The Dove and the Hawk Pt. 02

Many thanks to my advance readers, including Not_E and happyyy_, as well as to my editor LaRascasse.

Content warning: depictions of sexual assault, depictions of violence, depictions of domestic abuse, references to violence against a pregnant person, references to pregnancy loss, references to maternal and infant death

***

Bethaer lowered himself into the hot water of the garrison baths, sighing contentedly. Though he had his own bathing room and servants who could attend to him, he'd never seen the point. Water was water, and besides, the company kept his mind from wandering. Even though much of the talk was too vulgar for his taste, he didn't have to keep up as much of an act with his men at the bathhouse. Normally, that was.

"How was she, your highness?" asked a soldier to his left. "We heard you got to business right quick." A handful of men chuckled around him.

"Quite satisfactory," he replied, trying to sound as boring as possible.

"Did you need to rough her up?" asked another man. "I heard she's quite the fighter."

"Indeed!" interjected a third. "My brother used to guard his highness, and he said he was always having to smack her pretty little face to make her lie still."

Bethaer bared his teeth in what he hoped was a hard smile. "We came to an understanding," he said tersely, and the men guffawed.

"Did she say anything?" asked a man to his right. "Word is that your royal brother silenced her the first night he took her, and she's never made a peep since."

Bethaer shrugged. "I didn't exactly ask her any questions," he retorted, to which his men laughed heartily.

"She's not too loose yet, is she?" asked another.

"No more than a wife after three years of marriage," he replied with a wink, to yet more laughter.

"When do we get a taste?" came a voice from the back. The group fell silent, and a few eyed the youngster, shaking their heads.

"You don't," Bethaer said firmly, and some of his men nodded.

"She belongs to our prince, and none else. Isn't that right?" This from yet another man, older than most, looking about the pool for any who might disagree.

Bethaer smiled warmly at the veteran and said, "Precisely. She's mine." He leaned back and closed his eyes, making clear he was done with this line of questioning, and the talk moved on to which brothels had the best girls, or the cheapest, or the newest.

He wondered if she had made use of his private bathing room yet. The water would be cold by now, but he hoped she had, for she was grimy from her stay in his father's dungeons. He winced, remembering the open wounds that peeked out from the ragged hem of her dirty dress, if you could call it that. It had been more like an undergarment, thin and fraying and barely covering her knees. When he'd had her pinned to the bed it had hiked up to her thighs, almost exposing her, enough to give sight to the dark scars on her legs. He didn't want to think about how they had happened, what his third brother had done to make such terrible wounds on her body.

Trying to cleanse his mind, he immersed himself fully in the hot water until he needed to breathe. Standing, he shook himself like a dog, and the men laughed.

"Ready for a second round?" joked one voice, to more laughter.

He snorted. "We'll see," he said, shrugging. He walked off to the servant waiting for him with a towel to dry him off, and the conversation behind him faded.

Once dried and clothed, he waved away the servant and exited the baths, making for the hall where he knew he'd find supper. Having eaten his full, he retired up the stairs to whistles and lewd jokes. He sighed as he reached the landing and hoped his men would soon tire of the matter.

Entering his bedchamber, he was surprised to see the supper tray laid out and untouched. Perhaps she was still full from the midday meal? Or maybe she was bathing -- in that case he should make himself scarce, he decided. He was headed for his study when he heard a muffled noise from the bathing room.

He froze, unable to place the sound. Surely she wasn't in distress, unless, gods forbid, she were trying to drown herself in the large tub. He waited, stuck in place, unsure of what to do until he heard the unmistakable sound of shattering pottery.

Bethaer's stomach dropped and he rushed for the door thinking only that he had to stop her from hurting herself with the sharp edges of the fine ceramic ware. He shoved open the door, hitting a heavy bucket of water that must have been placed there to stop him from doing so. It sloshed about, wetting the tile floor as he turned and saw the broken pitcher scattered across the room, and beyond that a sight that raised fury in his blood.

