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Joshua’s tutor – not one he shared with Jill, which made the classes that much longer – closed his books with a sigh. Joshua copied him and waited instruction.
“Your mother has called you to her solar,” Lord Edmond said. It was all he needed to say. Joshua knew his expression stiffened. He concentrated on nodding to his tutor and slipping off his chair with all necessary grace.
His mother liked to hold court in her solar; she said it was because a woman should have her own space to host her friends, but Joshua knew it was so she could keep an eye on the rumor mill without having to bother with Father’s good nature. She always told Joshua not to take after him; he was to be the archduke of Rosaria, and his father’s good heart would not always be a benefit.
Holding court meant that Joshua had to go and stand pretty beside his mother for an hour or so. Clive was spared this injustice, as was Jill. Then again, they both protected Joshua whenever possible. This was a small thing he could protect them from. After all, if he knew the rumors that circulated at court, he could warn them before an event or party! Then he could be the one to protect them, for once!
The guards at his mother’s door nodded to him. Neither were familiar. Maybe Clive knew who they were. Either way, they did not bar him entry.
He stepped into his mother’s solar. It was a beautiful room, with plush carpets and thick draperies. Soft armchairs and small tables littered the room, allowing for smaller cliques to form during more casual conversation.
The women in the solar rose and curtsied. Joshua bowed back to them all, even though it would make Mother’s mouth pinch at the corners; his father told him that people respected humility in a royal, and Joshua wanted respect.
When he started for his mother’s side, her expression wasn’t pinched at all. She relaxed in her high backed chair, cheeks rosy and expression content. It nearly gave Joshua pause. If there weren’t so many eyes on him he would have asked her why she looked so happy. Instead he caged up his questions and stopped by her side.
“Good afternoon, Mother,” Joshua said with a kiss to her cheek. She smiled beatifically at him.
“My darling boy,” she cooed, “sit, sit, make yourself comfortable.”
“I would rather stay by your side,” Joshua told her, because he wasn’t really sure what else he could say. A couple of the ladies made little adoring noises. Joshua found a comfortable enough position to stand in, hands curled around the wooden decorations that were part of the chair.
The hour started to pass. Joshua stayed attentive, listening to what he could, though he didn’t understand much of it.
Mother was strange today. She was too happy, a little distant, eyes drifting to the window often. She participated in the conversation, but allowed much of it to pass her by. Even the small slights she was known to snap at slipped by her unremarked on. Joshua found himself observing her more than the ladies he was supposed to be impressing.
It was why it took him by surprise to hear one of the ladies say, in a voice just a touch too loud, “I hear he isn’t even her son.”
Joshua glanced over – the lady who said it was in the back, speaking to another two women. They nodded along empathetically, though the speaker did not look upset. She looked almost gleeful to impart the information.
“Maybe that’s why she allowed him to join the Shields so early,” the first said, “because he isn’t truly her son, even if he is clearly the archduke’s.”
Joshua glanced at his mother, waiting for the rebuttal. Her expression was still distant, but some of the pretty flush had faded. She did not move.
What was going on? Joshua heard this rumor maybe many times before, and each time Mother had a response. Today she said nothing.
Did Mother need Joshua’s protection too? It had never occurred to him. She always seemed so strong and proud.
Joshua looked back to the women. “What as that, Lady Townsend?”
The woman’s head snapped towards him, green eyes wide. Her smile was simpering – Joshua decided he didn’t like her. “Oh, just some gossip. There’s no need to worry yourself over it.”
Here Mother would say something like the whisperings of his court were his business. Father would have said something charming to make the truth spill out of her. Clive would have said nothing at all; Jill would note the occurrence down for later investigation.
Joshua said, “you said it like it was a joke. I don’t see what was supposed to be funny about that. Could you explain it to me?”
Lady Townsend’s mouth opened and closed. Mother moved, finally, and her fingers brushed the side of his hand. Lady Townsend’s face drained of color.
“You must humor him,” Mother said, voice airy like she had not been insulted. “My little archduke loves his brother dearly.”
I am not archduke yet, Joshua wanted to say, but didn’t. That would ruin the message he was sending; a message his mother was supposed to send, a message his mother usually did send, and yet today refused to. That was fine. Joshua would take her place, just this once. He could protect her, the way he wished he could protect his brother and father and sister.
“Of course,” the lady said, but her voice was tight. She couldn’t meet his eyes, bowing over her hands, “my deepest apologies, your grace.”
Joshua pursed his lips. He didn’t miss how she avoided explaining. He said nothing, just turned to his mother. He could see the calculation in her eyes now. He moved closer to her and leaned against the side of her seat. He rested his head on it. If he was any shorter, he would have leaned over the armrest so he could put his head on her shoulder.
The meeting ebbed and flowed around him. Joshua listened to it all as closely as he could. He knew mother expected him to be able to recite who said what at the end of the day; a ruler should be able to track the opinions of those around him.
