Havoc's Daughters

Chapter 7 - Day 2 (morning): Imrys - news of the front

A tune flowed out of the darkness in a subtle caress, the gittern’s notes dancing with wisps of smoke in the air, hands on his bare skin, a pale, frightened face so like – 

Lania! 

Panic jerked Imrys upright on his cot. 

What did I do?

Damn herb pipe. 

Damn me. I only wanted nepenthe…. 

Imrys’ mind sidled away from shadowed half-memories:  the pale face; the flash of his dagger - in his hand, then gone; red, red lips and scornful grey eyes. 

His heart pounded, jumping in his throat, and he fought the need to vomit. The filth inside him would not be so easily purged.

He imagined Lania, just a few feet away, pale string-callused hands on the instrument he’d given her.

His instrument.

He sat up, and Glynam popped up from his own cot. 

Commander Varandes rose to one elbow and watched the manservant drape a tabard over wrinkled clothes and scurry out of the tent. He rubbed the stubble that dusted his dark jaw with pepper, possibly concealing a yawn in the process. Then he rose, folded his blanket, and began disassembling the cot.

Imrys frowned. That was a job for servants, but the old campaigner never had picked up on the ways of nobility. 

The canvas of the front wall glowed with the light of a nearby watchfire, and periodic distorted shadows swept across the expanse. The sun wasn’t up, but the camp was beginning to stir as the morning meal was prepared and soldiers readied for another day on the march. Glynam and Varandes could have slept a little longer if their king’d had the sense to lie still.

Swinging his feet to the carpeted ground, Imrys let the concealing blanket settle in a wad at his crotch and rested his temples against his palms. With Lania ensconced in the inner chanber, privacy wasn’t an option.

There is no ease for this, not now. He couldn’t borrow one of Beryl’s girls, not with Lania here. Besides which, nothing remained secret in this camp and he’d been strictly discreet about his few liaisons since those disastrous months just before his father’s demise. Nor would he be alone at any point long enough to take matters into his own hands.

Imrys closed his eyes and suppressed a groan.

The tent flap rustled as Glynam backed through, turning to reveal a bronze basin of water he gripped with folded linen towling. Imrys sighed, and moved to the throne. He stripped off his shirt in the process, to let it pool across his lap as he lounged and Glynam saw to his morning ablutions and shave. 

Bathing was out of the question. So were many other things.

He could not touch Lania 'til they were wed, and her presence was torture. 

I need a chaperone for her.

Maybe one of Beryl’s girls is of noble birth? He’d trusted the man before with his most intimate secrets. 

Granted, they had little in common, now. Imrys had his responsibilities and Beryl Helminthes was, admittedly, a wastrel. But Beryl was a clever man. Surely, he’d know of a way to keep Lania safe and honorable in the camp. Imrys didn’t dare turn to any of the Old Guard.

‘Watch them,’ Beryl once warned. ‘Ursine, Strigides, and Cannides all asked for Lania while she was under Royal consideration. It would be just like one of them to try to snatch the prize from your grasp.’ 

Perhaps they could talk confidentially, later, when Beryl’d had some sleep. Say, midafternoon.

Horns blowing the wake-up call for the camp interrupted his thoughts. 

The whispered strum of the gittern ended abruptly.

Esek Varandes, now at the map table, glanced through a pile of dispatches. Imrys joined him, hoping to glean some idea of what was important from what the man lingered over most. Glynam delivered breakfast in silence. He glanced at the curtain, questioning. 

Imrys nodded his head, and Glynam disappeared to fetch another tray. The less Imrys saw Lania the better, ‘til they were properly chaperoned. He took a deep, calming breath.

“Sire,” Varandes’ base rumble interrupted Imrys’ perusal of the reports. “A scout is here to report.” 

Imrys had slept little, but looked forward to another day in the saddle far more than he’d have believed. Bread, cheese and a bowl of lentils flavored with ham rested beside now-tepid tisane at his elbow. He had no appetite, not for food.

“Send him in.” 

Imrys steeled himself. Good news was still possible, but not probable at this point. He glanced at the curtain at the back. Still, no stirring from his bed. 

“Sire.” A fair-haired man in scout’s drabs did obeisance. 

“What word?” Imrys asked before the man could even straighten. 

“Sire, Rose Bluff Manor was burned and sacked,” the man reported. “Cumbera besieges both the town and keep, and we could get no word from either.”

One home burned, and the other besieged. Dear Light, I’ll have to tell Lania.

“That will be all,” Imrys said.

But perhaps it wasn’t all. Varandes followed the messenger outside, so as to get the rest of the report without countering his king’s command. 

Imrys rested his aching forehead in his hands. If Alzarin was starting some of the bloody tactics he’d used on Len Tal, the Roenish might expect poisoned wells, plague, and scorched earth. 

Where is Lord Laeryn? Diannah? Imrys’ grasping hand touched the edge of his golden circlet. His family’s hold on the throne was tenuous at best, with his nearest relatives so many generations removed. 

I need to secure the succession. Imrys shifted at the thought of the porcelain column of Lania’s neck. He gulped tepid tissane and made a dutiful stab at breaking his fast.