CHAPTER 60
Donil
I know the feel of an ax, the shudder of a tree beneath my blow. I also know the touch of a blade, my skin opening beneath it. I feel the same in equal measure as I toil in the forest, the woodland creatures fleeing at the sound of our work peering over their shoulders at me as they run, betrayed. I watch them go, knowing they are not the only ones I have wronged.
Guilt weighs on me so heavily that it hurts more than my arms day after day, though I hoped hard labor might drive thoughts of both Vincent and Khosa away. It doesn’t, and the pain only serves to remind me that, whatever I suffer, surely my sister bears up under the same, much and more. The thought of Dara in pain makes me swing my ax more savagely, though it is a tree that falls beneath the blade and not a Pietran neck.
Winlan and the Hygodeans work at my side, Pand and many of the children following along with hatchets, stripping away limbs with quick movements. Work may not ease my mind, but it does make the days pass quickly, and I rest as the sun makes its descent, the chilly air of evening settling on my sweaty skin.
“Ah, there’s a nice one to look at,” Winlan says, pointing to Daisy as she moves among us, a dipper and bucket of water hanging from her elbow.
“I’ll be sure to tell your wife you say so,” I snap at him. Khosa may have my heart, but I don’t like Daisy falling under another’s eyes, nevertheless.
Winlan shrugs, his heavy shoulders moving against the bark of the tree we both rest against. “As long as you tell her my true words, I’ve nothing to worry about. I said the girl is a nice one to look at, nothing more. My wife knows that I’ve got eyes in my head, but my hands will always only go to her.”
“Apologies,” I mutter. I can hardly take Winlan to task over having eyes when my own are on Daisy as well. I spit, realizing I couldn’t have taken him to task for wandering outside of the marriage bed, either, if that had been his meaning.
“Thank you, lass,” Winlan says, when Daisy comes our way, offering a full dipper. He takes his drink, then hands it back, his eyes not leaving her face. She refills it and passes it to me, her fingers brushing mine.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Donil,” she says pointedly, to which I nod toward the felled trees behind her.
“Been busy.”
“If you feel like doing something more entertaining with wood, you know where I am.” She tips me a wink as she leaves, and Winlan drives an elbow into my side as she walks away, which hurts more than I care to admit.
“Is she your girl, then?”
“Once,” I admit.
“Erhmm . . . maybe twice?” he asks, as she looks back at me, swaying her hips suggestively.
I clear my throat. “How many boats has Vincent called for?”
Winlan rolls his eyes at my sudden—and obvious—redirection of the conversation, but answers regardless. “He asked for four, and if you don’t mind my saying so, I think your king is being generous with himself concerning how many Stilleans have been swayed by his argument for leaving land behind.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Lad,” Winlan clamps a hand onto my shoulder, “I could fit all of Hygoden on my own ship—and their goats.”
“Agreed,” I nod. “But there are ten Stilleans for each one of you. Four ships wouldn’t carry even half of them.”
“I know,” Winlan says solemnly. “And I doubt we’ll need that many.”
I find Vincent with a handful of soldiers who have stayed on the training field past dusk, valuing swordplay that could save their necks over food waiting at home for their stomachs. Vincent moves fluidly, his broadsword arcing and dipping around his body, defending here, attacking there. Everything he knows he was taught early, though the lessons of Stillean royals were more for show than combat.
That changed the first time Dara knocked him on his ass. Vincent rose from the ground, a smear of mud on his cheek, his royal blood rising to his face. Though we were only children, I had always played nicely with the young prince. Dara not so, and I stood by her side, hand on the pommel of my wooden sword, hoping that our friend didn’t prove to have more of his father in him than we thought. Vincent spat onto the ground, the flat white streak of a lost baby tooth going with it.
“Show me how you did that,” he said to Dara.
So we did, that day and every one thereafter, the wood traded for blades, playtime for training, his royal instructors for two Indiri orphans. Vincent is an excellent swordsman; a unique blend of Stillean and Indiri methods have come together in him to create a fighter only Dara and I could best. Perhaps only Dara, I have to admit, watching him now.