“My darling,” Mother said an indeterminate time later. Joshua turned his head, but didn’t lift it from the chair. “It is evening already.”
Joshua glanced out the windows and the final rays of the setting sun pouring into the room. He nodded a bit and lifted off his mother’s chair – the ladies of the room rose with him. He bent and kissed her cheek. “I have to go clean up for dinner. I will see you then.”
“You will,” Mother said and caught his hand. She pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
Joshua started for the door as the women curtsied to him. His eyes caught on Lady Townsend, and he drew to a stop in front of. He didn’t say anything at first. He wasn’t really sure what he should be saying.
She noticed him looking and took an even deeper curtsy as the rest of the women uncertainly rose. Joshua glanced at them and gestured downwards. They sat without question, leaving Lady Townsend alone. Mother did not intervene.
The power of he had was scary. Clive would never stand for this. He would never dare order a lady of the court; or any other lady for that matter. He even had trouble ordering Jill around, and she was basically their sister. Joshua didn’t like how these women fell over themselves to listen to him. He was a child still. They shouldn’t listen to him, not matter what lived in his bones.
“Your grace,” Lady Townsend said tentatively. She did not rise from her curtsy, but she raised her hands – when he did not interrupt her, she took a necklace from the collection on her neck. It looked expensive and had a crystal shard pendant. Joshua could feel the small trickle of aether from it. “If you would accept a token of – of my deepest and most sincere apology. I truly did not mean to offend you, nor your family.”
She offered the necklace to him with cupped hands, as though it was a prayer. Joshua fought to keep his expression steady. Father might take the necklace, depending on how insulted he was. Mother would take it eagerly and gift it away to a servant, to pay for a service she needed them to render. Jill would accept if she felt it was just. Clive wouldn’t; Jill said that Clive would never raise neither sword nor tongue in his own defense, only in the defense of their family. If Jill said it, then it must be true.
She also said that Joshua couldn’t listen to Mother, not about everything. She wasn’t correct in her accession of Jill as a northern savage. That meant there was more she was wrong about. Jill said Joshua would have to make his own opinions; Clive said he would have to be a good and fair archduke, as was his duty.
Was it just to take this woman’s necklace for a rumor? Was it good or fair?
Joshua reached out. Lady Townsend’s eyes shut. He curled his hand around hers and closed her fingers around the necklace.
“Keep it,” Joshua told her. She stared at him like he had saved her from the gallows. She clutched the necklace close. “If you must bring my awareness to a rumor – or my parents’ attention, or my brother’s, or Lady Jill’s – then ensure first that it is not blatantly untrue. I hope you have a nice day, Lady Townsend.”
“Thank you,” she said with another curtsy – not a proper one, because she still clung to that necklace.
Joshua left the room. He closed the doors, took a deep breath, and leaned down to peer through the keyhole. Neither guard protested nor blinked at this behavior from their heir apparent.
“Isn’t he so sweet? He will make a wonderful archduke one day.” Mother said, still in that too-gentle voice. What was going on with her?
“Yes, your Grace,” someone answered.
Joshua’s expression soured. He padded silently away from the door and didn’t let his heels click against the floor until he reached the stairs. Then he was running full tilt to the one man who could solve his problems. He rushed through the castle’s servant’s passages, dodging maids and menservants and bearers on his way out to the bailey.
He snuck around once the outside air hit him. If he ran, he would be caught. He made his way over to the fence, crouched down so no one within could see him.
Clive worked among the Shields. Joshua smiled at the sight of his dark hair and sullen expression. The tension of the day sloughed off of him.
Two of the younger ones – squires, by the look of them – bowed to Clive as he passed. Jealousy burned in Joshua's heart at Clive's answering easy smile as he ruffled the closest’s hair.
“There’s no need for bowing. We are all Shields, are we not? There’re no lords out here.” he said, audible even at this distance. Joshua caught glimpse of a mischievous wink. “Except Murdoch, of course, and he’s more slave-driver than lord.”
“What do you know of slave-drivers, Lord Marquess?” some other man called. He leaned against the fence not too far from Joshua, but not close enough that Joshua might be noticed.
Murdoch, who spoke to a couple Shields on the other side of the bailey, turned to look with a frown. Joshua grinned; it looked like just desserts were about to be served.
“I know your mother, when she drives me,” Clive joked. The man laughed, along with several other Shields. Joshua himself giggled, but it was more because Murdoch’s expression had gone dark than any raunchy joke.
“Rosfield!” Murdoch boomed. “Drills, now!”
Clive nodded to him and moved immediately to the side to begin his drills. Joshua waited until he closed his eyes and relaxed into his practice before clambering up the fence to get a better look at him. His brother was the coolest around and the best swordsman in existence. Joshua loved seeing him practice, though it filled him with a sort of dread that Clive practiced to be of use to him.
