The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

XXXVII

Reckoning

In which Bessa and Lysander come to terms

Hours later the preparations were still ongoing. Every legion in Urashto had made it to Abris, and in the end supplied the fortress with twenty thousand soldiers, plus auxiliaries.

Bessa earlier suggested that Arrianus and the weaponsmiths consult with Saavedra and the Rhabdomachaeum, and learn what advances had come to light in giant-slaying weapons. She and Edana had brought to Abris their remaining trunk full of thunder maces.

Thank Khratu, the legions of Silura had spent the intervening months developing a doctrine for using or facing the thunder maces in combat, and Saavedra and Roswald shared it with the officers of Abris.

Lady Nensela closeted herself with the seers, dividing up tasks with scryers and prophets. Meanwhile, Bessa and Edana used their imperial agent personae to organize an evacuation of the civilians surrounding Abris. Once night fell everyone kept a fretful eye upon the Phoenix constellation’s rise in the sky. The zenith of the Phoenix, when its tail loomed directly over head, signaled midnight’s arrival. And it was not until midnight when they finally satisfied themselves they had done everything possible to prepare.

“…and that’s how things stand,” Edana said to Bessa.

They walked on the parapet, which gave them a clear view of the smoke rising to the heavens from the killing fields. Below, on the fields, sorcerers were burning hecatombs to their respective gods: Twenty deer sacrificed in offering to the Huntress, and an equal number of doves for the Restorer. Sheep and oxen, twenty each, were given to the Reaper and the Sea Lord. To Khratu went the aurochs, twenty of their kind. One hundred burnt offerings in all, perfuming the air such that Bessa and Edana found their mouths watering.

The dying moon shone down upon them. It was still mostly full, for it had not yet dissolved to its half shape. The time had come, Lady Nensela had said. The dawn would bring the burning sky.

And Murena.

Bessa nodded at Edana’s words, barely paying attention. All of her attention was fixed on a soldier ahead, who saluted when he saw them. She nodded at him, then waited until she and Edana were well past him before saying,

“Have you noticed how people jump when we make requests? I wish I owned my own purple clothes; this is marvelous.”

“They’re moving especially faster with you,” Edana observed.

“As if they’re afraid I’ll take their head? Yes, and they’re all bad at hiding their surprise at seeing us, you know. I overheard someone wondering how a barbarian Siluran could have purple clothes.”

“Oh, I hadn’t considered that part,” Edana said. With a furtive glance about she lowered her voice. “I heard some slaves gossiping, and the soldiers as well. They know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re his woman.” Edana folded her arms, her expression daring Bessa to challenge her.

Bessa couldn’t stop her mouth from falling open. “What?!”

Edana’s lips curved and her eyes danced. “One centurion warned another not to make impertinent remarks about you, in case it gets back to Lysander. Let’s just say they took the possibility very seriously.”

“Why would they?”

“Until today, Red Gryphon Xenakis was the highest ranking officer here, and has the respect of his men, and apparently is a man of some influence. By their logic crossing you is crossing him, which they are loath to do. And pleasing you is pleasing him, which they are eager to do. And if he’s betrothed to a woman wearing purple, then the officers figure he has a chariot that can take them places, too. So there you have it.”

“But I-I’m-I am not,” she stammered. “I mean, I am. I mean I’m betrothed to him, but it doesn’t mean—they can’t think it means—”

Edana raised her eyebrows.

Bessa took deep breaths, struggling to get the words out. “He hasn’t said he wants to marry me,” she said quietly. “In all these years, all I’ve had from him is silence. No letters, no invitations to visit him, or asking to visit me. And he didn’t have to search for me. Our betrothal was the choice his father and my grandmother made.” A wave of pain took her breath away. “But ignoring me—ignoring me was his choice. I share in no reflected glory of his. At home I am first among women in my own right. Here, that rank is for his wife. Which he does not want me to be.” She looked down, unable to hold back her dismay. Or her tears.

Sobered, Edana clasped Bessa’s shoulders. She waited until Bessa met her eyes before she spoke.

“I’m sorry, Bessa. I shouldn’t have teased you. Look. At first I was angry with him, but I’m not sure that’s fair. Look at the differences between you: he was already in the legion when you were betrothed. All these years he’s enjoyed the authority to form his own plans and make his own choices. Of course he would resent having a choice like who he would marry imposed on him. On the other hand, you were twelve, and assumed your grandmother made a choice agreeable to you, and all your thoughts about him revolved around that. You grew up with the betrothal.”

