The Widow's House

Geder

Sitting in the drawing room of Lord Skestinin’s mansion felt strangely eerie. Geder half expected to hear the cunning men still chanting over a death-grey Sabiha, to see Lady Skestinin with her smile stretched tight by her fear. But outside the window, the trees were the deeper, warmer green that came before autumn. The servants in the hall spoke with laughter in their voices. The divan where Geder had slept on those long, terrible nights had been reupholstered in yellow silk to match the new window coverings. Those signs were enough to remind him that the season hadn’t been a dream, that it was not summer that was coming in the weeks and months ahead, but short days and bitter cold.

He wore his field gear. Black riding boots, black leather cloak with the hood tucked back behind him. His horse waited outside in bright barding and his personal guard in chain and armed for war.

His decision to lead the force to Kaltfel had been a clear one to Geder and Basrahip. Not all of his other advisors had seen it that way. Canl Daskellin in particular had argued against it.

“You are the Lord Regent,” he’d said, pacing the length of the war room, placing his feet carefully among the mountains and swamps of the miniature empire. “Your duties, and with respect, your responsibilities to the kingdom go far, far beyond leading a force to put down an uprising. If something happens to you in the field—”

“It will not,” Basrahip said, but even his low, rolling voice wasn’t enough to take Daskellin from the thread of his thought. Not all at once, at any rate.

“If it were to, the court is scattered across the face of the world. We could not convene a council big enough to name a new regent. Not for weeks. Maybe months. You are more than yourself, my lord. You are the state.”

“I won’t get hurt,” Geder said. “I’ll be very, very careful. All right?”

“He’s the Lord Regent,” Emming said, scowling at Daskellin. “If he can’t do what he deems best for the realm, then what’s the point of having him?”

Geder nodded his thanks to the older man, and Emming returned the gesture with a bow. Daskellin lifted both his hands, shaking them as he bit his lips.

“I understand why you would want to address this firmly, my lord,” he said. “But I beg you to consider the risks you are taking. The kingdom is… in a delicate situation. There are many, many things that require attention, and the potential for crisis is great. I fear… I fear…”

“Say it,” Geder said.

“If we lose our Lord Regent,” Daskellin said, “I do not think we will be able to keep the kingdom from insurrection.”

“I think you overestimate my importance,” Geder said, though in truth they were pleasant words to hear.

“With respect, it isn’t you as a man, Lord Palliako,” Daskellin said. “It’s your role. Even after what happened in Suddapal, there are many who think of you as a hero. The man who stopped the Timzinae. Who protected the throne. Now, who defeated the dragon. If you sat in your bath for the next year and did nothing else, your presence here would still give the realm a sense of stability. And we are losing that. There are three armies in the field now. Four, counting this new group. The belief that there is a man on the throne who sees and manages all of it is keeping the realm from flying apart.”

“In other times,” Basrahip said, his voice rolling out like a distant thunder, “all these things you say might have been true. But this is the age of her return. The answer to the fire years. The end of the fallen epoch. Prince Geder is the chosen of the goddess. He cannot fail.”

“I understand that,” Daskellin said. “It’s only that—”

“He will not fail,” Basrahip said, shifting his weight and attention forward. His smile was gentle and wide. “Listen to my voice, friend Canl. He cannot fail. The last battle has begun, and Prince Geder will be there at the birth of the coming world.”

Daskellin opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away. He nodded his acceptance and then laughed ruefully. “I suppose it’s only that I’m used to normal wars. This really isn’t one of those, is it?”

“It is not,” the huge priest said. “For at the end of this war, there shall be no others forever.”

“Well,” Daskellin had said, pressing his toe against the tiny version of Kaltfel, “I suppose that’s worth being present for, isn’t it?” And that had been the last anyone had said of Geder’s staying behind when the soldiers departed for Kaltfel.

A soft knock came at the door, and Lady Skestinin took half a step in. Geder rose and bowed to her, not a full bow. That would have been too much. Just a little angle at the shoulders, enough to honor the lady of the house and the family she was heading now that her husband and son-in-law were gone.

“Lord Regent,” she said. “When I heard you’d come, I hoped there might be news. Anything would be welcome.”

Anything. Even confirmation of her husband’s death. They both knew that she stood there more likely widow than wife. The sorrow and anxiety barely showed. In truth, he couldn’t say how he knew. It wasn’t in her voice or the expression in her eyes or the way she held her body. It was in her, the whole of her.

“I’m sorry,” Geder said. “I’m expecting word from Jorey anytime now, but no. Nothing yet.”

“Ah,” she said, twisting at her own fingers without seeming aware she was doing it. “I understand. I’d only… Well, yes. Thank you all the same.”

“I wanted to see Sabiha before I left. And the girl. Annalise. In case I see Jorey again before I come home.”