“Off the fence, Joshua,” Clive called without looking.
Joshua’s mouth dropped open even as he obediently started to come back down. This time he didn’t hide, just stretched up onto his tip toes so he could see over the fence. “Hey! You didn’t even see me, your eyes were closed! I made sure! How did you know?”
“I’m your brother,” Clive answered. He did not stop moving from sword form to sword form as he spoke. He didn’t even sound out of breath. “I have this sixth sense that tells me when my baby brother’s breaking the rules.”
Joshua narrowed his eyes at Clive. He was ten now, far too old to believe in something like that. His brother didn’t have a sixth sense and he definitely didn’t have eyes on the back of his head (Joshua and Jill had double checked to make sure) and he definitely couldn’t have just been able to tell. . . right?
“It’s true,” the Shield Clive insulted earlier said, “all big brothers have that sense. In fact, I’m getting it right now. Lord Commander! Isaiah’s flirting with Lady Petra again!”
Murdoch rolled his eyes as a startled laugh came from the other side of the bailey. Joshua gave up on over; he leaned down to look between the wooden slats. A man who looked Clive’s age turned around, looking affronted. The lady on the other side of the fence continued laughing brightly as her admirer wished her goodbye and dragged his feet over.
“Isaiah,” Murdoch started.
“Yes, yes, spar with Rosfield, I know,” Isaiah sighed. Clive’s eyes blinked open. He glanced over his shoulder, just long enough to make eye contact with Joshua, then gave his opponent his attention. Joshua wondered if it was worth the scolding to climb up onto the fence again to get a better view.
A stolas hooted overhead. Joshua glanced up; that was Mother’s stolas, was it not? Maybe that was why she had been weird. She’d been expecting news.
Well, no matter, he supposed. Clive was about to get him out of going to dinner by putting on a show with this Sir Isaiah. Joshua settled in, grinning widely.
✨✨✨
Jill froze, embroidery needle piercing the fabric in her off hand. She craned her neck; it looked like a stolas had crashed into the window. She glanced over at her sleeping tutor; Lady Aisha had a long night, if her subsequent exhaustion meant anything. She assured Jill that she was alright, but Jill worried anyways. Lady Aisha was one of her favorite tutors, aside from Murdoch and his swordplay lessons.
Lady Aisha’s tutoring constituted of Jill getting to stab a piece of fabric a lot and learn the things about Rosarian culture that no one felt important enough to teach her. Jill got to stab something repeatedly and Lady Aisha got to pretend for an hour a day that she had a granddaughter to counsel, instead of a host of rowdy grandsons. Plus, it was never any less funny to see the distaste in the archduchess’ face when she saw Jill’s attempts at embroidery.
When she was sure Lady Aisha had not awoken, Jill stood. She set aside her needle and fabric. She stepped silently over to the window.
She had never known a stolas to do something like that. Their species was carefully minded by royalty across the Twins. It should have been taught better than to run into glass like this.
Jill unlocked the window. She winced at each grinding noise the lock made, glancing repeatedly back at her tutor. Lady Aisha didn’t stir, not even when Jill cracked open the window. The window was rusted almost shut; by the time it was open enough to get a gentle enough grip on the bird without hurting it, Jill was sweating.
“Poor thing,” Jill whispered as she brought it in. She cradled it in her arms as she stared at the window. She didn’t want to put down the dazed stolas. She would have to come back later to close the window.
The stolas hooted softly. Jill flinched and looked over at Lady Aisha; she didn’t so much as flutter her eyelashes.
“Hush,” Jill told it, equally as softly. It blinked at her with its multiple eyelids. Jill smiled and hugged it close to her chest as she made her way out of the room. She stopped in the hallway. Where would she go? What would she do with it? She wasn’t even sure whose stolas this was. “Who are you for?”
The stolas hooted unhelpfully. Jill nodded like it said something she could use. Her eyes found the letter on its foot.
“Forgive me,” she asked before slipping free the curled parchment. She unraveled it, looking for a name.
Dear lover, the letter read. Jill nearly stopped, cheeks flushing.
Dear lover;
(There was a great deal of fluff here that Jill skipped over, cheeks burning. She did not want to know of some woman’s tender breasts and white, unbroken skin, nor did she want to know of what exactly this man would do to the areas no decent man would touch outside of their marriage bed.)
Our time here is short. I have done what I can from my end. My people move on the Gate; ensure your husband and firstborn arrive when you say they will. As promised, your secondborn will be safe. The IK has been in contact; they will march on RC on the agreed upon date.
In Greagor’s Name,
Sylvestre
Jill knew of only one Sylvestre. Her body chilled, the scandal falling away; it was like she was home in her father’s grounds, playing at being a menace in the snow as her governess watched on. She looked between the stolas and the letter in her hands.