On the floor by the wooden bathtub was the form of a soldier, pushing down on the princess' frail body as she kicked and beat him in a futile effort.

Bethaer roared, rushing forward and yanking the man off her, throwing him to the hard floor. The young man floundered, confused and panicked, then kneeling in terror as he recognized his prince looming over him.

"Mercy, mercy," he begged, not because what he had done was wrong, Bethaer knew, only because it had angered his lord.

"You dare touch what it mine," he said in a low voice, his fists clenched and face burning with rage.

The soldier prostrated himself fully, his voice muffled against the floor. "I didn't know -- no, I didn't think --"

"Clearly not," Bethaer hissed. "I should have your hands cut off for daring to covet what belongs to me."

The man whimpered, terrified, though not enough to cool his prince's wrath. Bethaer turned to glance back at the princess, who was curled up in a fetal position in the corner of the room, clutching her naked body. He shouldn't belabor the point, he realized, for her sake at least.

He stalked over to where the young man lay shaking on the floor. "Let me see your face," he commanded. Haltingly the soldier lifted his head, and Bethaer memorized his features. "I will let your direct superior decide your punishment," he said, and the man sagged with visible relief. "Go report your crime to him immediately," he snarled, "and if any man asks what you did to deserve your punishment, tell him you touched the prince's woman and only escaped with your life by my grace alone."

"Yes, your highness," the man warbled, picking himself up off the floor and bowing low before scampering out the door.

Bethaer waited until he heard the main door slam shut before taking a deep breath, trying to cool his anger. Looking about, he spied a towel thrown upon the floor and went to pick it up. He approached the princess slowly, holding it out in front of him to shield her body from his eyes.

Swallowing down the bile in his throat, he tried to speak softly. "I am so sorry, il-susashai. I should not have let this happen." He took another few slow steps and knelt down, covering her petrified form with the large cloth. "I will ensure no other man enters my chambers from now on," he promised. "Not so much as the lowest servant. I swear to you, I will do my best to keep you safe from this day forward."

Her wide eyes stared out blankly at some horizon only she could see, and she stayed silent. Cautiously he stood up and backed away, feeling for the door behind him and shutting it firmly. He didn't wait to hear her move. Heavily he walked out of his chamber, then the antechamber, easily assuming a brooding visage as he exited to face his guards.

The men shuffled, uneasy. "You allowed him in," Bethaer said. They hung their heads silently in shame. At least they didn't make excuses, like their fellow soldier. "Latrine duty for two weeks, starting tomorrow," he growled, and the men straightened and saluted him.

"Yes, your highness!" He nodded and left them at their posts, striding down the steps and entering the ghostly silent hall.

"Where is the insolent coward?" he barked, watching his men flinch at his wrath.

"In the outer courtyard, your highness," one of them spoke. Bethaer marched out the double doors, past the courtyard and through the gatehouse toward the sharp cracks of a whip and the cries that followed. He smiled grimly as the sight came into view, the soldier stripped to the waist and tied to a post by his hands. The man let out another cry as the long, barbed lash ripped once more at his flesh.

An older man, captain of one of the units, came to stand beside him. "Twenty lashes," he said tersely, and Bethaer nodded. The man's captain had meted out a punishment the lad wouldn't forget, and it sent a clear message to all the soldiers garrisoned at the palace.

He wondered if she could hear the man's cries from his chamber, situated as it was facing the north side of the outer wall. Did it frighten her, he wondered, or was she pleased to hear him suffer for what he'd done? Bethaer couldn't help but wonder how close the man had come to violating her, and he stifled a shudder.

"Twenty!" came the call as the final stroke was dealt. The soldier sagged against the pole, gritting his teeth against the pain, but Bethaer felt no pity for him. If he had his way, he wouldn't just be punishing this man for disrupting the tight order of the army or coveting a possession of the royal family. He really would have cut off the man's hands, and his manhood too, before beheading him and displaying his severed head.

