In Her Blood Pt 03

To my friend Juniper Mitford VI,

I hope this letter finds you in good tidings. Last we wrote, I believe you were expecting your fourth child and, if my calendar is correct, it would be about time to welcome them into the world. I truly have nothing but the best wishes for the health and wellness of both you and your newborn. My correspondence with your eldest has been most enjoyable and I hope that in the coming years I have a new set of letters to delight my writing table.

As to your previous letter, I understand your concerns. The military deployment of Gaisgeachs has certainly affected me and my diplomatic positions. You and Grand Cardinal Nerus have done your part to ensure that your positions are known and known loudly. Thus, I reiterate ours. We are committed to a fair trade of goods. We are committed to a peaceful and calm deposition between our nations. We are committed to a civil dialogue about the concerns of the governing bodies and the citizenry. We are welcoming of any and all who would wish to travel or settle in our lands. That has not changed. That will not change. Your concerns of exactly who is taking part of that last part of identity are noted, but that does not change our stance. You and your family have graced our cities before, partaken of our beaches, basked in our shared sun and you and your family are more than welcome to do so again. Just as everyone else is.

I am worried, however, about some of the implications of your last letter. You and the Grand Cardinal have respected our differences in the past, even as we have maintained neutrality in the conflicts between the two of you. I understand that wartime is chaotic with alliances ever changing. We are not in wartime. I want to remain not in wartime. I am unsure if that's what you want.

It's a beautiful day out today as I write to you. Ximena the Crane, one of the new intermediaries, has informed me that there is a farmer's meeting to be held at the central beach and that some of my new friends wish to see me there, if only to provide a few bottles of my family's mezcal. If I recall correctly, you have a fondness for that spirit as well. I shall send some with this message for you to enjoy. I have been adjusting some of my great-grandfather's techniques and I do believe that I have surpassed him, finally. Please send my regards to Prince Bernhard as well. I would love to hear his thoughts on the last batch I sent him. I hope to hear from you soon.

Your friend,

Hector LaPlanta

---

War, ever looming, ever present, ever lasting war. It hangs in the air like the chill of the night. It clings to my skin like my dark leathers. It twists in my mind like the knife in my hand. I twirl it across my knuckles one last time before before sliding it into its sheath, hidden among my cloak with its many, many brethren. It may happen again here, but I will be long gone by then.

The room is small and sparse. I am lucky enough to have a bed and a blanket, even as hard and as thin as they are. I am lucky enough to have free access to a toilet down the hall instead of a bucket in the corner. I am lucky enough to even have a small closet full of fine dresses that I get to wear when I am trotted out like a prize stallion for the salacious masses to gawk at. Everything is tucked away and neat. Everything is clean. I pull the scarf around my neck up over my mouth and bite against the rough fabric. I let the breath go and stare at my life as I know it one last time. There is nothing else I want to take. Bernhard is waiting for me and he already has everything we need. As one last little bit of flair, I neatly line up all the vials I was supposed to be administered on the bed, just so they all know exactly what went wrong when they bother to figure out this entire mess.

I gently ease the door open, lifting so that the hinges don't squeak. Darkness, endless darkness in the hall, but I slowly cut it away as I make my eyes adjust. They see thin window slits and cold stone, no guards or hapless wanderers so I get to play this bloodless for now. I make no attempt to slink or sidle, just lighten my steps so that they do not echo. The fancy carpet I am no doubt mussing up makes it even easier.

A small chime forms at the base of my spine that wishes to drag me back. We are approaching the hard line of where I am allowed. My heart jumps to my throat as the conditioned panic sets it. It's known. Bernhard and I have practiced our disobedience one step at a time. I have felt it before and know what will come next. My hands shake. My steps falter a bit, but I keep marching against the phantom. I work the tension from my fingers and that helps almost as much as me working my neck. It's something to master and hold down. It's something to shatter, with however a shaky hand.