The Gate – it must be Phoenix Gate, it was the only place in Rosaria with gate in the name. And IK. . . was that the Iron Kingdom? It wasn’t Isolde. If Sylvestre was the one she knew of, then why would Sanbreque contact the Iron Kingdom to march on. . . RC. . . What had the initials RC?
Jill shook her head. This letter was addressed to a lover. Sylvestre had someone in the castle. She hesitated a moment longer, unsure. She was only twelve, what could she do about this? She was worth only what she could give to Rosaria to protect the refugees from her homeland who came to Rosaria for the promise of unblighted land. She had no power here.
She shook her head. No, no, that was the archduchess speaking. Jill had a letter, a damning one. She made for the hidden hallways and staircases utilized by servants. She couldn’t risk Anabella seeing her.
It was a long and slow walk to the hidden entrance near her bedroom. She lingered there for five, ten, fifteen, twenty-five minutes, waiting for the guard to change. In the brief distraction, she ducked into her bedroom.
Here she stopped. What now? The stolas was recovering from the bump. It moved more now, seeming alert. There was no injury to the crystal embedded in its head. It seemed alright; Jill sent a quiet thank you to the Founder – he wasn’t her god, but this was a Rosarian stolas, and a Rosarian crisis.
“Phoenix’s Gate – didn’t his grace say something about taking the soldiers out there to wage war on the Iron Kingdom?” Jill asked the stolas, even though it was unlikely to know nor answer her. “He has a wife; she has two sons. It can’t be, can it? Even she could not be so heartless.”
The stolas blinked at her. Jill stared despairingly at it.
“Even she could not betray her country,” Jill said, “it is already her country – she runs it, when his grace is gone. I don’t understand. She can’t still want for more, can she? What can Sanbreque give her that Rosaria cannot?”
Jill looked about her room. She needed to hide the stolas. Where could she put it? The maids would be able to find it, no matter where she put it. Though, she supposed she only needed the stolas to remain hidden for a day, maybe less.
Who would she tell? What would she do? If it was earlier in the day, she would be running to the archduke, letter in hand.
Her eyes found the closet. She tugged open the doors and peered inside. There was a jewelry stand of sorts with a circular bar – Jill coaxed the stolas onto it. It hooted, but went willingly.
She enclosed the stolas in her closet and stood for a moment, her back to the doors, staring across her room. What was she to do? The hand holding the letter shook. If there was a threat to the duchy, then she should go to the lord commander; it wasn’t right for her to beg audience with the archduke, not at this hour at night, and certainly not alone.
“Damn propriety,” Jill whispered. She couldn’t go to the lord commander, either. What reason would Jill have to speak to the second most powerful man in the archduchy? Well, third, she supposed, as Joshua would have been first if his father did not hold the throne.
There was another man she could bring this to the attention of; one who had far better reason to speak to the lord commander or archduke. A man who none would raise an eyebrow at. One who she supposed she was meant to wed, in exchange for the safety of the North.
He should be at the balcony at this time of night. She tucked the letter into her pocket and slipped out of her room. Neither guards nor maids were posted at her door, though a pair of Shields stood within eyesight. She nodded to them, received twin smiles in response, and hurried to the balcony.
Clive turned at the sound of footsteps. The coarse expression he wore among Shields evaporated at the sight of her.
“My lady,” he said warmly. He bent as much as was possible from his place upon the balustrade, in a semblance of a bow.
It had been a joke, when they were smaller. He only called her that when she was upset, midway to a tantrum that she could not have here in Rosaria. Her father would have swept her up and kissed all the tears from her face, had she still lived with him. She didn’t; so it had been Clive who bowed dramatically and called her all sorts of sweet names and made a fool of himself to sooth her tears.
Recently, it had taken a more sincere turn. He called her his lady more now, more than when she was upset. His eyes followed her when he thought she wasn’t looking. He stood between her and his mother more often now.
Jill curtsied to him with all the grace her tutors demanded of her. His easy smile and rosy cheeks still soothed the bristling emotion in her chest, the way it had when she was small. “My lord marquess.”
Clive giggled – well, he was an adult, almost. She supposed it was more of a chuckle, then. He didn’t look very adult-like to her eyes. Lord Byron always said that the archduke was the spitting image of Clive’s grandfather, and that Clive would one day look much like the archduke himself. Clive was lean, his shoulders not yet as broad as his father’s. Jill came to stand next to him, leaning against the marble balustrade.
“I was – I,” Jill paused. How to explain this? Without meaning to, she reached out for him. Her fingers found the bottom of his white and black jacket.
Clive frowned. He curled an arm around her. Though his forearm was warm against her shoulders, she noticed that his fingers were curled away from her shoulder. “What’s the matter? Did you have a nightmare, my lady?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she admitted. The letter burned in her pocket. Show it to him here, or bring him back to her room? “I. . . will you escort me to my room?”