But in his father's army, raping captives was expected, even encouraged. Breaking the spirit of the peoples who they once shared peaceful borders with delighted Olandrion, who reveled in causing pain of any kind. And unless he wanted his father's attention turned on him, Bethaer would need to keep up appearances.

He suppressed a sigh. Six years he'd played this game, since his second brother Gaerton died. He'd only been seventeen then, a powerless child unable to protect his sister-in-law or the daughter she carried. But he was the heir now, no longer resting in Igandrion's shadow. He had more power, yes, but also more to prove. And as his father kept him within the confines of the palace walls, he felt his every move scrutinized. It was exhausting, but he had only to wait until Olandrion died. By the grace of the gods, that couldn't come soon enough.

***

Litheian lay on her little bed, shuddering at the screams that drifted in from outside. He must be punishing that man, she knew, but the sounds were the same as that of prisoners being tortured in the dungeons she had just left herself. She winced at each cry until finally the sounds came no more, and she exhaled a long breath.

He had come so close to taking her. He'd pawed at her with his disgusting hands, spreading her open as he readied himself to do the deed. If the prince hadn't arrived when he did, she'd have had to feel yet another man thrusting inside her, spilling his foul seed. How long had it been since that last happened? She remembered Igandrion forcing himself on her as usual, and then the next day he was dead. She hadn't bothered counting the days it took to travel back to the capital, and it was useless to even try in the black depths of the dungeon where she'd been held. All she knew was that she hadn't bled yet, which meant it was either less than a month, or she was with child, again.

How would this prince react? Igandrion had been furious that first time, beating her belly until she lost the baby. The second time he'd restrained himself, leaving her nothing to drink but some foul concoction cooked up by an apothecary that had wrung out her guts and caused her so much bleeding she'd nearly tasted death. But her foolish body hadn't crossed the threshold, hadn't released her into the sweet embrace of oblivion. Instead she had continued on, eating because she was hungry, sleeping because she was tired, and fighting off her attackers because it was the only choice she had, the only thing that was hers.

Sitting up, she gazed about the room in the warm light of the lamp. She'd already donned the undergarments after spreading ointment over her wounds. Now she searched the large chest, finding a trove of ribbons for her hair and several gowns that would suffice to wear. She wriggled her way into one, and it hung loosely on her starved frame but was not so long that she would trip over it. It chilled her to think she shared the same height as Adrialsa.

She shuddered, remembering the story that had reached even her protected ears, back when she was the precious daughter of the king of Berelthia: King Olandrion of Anderar had heard tell of a man who boasted his daughter was so proficient at spinning, she could even turn straw into gold, like the stories of old. Of course it was an absurd tale, nothing but the ramblings of a drunkard.

But Olandrion, greedy and cruel, had threatened to kill her and her father both if she didn't complete the task. Then his heir at the time, Gaerton, took pity on her and begged his father to spare her at least, for he had taken a liking to her, and his father had relented. They had married, and soon she grew big with his child, but not before her husband fell in battle. Raging, the king had locked his own daughter-in-law in the dungeons of his palace in the capital, Jashil. There she had labored alone, it was said, and bled out after delivering a stillborn daughter.

Litheian shivered, wondering if that would be her fate too. If she didn't bleed soon, that would mean she had conceived Igandrion's child. How awful it would be, to die bearing the hated spawn of that man. She shook her head, willing away the possibility. She would bleed -- she must bleed. Even if she had to beg this new prince to bring her another foul distillation to make her lose the baby, she would do it. She trembled at the thought, but gritted her teeth, resolute.

He was confounding, sliding from hard to soft, angry to apologetic with the ease of an actor shifting roles. His words were confusing, but his actions.... True, he had pinned her down on his bed, but he hadn't taken her. Then he'd brought her things he'd noticed she needed. And lastly he'd stopped another man from assaulting her, covering her up before leaving her alone. So perhaps... perhaps she could trust him, just enough to test the waters.