I come to the corner and that's the line. The bell is deafening, blotting out all of my other thoughts. Sweat on my brow, hands shaking, heart hammering, even my vision is starting to narrow and blacken, but I force one more step, one more inch over that line. Bernhard is right there, with a standing order to meet him whenever I want to see him. That's what he said and that's what's true.

Just as I knew it would, nothing happens. The panic doesn't break right away, but each step further down carves out the edges to a softer shape. It's manageable. It's all manageable. Small steps into a full hike, it all starts here.

The entire castle is asleep as it well should be. The good queen has a big day of ruling her subjects tomorrow from her fancy chair. The guards have a big day of patrolling the streets and twirling their cudgels. The maids will have the honorable duty of scrubbing the floors and ensuring that this place is kept running for better or worse. No one notices me as I slip through the darkness and up a tower.

There's no grand ceremony waiting for me, not even an archer bored out of his mind with a cute ass and a bashful demeanor. There's a makeshift chair out of an old sack of hay and discarded pillow down, a table of crates and a few discarded carafes that are not worth their own dregs. It's all vinegar by this point anyway. There is however, a small balcony with a well placed rope waiting for me.

The city stretches out from vantage, all in a gentle repose of the night. The only life I can make it is from the south side, the brothels and taverns still engaged in their revelry against common decency. Long may that particular king reign on his throne of seed and beer, two of the only things that are actually fun in this town. I trace the line of wealth inward along the cobblestone streets until we come back to me. Off to my right is another tower, riddled with broken arrows that the wind hasn't carried away. He really has gotten better. That's a talent he's matured all on his own.

I tie the requisite knot in the provided anchor and toss the line over the side. The panic's gone, even from this height. Either this all works and I safely climb down, or none of this is my problem anymore. Either way really, I get out. I know what I would prefer, but the plan has contingencies however grim. I test my weight as if that will make any of this a certainty. It works. I tip myself over the edge and I do my best to turn into a cloud.

For a cloud, I hit the stone walls hard. I expected nothing else. I press against the stone walls and start my descent in earnest. The wind picks at my clothes and wants to send me down to the rooftops. It's a helpful thing really, if a bit overeager. I'm tough, but not enough to win against gravity. My victory comes from attrition and patience.

Someone from down below coughs. Just another sentry cursing their lot and their post and their temperament for not being disciplined enough to be stationed inside. That's how it always is. They like the gentle ones, the calm ones, the stoic ones. I press against the stone and wait for the footsteps to pass as I remain in shadow. That's the grand beauty of this entire trick. Nothing has happened, so nothing will happen. The world is asleep so no blades would dare to do anything to disturb that.

I softly land on the castle wall. From there, it's just a matter of getting to the east side where an overgrown willow tree was planted to break my fall before I was born. The panic comes back again for a moment, but it's natural this time. We are at the hard boundaries of my permission, the wind once again picking at my soul and threatening to dash me against the ground like a porcelain doll. I see my branch, the one just my size, and let myself go once again.

For a moment, I'm weightless. For a moment, there's not even the rush of wind on my ear, and the weight of my clothes does nothing to ground me. For a moment, I'm free. Then my mind catches up to reality and some of the training that's cut into me makes me calm. I turn and twist until my hands cover my face and I brace for impact.

The branches aren't soft objectively, but they are softer than anything else. One of the sharpest nick my cheek, but once again, that's still one of the better outcomes to all this. I catch my perch and slowly roll the standing. The rustling was nothing more than a gust of the wind. I cling and wait for the alarm to raise and a full legion to descend upon me. It doesn't come. I hear another cough and I think I'm getting out at the right time. I do not want to witness another surge of whatever plague is coming on the air today.

The rest of my walk is even easier now. Across the roofs like it was a garden path, around the chimneys like friendly signposts, my body sings with the motion. It might be the adrenaline, it might be the excitement, but it's good to work out the edges. Even then it's just good to move again. Too many days spent crushed into too stiff dresses with too hard shoes. This is what I was made for, even before everything else. I follow the sloping roofs to the outer walls.