“Of course.” Clive swung his legs over the balustrade and hopped off. He offered her his arm. She threaded her hands through it and held on. She was sure he had questions, but he didn’t ask. He just walked her silently to her room.
He didn’t enter properly, just hesitated just inside the doorway with his hands behind his back. She knew it was for the benefit of the Shields who could see her room; there was no chance of him misusing her, if anyone were to care about that. The archduchess would care, if only so she could find a way to twist it against one of them.
From inside her room, she moved to her closet and moved the doors. Clive’s cheeks turned even more red, but his expression darkened when he saw the stolas.
“I found it,” Jill told him quietly. She waited for his nod to step closer, outside of the line of sight of the Shields, and opened the letter for him to read.
It only took him a minute. His blue eyes met hers afterwards. For a moment, she was worried that he wouldn’t know what to do.
“Do you mind if I take this?” He asked softly. Jill hesitated for only a second – he was already shaking his head. “No, keep it with you. The maids give you a measure of privacy, do they not?”
“They do,” Jill said. There were parts of her room that the servants were forbidden to touch, such as the box beneath her bed. Jill checked it every morning and night; her trust had not yet been broken.
Clive had no such luxury. His mother was of the opinion that if he wanted to play with their subjects out in the bailey, then he must have no reason to hide anything in his room from the maids, who shared a similar social standing. Jill was of the opinion that the archduchess was a horrible woman and a worse mother.
“Then keep it with you,” Clive repeated. He bowed to her, just a little. “I’ll go raise what alarms I can. I might come back tonight, if you’ll have me.”
“I will,” she said, even though it meant she wouldn’t be able to change and sleep for a while. She’d give him an hour – Rosalith Castle wasn’t big enough to demand a longer wait. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need,” he said, smile returning. “I – yeah. I’ll return soon.”
She nodded. Clive turned and strode off, back straight, shoulders square. Jill drifted to her doorway and peered after him. No, he didn’t look like his father, not yet. She thought she agreed with Lord Byron; it was inevitable. He already carried himself as if he were the archduke.
As she stepped back into her room, she accidentally made eye contact with the Shields. They were both grinning and nudging each other. Her cheeks burned and she quickly shut the door.
Her head thunked against it. Only a moment ago she had been thinking of how obvious Clive was; it seemed she was not any better.
✨✨✨
Clive headed for his father’s chambers. The contents of the letter swirled around his head, taking up all the space.
Dear lover, it started, and if it were not for the anxious set to Jill’s expression, he would not have read another word of it. Those two words were the worst of it. Dear lover. There was no going back from that, not to Clive’s eyes. He was young, but he wasn’t ignorant to the way of the world. He spent more time in the bailey with the other Shields than he did in his lessons with the tutors the grand duchy paid handsomely. From the Shields he received another sort of education.
Clive nodded to the guards at the door to his father’s chambers, raising his hand to knock. They both bowed – it was that act that made him realize exactly what he was doing. He froze, knuckles a hairsbreadth from the door.
His mother was in there. These were not only his father’s chambers. What was he doing? He had almost given them up.
“My lord?” the Shield to the left, Sir Erik, said. “His grace is inside, if you want -”
Clive withdrew into his own space. He took two quick steps back, cheeks burning. “Ah, uh, no, it’s, uh.”
What now? Where would he go? His shoulders rose as he took another step back. He couldn’t bring himself to meet the Shields’ eyes. Fire and flames, what now?
“I’m sure his grace would be happy to speak with you,” the other shield, Sir Jeremy, said. He had a kindly face and white hair, and so many wrinkles the features were lost within them. “Would you like me to fetch him, my lord?”
“There’s no need,” Clive assured them. He glanced at the door, like it would somehow open before him and reveal his father’s stalwart figure. The door did not open, so he just looked at the ground. “I was just. . . on a walk? Um. Yeah, I was just walking. Good work, you two, Rosaria thanks you for the sleepless nights.”
“Of course,” Sir Erik said, and the pity in his voice made Clive burn up inside. He said nothing, just nodded to them both and turned to leave.
He took a steadying breath, rubbing at one arm as he headed off. Murdoch should be in the castle somewhere; he was high enough on the chain of command that Clive should be able to trust him. He was as close as it was possible to be to the archduke. There was no chance of corrupting him or turning him away from Rosaria – though there had been a time, less than a half hour ago, that he would have said the same for his mother.
“Where will you go?” Sir Jeremy called before Clive moved more than a few steps.
Clive turned with raised eyebrows. “Pardon?”
“If you cannot talk to your father, maybe you could speak to one of us,” Sir Jeremy offered, voice oddly loud. His smile was as warm as Clive had ever seen it. He was one of the few Shields who hadn’t beat on Clive when he first joined as Murdoch’s squire.
