Sanctuary

CHAPTER TEN

M iriam covered her mouth to stifle her sobs, though they could not have been heard over the cheers of the crowd. She leaned heavily on Petra, and they went back inside together. Leading the older woman to the dormitory she helped her lay down, taking her shoes off and rubbing her feet.

Comforting words felt flat. To think of strangers walking across the grave of a loved one left a distinct gash of inward pain. For herself, Petra did not let her mind imagine the dirt over her brother being disturbed. Rightfully, Miriam feared her husband’s tomb would be desecrated, to say nothing of how she dreaded the state of her grandchildren’s well-being.

“Our emperor would not have done this if he did not think Vale could overpower Bessarabiah,” Petra murmured.

With her arm draped over her eyes, Miriam shook her head. “Pride deceives and our emperor is still human. It was prideful of them to gift their most beautiful daughter, assuming she would unite the kingdoms. Now look what has happened.”

“It’s not folly to hope, though.”

“Is it folly to hope you will discover the truth of the brother you speak so much of?”

Petra snatched her hands back. The question had barbs and stuck to her chest.

It wasn’t the same—hoping for the best and seeking to discover truth behind an ugly outcome. There was no outcome of emperor Cyprian’s actions, yet. Aldney was dead. There was no hoping he wasn’t. The truth, whatever it was, would paint the last bit of his life with bitter colors.

“It’s not...” she started to say.

“You’re young. There are no consequences to your life yet. Leave me, please.”

Petra wanted to protest further, but the arm over her face did not hide the pain Miriam suffered. Measuring her steps to keep quiet, she walked to her own bed and sat down.

Until she woke, she did not remember falling asleep. Yet she opened her eyes to early morning light reaching for the windows. The wall sconces had been extinguished and Lady Bisgu’s personal courier stood over her.

“You have scrolls to deliver,” she said. “You’re to hurry.”

Blinking back the blurriness shading her eyes, Petra nodded and swung her legs over the bed. Her elbows and knees protested the sudden movement. Pushing her feet into her shoes, she then changed the outer cloak she had fallen asleep in, now wrinkly and not presentable. Though her mouth was fuzzy, and her face felt stiff, she did not stop at the washing basins.

There were plenty of able bodies for letter delivery. Doubtless, there would be an influx of letters on this day, but they could not all have come in during the few hours she slept. No. If she had been especially woken, then what had come was for Rand.

Her insides squeezed. In her mind’s eye, she saw his body step in front of her, take a blow for her. Again, she envisioned the rich burn in his eyes. In the recesses of her thoughts, she heard her name fall from his lips.

She smoothed her hair as best she could and redid the braid. It had nothing to do with the way it felt to make eye contact with him. Of course not. He was Captain Tsenturian, third captain of Shivalry and she was his courier. She could not present herself rumpled and frumpy.

Besides, there was a chance he shielded her because he buried her brother, and she would not meet that memory disheveled.

Behind the long table, already scattered with scrolls, Augustine stood with another of the elder couriers. To see them next to one another was to look upon a stalk of lemon grass and a steamed bun. However, both their expressions were tense, and Aldo looked disappointed.

“I have been ill,” he said, “I have not seen her. She is new to us?”

Augustine replied, “Yes. She is Aldney Ondise’s sister.”

Aldo took this morsel of information in by pursing his lips. “You do not look like him.”

Petra bowed. “I do not.”

“But,” Augustine interrupted, “she is not unlike him. Already, as you know, she is Captain Tsenturian’s courier. And there is no time to be wasted.”

In his hands, he held two scrolls. They were narrower than those typical of the city and within the burlap string tying them was a black feather tipped in red.

“These,” he continued, “are from Mynydd Pass.”

He waited for her understanding, but Aldo was impatient.

“Ignorant chit! Mynydd Pass separates Vale from Bessarabiah. It is the only entry point through the Black Mountains, carved by our ancestors. It is always guarded by the militia of Vale. Lady Sunniva must have sent a message by one of the birds she keeps in her palace. This,” he took the scrolls from Augustine, “has been delivered to us by the red-winged blackbirds of the fort. These are for Captain Tsenturian. Hurry, if you value your life.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Wait!” Augustine removed his cloak. “Wear this so there will be no question about your presence.”

She took the garment, cuffed and trimmed at the hem in white. “I don’t understand.”

“All five Shivalry captains have been in conclave with Cyprian since dawn. You must go to the palace to deliver these.”

“The...the emperor’s palace?”

“Yes!” Aldo yelled. “Waste no more time. Hurry!”

She clutched the two missives to her chest. With her free hand, she hoisted the length of the borrowed robe, much too big on her frame, and ran.

Overhead the sky was clear, yet the black feathers, tipped in red portended skies darkened by swarms of arrows. It would not be wind residents of the Cloistered City heard swooping in over the walls but the sound of men’s war cries. And if she did not run fast enough maybe the information contained would not reach Rand in time.

Rand ...