“Oh,” Lady Skestinin said. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Anything’s possible,” Geder said.

He had come to Lord Skestinin’s mansion as his last stop before the little army decamped for the westward march. Before that, he had gone with Aster and Basrahip to review the troops, such as they were. The encampment was outside the city walls by the western gate. They were three full cohorts and part of a fourth, but only five bannered knights and no cunning men besides Geder’s own. The throne had called for men so many times that those still left to answer this call were weedy youths and old men, the injured of old campaigns who had healed enough to march and slaves of half a dozen races who had been offered their freedom in exchange for fighting on the empire’s last battleground. To call them ragged would have been kind, but as Geder and Aster rode past them, they stood as proud as a seasoned army of the purest blood.

They reminded Geder of the boy he’d been the first time he’d ridden on campaign, fat, bookish, friendless, and despised. And now he was the ruler of the greatest empire since the fall of the dragons. He wanted to give some rousing speech, some assurance that they were there on the work not of dragons or men, but of gods. However raw they looked, however awkwardly they wore their swords, what lay before them was glory. He wanted to, but he didn’t. Better to let Basrahip deliver the speeches. He was much more convincing, speaking with the voice of the goddess as he did.

The priest was a structure of smiles and broad gestures all through the review, but Aster’s expression was closed. The black eye he’d suffered was gone now, though there was a tiny scar now between the brow and the bridge of his nose where the blow had cut him. A tiny disfigurement that would always remind him, Geder thought, of his enemy. He was willing to bet that Myrin Shoat would live to regret that little scar deeply. The prospect made Geder smile. Aster frowned at him.

“Just thinking,” Geder said. “It’s nothing.”

“I wish I could go,” the boy said. “I don’t see why it’s safe enough for you to go but not for me.”

You’re still a boy, Geder thought but restrained himself from saying. It was true, but it wasn’t what Aster could hear. There was no way to explain war to someone who had never seen it. Never been touched by it. Never heard the voice of the fire in Vanai in his nightmares or seen a woman’s silhouette against the flames and thought, I’ve done this.

“Glory’s all well and good,” Geder said. “But you’ll have your chance later. Once you’ve taken the throne.”

“It’s all going to be over by then,” Aster complained. “The wars will all be ended, and the dragons and the Timzinae will all be dead, and it’ll be nothing but peace.”

“I know,” Geder said. “That won’t be a bad thing.”

“I just wish I could see it before it ends.”

“The triumphs when you come back are the best part,” Geder said. “Before that it’s mostly a lot of camping and a little bit of shouting.”

Aster managed a wan smile. “You’re just trying to make it sound bad so I’ll feel better.”

“Is it working?” Geder asked.

On the way back through the gates, Basrahip rode beside Geder, Aster riding a length or two ahead. The small people of the city bowed their heads as Lord Regent, high priest, and crown prince passed together surrounded by his guard. Three of the most powerful and noblest men in the empire. Geder put out his hand in a gesture of blessing.

“You are well, Prince Geder?” Basrahip asked. “You have lost your doubts?”

“I have,” Geder said.

“This is as it should be,” Basrahip said. “All of this is very, very well.”

“Do I have time to make a stop before we call the march?”

“What you do, you may do,” Basrahip said. “You have no need to ask me.”

“I’d like to stop by and see Sabiha Kalliam before we leave. And her daughter.”

“As you wish,” Basrahip said.

Still, Geder had seen Aster back to the Kingspire and made his farewell there. The prince had been brave about the whole thing, and his tutor had been there to whisk him away to lessons. Best to keep the boy’s mind occupied. He’d spend less time chewing at himself, worrying for Geder and envying him. Basrahip and half a dozen priests rode back for the army beyond the gates, and Geder had sought out his best friend’s wife. She was, after all, as near as he could get to saying goodbye to Jorey himself.

“Yes,” Lady Skestinin said. “I suppose anything is possible. I know I never imagined myself living through times like these.” For a moment, her reserve cracked and tears touched her pale eyes.

“If there is any way to bring Lord Skestinin back safely, we will do it,” Geder said. “And if he’s harmed, I will see that a thousand of the enemy are killed in his name.”

“Yes,” Lady Skestinin said. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Geder nodded. It hurt him to see her pain and to be unable to do anything to ease it. It hurt him to think of Aster’s aching loneliless and anxiety and of the fact that Jorey had already missed the first months of his daughter’s life. Lady Skestinin nodded again, much as she had before, and retreated to the hall without taking the risk of further speech. Geder sat again, his hands between his knees, and looked out at the garden. Bees filled the air around the pear trees, drawn, he thought, by the sweetness of the fruit where it had gone overripe and split. A striped grey cat streaked across the ground, fleeing from something or chasing it. Geder closed his eyes, and Cithrin was there, waiting for him. She was neither the cruel one, laughing at him for being too stupid as to believe in her love, nor the repentant one who begged his forgiveness. He couldn’t even conjure up her face, not clearly. It was Cithrin because he knew it was Cithrin. It was the Cithrin he’d created in his heart, and who was still there.