***

Bethaer stood at attention, hands clasped behind him in the soldier's way he'd learned since before he could ride a horse. On the dais before him, seated on his sparsely decorated throne, his father brooded, tented hands against his lips. It was a pose that used to strike fear in his heart and still quickened his pulse even now. But he had a plan and so held steady, breathing slowly, waiting.

"You don't wish to share her at all?" his father asked finally.

"No, il-hanaan," he replied formally.

His father waved a hand and said, "Speak candidly, my son."

"As you wish, royal father," he said, loosening his grip on his wrist and letting his hands fall to his side. Taking a breath, he began. "When you gave her to me this morning, you said she was mine to do with as I pleased, royal father. And what pleases me is to have her to myself."

Olandrion looked at him probingly, his dark eyes hollow and cold. "We need something to inspire the men," he responded.

Bethaer nodded. "I shall reward them as I always have, royal father -- days off to visit the city and coin to sate their thirst at the taverns and brothels."

"We're running low on ready funds," observed his father, ever practical.

"I shall reimburse the military coffers with my own personal stipend," he offered.

Olandrion nodded slowly, satisfied with this compromise. A dark grin spread across his face, and Bethaer tensed with anticipation. "So how do you like her, my son?"

He forced himself to chuckle. "She is a bit rough around the edges, but I can handle her."

"I heard she was in the bathing room when you caught the man," his father noted.

Bethaer smiled jovially. "I did tell her to clean herself up."

"I'm glad to hear she's obeying you already," his father said, pleased.

"As I told my men," he replied, "we came to an understanding."

"It wouldn't do to strike such a pretty face," agreed his father, frowning. "Igandrion always had too much a taste for it."

Bethaer swallowed. "There is no need for striking when you can just hold her down and take your time in her."

"So that's how it is," his father murmured, then waved his hand. "Off with you, then. And take your time again tonight," he said, winking.

Bethaer bowed. "Yes, most royal father." He backed away before turning and taking his leave, relieved the conversation had gone so well.

He walked out the main keep into the evening air, nodding as he passed men coming and going for the night watch. Reaching the main hall beneath his chambers, he stopped a maidservant, instructing her to clean up the broken pottery in his bathing room before nightfall. She bowed and hurried off to do his bidding.

He threw himself down on a chair by the fire, watching the stairs like a hawk for the maidservant to return, carrying a bucket full of the shards. He frowned, realizing that the pitcher would need to be replaced, and so rose to tell another servant. Since he'd dismissed his manservant from his rooms, there was no one to manage the place, and now that he'd banned even the male servants from entering, there were very few to spare for daily cleaning.

But he preferred it that way. Let the princess fade from notoriety and become a mysterious, unseen figure. No longer gifted for the night to whichever soldier needed rewarding, tales of her would dwindle and interest would disappear. At least, that was what he hoped.

***

Litheian woke unmolested, hardly believing it. She'd lain await all night in expectation of him pounding at her door, finally drifting off sometime before he awakened. Putting her ear to the door, she heard nothing and dared to creep out.

The room was empty, save for a breakfast tray long since gone cold. She eyed the windows blearily, noting the high angle of the sunlight filtering through the shutters. How long had she slept?

She wolfed down breakfast and retreated to the bathing room to wash her face, where all evidence of her harrowing encounter the day before was gone. A new pitcher stood next to the washbasin, and she poured out the clear water with a sigh. As a child she'd hated this chore, but had come to long for it during her days with Igandrion. Without such simple measures, it was easy to be stripped of one's humanity, called a filthy rat, a dirty whore, and worse. But now she would clean herself every day, gods willing.

She ruminated on the words he'd spoken the evening prior, calling her his woman. Did he really mean it, or was it just a story to make sense of his anger? She shook off the memory of his rage; it had been painfully real, the only raw truth he'd displayed so far. But was it because a man had attacked her, or only because it wasn't himself that did it?

She sighed. Things had been simpler with Igandrion; she'd never needed to question his motives. She almost missed the certainty of it, knowing that another spate of violence was just around the corner. Now she could only worry, and worry, and worry again about things that might never happen. Perhaps that was the real torture.

