Rise Of Empire (73 page)

The flat Hilfred stayed in was very small, just a single room and a closet. The floor and walls were rough pine planks weathered gray and scuffed smooth from wear. There were a rickety table, three chairs, and a ship’s hammock. The single
window was hazy from the buildup of ocean salt, admitting only a muted gray light. Hilfred refused to burn a single candle after dark, for fear of attracting attention. The small stove kept the drafty shack tolerably warm at night, but before dawn it was extinguished to avoid the chance of someone seeing the smoke.

For two days they stayed in the shack, listening to the wind buffet the roof shingles and howl over the stovepipe. Hilfred made soup from clams and fish he bought from the old blind man. Other than that, neither of them left the little room. Arista slept a lot. It seemed like years since she had felt safe, and her body surrendered to exhaustion.

Hilfred kept her covered and crept around the flat, cursing to himself whenever he made a noise. On the night of the second day, she woke when he dropped a spoon. He looked at her sheepishly and cringed at the sight of her open eyes.

“Sorry, I was just warming up some soup. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Thank you,” she told him.

“Thank you?”

“Yes, isn’t that what you say when someone does something for you?”

He raised what would have been his eyebrows. “I’ve been your servant for more than ten years, and you’ve never once said
thank you.”

It was the truth, and it hurt to hear it. What a monster she had been. “Well overdue, then, don’t you think? Let me check your bandage.”

“After you eat, Your Highness.”

She looked at him and smiled. “I’ve missed you so,” she said. Surprise crossed his face. “You know, there were times growing up that I hated you. Mostly after the fire—for not saving my mother—but later I hated the way you always followed me. I
knew you reported my every move. It’s a terrible thing for a teenage girl to have an older boy silently following her every step, watching her eat, watching her sleep, knowing her most intimate secrets. You were always silent, always watchful. Did you know I had a crush on you when I was fourteen?”

“No,” he said curtly.

“You were, what, a dashing seventeen? I tried everything to make you jealous. I chased after all the squires at court, pretending they wanted me, but none of them did. And you … you were such the loathingly perfect gentleman. You stood by stoically, and it infuriated me. I would go to bed humiliated, knowing that you were standing just outside the door.

“When I was older, I treated you like furniture—still, you treated me as you always had. During the trial—” She noticed Hilfred flinch and decided not to finish the thought. “And afterward, I thought you believed what they said and hated me.”

Hilfred put down the spoon and sighed.

“What?” she asked, suddenly fearful.

He shook his head and a small sad laugh escaped his lips. “It’s nothing, Your Highness.”

“Hilfred, call me Arista.”

He raised his brow once more. “I can’t. You’re my princess, and I’m your servant. That’s how it’s always been.”

“Hilfred, you’ve known me since I was ten. You’ve followed me day and night. You’ve seen me early in the morning. You’ve seen me drenched in sweat from fevers. I think you can call me by my first name.”

He looked almost frightened and resumed stirring the pot.

“Hilfred?”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I cannot call you by your given name.”

“What if I command you to?”

“Do you?”

“No.” Arista sighed. “What is it with men who won’t use my name?”

Hilfred glanced at her.

“I only knew him briefly,” she explained, not knowing why. She had never spoken about Emery to anyone before. “I’ve lived so much of my life alone. It never used to bother me and there’s never been anyone—until recently.”

Hilfred looked down and stirred the soup.

“He was killed. Since then, I’ve felt this hole. The other night I was so scared. I thought—no, I was certain—I was going to my death. I lost hope and then you appeared. I could really use a friend—and if you called me by—”

“I can’t be your friend, Your Highness,” Hilfred told her coldly.

“Why not?”

There was a long pause. “I can’t tell you that.”

A loud silence filled the room.

Arista stood, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. She stared at Hilfred’s back until it seemed her stare caused him to turn and face her. When he did, he avoided looking in her eyes. He set out bowls on the table. She stood before him, blocking his way.

“Hilfred, look at me.”

“The soup is done.”

“I’m not hungry. Look at me.”

“I don’t want it to burn.”

“Hilfred.”

He said nothing and kept his eyes focused on the floor.

“What have you done that you can’t face me?”

He did not answer.

The realization dawned on her and devastated Arista. He was not there to save her. He was not her friend. The betrayal was almost too much to bear.

“It’s true.” Her voice quavered. “You do believe the stories they say about me: that I’m a witch, that I’m evil, that I killed my father over my lust for the throne. Are you working for Saldur, or someone else? Did you steal me from the palace guards for some political advantage? Or is this all some plan to—to control me, to get me to trust you and lure me into revealing something?”

Her words had a profound effect on him. He looked pained, as if rained on by blows. His face was strained, his jaw stiff.

“You could at least tell me the truth,” she said. “I should think you owe that much to my father, if not to me. He trusted you. He picked you to be my bodyguard. He gave you a chance to make something of yourself. You’ve enjoyed the privilege of court life because of his faith in you.”

Hilfred was having trouble breathing. He turned away from her and, grabbing his scarf, moved toward the door.

“Yes, go—go on!” she shouted. “Tell them it didn’t work. Tell them I didn’t fall for it. Tell Sauly and the rest of those bastards that—that I’m not the stupid little girl they thought I was! You should have kept me tied and gagged, Hilfred. You’re going to find it harder to haul me off to the stake than you think!”