I loved you, he thought. And you laughed at me. Why did you have to laugh at me?

“Geder?”

His eyes opened, and Sabiha was there. He hadn’t heard her come in. Motherhood was agreeing with her. She’d put on weight that widened her face and her hips, brought a warmth to her cheeks. The baby clung to her side, riding Sabiha’s hip like a tiny bear shimmying up a tree. The small, bright eyes found Geder, boggled at him, lost him, and found him again.

“Sabiha,” he said. “And how is the perfect girl?”

Annalise made a low guh and swung her arms to grab Sabiha’s hair. Sabiha winced and gently disentangled her locks from the baby’s fingers. “The perfect girl,” she said, “is growing like weeds in springtime and doesn’t know her own strength.”

“She looks wonderful,” Geder said.

“She is wonderful,” Sabiha replied, sitting down on the chair opposite him. “I hear you’re going.”

“Yes. After this.”

Sabiha shifted the baby to her lap and jounced her gently on her knee. Annalise looked fascinated, and then startled, and then cooed delightedly and waved her tiny hands. Her hair was thin as high clouds on a windy day and the same color as Jorey’s. The soft place at the center of her head where the bones hadn’t grown closed was visible only because he knew to look for it. Geder imagined he could see something of his friend’s face in the pudgy curves of her cheeks. She met Geder’s eyes and shrieked with pleasure. Geder smiled.

“I wanted to see my niece again before I left,” Geder said, looking directly into the child’s eyes. “She’s going to be a different girl when I get back, isn’t she? Uncle Geder won’t even know her.”

“Would you like to hold her?” Sabiha asked.

“If I could,” Geder said, and Sabiha rose up, scooping the baby to him, to his lap. Annalise was lighter than he’d expected, as if her body were made from fluff and warmth. He held her carefully around the chest, supporting her neck the way Sabiha had shown him the first time, though the baby seemed quite able to hold up her own head now.

“You know my nurse back at Rivenhalm used to tell me that you should whisper all your secrets into the soft place there before it grows closed,” he said.

“My mother says that too,” Sabiha said. “It’s supposed to make the baby grow up wise.”

“Is it? I thought it was to give them something while they were still innocent enough to make it clean again. I may have gotten that part wrong. My skull had grown closed when she told me, but I was still fairly young. It’s hard to know what really happened back then.”

“It is,” Sabiha said. “Have you heard from Jorey?”

“Just the usual. Reports from the field. Dry stuff. Nothing personal. You?”

“I had one letter after Porte Oliva fell. He seemed… happy’s a strong word. He seemed well. He was glad his mother came.”

“They’re going to make fun of him for that when he gets back,” Geder said.

“If he wins, the jokes will be gentle,” Sabiha said, an edge in her voice. “And if he loses, they’ll mock him for more than that. It’s the joy of court that everything you do is available for the casual judgment of others.”

“I suppose I don’t see that from where I am,” Geder said. “No one but Aster confides in me. Or makes jokes. I’m not complaining, you understand. It’s just I wasn’t really part of court before Basrahip and the priests came, and after that it was so little time before I was named Lord Regent. I don’t know what court life is really like. All my time I’ve been either below it or above it.”

“I’ve been in the thick,” Sabiha said. “It’s only people. Cruel and kind, and often both in the same evening.”

Annalise blurped in agreement. Geder made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth that fascinated her, and she tried to grab for his lips. Sabiha gasped and pushed her hand between them. For a moment, he thought he saw something like fear in her. As if she was afraid that he might get angry with the babe if it tugged at him too hard and dash her to the floor. But perhaps that was only his imagination. Sabiha knew him better than that. Or he hoped she did.

“After this, it should all be over,” he said, embarrassed by the words as he said them. I’m going to save the world. I’d never hurt your baby. Obvious, thin, and whining.

“That’s good,” she said. “I’m ready for whatever comes after.”

“A world truly at peace,” he said. “Not that I think it will all come right at once. There’ll still be some work to be done. Ruling. All that.”

“I’ll take a world that’s half on fire if it brings Jorey home,” she said. “That’s uncharitable, I know, but it’s the truth. I just want him back before she starts walking and doesn’t want to be held anymore.”

“Would it be all right,” Geder asked, “if I gave her one of my secrets? Just to keep before I go.”

“Of course,” Sabiha said.

The baby looked up into Geder’s eyes, suddenly and comically solemn. Her thick fingers opened and closed. Geder leaned carefully over her until the thin scruff of hair tickled his lips. He could feel the soft place as a tiny warmth. He closed his eyes.

He whispered, softly enough that not even Sabiha could hear him, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”