I should not think of him by his given name. His status is leagues above mine and his consequence in the world is far beyond what I will ever know.

From passersby snorts of indignation huffed as she ran. It was improper for anyone to run down the main road and inexcusable for a servant. As luck had it, though, most of the city still recovered from the days of celebration and no one with status enough to punish her was about.

Still, the guards that stood at the entrance of the grand palace could stop her. Throw her down if they fancied. The soles of her shoes did not belong there, and her shadow was not worthy of dirtying the walls.

She stopped at the steps. Dedicated to these were servants who cleaned and polished them twice a day. Before the new empress would ascend them, they would be anointed in an oil of her choosing. Poems and songs had been written about the steps leading to the dwelling place of the most revered man in the country.

I should be more than I am to ascend.

She shook her thoughts free of the unworthy sensation they were manifesting. She had been chosen to serve the city. She had been chosen to remain a courier. And she had been chosen by Rand to be his personal messenger.

Lifting the garments so they would not drag, she began to climb.

Immediately, the guards shouted at her. She did not slow. They waved their arms. She would wave the feathers in their face. The quarterstaff in their hands, they gestured with. Petra thrust her arm above her head.

“Urgent messages!” she yelled. “I am Captain Tsenturian’s courier.”

“Halt and he shall be made aware of your presence!”

“Do you see the feathers? These come from the Black Mountains. Let me by!”

The men peered and the color drained from their faces. The quarterstaffs were righted, and the doors opened.

Petra let her robes down, not daring to take a full breath. Anyone who saw her must first see the rank the robe gave her. Yet, beneath towering ceilings and ramparts, below carved edifices and engraved beams, she felt like a sprout among trees. Statues twice the size of normal men and women, carved to depict the beauty of the human body, were only outshone by murals and mosaics up the walls, reflecting on the marble floor.

Incense and spices lay heavy in the air. It seemed to part and then enclose the bevy of constantly moving servants with steps so short and measured they made no sound and appeared to glide.

She had but a moment to take everything in before one such servant approached, tight-lipped and proud.

“Who are you?”

Petra fought the instinct to bow. “I am Captain Tsenturian’s personal courier. Messages from Mynydd Pass have arrived.”

“He is in conclave with the emperor. I shall inform—”

“I am to bring these to him directly.” She held up the scrolls and the sight of the feathers pushed the servant back.

“Follow me.”

Rooms stretched and opened into other rooms. Archways were portals. Treasures from the Western lands loomed. Clocks and carousels. Paintings of men and women in Western clothing done in oils and charcoals. Whole rooms were devoted to huge glass tanks in which swam sharks and dazzling fish. In one, Petra was sure, she saw the frilled tail of a mermaid quick to flutter behind a rock, her blood the saving liquid for unknown poisons.

Music trickled, sometimes seeming to precede them, sometimes seeming to chase them. The melodies swirled and rose, tapering to a lilting finish like a siren song. If a fox with nine tails dashed passed them, or a white snake with green eyes blinked from its perch, if a dove with the sigh of a woman and a tail made of lace sang, Petra would not have been surprised. Everything here was doubled in unexplainable beauty and mystery.

At length, trying to keep her jaw from slackening, they arrived at a solid gold door. The servant did not knock. Instead, he crossed his hands over his chest and pushed the door open with his head. Despite its dense appearance, it gave way readily and he slipped inside before it shut behind him.

Petra heard no exchange. Several minutes passed before the door opened once more, this time by a different servant.

Only allowing the width of her shoulders to pass, she ducked in and immediately dropped to her knees. The backs of her hands at her forehead, she bent at the waist until her palms touched the cool, smooth floor. And thus, she remained until it pleased Cyprian to notice her.

She did not see the looks of exasperation and inconvenience from the four Shivalry captains; nor did she see the astonishment on Rand’s face.

“What mouse is this?” Cyprian asked, clearly amused.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Rand said quickly, “she is my courier. I cannot think why—”

“You,” the emperor shouted, laughing, “you, Captain Celibacy Tsenturian, have a courier you call your own?”

“My vows are intact, my liege.”

“Then explain, Rand,” another voice demanded.

Petra heard steps move towards her.

“I have thin patience with Councilman Percival.”

This caused ripples of laughter.

From the corner of her eye, Petra saw Rand’s polished boots. A firm hand gripped her arm. Although his grip was not rough, she felt herself pulled swiftly to her feet.

But it was to the emperor she spoke first, returning to her knees.

“Your Imperial Highness, most sovereign lord, emperor Cyprian, I beg your mercy to come at such a time.”

“Speak, mouse. I tire of looking upon these men’s faces.”

“I come,” she began and then stopped, feeling Rand’s hand drop upon her once more.

“Rise,” he chided, softly.

Allowing him to pull her up, aware that making eye contact with any of the men in the room could be considered a capital offense, Petra kept her lashes lowered and lifted the two scrolls.

Rand’s inhale was sharp.

“These,” she said, “came from Mynydd.”