Sir Erik had never been so kind, but he had been one of the more reliable Shields. He fucked with Clive just as much as anyone else, but his treatment never left Clive in tears at the end of the day. He had been the one to tell Clive to quit if he couldn’t stand being treated like a peasant; Clive liked to think that the little respect Sir Erik showed him was respect he’d earned by toughing it out like every other Shield there.
Between the two of them, if it was something Clive could have trusted them with, they would not have led him astray. He wished he could tell them. But no – this problem couldn’t be solved by the two of them.
He grit his jaw and shook his head. “Thank you, but – I really am just taking a walk.”
“If you’re sure,” Sir Erik said at a similar volume, though the concern was clearly visible.
Clive almost managed a smile. He turned and started back down the hall. Murdoch wouldn’t be in his office at this hour, not unless the Ironblood’s activity by the coast had increased. He would be in his chambers. At least his chambers were close to Jill’s room.
A door swung open behind Clive. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide.
“Come back to bed,” Mother crooned from somewhere inside.
“In a moment, my dear,” Father answered as he closed the door. He tugged the red robe that covered his sleep gown closer to him as he stepped out from behind the guards – Sirs Erik and Jeremy were both hiding grins – wait, they had been too loud, they did this on purpose! “Clive?”
“Uh,” Clive started, and promptly ran out of words. He stared at Father – how was he supposed to address him right now? What was he going to say? The men were right there and Clive was one of two people who knew a grand-duchy-ending secret!
Father strode over to him. He placed a hand on the top of Clive’s head, as if Clive was still four years old and beloved by his family. “What’s the matter? Did you have a nightmare?”
Clive felt like he was four years old, all of a sudden. He couldn’t even remember the last time he came running to his father to chase away something so simple as a nightmare. He ducked his head, trying to search for a response.
His father made some soft noise, and then there were arms around Clive’s shoulders. For a moment, Clive just stood there. Then, slowly, he hugged his father back. His eyes burned.
“It must have been some nightmare,” Father said, a hint of a joke in his voice, “though I do wonder why you were sleeping in your day clothes. I didn’t realize they worked you so hard down in the bailey.”
Clive wondered if his father could feel him shaking. He hoped the Shields weren’t laughing at him. It was all he could do to keep his fingers from digging into his father like claws. He forced his mouth to form trembling words. “It’s not that hard.”
“If it wasn’t hard to be the First Shield of Rosaria,” Father said with obvious pride in his voice, a pride Clive didn’t often hear from him, “then anyone would do it. I saw you fight at the tourney last year. Your skill with a blade is nearly unparalleled.”
Clive gave up on seeming calm and unaffected. He let his head drop onto his father’s shoulder and leaned his entire weight on him. Father did not protest nor react to the change. He just patted Clive’s back and rested his cheek on the top of Clive’s head.
“Sorry,” Clive muttered.
“Don’t be. I have had precious little time to be your father these past few years. How nostalgic, shooing away a nightmare! Even Joshua has learned not to ask this of me.” The soft kiss he placed on Clive’s temple brought tears to his eyes. “If there’s one thing I regret, it is how swiftly the two of you are growing up.”
“I’m full grown,” Clive grumbled. He pulled away from his father, head angled so Father wouldn’t get a clear look at the tears Clive dashed away.
“Not for a few years yet,” Father said. He threw an arm around Clive’s shoulders. “Come, let’s go check on Joshua.”
Clive let Father steer him in the direction of the chambers. For a moment, he let himself just relax in his father’s warmth. Then he remembered Jill.
“Ah, there was one other thing,” Clive said, quietly. His father looked over at him, eyes soft. Clive’s stomach churned. “Jill found an injured stolas, delivering a message to the Castle. I – we thought you should see it.”
“Alright,” Father said easily, like it was no big deal.
Clive supposed it wasn’t a big deal to him. Not yet, at least.Dear lover, it had started, and that was the worst part of it, Dear lover.
When Father cracked open the door to Joshua’s room, the boy in question gasped and jumped up from his desk. He blinked guiltily at them, hurrying to close the book on the table.
“Father, Clive! I was just going to bed!”
“In your day clothes?” Clive teased.
His brother blushed, looking down at his red attire. His mouth worked as he fought to come up with an excuse.
Father didn’t wait for one. He strode forward and swept Joshua up and into his arms. Joshua gasped again, but broke into a smile almost too big for his face. He hugged back immediately, snuggling into Father’s warmth.
Clive followed into the room, taking the book and replacing it in its proper place. He tidied up Joshua’s desk as well – Joshua had no need for the military neatness that Clive had grown used to, and his things were strewn every which way.
