A Midsummer's Saga Pt. 07

Oren's train dismounted, and Paula led the duke away to the Great Hall. Gabrielle stalled behind and glanced at the tower with the dungeon. As far as she was aware, Aerin was still undisturbed in his old cell, as if nothing had happened. She would have liked to run and tell him of Oren's arrival, but there were too many people around.

Then suddenly she had an idea. The servants were all occupied with the feast in the guests' honour, which was to begin shortly. Paula herself was occupied with Oren. This was the perfect opportunity to sneak into her room and get the drought of wickwort.

*

Hers was the great dark carved double door in the middle of the first-floor western corridor. Gabrielle paused before it, clutching an empty flask which she collected from her own chamber. The door was easily twice her height. There was nobody in sight.

She exhaled and gave it a push. It opened sleekly, making no sound. Taking one last glance at the corridor, she leapt inside. The door closed behind her with an assured click.

In the slowly dimming evening light the room looked much like she had remembered. There was the table with the plush chairs to her right. There was the great black wardrobe in front of her. There was the great black bed to her left. The tall narrow windows overlooked the inner courtyard.

The still air smelled faintly of Paula; some sort of a lily scent, and old satin. Gabrielle treaded carefully on the polished walnut floor. When she was passing the bed, one of the boards creaked, and she instinctively froze in place. She stood there for a minute, in this eerie ancient space, and listened to the beating of her heart. The sound of a door shutting somewhere far-off woke her up from this stillness. There was work to do.

By the bed, on a cabinet, stood several unmarked glass bottles. Gabrielle's attention was immediately drawn to the largest. It contained maybe half a pint of a dark, red liquid. She undid the cork and sniffed. It smelled like aniseed.

Flawless victory! She poured half of the draught to her flask and replaced the bottle. With the thing stowed safely in her pocket, she could now go to the feast and—

There were footsteps and voices in the corridor, coming nearer. Oh. Oh motherfucker.

She ducked to look under the bed. It was too low to fit underneath. She rushed to the wardrobe and dived into Paula's clothes. She closed the door after her just a moment before, through its latticed pane, she saw Paula and Oren enter the chamber.

"...so then they're pretty happy with it," the duke finished.

"Naturally," said Paula. "Please, sit down."

They took their seats by the table, where Gabrielle could just barely see them from the side. She very cautiously drew her hands stiffly across her abdomen. Her ribs touched both the back wall on her left and the door on her right; she was afraid she could accidentally open the door even with a deeper intake of air.

"So," Paula said, "what was it that you wanted to tell me?"

The duke leaned forward. It seemed to Gabrielle that he must have been three times less massive than Paula's mighty triangular bulk.

"I wanted to tell you how the business stands even before the feast. You can probably guess while I'm here. I'm ordering Titulus to withdraw and myself going to Kontaria to settle a peace."

Paula gave out an exasperated sigh. "Is that really necessary?"

Oren spread out his hands helplessly and with an embarrassed smile. "Believe me, my lady, I wouldn't be here if I did not believe it to be! We must face the facts. The war in Redona is going poorly, and is threatening to bring great and painful losses. We need everyone we have over there. Meanwhile over here... well. Titulus is an excellent general, don't let anyone say I claim otherwise, but he's more reliant on his impetus and reputation than on his long-term organization. I mean to say he either wins his campaigns early and decisively, or not at all. And so far he hasn't even found a single one of their villages. I judge that his time here is over."

Now Gabrielle smiled in her hideout. Titulus, when you took risk on that rainy night and exposed your flank to the Kontarians, did you consider that you were also exposing it to a far deadlier enemy? You better hope that the old bastard dies eventually, or he'll never let you recover from this humiliation.

Paula tapped her fist on her knee. "I must admit that this is very difficult for me to accept. Our prestige will suffer, again."

"I will make sure to obtain from the Kontarians some ceremonial concessions that will make it look more like a draw."

"And Titulus hasn't even found the Kontarian villages... Ha! Did you know he'd actually captured a Kontarian scout and sent him here for safekeeping? He had hoped to interrogate him while resupplying here. If only he kept him close! But I suppose he thought there was time... I guess the scout is useless now."

Gabrielle held her breath. After a pause, Paula continued.

