CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
T he next morning opened with drastic temperatures. The winds fell still, and talk rustled throughout the morning meal that this drop in the air was unseasonably early.
Pouring tea in the kitchen, Petra asked what it all meant. Readily, she was informed each winter there was a full week of dangerous cold air that came down from the mountains before the season of sleet began. During this time, the community meal ceased. People went out at their own risk to prepare food and, often, took it back to their rooms. Only crazy old men dared to bathe during this time, swearing the cold was good for the skin. Many children would be born in late summer of the following year because of this week.
With the artic blast coming so early, supplies for fires would not be as plentiful this year. However, the people were hopeful the weather would deter Bessarabiah.
Rand wanted to believe that, too. Petra tried to help him, but she knew the unspoken thoughts of her husband. Bessarabiah might use this premature weather to their advantage.
Cloistered City soldiers were permitted to read Augustine’s letter. Their reactions, Rand told Petra, were much the same as his—silence. And when the information settled in their minds, they came to the same conclusion; Mynydd could not be made to wait for Cyprian to announce his betrothal to Bessarabiah’s daughter. Doubtless, the emperor wanted to begin his reign beside his queen with the triumph of ending the attacks in the folds of his sleeves, adding to their length and glory.
But there were lives he did not see from his throne. Children, women, and men. They had aspirations and hope for their future that Cyprian would never know.
To Petra, Rand confessed Cyprian might not care, even if he were face-to-face with the people of his country’s fort. He had already beheaded a woman to suit his own needs.
Petra kept unanswerable ruminations to herself. With herself, however, she went round and round. Theophania did not want the throne. Yet all who had seen her on the last night of the festival witnessed a woman stand upright under an obligation she did not believe herself strong enough to heft. Like a true royal, she lifted her gaze to the horizon. There was fear in her eyes; yet her hands remained steady.
For Sunniva to take her place, walk through her blood, in a sense, to take the throne, Petra hoped it weighed upon her consciousness. It must weigh on someone’s since it wasn’t to be Cyprian’s.
And something must be done to stop Bessarabiah before the next moon. But what?
In the communal hall, rushing alongside several women to darn blankets and cloaks by nightfall, Petra listened to the sounds of the men fortifying the walls. Building and yelling. Sometimes, she heard Rand’s voice, too.
Yet, she began to hear more than her husband’s tone, rich and strong. A sound behind him, beyond the walls. In the distance, it was almost too indistinct to discern. But it was rhythmic.
Petra’s hands stilled. If she stood, it would draw the other women’s attention. Outside, the men did not hear it over their tools. Perhaps her ears were playing tricks. However, what a strange trick to have cadence.
Drums... I hear drums!
She stood. In the same instant, the doors swung open, and Rand strode in.
“Get to the tower!”
The other women clutched their projects and fled without question. Petra ran to Rand.
“What’s happening?”
“A procession has been spotted in the distance.” He grabbed her wrist and led her from the hall.
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. Scouts say they aren’t armed. Regardless, you will be in the tower so I can have my thoughts in one piece.”
She tugged back at his pace. “Was I to leave Lindy in that melee last time?”
Rand twined her arm around his. “I said nothing of the sort. And you have no such care this time. She did not leave the tower this morning.” He glared at her. “So, stay put, my wife.”
“I don’t need reminding not to put myself in harm’s way.”
He scoffed. “I would beg to differ.”
“As if your distractions have been my intention! I can walk myself to the tower.”
He glared at her. “And stop to cradle a bird with a broken wing? Say another word and I’ll throw you over my shoulder! So, help me, Petra. If you love me, tie yourself to the bed.”
“Rand, I—”
“Suit yourself, my wife,” he said, stooping while not losing pace, and shouldering her body up onto himself.
As threatened.
Her cheeks burned but she did not protest further.
Inside the tower, he scaled the stairs two and three at a time. Not winded, he crossed the threshold and placed her on the bed. She wanted to tease him and ask if he preferred to tie her to the bed post himself or if he should like to watch her do it. But Rand’s lips were pressed together, and he did not look at her. The instant her backside touched the mattress, he was over the threshold and shutting the door.
“If you love me...”
He knew she did. Insolent man.
Petra moved to the narrow window. Looking over battlements lined with men, she squinted to see this strange procession. In the distance was a long, single line and each marcher bore a drum tied around the waist.
Her chest felt hollow. Drums are a harbinger. What was Bessarabiah declaring? What followed the beating? They were risking their own people in this weather. Why? What did they know that Mynydd did not?
For two hours, Petra watched out the window. Hardly aware of her knees locking, the ache melding with the cavernous sensation under her breastbone, she half-hoped for an arrow to fly. She wanted something in the air other than this portentous sound, like a death knell.
Once the marchers drew near the fort, the single line split, each body going either left or right. Soldiers on the walls were poised to strike but remained motionless.
Why not shoot? They were being surrounded! Why not take down these torturers and leave less to be reckoned with later? Did the etiquette of battle need to be observed? Bessarabiah had done nothing to merit it.
***
N IGHT SANK IN. THE drums played on.
Within the tower, residents went to one another’s flats and there was much conversation in the stairwells. In pitched voices, men and women shouted they should lose their minds with the unceasing sound, speculating, perhaps, that was the intention. All of Mynydd would drive their heads against the walls, leaving Bessarabiah free to force the gates and walk through.
Sometimes Petra moved from the window and cracked open the door to better hear. During other hours, she listened to muffled chatter and tried to make out her husband’s silhouette on the stockades. Several times she was positive one of the figures turned and lingered in her direction. Was there news to tell or was it her imagination? Did her husband seek solace in seeing her or was she desperate, all alone in the room?
