CHAPTER EIGHT
K i sighed. “What an honor. To be buried by a man who can wrest metal bars in two with his bare hands. I have seen Shivs in battle. They are avenging angels. Do you know I once saw a Shiv heave a marble door at—”
“Stop!” She thrust his arm away. “You taunt me. Turn your back and keep silent.”
“You’re angry. Why?”
“You lie.”
“I don’t. I heard it from the guards of the inner court. A Shiv buried your brother.”
Her thoughts fled in one direction. Could Rand’s consideration for her...?
It couldn’t be! There were other Shivs. That he recognized the shadow of her brother’s face in her own was far-fetched. Aldney and her did not look similar. Yet he had let a missive from the emperor fall on the floor to save her from the same.
Shivers traced down her hands and she clasped them together.
“Did this Shiv witness my brother’s death?”
“That I did not hear.”
“There was no talk of witnesses?”
“Why would there be a witness to a man killing himself?”
“Why would a man like my brother end his life? You who saw him every day. You tell me. Would he do such a thing?”
Ki glanced away. “I was surprised when I heard.”
“Because it’s not true! Tell me there is not intrigue and deception at every corner in the city! Tell me our lives aren’t irreplaceable, even as couriers. Aldney advanced quickly. Too quickly. His life ended from another hand.”
“He was often called to receive and deliver messages, it’s true.”
“By whom?”
Ki blinked. “No.” He scooted away from her. “No. I was wrong to talk to you. You are not like him. You’re trying to make trouble. I won’t be part of it.”
“Who—”
He threw the bowl.
Petra closed her mouth and bent forward to clean the mess. However, her thoughts rattled on.
A Shiv buried Aldney?
Why?
More hopeful imaginations spread out in front of her. Had Aldney befriended one of these warriors and the last act of that friendship was to bury him?
In his letters, he never wrote of friends. It seemed, from what Ki offered, there was none close to him. Yet she knew he affected many. True sorrow was in Augustine’s expression.
If you had dear friends, I would have rejoiced in their friendship with you.
In her mind’s eye, Petra could see all the letters he had written; they were burned into her memory. For everything he wrote, he never talked about the conversations he had with others. Until now, it did not dawn on her that his funny stories and anecdotes were always told from the perspective of an observer.
Why?
Was there something you were ashamed of?
There was not a life, nor a world, where anything he might have done would’ve turned her away from him. Petra would have washed blood from his hands. On the other side of her considerations, she pondered if his advancement had come with shaking hands behind backs. Did he listen for secrets when masters believed themselves alone?
The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Her brother had worked hard, gained the respect of his peers, and made use of gossip. Because he would not risk the living he made for his family, he leveraged his knowledge when pressed. It put him in demand and around his success, jealousy spawned.
Then, of those who truly cared, a Shiv had found his lifeless body and dug a proper grave. Yet, how close were the workings of the Heavens to think that the same Shiv who buried her brother was the one her body rested against?
She shook her head. There was so much more to learn.
Ki knew more but she had frightened him, and he believed she might make trouble. It was thoughtless to have threatened him with the bowl. She should have been sweet. She’d ask others. She would ask Augustine to talk to her about Aldney and find the best way to ask her scores of questions.
She must also make a point of catching the third captain’s eye. If she worked her opportunities enough, a real one might present itself and she could risk asking him.
That is, if she could find her tongue in the moment.
Likely, the third captain was accustomed to babbling women. Strength and virility radiated from him in a cruel trick of one who had sworn a life without the fairer sex. The fitted armor and robes he wore highlighted the sculpture of his shoulders and chest. His thighs were muscled and might withstand catapulting winds. If his body alone was not enough to clog a throat, then a moonless midnight voice and eyes akin to burning coals would more than suffice.
If it was you who buried my brother, I shall thank you from my knees and live in your debt.
***
T HE THIRD DAY OF THE Festival of the Late Harvest Moon was a day of rest across the city. The emperor woke without the aid of his personal servants and went so far as to dress himself. The council of twenty-four nobles did not meet in the morning hours. In mansions and palaces, it was customary for esteemed residents to make their own morning tea. There was not to be the rigamarole of elaborate hair styles and heavy gowns.
Only necessary errands were allowed to be on the main road. Even the jesters and troubadours that entertained during the daytime were not to display their antics. Those who chopped wood for the hearths across the city could deliver half bundles and even those who scoured excrement barrels were given the luxury of fresh tools.
Contrary to Augustine’s warning, fewer letters arrived at the hall. There was time for reading and practicing the art of calligraphy. Some watched clouds move across the sky while others enjoyed the relative stillness with folded hands and closed eyes.
In the morning, Petra stayed by Miriam, content to listen to her stories and experiences over the years. They shared sweetened glutinous rice cakes and Miriam showed Petra a better way to mend her undergarments for the approaching winter.
By afternoon, Petra decided this was the ideal day to write a letter to Winfred. She still owed her friend an explanation for her sudden disappearance. With Augustine’s permission, she intended to deliver it herself.
Yet as the hours extended, a flurry of messages arrived. Being one of the newer couriers, she was among those tasked with delivering them. By the time she returned to the hall, the last reaching beams of sunlight stretched far into the sky.
She mustn’t be on the road come nightfall. Nor could she be seen running down the road. Couriers were not permitted to run. Yet there might not be another lapse of opportunity for her to explain to her friend why she vanished.
I can make it.