"We'll execute him tomorrow, no point wasting food on him. I'll let one of the wounded soldiers do it, maybe it will restore some sense of justice to them."

Gabrielle now started breathing shallowly, rapidly.

"Very good, my lady. But let's not bother ourselves with details right now. As for other important business, Titulus's army will be passing by here on the way south, and of course organizing their accommodation would be most appreciated."

"Of course," Paula said stiffly. "I will provide all that Titulus wants. He's one of the finest men I know."

"That he is, that he is. Although after we're done in Redona I'd advise him to take a break from warfare for a while, try quiet domestic life. It would do him very good. It's too bad the man is widowed."

"He's looking to remarry. I understand he's taken a liking to Princess Gabrielle and intends to ask her father for his blessing. It could be a good match, perhaps someone would finally tame the girl."

"It would be an excellent match indeed," replied Oren, leaning back. Though he was not a man easily fazed, he had to concede that this room was frankly getting on his nerves a bit. All this furniture seemed to loom, to be alive somehow. He could swear he had just heard the wardrobe hiss.

He shook off the feeling and weighted the news quickly. Titulus, of low birth, would obviously see marrying the princess as a step up, and so it would be -- their children would have proper noble pedigree. Yet she was only of a cadet branch of the royal family, and was herself already of a dubious reputation. An okay match, not great. Besides, knowing the general's temperament, perhaps this could lead to some bad blood between him and Count Cyril's son? Perhaps some unpleasant incident could be instigated? Let's see. If you're Cyril's enemy, you're also Tessa's enemy, and if you're Tessa's enemy, you're also the Queen's. Lots of interesting implications to pore over later, but one thing seemed clear: Titulus was making a mistake. Good.

Lady Paula continued. "I've been trying to instil some proper values into that girl, but I'm afraid that only a truly stern hand will teach her to be chaste."

"Or failing that, at least to be more careful." He saw Paula's expression, chuckled apologetically, and rose up. "I am sorry, my lady, my humour is growing uncouth in my old age. If I could take a quick bath now and change my clothes, and then we can finally eat. I must confess that I am famished."

The noble pair left the room and disappeared from the corridor, which for a moment remained quiet. Then suddenly out of Paula's chamber bolted out the princess, slammed the door shut behind her, and stood for a moment in the middle of the floor, wild-eyed.

The sky outside was getting dark. The short night was approaching.

With a terrified whimper, the girl turned towards the stairs and started running.

*

She ran at full speed through the inner courtyard, past some confused soldiers. Tonight, she thought. She had to get Aerin out tonight. She passed the inner gate. He'll have to get away on foot. He has very little chance that way, but at least it's a chance. Clement will know it was her. Okay, well, after he fucks her he'll be implicated in this too. She'll figure him out later.

She stopped by the garden's edge and swung herself around to see if she was being watched; she saw nobody.

She jumped through the junipers and dived for the window. "Aerin!" she whispered. "Aerin, quick!"

There was no response. Her stomached turned.

She looked inside. She could just barely see the cell in the dying light, but it was certain that there was nobody in there.

"What the fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, fuck, no, no, nonononono..."

She rose up and sprinted through the shrubs, past the corner, to the entrance. She burst into the foreroom.

"Dodo, where's..."

Dodo wasn't alone. Beside him at the table sat another soldier, a youngish and rectangular man with thick yellow eyebrows.

"There's no entry here, my lady," the soldier said.

She swallowed. "I just..."

"On Clement's orders, there's no entry. And he specifically mentioned you. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." He laid his hand flat on the table. "My lady," he added. Dodo looked at her apologetically, but said nothing.

Without another word she turned around and left.

With no aim in mind, she stumbled back into the garden. This was it, then. This was it. She stopped under the old poplar and looked towards the dungeon window, their window, empty and dark. She made a small noise deep in her throat. Maybe she could go to Oren, beg him to change Paula's mind and set the boy free. But why would Oren do that? What possible reason could he have to do that? They're gonna kill him tomorrow. And then Titulus will propose to her. And the famous and wealthy general is just the sort of a match her parents are looking for. They'll marry, and he'll use her like a good thoroughbred to establish his lineage, suck her dry of her royal blood to pass it onto his children. Oh shit. Oh fucking almighty shit.