The Stilleans attempt to follow as he breaks down twists of the wrist, rotation of the body, dips, and arcs that can be the difference between life and death. He is a good teacher, and though his students stumble awkwardly in this moment, more than a few may live through whatever is coming because their king trained with them in the dying sun, cold sweat running down his face.
I hail him as I cross the field, a fresh burst of affection for this king I call brother rising inside of me. He smiles and waves in answer, and for a moment, we are but children again, well met of an evening. His soldiers share a nod with me, bid Vincent good night, and leave us to walk to the castle. We cover uneven ground together, our steps sending our shoulders into one another as we go.
“You look well with a sword, brother,” I tell him.
Vincent shakes his head. “Indiri should keep to the sword and not take up statecraft. I see concern on your face now, and I doubt that it has anything to do with my blade skill.”
“If Indiri have glass faces, it is because we are nothing but honest,” I tell him, the words striking me as deeply untrue after they’ve escaped my mouth.
“Honesty will not serve you well within walls that you rule over,” Vincent says. “Now, out with it.”
“Winlan fears that much labor is put into boats that will carry no one,” I tell him.
He nods, leaning against the walls of the castle to rest. “It’s true that not all of Stille has welcomed the idea of sailing into the sunset with open arms. But I will see those ships filled.”
“How many have refused?” I ask.
Vincent sighs, sliding down to the ground in his exhaustion. “I reject my earlier words; you would be an excellent inquisitioner. Half of those I’ve spoken to would rather take their chances with the Pietra and earth that doesn’t rest easy.”
“Half,” I breathe. “I had not thought it would be so many.”
“Yes,” he admits. “And . . .” He blows himself empty of air, then seems surprised words have not come with it.
“What is it?” I press.
“I think even less than that will march with me to Pietra on Dara’s behalf.”
The news takes the strength out of me as well, and I ease myself to the cold ground alongside him, at a loss for words.
“I can order them to, of course,” Vincent says. “But I don’t know what use there is in half-trained soldiers who have no heart in the battle.”
“Little and less,” I agree. “You’d risk mutiny.”
“I know it,” Vincent says. “I’ll make one last push, remind them of Dara’s courage for the sake of Stille here on this very ground. She fought for people not her own. Can they not do the same?”
“She won the respect of many before the battle,” I remind him. “Some asked to have her train them over either of us.”
“Yes, they’ll fight for her, and likely survive because of what she’s taught them.”
I sigh along with him, our breath fogging the air. “That is something,” I say.
“Not enough,” Vincent says. “It won’t be enough, no matter where they stand when they fight, or what their reasons are.”
“No,” I admit, finding a stick that I break in half over my knee in frustration. “Likely not. But if the force will be split, why not put each to a purpose? Ask those who would not march on Dara’s behalf to learn their way around a boat.”
“And if they do not wish to sail?”
I crack the stick again. “March them to Madda’s tower and ask them if they’d rather learn to fly.”
I mean it in jest, but my voice comes out fierce, the snap of the stick echoing the sound their necks would make when they failed to be fast learners. I expect a quick rebuke from Vincent, but it does not come.
“Perhaps you know something of ruling after all. Khosa . . .” Her name trails off between us, the camaraderie broken. He clears his throat. “She found some histories, deeds unknown to most, and for good reason. It seems that those who came before me did not always act with grace or kindness.”
“Good attributes to be sure,” I say. “Though perhaps not the most useful to the king of a country at war.”
“Odd that I find myself wishing I were more like my father,” he says.
“Don’t wish that,” I say quickly. “Ever.”
“I wouldn’t, no matter that I might lead Stille better because of it. I could never wish a husband like him upon my wife.”
I nod in agreement and mean it, though to hear her called his wife burns my ears more than the sun at mid-sky. I feel Vincent’s eyes upon me and return his gaze, hoping my face is, indeed, not glass.
“She is not well, Donil,” he confides in me. “The sea calls more loudly to her than ever, and I fear she’ll bash herself to death against walls to get to it.”
“Then I will build boats to save your wife,” I tell him. “And you will lead an army to the door of my sister’s enemy.”
We sit together and watch the sun set, the last rays lost in the trees as the voice of an oderbird calls from the sky.