Unsettled, Bessa could only keep silent.

Gently, Edana added, “I can only guess what he imagined about you before today—for all we know, his father is a fool with terrible judgement and bad taste in women. But, I saw how he looked at you once he understood everything: how his face changed, how his eyes lit up, how surprised he seemed—pleasantly surprised. Give him his due for seeing what’s in front of him.”

Bessa stared into the far distance, seeing nothing. Back and forth her mind went, turning over her first encounter with Lysander in her mind.

My nightmares did not come true, she realized.

Ever since leaving home she’d dreaded meeting Lysander, convinced he would declare her unfit, and dismiss her at once. When he was so coldly formal all her worries had come crashing down. Every instinct screamed at her to flee the room. But now she had time to think.

Truly, he had treated her decently. And while initially she was relieved, closer reflection brought her to her senses. Yes, he was polite. A basic standard of conduct she would not give much weight to. She, too, must see what was in front of her, thus far.

Thus far, he had earned her respect. Like Edana, she watched how he treated his soldiers, and how they responded to him. The slaves did not cringe or cower before him, nor cast disparaging glances behind his back, suggestive of his having a kindly nature.

She, as an executive to a large enterprise, could judge for herself how well he handled the affairs of the fortress, even taking into account her ignorance of the military side. From where she sat he was thorough, efficient, and wise. In their strategy session she found his inventiveness and risk management reassuring and inspiring.

Might she come to care for him? Love him? Walking away would be so easy, if he was obviously the wrong choice. Except he was not so obviously wrong. Now she feared she would regret it if he, or they, opted to snuff out all chance of success together.

The thought of rejection pained her, physically first, then down to her core.

“Bessa?”

Bessa squared her shoulders. “I will talk to him.”

Reports came in left and right. There was no sign of any troop movement from Anshan. However, Lysander checked on naval movements in the west. Messages poured in of unusual activity in the Borealis Ocean.

Events at Abris reached the point now that any further input from him would be sheer nannying. Lysander had his hands full with trying to manage certain draco hydras who were insisting this was no matter for a “mere red gryphon” to handle. As if they were other than puling nineteen-year-olds who barely knew their swords from their xylospongium, the sponges on the sticks used in the latrines. Their fathers bought their commissions; they were meant to rely upon the centurions. But they coveted the glory of fighting giants and saving the day, though they had yet to be blooded in more “mundane” combat.

At least one of the new-coming aethers was a sensible thirty-something-year-old. As more of an administrator he had never faced anything more than a minor skirmish, but knew he was mortal and that he must not be careless with the lives of his soldiers.

Between the two of them they forced the youngsters to acknowledge this coming battle was not for men who had only their tactical manuals to go by. When they appealed to Lady Nensela—apparently hoping her purple gown meant she was the Voice of the Emperor—she deferred to Lysander, quelling overt complaints.

The other two women were useful as well. Between their purple clothes and signet rings, Bessa and Edana Nuriel were masterful at cutting through layers of crap and confusion. Even better, if he passed orders to the newcomers through them, things happened far quicker. The officers wouldn’t ordinarily take orders from civilians, but reason demanded obedience to women who had the emperor’s ear and wielded his authority.

He forced himself to acknowledge they impressed him. She impressed him. All during the sacrifices he made with his chief priests, he kept thinking of the reports he received about her. How well she acquitted herself, bolstering the efforts of his officers to keep the townspeople calm as they evacuated to the mountain caves.

With nothing else requiring his immediate attention he discreetly inquired, and found out she was last seen on the parapet.

As he hoped, she was alone when he saw her again. She was approaching the stairs leading from the rear parapet to the back gate. With her stride so purposeful the hem of her dress swished about her ankles, giving him a peek. The silk folds of her gown draped over her, clinging to her curves as the breeze caressed her.

Lysander shook his head, amused at nature’s attempt to throw the dice against him. Still, he took a moment to observe her while she was unaware of him.

So this is she, he said to himself.

By unspoken agreement they both kept things strictly professional. Although, he did have one moment of grim amusement when Sejanus relayed that earlier, one of the jumped-up hydras had attempted to suborn Bessa in his aim to wrest control from Lysander. Sejanus couldn’t stop laughing as he quoted what she said to bring the boy to heel. Watch his back against backstabbers indeed, and Sejanus made a point of reminding him.

Bessa forced him to start from scratch in his ideas about her, just by virtue of being a real person and not a figment of his imagination. A gut-punch, but one he could roll with.