She stood all alone, with nothing to support her but her own spine. She suddenly felt like throwing up. The sensation, starting in her stomach, then spread, spread all over, reached her head. There was ringing in her ears. The corners of her vision grew dark.

She gasped, clenched her teeth, and gripped one of the poplar's gnarled branches. Alright, but maybe don't faint now. Don't give in. Hold.

The ringing grew louder and the darkness spread. She gripped the branch harder, to the point of pain, focusing on the sensation, making it tether her to the world. Her skin was damp. Hold. Her head hurt. The bark was coarse and hard. Ringing rising, darkness creeping. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold. Hold.

She took conscious control over her own breathing. There was nothing in the world but the branch, bright in the surrounding nothingness, brilliant in the pain it caused digging into her skin. The dimming and the noise reached their apex, bore down heavy against her willpower, and finally broke against it, rolled over, started subsiding. The world by degrees returned to her. She was still standing, still holding on to the tree.

She wheezed. She looked around her, and wiped tears off her face. Alright, you stupid shit, think. While you're free, while he's alive, for fuck's sake, think. One thing at a time. Aerin is still in the dungeon somewhere, otherwise the guards wouldn't be there. Just correct the plan for that asshole sitting there with Dodo.

She couldn't possibly slip the drought into the food unnoticed in there. But there was one more option. She whipped her head around to look across the courtyard.

The kitchen. If she could find their meals while they were being prepared, she could spike them there. All the cooks were probably occupied with the sudden feast, the place would be a giant mess. If she could find the food meant for the dungeon, three simple bowls sitting somewhere among all the dishes...

But how could she know which one was going to be Aerin's? He got the same food as the guards, and there was no way to warn him. If he got high off the wickwort, all would be lost.

She'd have to only add the drought to two of the three bowls. One chance in three that he gets the clean one. Only one chance in three he makes it out alive. But at least it was a chance.

Wait. No. Wait. There is a better way.

*

Johanna was getting started with the crayfish when the front door opened and the princess in white entered. She and her fellow cooks paused, and look to her.

"Um," the intruder said, "I just thought I'd like to personally thank you all for stepping up and preparing this feast in such a short time. Must be a real challenge. Please, don't let me interrupt you, I'll just stand aside and watch you work for a little while, okay? I'm just amazed."

Well, isn't this nice. The kitchen on a whole smiled and nodded and resumed its urgent bustle. Johanna adjusted the linen sleeves over her plump arms and turned to the crustaceans. They were such an awful thing to peel, you had to be very precise, and on top of that they were just glorified pond scum, if anyone wanted to know her opinion...

She suddenly became aware that someone was looming in front of her. She glanced up. It was the princess, standing directly in front of her across the long narrow table and with a strange smile plastered to her face.

"My lady?" Johanna said.

"Sorry, don't mean to bother you. I'm just curious, will you be serving groats at the feast?" She indicated three bowls standing next to Johanna's crayfish.

"Oh no, my lady. These are for the dungeons, the guards and the prisoner. I'm afraid we just don't have time today to make them nice food like Father Pelagius asked, so it's a groats night for them..."

"Oh, of course," the girl said. She placed her right hand, over which her white silken sleeve was pulled right up to the fingertips, on the table top. There was an awkward pause. "Oh, sorry, do go on," she said, glancing at the crayfish. "These seem like they take more work than they're worth."

This happened to be one of Johanna's favourite subjects. "Oh, yes, my lady, to peel them without ruining them is just the worst, let me tell you!" She bent down and cracked the shell of one, picked at the bits, and liberated the meat inside. "Of course, it gets easier with practice." Another one went down under her skilled fingers. "And they're so difficult to get, they come from that lake by the forest by the town and they have to make special traps just to catch them. I don't get what people see in them." She glanced back up. The girl's hands were now both tucked in her dress's pockets, though she quickly took them out and rolled up her sleeves.

"Mhm. I think so too. Say, these groats look awfully sad. They could do with a little garnish at least." She glanced around, and pounced on some thyme twigs lying around. "This will do," she said, decorating the bowls with utmost care. "Oh well, I won't be bothering you anymore. Thank you, bye bye!"