I still on the edge of my last rooftop step. Deep in the alley stands a man warming his hands and looking after a pair of horses. He's making the mistake of staring at the ground, just like the rest of the city. It's adorable. He should know better, especially knowing what I am and where I am coming from. The horses catch my scent on the wind. That sends them into a bit of a tizzy, shaking their heads and snorting in disgust. I like them. They are at least upfront with their prejudices.

What really gets me is his reaction. He picks up on the horses and starts a quicker scan. I'm still not on the ground, around the corner, or in the gutter. He gets the idea to look up and for a moment, I think he gets me. Then his eyes glaze right over a me shaped shadow and continues on their way to the stars. I'm not there either. I'm sliding down a wall, not even trying to soften the rain of dust and pebbles down below.

Before he can react, I snake my hands around his waist and pull him close. My hands tend to wander and they are being very, very naughty. His stomach, his hips, and of course, that wonderful pound of flesh he's convinced is a pitiful offering for me. My palm grinding into it should clear the issue, but I know him. He'll get all blushy and shy the moment the act comes.

"Bernhard," I whisper in his ear, "We have to stop meeting like this. What will your mother think?"

To his credit, he does not immediately melt into puddle of my preferred vessel for carnal satisfaction. He stands up straight, especially against my palm. To my absolute surprises and even more to his credit, there's a subtle shift in the posture, bowing out the elbows, all minute without an inch wasted. I'm not on the ground, but he is free, positioned so that a bit of force could send me against the wall and he'd be off around the corner. I am just plain impressed with him.

He chooses, out of everything he could do, to press the advantage and lean up to me. In the dark of the alley, under the river of milk pale stars, we kiss. He breaks before I can start working my tongue into the pattern, but the thought is nice.

"Would you prefer we meet at the gallows, Ellyn?" he asked.

"Little bit. I have my last words planned and everything."

"I don't believe you."

"It would start a treasure hunt. Half this country dug up by the end of the first week. Then we'd slip out of our graves and go on with plan A."

"I may not be an expert, but I don't believe Gaisgeachs can rise from the dead."

"New formulas. Shame we're doing this now. They're working on a version where we can fly."

"I thought the next one was a venomous bite. Now you'll never know your true potential. We can stay if you want."

"Fuck no."

"That's what I thought. Did you bring the treats?"

I rummage a little bit more, past the army of knives in my cloak and come out with a fist sized pouch full of dried herbs laced with some rather potent concoctions. I have access to so many things and all I have to do is put them in my pocket instead of taking them and the world is better place for it.

Bernhard's nervous. He keeps glancing down the to the street. He should be focused on me. He does look good in black at least, nice and tight across his chest, just a bit of his arms poking out, hugging his thighs and making sure that my imagination is left to wander just the right amount. It's the nerves. Our thoughts always slip down to the base when we are nervous. It's part of the reason we've slotted together so nicely.

"We're really doing this?" I whisper.

"Yeah," he says, "Yeah. I'm done here. Are you?"

"Nothing left to say. You're giving up more than me."

"Not really. I don't have anything I really want back there. I'm bringing the one thing I care about anyway."

His hands go to my hips and he brings me in one last time. We don't kiss. We just hold each other for a moment, just waiting for the moment to pass and for us to actually do what we want.

I break first. He lets me. We steel our nerves, his learned and mine carved. The horses take a chance to catch the full spectrum of my scent and that calms down them down a second, long enough for me to saddle up. His motions are just as smooth if not smoother. He pats himself down, one last time, just to make sure. He has everything he needs, down to the bow and quiver hanging from the saddlebags. I have my many, many knives. We have each other and that's the best part.

He kicks the horse gently and mine is nice enough to follow without too much extra prodding. Each step is another echo back up the roads to the castle. The all seeing eye in the highest tower is still asleep and our racket does not wake it. I keep glancing back, just in case. He keeps his eyes forward, down to the massive central gate. This is not the most ingenious plan, I will admit, but ingenious is overrated so long as it's effective. We canter along, gazing into the night and jumping at the shadows.

We are coming back to the light, a sentry torch under the mouth of the gate, the cold iron jaw crushed down to the earth. Worst than the teeth, there are guards there, milling about in the flame's warmth. We make no attempt to hide ourselves. We are anonymous night people who have important night business to night complete.