However, while she gave him a favorable impression it wasn’t the same as knowing her. Just because she unwittingly demolished his preconceptions, it didn’t mean he had enough to go on.

She intrigued him. To think, she was behind the duke’s fall, and the Lady Nensela considered her an able weapon. Pride in her warmed him from the inside out. Even Drusilla never risked her life for the empire!

Drusilla. How ridiculous to think of her! Bessa, and her potential status as his wife, was too important for him to consider her only in comparison to his father’s long-dead wife. The woman needed to be considered on her own terms.

How had he ever been silly enough to think the main criterion for a wife should be her resemblance to a woman he had never met? Merely so his father would respect her? Surely what mattered more was if Lysander respected Bessa?

Bessa reached the last step, and turned. Their eyes met, and she paused. Lysander crossed the road to meet her. Cool, formal, she inclined her head to him. Suddenly, doubts reared up. Curse it all, there were no maps to a woman’s mind or heart.

“Good night,” he said evenly. “Is everything to your satisfaction? Iantha is at your disposal if there’s anything you need.”

Iantha was the head of the fortress slaves. Normally she served only him, but she always fussed at him for not providing a grand mistress for her to attend to. What was it with these old people wanting him to marry?

“Thank you,” she replied. “Everything is fine.”

Still standing there. Not attempting to escape him. So …

“Will you walk with me?”

Bessa nodded, and they fell into step together. Lysander chose the perimeter road surrounding the fortress grounds. A choice which allowed him to keep an eye on things, and avoid casual listeners.

“I must ask you to forgive me for my lack of graciousness when we met,” he began. “Your arrival startled me. When I first heard your last name I thought you were an emissary from your family, coming to tell me the betrothal was revoked.”

Her eyebrows lifted, and he forced himself not to smile at her expression.

“Yet how disappointed would you have been? Given that we are strangers to each other,” she pointed out. “Our families made this arrangement to suit their needs and goals. Like any other betrothal ours is a business transaction, not a reflection of our personal desires.”

“Oh? A business transaction. Yes, I suppose it might seem that way to you.”

“But not to you?”

How to explain?

“Well, it’s part of why I was less than enthusiastic. You see, when I was a little boy, my father put an idea in my head. His first wife had been perfect for him, a true companion, and he loved her with everything he had. Why should I not have the same? That’s what I asked myself. But marrying you seemed like I was cheating myself out of a companion.”

Those words weren’t what he planned. By her sharp inhale he knew he was not the only one astonished by what he’d said. However, he felt as if a blindfold had been removed from his own eyes: Behind his fears of his father’s intentions was the fact that as long as his father exerted any influence in his life, he would never have a true wife.

Lysander’s twenty-fifth birthday was bittersweet; because otherwise his father’s death would have been his best hope. His stomach clenched, but he couldn’t shrink away from the bald truth that he’d been living his life waiting for his father to die.

But here was Bessa. And whether his father intended to or not, he’d broken the pattern: Bessa was a worthy first choice. Not yet another test to prove his worth to his father.

“That’s not what I feared,” she said at last. “I want a companion, too. When I was a little girl I, too, heard stories. About my grandparents, who raised me. My father’s mother told me this wonderful story about meeting my grandfather and how their love grew, and I wanted the same for myself.”

She spoke of Silura, and how husbands and wives there were partners. Ah, at least she had that idea in common with him. And she thought it proper that Siluran parents didn’t wield nearly the same power over their children as his father held over him.

“I trust my grandmother, and never doubted she would choose well for me. What I didn’t trust, what I couldn’t be sure of, is whether I could hold my end of the bargain.”

“Your end?”

Bessa folded her arms, holding her elbows in each hand, a defensive block. Mentally bracing himself, Lysander waited.

“I never in my life sought or rejoiced in anyone’s death, until the duke.”

Cold hatred vibrated in her voice. Lysander took a step back.

“If he killed my family, he would have destroyed everything. Do you doubt this? I know how the rest of you in the empire view my people. Did you think my people to be cave dwellers?”

Oh damn, she caught that. Still, he nodded.

“Grandmother is a visionary. Not like a seer, but better. All her life she’s seen things as they are, and seen ways to make them better. For Rasena Valentians, donating a library or starting a healing school is simply good for your reputation. Competition for distinction and prestige amongst your peers. But in Falcon’s Hollow, I cannot take for granted someone will build a hospital. Not wish for one, but build one.”