He cursed.

“Already Mynydd calls for aid?” asked one of the captains.

Rand unfurled the messages with a snap and there was momentary silence.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I must answer this and I do not keep my seal on me.”

Like one flicks away a fly, Cyprian waved his hand. “I assume it’s from your man in the mountains. Go, then.”

Rand bowed. Petra was already bending her knees to genuflect and walk backwards the customary six steps before turning to leave, but a strong arm caught her around the shoulders and whisked her to his side.

The door flew open. His stride was twice the length of hers and she ran to keep up.

“My lord!”

“Keep up. I must answer this and you must fly to see it sent.”

“But surely my lord I can follow in your wake as decorum would dictate.”

“Let them accuse me of loss of decorum, then.”

He practically lifted her feet from the floor. Together, they moved down a different set of corridors, no less fantastic than the rest. Petra’s senses could not take in her surroundings, however. All of her was rooted to the knowledge that her body was pressed against his side. The curve of his bicep crushed her ribs.

At the back of her mind lodged the wonder if he had carried Aldney, too. But the entirety of her body was too dazzled to speak.

From countless halls and rooms, they finally passed through a large sliding door, heaved open by two servants, where his elk waited, tied to a post.

Rand hardly slowed. He freed the reins and swung one leg over before he pulled her up behind himself.

“My lord,” she shrieked.

“There’s no time!”

He snapped the reins, and the animal pranced with a snort, as if delighted in the sudden rush.

“Hold tight, Petra.”

It bolted at a speed she was not prepared for. Unthinking, she caught Rand around the waist before being horrified by her action and holding tight to his shoulders. A brisk wind blew his hair into her face, and she did not have the courage to turn aside, oddly struck at the intimacy of feeling his hair on her cheeks. Nor was she brave enough to risk seeing looks on passerby’s faces.

Brief though it would be because the elk’s hooves barely seemed to strike the ground.

By the time they reached his palace, the animal hardly appeared fatigued and snorted in dismay when Rand dismounted. Petra was relieved he did not wait for her and rushed into his dwelling. A servant practically fell through the front entrance and raced to steady his master’s elk, also witnessing Petra’s ungraceful descent.

Gathering up the length of her robe, she scurried after him. Over the sparsely furnished space, Rand’s voice reverberated off the walls. He called for Bartholomew to bring parchment and wax. He cursed at not being able to find a properly sharpened quill. Petra followed the sound of his voice through two open rooms that looked much like the others. She found him in a narrower space, seated behind a roughly assembled desk.

A small blade in hand, he sliced at a black feather quill. His mouth was a straight line, and his brows furrowed over his eyes, but the deep color of his eyes bled in concern.

A stirring emotion inside Petra urged her to help.

“I can sharpen a quill quickly, my lord.”

He shook his head.

Bartholomew bustled in and laid down leaves of thick parchment before taking the quill from Rand’s hands and replacing it with a small bowl of readied wax. Rand grumbled and reached inside a compartment of the desk, pulling forth a large ring.

“When I have sealed the reply, you will fly back to the hall.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bartholomew will hitch two of the fawns and drive you.” He glanced up at her. “Waste no time.”

“You may trust me, my lord.”

“I shall. Bartholomew, when you return, tell the household I will be leaving earlier than expected.”

With a bow, his trusted servant stated the palace would be maintained. Handing the now sharpened quill to Rand, he then left.

Confused by the twang of disappointment poking her insides, Petra moved beside the table and tended to the liquid wax, tipping it back and forth to stay pliable.

The quill’s harsh scratch over the paper filled the silence.

He wrote several lines, all his words slanted and hurried. Giving the message only a moment to dry, he rolled the paper and secured it with a length of leather string. Then he bade Petra near with the wax and dipped his seal into the black substance. Twisting it twice, he pulled it and stamped the message shut.

Petra blew on the insignia made up of a sword crossed by a skeleton key.

“Let it dry as you go. The cart should be ready.”

“Yes, my lord. I wish you well on your journey. I’m sure you will be missed.”

He scoffed. “Not in the way I should prefer.”

“How is that, my lord?”

He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “I don’t know. Missed because my return will be welcomed instead of dreaded.”

“I won’t dread your return, my lord.”

“You should. When I return it will not be long before Vale enters war with Bessarabiah.”

“Then I shall be glad it’s you who leads our troops.”

He smiled. “You speak smoothly.”

She answered before she heard herself. “I speak the truth.”

He frowned and moved towards her; her gaze held irrevocably by his.

“Your truth or the truth?”

The deep burgundy eyes poured warmth into her veins. His stature filled her gaze. She felt only him, saw only him, and it was frightening and delirious all at once. She trembled.

“My truth.”

“Have I permission to carry your truth with me? I prefer it.”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

When did he speak as if they were alone in the world? How did his words drop over her heart?

He reached for her hand. She thought her legs might fail her. His touch soared through her senses.

Gently, he squeezed. “Thank you, Petra.”