Bernhard straightens in his saddle and I do the same. If we are big enough, then we will simply waltz trough with no one stopping us. It doesn't work. One of the guards peels away with an empty stare and general disinterest. He's in the way, though. We can't have that.

"Do you have the pouch," he says with no concern to formalities. He's almost falling over himself. The only thing keeping him upright is the spear he chooses to use as a support. Bernhard's pretty little silver tongue has no use as I rummage once again in the fold of my clothes. I grasp my prize and causally lob it overhead. For once, the sloth gives way to a small bit of panic as his hands drop the spear and he chases the prize. He almost fumbles it, but that would have been his problem, not mine.

"Now the gate," I say. Bernhard does his part to be intimidating, although he does manage to be more regal than anything else.

The guards almost forget the most important part. It takes another royal dressing down and a sharp interjection to actually get them to do the opposite of their jobs. One of them peels away in the wheelhouse and the iron mouth opens with a harsh scream. I hear a dog bark, but the castle is still asleep. Bernhard looks to me one last time. I only catch it out of the corner of my eye. I'm staring dead ahead, down the road and into the night. I kick my horse and Bernhard follows. He was right. There really is nothing for us here.

---

Dear Esteemed Comisario Hector LaPlanta,

The pleasantries are over. You are amassing a significant population of Gaisgeachs within Lauran borders. The only reasonable explanation that I can think of to do so is military in nature. These Gaisgeachs were under the command of either myself or Grand Cardinal Nerus. You have continued ransacking these strategic assets, disregarding the joint warnings of both myself and Cardinal with banal appeals to a common good I am convinced you no longer share.

You never were a large player on this stage, so I question your perspective on matter. You have not had the necessity of Gaisgeach husbandry. You do not know the process. You do not know their care. You do not know their temperament. I would not trust my newborn to correctly handle a rabid dog, no matter his intentions. It is simply beyond him as whatever you are undertaking is beyond you.

I intend no insult. I merely state facts. You have disregarded our warnings. You have disregarded our bargains. You have disregarded our interventions. I do not want war either, despite whatever you may believe, but I do not know any other course of action. Return the Gaisgeachs, or better yet, put them down. If you lack the means to do so, then we can arrange disposal.

Regards,

High Queen Juniper Mitford VI, Will of the Empire

---

A week on the road and there were no shadows behind us. No dust clouds, no rattling carts, no armies amassing at the horizon, just a sense of weight slowly chipping away. Each step down the path has my back straight, my smile wider, my eyes wandering more and more to Bernhard and the fact that we are waking up next to one another. Sometimes, we're entwined. Others, we're just barely holding hands.

The clouds overhead are turning grayer and grayer as our march continues. Bernhard glances to me, back to the sky, back to me. I do not have the ability to change any of that. To my knowledge, that particular injection is still at least a decade away. But the clouds are much, much closer. I look to him, back to the sky, meet him halfway and just shrug. If we get rain, then our tracks are covered. If we don't then we stay dry. We have a river off to our right, so we're good on water either way.

Still, we both spur our horses a bit harder, just in case. Normally, rain means hot tea pots and us crammed in some corner of the castle library, me pretending to be at attention until my legs lock up, him pretending to read while he is instead committing the shape of my ass to memory. Or reading ribald smut that was on some forgotten parchment in order to get ideas once we finally had the time. Here, it means soaked clothes and catching our death. I would much rather be out here, all things considered. He can check out my ass whenever he wishes here.

The river swells at our side and laps at its banks. Even more foreboding is the shells on the outside, thatched roofs rotted away to crumbling stone walls. The fields have returned to being wild and overgrown, as they always should have been before someone decided that wheat needed taxing. His mother has an appetite for those sorts of things. We keep riding on with tension mounting in our shoulders.

Like a plow cutting into the earth, the rain comes out in front of us. Heavy sheets, low clouds, the gentle upending of our souls through constant thunder, it all hits me first.