, telling me he was still asleep.
His arm lay across my torso, his hand dangerously close to my breast. I concaved my chest, shifting my womanly curves out of his reach.
Part of me wanted to slip free, while another part wanted him to hold me; I felt safe in his embrace.
When his hand slid down to rest on my stomach, I held my breath.
If I weren’t harboring a life-threatening secret, I might have welcomed the gentle touch of a kind man.
Yet I was certain he was lost in a dream—perhaps imagining I was a woman he knew from the Headlands.
Though I should have moved away, I chose to stay in Bash’s soothing hold and drifted back to sleep.
The wax-slicked tents rattled in the wind, awakening me once more. My frigid fingertips searched for Bash between the sheets, but he was gone. I sat upright, squinting into the lightless night.
“Bash,” I whispered.
“Shut your gob,” a sleepy soldier mumbled in reply.
As quietly as possible, I rolled off my straw bedding and pulled on my boots. I carefully stepped over the quivering bodies sprawled across the floor, avoiding any limbs as I went.
Outside, moonlit leaves shimmered on the shaking trees as I crept through the silvery light.
Fog had begun to settle, wisping around my ankles like ghostly hands trying to warn me not to tread farther.
It was almost silent—the only sound was the gentle rattling of guy ropes in the wind.
“Bash?” I called softly, parting the mist with my breath.
While searching for my missing bed warmer, I spotted an orange glow bleeding from an opening in the royal tent. The sound of shattering glass splintered the quiet.
“Pick up the quill,” a voice seeped from the gap, carried on the wind. “Write to my father and tell him that his cuckquean can shove her gods and morals up her cu—”
“I’m not sure you should call the Queen that, my liege,” interrupted another voice.
I sidestepped closer and peered into the tent.
There was Fitzroy.
His strong features were showcased by the candlelight as he paced the length of his quarters. For a dazed moment, I watched him do nothing of note—yet remained ensnared by his beauty—until I noticed a less remarkable man hunched over a table, diligently scribbling on parchment.
Abruptly, Fitzroy slammed his fist onto the tabletop, mere inches from the scribe. “My father sent you here to be at my beck and call. Do what’s asked of you or face the consequences,” he snarled.
“The King personally asked me to keep an eye on you,” the man replied, standing upright.
I recognized the fluttering feather bobbing on his hat as he spoke.
“And to report back to him if you’re being difficult. This is a great honor His Grace has bestowed upon you—don’t fumble this opportunity.”
Fitzroy laughed obnoxiously. The man turned away, revealing himself to me as the King’s esquire—the same large-nosed man with the feathered hat man who’d stood with the royal family on their balcony during the rally speech.
“He’s sent me to fight in a war with an army of untrained villagers against magical creatures no strategy could ever defeat,” Fitzroy declared, snatching the inkpot and tossing it to the ground.
Ink splattered upward, freckling both his and the esquire’s breeches with black stains.
“My father’s bestowed nothing more than a premature death upon me. ”
The esquire bowed his head. “I didn’t mean to upset you, my Prince.”
“I’m not a prince,” Fitzroy roared, slamming his fists into anything within reach.
The esquire watched unmoved, neither displeased nor concerned, as if desensitized to the bastard’s outburst. I was surprised the entire encampment didn’t wake to the sound of smashing and shouting, but the wind muffled his tantrum.
When Fitzroy’s frenzy finally ceased, his tunic was streaked with blood. Before I laid eyes upon the prince, I never imagined it possible to find someone so physically captivating while despising every part of who they were.
“I’ll write to the King and tell him you’re still settling into the role,” the esquire said, his tone heavy with resignation. “Good night, Fitzroy,” he added, striding toward the exit where I lingered, hidden from view.
Hastily, I slipped through the camp and into the shelter of the woodland, vanishing between the trees. Crouched in the shadows, I waited for the esquire to retreat to his tent, when a muffled voice drifted on the breeze.
“Bash,” I whispered toward the darkness.
No reply.
I edged farther into the forest, anxiety prickling my skin as I feared the noise was from a hidden enemy.
Among the foliage, I spotted a figure I recognized.
Bash was perched on a tree stump, surrounded by wisps of white mist.
My ears pricked to the sound of his voice, but his words were lost in the rushing winds. Slowly, I stepped closer, curious to know to whom or what he was speaking.
A creature, small enough to drink from a thimble, fluttered just above his head.
“Thee’ar unfetred.” You are unshackled, Bash said.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I realized Bash was speaking in Yfelle.
“Thou praien an daey thee’ll hoppian oe musike macode’be cricc’n frogga.” I pray one day, you will dance to music made by crickets and frogs, he continued.
At first, I thought it was a butterfly, but the glowing orb of effulgence surrounding the hovering thing gave it a mystical radiance.
Its teardrop-shaped wings reminded me of a luna moth, but it bore a human face.
Bash tapped a steady rhythm on his thighs, and the creature danced joyously in the moonlight, swaying the rags it wore in time with the drumming.
I stepped forward, my heavy footing landing on a mound of rotting wood. My boot cracked through the decayed timber with a sharp crunch that revealed my lurking presence. Bash’s head snapped in my direction.
“Gaen hydan.” Go hide, he said.
“Bash,” I whispered once more.
He flinched at the sound of his name.
As his eyes met mine, the creature fluttered out of sight.
“Smith, why are you awake?” he asked, standing abruptly.
I’d caught Bash speaking in the forbidden language, and there was only one explanation—he was magic. A wave of relief washed over me; at last, I’d found someone who shared my burdens. Yet it was obvious Bash didn’t share in my reassurance—his unease was palpable.
“I was cold,” I said, shivering. “I noticed you were gone, so I came to find you.”
Bash nodded, nervously rubbing his palms together.
“What was that?” I asked, my curiosity drawn to the creature that had just darted out of sight.
“A pixie,” Bash murmured.
“Are you well versed in magical creatures?”
He shook his head. “I was just helping her free her trapped wing. She’d gotten it caught between two branches.”
“Were you casting spells?” I probed, hoping he’d confess and maybe even teach me.
“No—I… I’m not a wizard,” Bash replied, though his hesitation betrayed him—I was certain he was lying.
“I heard you speaking in Yfelle,” I pressed.
I waited for him to deny it, to spin some elaborate excuse for how I’d misheard. But instead, he simply stared at me, wide-eyed, his mouth slightly agape.
“You told the pixie to go and hide,” I said, stepping closer.
“You understood?” Bash asked, inching forward until we were close enough to touch.
“Gese.” Yes, I replied softly.
As the Yfelle left my lips, Bash grabbed my shoulders, gently shaking me.
“Thee’ar wicca!” You are a wizard! he exclaimed, sliding his hands down my arms then taking my hands in his.
“It makes sense, Smith.” He let out a sigh of relief.
“Why I’ve felt a connection to you. We’re both wizards.
” He turned my wrists over, inspecting my palms closely.
“Your hands.” His fingertips traced my skin. “They’re as white as snow.”
A chill rolled down my spine as his touch lingered. Concerned he’d notice my trembling, I pulled my hands away.
“I know,” I muttered, confused by his fascination.
“When a wizard practices magic, it marks his palms,” Bash explained, removing his gloves to reveal faint purple spots swirling at their centers.