Quietly she opened the door to the library, freezing as she saw him seated at the great table amidst piles of papers. She slunk back and prepared to shut the door slowly, slowly, but his voice carried across the room.

"You can come in."

She stayed frozen, not knowing what to do. Igandrion always yelled when he caught her going anywhere she wasn't allowed, which was most places, or doing anything that angered him, which was almost everything. She narrowed her eyes, waiting for him to shout at her to fuck off, or threaten her with a beating, but he said nothing more.

After long moments hearing only the scratch of a pen and the crinkling of paper, she slipped down the stairs and padded to the nearest honeycombed wall, where she had last found the poems of Ligthi. She looked sideways at the stool behind which she had shoved the scroll, but there was nothing there now. Her eyes skimmed the tags peeking out from their slots and found the tome where it had rested the first time. She pulled it out again and clutched it to her chest as she tiptoed back up the stairs. Shutting the door, she sagged against it, tired from her silent adventure. But she smiled at her success, setting the scroll down next to her on the floor.

Suddenly she heard footsteps from beyond the main door and scrambled to pick it up again, flying to the door of her room and closing it just in time to hear the main door open and the bustling of several pairs of feet. Women's light chatter seeped under the door, and she wondered at the easiness of their laughter as they worked. After some time they left, voices fading.

Cautiously exiting her room, she found the breakfast tray replaced with another full meal, more towels, and a linen bag like the prince had used to bring her undergarments. Peeking inside, she saw more plain clothes neatly folded and swiped the bag, returning to her room to empty it on her bed. There were two plain underdresses, presumably to replace the ragged one she'd thrown away, as well as long, padded cloths to use for her monthly bleeding. She held them close, praying she'd need them soon. She refolded everything and placed them in the chest, then took up the scroll and peeked back out her door.

Finding the chamber still empty, she walked over to the table by the windows and set down the scroll. Using her hand to weight down the end, she found the place she had left off. The firebird flew round the earth, searching for the tallest of trees in which to make its nest....

Hours later, her eyes tired in the dimming light, she set aside the scroll and ate the now-cold food. Tasting little, she paused only to gulp down water. She filled quickly, left the rest of the food and returned to the table, carefully rolling up the scroll once more, tying it tight.

Now she had only to return it to its place in the library. Breathing shakily, she opened the door to find him still seated at the great table below, writing away in the light still streaming through the tall windows. Quiet as a mouse she went down the steps and slid the scroll back in its slot. She turned to go back up just as softly, but his voice broke the silence.

"Are your feet not cold?"

Stunned, she said nothing. This was the first question she'd been asked in longer than she could remember. Not an angry question, like "Can't you stay still, dammit!" Not a laughing question, like "Why do you always run away, little bitch?" No, this was a genuine query, demanding an answer she wasn't prepared to give.

The time had passed to answer, but the question still hung in the air. She shrugged, watching for his reaction out of the corner of her eye.

For a moment she thought he must have missed her movement, but then he spoke again. "Should I procure shoes for you?"

Litheian considered the proposition. As much as she enjoyed the things he'd given her so far, she hated being so dependent on him. At least she never felt indebted to Igandrion.

Abruptly her mood shifted to anger. She wasn't indebted to him; this was only the smallest part of what she was owed! A few garments and ointment and shoes could hardly compare with what she was due as a royal prisoner. A chamber of her own, and servants, a hot bath every day -- she giggled at the absurdity of it. Since when did the king of Anderar, who had violated the Treaty of Celandron, care to uphold traditions of hospitality?

He was looking at her now, a curious expression on his face that she couldn't name, which made her anxious. Did he worry for her sanity? Or perhaps he was still waiting for an answer.

Heart beating furiously, she met his eyes and nodded, daring to ask something of him. He seemed pleased by this, she thought, as he returned to his work with a small smile. Perhaps he enjoyed doing these small things for her, out of guilt or shame or pity. It didn't matter, really. As long as she had this piece of him to hold onto, this scrap of knowledge that guided her, she could begin to unravel the mystery of why he acted as he did.