I can’t call for him to come. It would only be to satiate my curiosity.
She sighed. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Petra stretched her arms over her head. Pulling the chair to the window, she sat down and waited for the unknown.
Perhaps two or three times, her chin dropped onto her chest but when Rand appeared in the doorway at the height of sunrise, she met him with as much energy as one on a full night’s rest. She thought not of the hug she gave him. It wasn’t a romantic embrace; it was relief.
Rand seemed to feel the same. For a moment, he held her close, exhaling heavily. She felt the weight of his body lean into hers and his head rest, fleetingly, atop her own. Then the broad shoulders straightened, and he led her to sit on the bed before taking the chair for himself, extending and crossing his long legs.
“The next time,” he began, “I forget myself and command you like you are not my wife, check me with the back of your hand.”
“It’s alright. This is...” she waved towards the window, “beyond imagination. You’re not wrong to lose your temper.”
He looked at her. “Nor was I right.”
“I’d forgotten about it, watching what was happening out there and then listening to what everyone inside is saying.”
“Conversations must be loud.”
“Well, they are gathering on the stairs.”
“And what do they say?”
“They’re frightened. They think this is a ploy to drive everyone mad. Then conquering the fort will be easy. Some have said they would prefer an attack to this.”
“I would prefer their catapults and hand cannons. I would prefer action to threat.”
“Do you think this is a distraction from something else? Some bigger weapon?”
“I don’t know. They have us cornered and we cannot act until they initiate. They know we cannot spare the resources or men.”
“But how long could they keep this up in the cold?”
“The cold is our only saving grace right now.”
Petra looked out the window. Crystaline frost fractals emerged from the corners like lace. In its delicate and unique shapes, it was not soothing to dwell on. It did not hide what stood below. Instead, it framed the danger like a morbid joke.
She looked at her husband. He was tired. His body was strained. Shadows hung under his eyes and stubble ghosted his jawline. He had the pallor of a man who has neither eaten nor slept as the size of his body demands. On each of his knuckles were scabs and bruising. She knew his shoulders must be mottled, too, from supporting brick and beams during the repairs.
Hurt and pride moved within her chest. How strong he was and how spent. He was more than a man but had withstood what could kill seven. Nonetheless, he was still human. He could not do this alone.
“What are we to do?” she whispered.
Rand shook his head. “I don’t know. Cyprian is determined to be the hero. It seems like our lot is to endure.”
She rose and took his hands. “There’s got to be s ome way!”
He tightened his grip. “I won’t let you die here. Even if Sacrifice fails, your mother will see you again.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But if the fear arises within you. You are my wife. I will keep you safe.”
***
T WO MORE DAYS THE DRUMS surrounded Mynydd. Sometimes the beats slowed in cadence, but they never ceased. The people emerged from the tower. The guards changed on the walls, but all moved like furtive vermin, waiting for harm to fall from the sky.
Children should have been the most resilient to it; however, they watched their elders. The women wept and there were screams throughout the night. Men’s eyes were hollow, and their bodies crouched. The women fought with the men and the men fought with each other. So, the children were feral—their anchors unhinged.
Lindy sought Petra constantly. It was not enough for the little girl to be in the room with her; she needed to hold Petra’s skirt, if she could not cling to her waist. She ate if Petra ate next to her. She only slept if Rand commanded her first.
Some did go mad. One grandmother hurled herself into the front gates. A widower ran up the steps to the battlements and flung himself from their height. Petra was sure there were others, but she stopped listening to the incessant voices on the tower stairs to save her own mind.
In-between ensuring her husband ate, Lindy ate, and doing what she could for those who were too incapacitated to help themselves, Petra poured her thoughts over what could be done to stop the attacks.
I can’t sit idle. And yet, I’m helpless. I am no better than a bystander. How could I envision an answer when men who have trained for war cannot? I’m a brazen creature. And so, what if I am? It was wild of me to think I could enter The Cloistered City and navigate its waves, tributaries of people, and gossiping secrets just to serve my own purposes. But I did. Not in the way I imagined. Not with the answer I wanted. But I would not give up the outcome. Sacred did not force me on him. I think now that I would not have been happy passing him on the main road. This is how brazen I am. I come from nothing, but I reach to marry a captain. I stood in the middle of Eternity’s Garden and demanded my will be done. Of course I was no match for those powers. There, I was humbled. What I try to do now, though, is not for myself. It is for the people of Mynydd and my husband. Can’t there be blessings for this type of brazenness? Couldn’t Sacred work in reverse? Let me be the one to save him.
She stood alone in the kitchen. A large pot of boiling water diffused into the air. In a moment more, she would add dumplings and cook them until they floated to the top. A few of the pregnant women were not getting enough to eat and were too terrified to venture outside.
With a long-handled wooden spoon, she stirred the contents of the pot with care though her mind was elsewhere. What if Sacred reversed? What if Eternity saw the need and let her be the one to save?
She tried praying with her free hand on the mark, hoping to feel some kind of sign. Petra refused to believe that this binding was only for the safety of wide-eyed virgins. Are men so worthless? To be exalted by Sacrifice and then thrown down like refuse. She did not believe it. There was more here yet she could not see it. There was more than what was written on the rock.
I mean, could Sacred have known Rand and I would marry? It has been bound by our vow, too.
Water sloshed over the pot’s rim and the flames of the stove licked and hissed.
“I think that’s it! We bind it as well! It must rise to our promise before Heaven!”
Her thoughts swirled. She had to find Rand. She knew how to defeat the Bessarabites! As his wife, she had the power to sacrifice for him.