Page 42 of Among the Burning Flowers
They could not put religious differences ahead of progress. The history of Mentendon proved that. So did the flourishing trade with Seiiki, which had saved the Ments from ruin. Aubrecht only hoped that Marosa would understand the Mentish tolerance for heretics and freethinkers.
The friendship that had flowered between them felt as delicate and precious as a rosebud. He wanted to water it with care; to let it bloom with time and warmth. But as soon as they were married, the court would be waiting. Ideally, they would have two children, at the least.
It was usual for monarchs in their position. Aubrecht knew that, but the prospect troubled him. Marosa had been watched so closely in Cárscaro, and now she would be watched again.
He saw it then, so vivid he could smell and hear it. His beloved mother, her bedsheets soaked in blood, her copper hair darkened by sweat. A pair of babies in cradles beside her. She had never stopped bleeding, even though the physicians had tried to save her life.
Look after your sisters, Aubrecht.
And then, eight years later, the sweating sickness. The smells of vinegar and rosemary as more and more of his relatives perished. His mouth filled with a sour taste as he remembered burial after burial. Liuthe howling with grief, a sound no human ought to make. The fear that the Vatten had plotted it all.
Betriese in her sickbed, pale as death.
Aubrecht tried to remain in the present, but the memory was already worming its way through him. The sight of her small, clammy face, the sound of her uneven breaths. He had ignored the physicians’ desperate pleading when he entered that room. For hours, he had prayed at her bedside,willing her to open her eyes, knowing he might be next to catch the sickness.
Please, Saint above, not her, not Bette. Mother told me to look after her. I will give you anything.
And now Marosa was joining their family. A family stalked by sorrow. And what if it was her the Saint would take in exchange for Betriese?
What if Marosa died like his mother, in childbirth, and he was the cause?
Aubrecht pressed his fingers to his forehead, where a dull pain was building. Sometimes his thoughts became so intense, they physically hurt. Only Liuthe knew of this affliction, this incontrollable fear of loss. Part of him wished he could love less acutely, so his wild imaginings would not hold so much power over him, but he knew himself too well to think that it would ever change.
He slowed and counted every breath, trying to break his plummet. Many women gave birth several times and survived. Marosa was still young. But knowing that she would be in pain – that she might lose her life – was enough to keep wrenching him back to the past.
Just as he had stayed with Betriese, he would stay with Marosa. He would pray until his voice was hoarse. He would send for the best midwives, even if he had to look for them beyond Virtudom. He would do anything to keep her alive – even if the child was lost, even if they had to try again.
On his watch, no one else he loved would die before their time.
Aubrecht, we are overtaken. Fýredel has woken in the Spindles; he was sleeping in our midst all along. Our voices passed through the rock of Cárscaro and into his accursed ear. Rozaria built a palace from a fire mountain, and in this act of arrogance was our undoing.
They came from within; our defences were useless. Now we are under the eye of his wyverns.
I try to rebel, but I cannot be seen. I beg you, shelter any Yscals you can, if they flee as far as Mentendon. Leave me to my fate – do not imperil your own life for me – but be happy, and rule well, as you were meant to do. Know that my last thoughts will be dreams of the life we might have shared.
I will see you again in Halgalant.
Yours,
Marosa
Aubrecht
BRYGSTAD
FREE STATE OF MENTENDON
CE 1003
Aubrecht.’
He woke at once, his fingers still wrapped around the miniature. When he cracked his eyes open, he saw Ermuna holding a lit candle, her hair in the intricate plait she wore to bed.
‘Aunt Liuthe has called us,’ she said, her voice low. ‘You must come.’
Aubrecht rose without complaint. His Privy Chamberlain helped him into a bedgown.
In a crisis, no matter the hour, the Lievelyns gathered as a family before they summoned the Council of State. If Liuthe had woken them in the middle of the night, it must be urgent.