“Good night, my son.” Father laid Joshua into his blankets, day clothes and all. Joshua beamed up at him, all the candles in the room flaring brighter as Father leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Sleep well, and we shall see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, Father,” Joshua said. Clive waited for Father to reach the door before he blew out the candles and came over to his brother. He left one candle, the one with the most wax, alone. Joshua threw his arms up, insisting on a hug from Clive as well. “Good night!”
“Don’t stay up late reading, chicken,” Clive muttered into his ear.
Joshua giggled at the silly nickname. When Clive straightened, his brother’s eyes twinkled with mischief. Clive shook his head at the look.
“I won’t,” Joshua lied.
Clive didn’t bother with a response. He just returned to his father’s side and shut the door behind him. Joshua didn’t wait until the door closed entirely before he was squirming around. Clive assumed he would just relight his candles so he could finish his book; it was one of the newer ones from Port Isolde, some romance Clive was sure.
Jill’s room was only a few doors down from Joshua’s. Father had promised the Silvermane she would be raised as one of his own children; so she was, despite Mother’s protests at the barbarian living in her home.
Father knocked. Jill cracked open the door and jumped to curtsy when she saw him. Father stilled her with a hand, stepping into her room. Clive lingered in the doorway, unsure how far in he was supposed to go, especially with the guards that were in eye line of the door.
She produced the letter and handed it to Father. He skimmed it and tucked it into a pocket. “I’m, uh. . .”
Father shook his head. He patted her on the head, much like he had patted Clive’s head earlier. “Don’t worry, Jill. And where is the stolas?”
She opened up her closet doors, showing the stolas within. Father’s expression soured; he took the stolas, waking it up from its nap. He took it to the window, opened it, and let it go. Jill and Clive glanced at each other.
“The letter was the important part,” he told them, sour expression slipping away into a lighthearted amusement. “I’m sure if you two had taken a moment longer, you would have realized that a stolas can only carry a message from its owner, and that message can only be received by the intended recipient.”
Jill blushed violently. She covered her mouth, looking between the window and her closet. Clive dropped his head into his hands. He could have just taken the letter directly to Father, then, what had he been thinking? Father was right when he said Clive needed a few years more to grow up. He was just so scared.
“Next time, I’m sure we’ll remember,” Clive said from behind his hands.
“Yeah,” Jill said, “though – it looked as though you knew that stolas.”
“I did,” Father said. Dear lover, Clive thought, looking up from his hands. “This will be resolved, I assure you. Are you the only ones who know? Yes? Good. Keep it that way. Get some sleep, Jill, it is late.”
“I will,” Jill said, the tension draining out of her. She stepped closer to Father – Clive tilted his head. He had never exactly been there when Jill said her good nights to anyone other than himself.
He felt a little shocked when Father kissed the crown of her head with a warm smile. She returned the smile, like this was as normal an interaction as Clive and Jill’s neigh nightly meeting at the balcony.
Maybe it was that normal. Maybe Father lovingly bade goodnight to Joshua and Jill both each night, while Clive returned to his bedchambers at some late hour, exhausted from his work as a Shield and the evening classes his tutors provided him. Jill and Joshua studied together, that Clive knew. He heard Mother rant about it every time she remembered the interaction existed. He knew he was an outsider in his family, but he hadn’t realized the true scope of it.
Jill wiggled her fingers at him. Clive bowed to her over his hands like a proper Shield to see her blush and giggle. His father closed the door as Clive stepped out. His arm fell around Clive’s shoulders again, steering them back towards the center of the Castle.
Clive didn’t live in the ducal family’s wing. He didn’t really live in the guest wing, either. He lived in a room just off the throne room – it was mirrored on the other side by Murdoch’s own room. He moved here before his sixth birthday, after Mother had decided the newborn Phoenix would need Clive’s childhood room.
“Pick a room,” she had told him, “and it will be yours.”
She’d made good on that promise, commanding the servants clear the storage room he wanted for its view of the gardens. Clive had loved that room for years, his final gift from a mother who loved him, right up until he realized she had wanted him as far away from her as was possible. Then the room had turned into one like any other. If anything, the location was useful; it wasn’t near his family, but it was centrally located. He could be anywhere he needed to be within a couple minutes.
Father fell into the armchair next to Clive’s fireplace. He sighed and held his hands out to the glowing embers as Clive slid shut the doors. “Did you set the fire, or did a servant handle it?”
“I did,” Clive said, setting to unbuttoning his day clothes, “I asked the servants to not bother themselves with my chores.”
“Your chores? Surely, a lord marquess wouldn’t have chores.”
Clive shrugged out of his coat, smiling a little despite the awkwardness that plagued his motions. “The Shields would have my hide if I said I did in front of them. They are chores, though, and it only takes a few minutes each night to tidy my room. The servants come in to dust, sometimes, and to spy when Mother asks them, but otherwise this room is mine.”
Father shook his head a little. He looked over as Clive was wrestling out of his boots. “Spy?”