And with that, she hastily left the kitchen.

Johanna shook her head. Garnish for groats. The high-born are so weird.

"Hey, Wala! These groats are soaked through well enough, go get them to the dungeon!"

*

The darkness was total. The silence near complete. The only sensory inputs that reached him were the last of a lingering ache in his stomach and an ever increasing chill, against which he didn't even have a blanket now. He felt like he was floating, suspended in the black.

He didn't know how many hours had passed since he had been brought here. From the dying of the distant light he could only gather that it was now night.

Far off and above, a door opened, and there were footsteps. He held his breath and hugged his knees closer to his chest. Clement had said he'd be back soon.

But when dim candlelight entered his corridor, he saw that it was a soldier, one that he hadn't seen before, with thick yellow eyebrows and a blank expression. The man didn't even bother to say anything. He put the candle and a bowl of food by the bars, and then walked away.

Aerin exhaled.

Any food he'd eat from now on would only make him stronger to endure more pain. Maybe he should just try to starve himself to death? Would that be any better? He didn't know.

The candle was just a stub, and it would burn out in a few minutes. He could at least warm himself by the flame. He crawled up to the bars.

The bowl was warm too, though it seemed groats were back on the menu. He grabbed the bowl through the bars and just held it in his hands, soaking up the heat. This bit would have to last him for a long time.

To his surprise, he noticed that the greyish slush was adorned with twigs of thyme. Was it some sort of a joke? He fished them out.

And in the candle's feeble light, he saw a sprig of a different kind among them. With a jolt he drew it closer to the flame, and stared.

In his hand, the small pale leaves and the single red berry seemed almost black.

He abruptly brought the bowl up to his face and sniffed. It smelled of groats, and also of aniseed.

He sat still for a moment. He put the bowl down. He stared at the candle's flame. He then buried his face in his hands, and smiled brightly. In the deepest cell of the dungeon, surrounded by chilly nothingness, he thought to himself that the world, when you weigh the good with the bad, is all in all an entirely alright place.

*

Gabrielle sat several seats away from the top of the table where Paula and Oren presided and she fought to keep up an appearance of calmness, even though she was pretty sure her spine was physically vibrating inside her. The room was full of noise from the conversation and from the minstrels discreetly playing their music, and the duke seemed to be enjoying himself. Damnit, he's fresh from a long ride and really quite fucking old. Why won't he fuck off to bed already!

She replied with monosyllables to any efforts from her immediate neighbours, an official of Paula's and a knight of Oren's, to talk to her. She kept feverishly analysing the situation.

Have any of the cooks seen her pour the drought in from the flask hidden in her sleeve? She was pretty sure that the one with the crawfish hasn't, but there were so many of them around! Every time a servant walked into the hall with a new dish she had a start, imagining it to be someone sent from the kitchens to inform Paula of what she'd done.

Have the guards already eaten? Has the wickwort kicked in? How long does it take to kick in, anyway? Did it work at all? What if heat neutralizes it? What if thyme neutralizes it? What if one of the guards wasn't hungry and skipped the meal? What if Aerin hasn't noticed the sprig? What if the liquid she took from Paula's room wasn't wickwort at all? Maybe it just coincidentally smelled the same? Maybe it was poison?

Oren toasted to Paula. Paula toasted to Titulus. Both toasted to the King. Gabrielle lifted a glass of water to her mouth with a shaking hand. Agonizing minute passed after agonizing minute. Candles burned away sluggishly in the chandeliers high above.

"...such a wonderful occasion..."

"...very glad to see you..."

"...the tide sure to turn..."

"...oh, they're well pleased..."

"...fine summer we're having..."

"...airspeed velocity of an unladen..."

"...but most of the court stayed at the capital..."

"...as long as the people are strong, the Kingdom is strong. All the teachers of our Faith teach us so. Don't they, my child?"

Gabrielle realized that Pelagius was drawing her into some conversation.

"Oh. Yes, Father Pelagius. The Kingdom is strong with the virtues of its subjects. Like resilience and self-sacrifice. And chastity. That one's very important, isn't it, Clement?"

The majordomo glared at her, and turned the discussion to a different subject.