At twilight, the emperor would emerge. More plays and theatrics. More songs and fireworks. This night also included a showcase of military prowess, set up in mock fights of wrestling and swordsmanship. Even the elks ridden by soldiers would perform tricks, displaying the proficiency of their riders.
I know I can make it!
Over her head, she pulled the hood of her cloak and rushed onto the road.
Her mind was as busy as her feet, planning how to learn more about her brother’s life. At every opportunity, she needed to talk about him. Relentlessly so. Then, if only to still her nattering lips, others would recount their time with him. Inevitably, eventually, she’d have her answers.
Because her intentions were so loud in her mind and her steps hurried, Petra did not hear the pattering-clack of a servant-drawn rickshaw behind her. The large wheels appeared in her periphery suddenly and her bow was rushed. She thought nothing of the vehicle stopping until the bulky servant stepped out from between the large poles he carried.
She had resumed walking and did not see the noble raise his hand in anger. She saw nothing until the husky servant stepped in front of her.
“Who do you think you are, courier chit?” he bellowed.
Petra stumbled back, confused. From the narrow carriage, the nobleman emerged. The color and cut of his cloak denoted him as one of the emperor’s councilmen.
“I say again,” the servant hollered. “Who do you think you are?”
“Good Sir. Forgive me! Tell me my insolence and I shall beg forgiveness.”
“Noble Councilman Percival passes you on the road and you do not finish your genuflection!”
“I...”
The servant pulled a large baton, the width of a man’s forearm, from within his cloak.
“I am rushed by the hour of the day. I meant no disrespect!”
He lifted his meaty arm. “I shall ensure you commit no such insolence again!”
Petra braced and closed her eyes. Yet the baton did not drop on her. She heard a dull sound and the servant cursed.
“Captain Tsenturian!”
She opened her eyes, blinded by the sight of Rand standing in front of her.
Rand grabbed the baton and snapped it between his hands. “You have no need of this if you do not know how to use it.”
Blotches of red steamed up the councilman’s face. “You interfere where you are not needed, Tsenturian.”
“I saw your rickshaw. She did no wrong.”
“You overstep.”
“ I ?” he asked, his voice abruptly, eerily quiet. “Again, I fear you are wrong, Councilman.” He pushed the large servant out of the way as one might push through a door. “I am not the one urging Cyprian to do this reckless thing; yet it will be me standing in front of him when the walls of this city are stormed. You overstep yourself, Sir.”
The councilman rolled his shoulders alternately, as if he might bluster dominance over the monolith of a man who stood before him.
“That is conversation for the council. Speak not of it, when lowly ears can hear. Besides,” he cleared his throat, “what concern is she to you?”
Still behind her benefactor, she could not see his reaction and he did not reply right away.
The pause was long enough for the councilman to jut out his chin and fold his hands across his rotund belly.
“What concern is she to you, Tsenturian? In all these years, have you finally admitted to having the longings of a man?”
Rand’s hands clenched.
“I take my oath seriously. Who she is to me is nothing to you. Yet from this moment on, she is my personal courier. Her well-being falls under my protection. And I have decided the letter she was delivering interferes with the day of rest our emperor grants us.”
Behind himself, he outstretched his hand. Dumbfounded, Petra gave him Winfred’s letter. He glanced briefly at it and then shoved it at the councilman’s chest.
“You were going in this direction, I believe. Take it. She is done working for the day.”
Angry, hot splotches suffused up his cheeks and made his eyes start from their sockets. He rolled his shoulders, snorted, and then threw the letter at his servant.
“Mongrel,” he gurgled at Rand. “Beast from the primal ways.”
Yet a deep inhale from Rand, expanding his chest and flexing his biceps was enough to push the councilman back into his rickshaw. The captain spun around, turning his back to Percival, looming over her.
The rhythm of her heart hammering against her ribs, Petra trembled as she looked up. Those strange umber eyes were illuminated. Lit from far within by an ancient fire. Wildfires long forgotten but not diminished. Lost to time and still volatile.
This was part of the avenging angel met on the battlefield. This was part of the mystery of Shivalry. He was honed from ancient might.
For a few moments, he did not appear to see her, but stared through at some ugly vision beyond her body. His breath grew shallow, and his nostrils flared. It felt as if the air around them shrunk, pulling inwards. The force was more than the resistance in her legs and pressed inwards on her chest. Petra’s body moved towards his and her breastbone felt as if it might snap.
“C-captain...” she wheezed. “My lord, captain. Please...I can’t...breathe.”
He blinked and his pupils shrunk. As if her voice had called to him in the distance, he looked around.
“Captain!”
The aura, like a captive shield, dissipated. Rand put one hand on her shoulder.
“Forgive me.”
The weight of his touch absorbed how her body shook, steadying her in a way she could not fathom, nor describe beyond an odd sense of belonging.
“There, there is nothing to forgive. I do not know how to offer my thanks.”
She started to bow but his grip tightened.
“Don’t. Be assured of my help, if you should need it. At dawn, I’ll send Bartholomew to let your superiors know you are my courier now.” He smiled, faintly. “I should know your name.”
“Petra, my lord.”
“Petra...”
She could not look away from him. She could not unhear the way he spoke her name, with reverence and curiosity. It flooded her with warmth. There was something else she should say, something she needed to ask and now was the time. Yet, for a terrifying instant, she could not think of her brother’s name, nor know anything except that Rand stood in front of her.