“What else do you call it? They come in, they look through my things, then they leave.” Clive didn’t dare wince when his foot met the cold stone floor. He relocated to the rugs, which weren’t warm, but weren’t freezing either.
Father stared at him. Clive turned away so he could start to remove his leather trousers. When they were off, and Clive stood only in his red shirt, and Father hadn’t continued the conversation, Clive turned back to him. He still watched Clive, frowning harder than Clive had ever seen him frown. Clive’s fingers tangled in the bottom of his shirt, tugging the hem lower, unsure of how to cut the sudden tension.
“I’ll have a word with the servants,” Father said after a moment. He returned back to warming his hands over the fire. “They will not go through your things again. It is good work you did with this fire – did you use a crystal or the blessing?”
Clive stared at his back a moment. Then he returned to getting ready for bed. “Neither. I used a flint and steel. I wanted to practice, should I be caught in the deadlands on some future campaign. I’m getting good at it, I think.”
He tugged off his shirt and grabbed his night shirt. The plain white linen fell to his knees; it was long and restricting to someone who spent much of his time on the move. He didn’t often wear it, preferring one of shirts instead, but he didn’t want to be bare from the waist down in front of his father, even if it was just to go to sleep. He could always remove it later.
He picked up his discarded clothing, folding them and placing them on his table. His red shirt went into the basket beside his bed. With a self conscious glance at his father, he knelt by the bed and lifted the lid of his chamberpot just to make sure it was clean. Then he stood and clambered into his bed.
Father sat slumped in the chair. Clive looked over at him. He hesitated, then clambered right back out of bed. He came to his father’s side and knelt at his right hand. His father had his left over his eyes, lips twisted, jaw locked.
Dear lover, that note in Father’s pocket said. Clive didn’t feel right looking at his father cry. He cast around his room, looking for something he could give to Father, something that might make him feel better. He came up empty. There was nothing in his room. He had his clothes, a couple decorative weapons, a bookshelf of tomes, and a jug of water and a basin he used to wash up in the morning. Joshua would have sweets in his drawers, Jill had all manner of little trinkets gifted to her from Clive or Joshua or Father, but Clive’s rooms had nothing in them.
He reached for his father’s free hand instead. He didn’t know what to do once he had it, so he just held it. If it was Joshua crying in Clive’s room, then Clive could just hug him, or pick him up, or tug him over to the bed to cuddle him until he calmed down. If it was Jill, then Clive would push past the smothering fear and hold her, too, and pray to the Founder no one saw him touching her.
Clive didn’t feel right trying to hold his father. That felt strange to him, somehow. So Clive just held his hand and hoped the slow slide of Clive’s thumb over his father’s skin was enough to ground him.
Some time later, Father lowered his hand from his face. He did nothing to hide the tears on his face nor the raw quality his voice took. “You don’t have to do that.”
What would Clive say to Joshua if his heart was broken? What would he say to Jill? He thought he was years away from having to comfort a family member through this particular crisis.
“You’re my father.” Clive said, by way of explanation.
“Some father.” Clive watched another tear follow the path the ones before it carved.
“I think you’re a fine father,” Clive said honestly. Another tear spilled over. Was Clive making it worse? He was, wasn’t he?
Father opened and closed his mouth a couple times. In the end, he gave up on speech and shoved to his feet. Clive stood with him, hovering awkwardly.
“Do you, uh, would you like to stay?” He tried not to cringe too visibly at the offer. Was that too childish? Was the hunger that gnawed at his chest audible? His father was hurting, surely he wanted to return to his own bedchambers. Or maybe go to Murdoch, like Clive planned to earlier.
“Do you mean that?” Father asked.
“Yes,” Clive answered without hesitation. It was the least he could offer, surely. And it was a comfort he offered Joshua regularly, so it wasn’t unheard of, right? And he was sure Father had stayed over in Clive’s rooms before, even if Clive couldn’t remember exactly if he had.
There was another long moment of silence as Father stared at Clive. When he didn’t move, Clive took his father’s hand – how daring for a Shield! Was this alright? This went so far against propriety that Clive felt real fear – and pulled him to the bed. Clive tugged down the blankets and gestured for his father to get in. His cheeks burned. Was this alright?
Father toed off his slippers and got into the bed. The anxiety in Clive’s chest eased. He followed his father in and made sure to cover them both. Father curled around Clive, shaking with his silent tears.
Despite his father’s obvious distress, the tension drained out of Clive. He felt a little like he was melting into his blankets. He hadn’t had this since he was, what, five? It had been so long since he had a simple hug, but this was so much more than that. It felt almost monstrous, to be so happy to be able to hold his father while Father was in so much pain.
He supposed he could be a little monstrous, just this once; just so long as it got him a warm hug, and this strange sense of safety, and the happiness that burned in him like a tiny, newborn flame.