Bessa took a deep breath. Riveted, Lysander waited.

“Grandmother thinks the point of each day is to learn something new. And it doesn’t matter who teaches her. Neither tribe nor country matters, nor whether you are rich or a slave. She respects what’s in here.” Bessa tapped her forehead for emphasis. “And it seems to me too many ‘civilized’ Rasena Valentians and ‘barbaric’ Silurans share an unwillingness to learn from people who aren’t like them. I never before appreciated how special Grandmother really is.”

Hmm. So this was what she valued, what she respected. Commendable, he acknowledged to himself. Especially given how he’d always dismissed her family as social climbing upstarts. Truly they sounded like philanthropists, with a genuine mission to better the lives of those around them.

Glory had its place, but her family apparently practiced the same noblesse oblige as his family. For the Philomelos family; however, the stakes were higher: they were the pinnacle in their environment. Having no competition also meant having no one to pick up the slack if they should fall.

While many people readily tallied their lacks, not many took action to remedy them. This alone obliged him to give the Philomelos family their due.

At the first available opportunity he must sit down with Bessa’s grandmother, who sounded remarkable. When he had met her, he paid no attention to her, thinking her one of his father’s cronies. Only after Lysander returned to duty in the legion did his father trouble to explain the old woman’s significance, when he wrote to say he’d betrothed Lysander to her granddaughter.

The Philomelos family sounded like an interesting family to marry into. More to the point, Bessa had absorbed their ways and cherished them. If she bore his children, these were the ideas she would cultivate in them.

“But you said you didn’t believe you could hold up your end of the bargain,” he carefully reminded her. “What bargain?”

She flashed him a mirthless smile, which he took like another punch to the gut. Could he get a genuine smile out of her? By the gods he would make her laugh.

With a sweep of her hand she encompassed her luscious self from her head to her feet. “I was raised for one purpose, which is to continue my family’s good works. Fine teachers instructed me on what’s out there, that I may seek after it. Not solely to exalt myself. For the sake of improving Falcon’s Hollow, and Silura, and of course, Rasena Valentis.”

“Those are excellent goals,” he pointed out.

“You realize, Grandmother picked your family because you are wide ranging. The Xenaxis family has prestige and power, which I am to use to further those goals. But it’s all in vain if I am unequal to the task, and I have had occasion to wonder about that.”

He cocked an eyebrow. After all she’d done, she doubted herself?

“The man I marry must also share my goals. Grandmother’s goals,” she emphasized, looking him full on. “Those terms were how I understood our betrothal. Terms agreeable enough, I thought. But before I left home I began to want more than that. I wanted my own Nikolaos.”

Who? Of all of them, this gut-punch hit him so hard he rocked back slightly. “Nikolaos,” he said tightly.

This time she did look a little amused when she smiled. “Papouli, I mean.” Eyes shining, she told him the story of how he proposed to her grandmother, on the battlements of a fortress during their last stand against “the Furi.”

As he listened, Lysander kept glancing at her ring finger, which bore her betrothal ring. The pledge between her grandmother and his father. A pledge now inadequate, for him and for Bessa.

When her tale ended, he stepped closer to her. Gently, he took her chin in his thumb and index finger, and met her gaze. This close to her he saw her breath quicken, and the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. Good, this was no easier for her than it was for him.

“We share similar ideals, Bessa,” he said quietly. “And I would feel cheated not to know you. Let us make our own pledge, together.”

Did she stop breathing? Certainly she stopped blinking for a few heartbeats. Daring for more, Lysander embraced her upper arms. Relief surged through him at once when she gripped his arms and held tight in response.

“Let us swear this: for our own honor, we shall not marry unless we assure ourselves of mutual respect and affection for one another. We shall not marry unless we believe ourselves suited as friends, confidants, and lovers. If either of us believes the other is unsuited, then we shall part, without rancor or spite.”

Her lashes fluttered, but she managed a nod.

Continuing he added, “Let us also acknowledge this battle we face may kill us both. Out of respect for that fact, I will tell you now I am pleased with what I see and know of you thus far. I call the gods as my witness that I will do my best to live long enough to know you better. Let them also witness that I promise to do my best to ensure you live, that you may do what you are meant to do.”

Bessa’s voice was steady as she answered him. “I, Elisabet Bessa Philomelos, give you my word before the gods. And, as I also recognize the shortness of our time, I, too, am pleased to meet you, Lysander Xenakis. Know also that I will strive to survive this battle, and do all in my power to aid your survival. These things I swear.”