Hilfred slammed his hand against the doorframe, making Arista jump. He spun on her, his eyes fierce and wild in a way she had never seen before, and she stepped back.

“Do you know why I saved you?”
he shouted, his voice broken and shaking. “Do you? Do you?”

“To—to hand me over and get—”

“No! No! Not now. Back
then,”
he cried, waving his arm. “Years ago, when the castle was burning. Do you know why I saved you back then?”

She did not speak. She did not move.

“I wasn’t the only one there, you know. There were others.
Soldiers, priests, servants, they all just stood watching. They knew you were inside, but not a single person did anything. They just watched the place burn. Bishop Saldur saw me running for the castle and actually ordered me to stop. He said it was too late, that I would die. I believed him. I truly did, but I went in anyway. Do you know why?
Do you?”
he shouted at her.

She shook her head.

“Because I didn’t care! I didn’t want to live …not if you died.” Tears streamed down his scarred face. “But don’t ask me to be your friend. That is far too cruel a torture. As long as I can maintain a safe distance, as long as … as long as there is a wall between us—even if it’s only one of words—I can tolerate—I can
bear
it.” Hilfred wiped his eyes with his scarf. “Your father knew what he was doing—oh yes, he knew
exactly
what he was doing when he appointed me your bodyguard. I would die a thousand times over to protect you. But don’t ask me to be grateful to him for the life he’s given me, for it’s been one of pain. I wish I had died that night so many years ago, or at least in Dahlgren. Then it would be over. I wouldn’t have to look at you. I wouldn’t have to wake up every day wishing I had been born the son of a great knight, or you the daughter of a poor shepherd.”

He covered his eyes and leaned his head against the threshold. Arista did not recall doing it, but somehow she had crossed the room. She took Hilfred’s face in her hands, and rising up on her toes, she kissed his mouth. He did not move, but he trembled. He did not breathe, but he gasped.

“Look at me,” she said, extending her arms to display her stained and torn kirtle. “A shepherd’s daughter would pity me, don’t you think?” She took his hand and kissed it. “Can you ever forgive me?”

He looked at her, confused. “For what?”

“For being so blind.”

A
s it had for days, the
Emerald Storm
remained on its easterly course, making slow progress against a headwind that refused to shift. Maintaining direction required frequent tacking, which caused the top crews to work all night. Royce, as usual, had drawn the late shift. Getting this assignment was not Dime’s fault. Royce had concluded that the mainmast captain was a fair man, but Royce was the newest member of a crew that rewarded seniority. He did not mind the shift. He enjoyed the nights he spent aloft. The air was fresh, and in the dark among the ropes, he was as comfortable as a spider in its web. This afforded Royce the opportunity to relax, think, and occasionally amuse himself by tormenting Bernie, who panicked anytime his old guild mate lost track of Royce.

Royce hung in the netting of the futtock shroud, his feet dangling over the open space—a drop of nearly a hundred feet. Above lay the dust of stars, while on the horizon the moon rose as a sliver—a cat’s eye peering across the water at him. Below, lanterns flickered on the bow, quarterdeck, and stern, outlining the
Emerald Storm.
To his left, he could just make out the dark coast of Calis. Its thick vegetation was
occasionally punctuated by a cliff or the brilliant white plume of a waterfall catching moonlight.

The seasickness was gone. He could not recall a more miserable time than his first week on board. The nausea and dizziness reminded him of being drunk—a sensation he hated. He had spent most of the first night hugging the ship’s figurehead and vomiting off the bow. After four days, his stomach had settled, but he remained drained, and he tired easily. It had taken weeks to dull the memory of that misery, but nested in the rigging, looking out at the dark sea, he forgot it all. It surprised him just how beautiful the black waves could be, the graceful undulating swells kissed by the barefaced moon, all below a scattering of stars. Only one sight could surpass it.

What’s she doing right now? Is she looking at the same moon and thinking of me?

Royce reached inside his tunic, pulled out the scarf, and rubbed the material between his fingers. He held it to his face and breathed deep. It smelled like her. He kept it hidden—his tiny treasure, soft and warm. On the nights of his sickness, he had lain in the hammock clutching it to his cheek as if it were a magic talisman to ward off misery. Only because of it had he been able to fall asleep.

The officers’ deck hatch opened, and Royce spotted Beryl stepping out into the night air. Beryl liked his sleep and, being senior midshipman, rarely held the late watch. He stood glancing around, taking in the lay of the deck. He cast an eye up at the maintop, but Royce knew he was invisible in the dark tangles. Beryl spotted Wesley making his rounds on the forecastle and crossed the waist and headed up the stair. Wesley looked concerned at his approach but held his ground. Perhaps the boy would get another beating that night. Whatever torments Beryl had planned for Wesley were no concern of Royce’s, and he thought it might be time to scare Bernie again.

“I won’t do it,” Wesley declared, drawing Royce’s attention. Once more Beryl nervously looked upward.

Who are you looking for, Mr. Beryl?

Royce unhooked himself from the shrouds and rolled over for his own glance upward. As usual, Bernie was keeping his distance.

No threat there.