Two days later, as she exited her room in the dim morning light, she nearly stumbled across a small pair of sandals that, while somewhat big in the sole, nestled against her feet perfectly after she tied them criss-cross up her shins. She smiled looking at them, her wardrobe now complete. If only an opportunity would present itself to use them properly.

***

Bethaer felt a warm spring bubble up in his chest the first time he heard her coming down the stairs of the library wearing the sandals he had gotten from a stable hand. It wasn't just that she accepted his gift, but that she felt comfortable enough to announce her presence as she wore them, instead of slinking silently about as he'd grown used to.

Today she nearly strutted across the room, perusing the collections until she found a volume from the history section that caught her eye. Confidently she opened it in front of him before sighing, rolling it back up, and returning it to continue searching. She did this several times, as though testing him, until she finally chose a tome that suited her and ambled back up the steps.

He smiled to himself as she shut the door behind her. If the princess enjoyed reading, perhaps she also longed to write. He knew it was dangerous to allow her writing, but it might be the only way they could communicate. She had yet to utter a single word to him, and for a second he shuddered to think that perhaps her tongue had been cut out. But no, he'd surely have heard of such a gruesome affair. She must be keeping silent for her own reasons, though he longed to hear her voice, to have a proper conversation between them.

It took him weeks to secretly acquire a second weight-stone and inkwell. The quills he could simply say he had used up in his daily work, poor quality that they were these days. The ink was the same as for the oil for the little lamp in her room, though he had to ration his paper carefully. But in the end he obtained the full set, which he left in a box next to her returned linens. The servants would simply think another one of them had left it, he hoped, and not pry before she was able to notice it.

Sitting at his desk in the study, he drummed his fingers anxiously. He was impatient to see her reaction or, better yet, what she might choose to write to him. His worries had already eased the previous week when, flirting with the laundresses, one of them had cheekily whispered in his ear. He'd played along and heard the news he was hoping for and blown her a kiss in thanks.

The princess wasn't with child. It would have been a mess, he knew, if she had conceived. He would have had to speak to her about what she wanted to do, tried to advise her without knowing how his father would react. Olandrion had never pushed his sons to marry after Gaerton died, but now, with only one remaining heir, he might have made plans to raise his bastard grandchild.

Bethaer shuddered at the thought of an innocent babe living at the mercy of its grandfather. Of course it would be a boy, for Olandrion had no love of girls. Both his wife and daughter-in-law dying to deliver girl children had only cemented his curses toward them. In his eyes women were only good for breeding, and there were plenty to use for that already.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the study door opening softly, her footsteps even and graceful as she descended the stairs. He looked down at the papers he was meant to be reviewing, not wanting to appear too anxious. Slowly she walked over to him and stood there, silent.

He looked up at her and she stretched out her arm, holding a small square of paper with words written on it. Cautiously he took it in hand, reading the large, unsteady letters. Which way is north?

He blinked, confused. Was this really the first thing she wanted to know? "That way," he motioned, toward the inner wall of the study and the outer courtyard beyond.

She bit her lip and held out her hand to take the paper back, then slowly, watching him, she reached for his quill. Methodically she wrote on the blank side of the paper, fanning it in the air to dry the ink, then handing it to him again. What is under the north gatehouse?

He drew a long breath, wondering if this had to do with the secret message he had passed her weeks ago. "Most likely storage... although much of it is being used to house prisoners. Shall I inquire for you?"

She nodded, wrenching back the paper from his surprised fingers, ripping it to shreds and shoving them in her mouth before he could react.

He stared at her for a moment, then chuckled. "You could simply have burned it in the brazier," he said, indicating the wide-lipped, three-legged bowl that held glowing coals to stave off the chill.

She shrugged and promptly walked off, leaving him to stare back down at his work in a daze. He would have to make an inspection of the gatehouses, he thought to himself.

***

Litheian waited anxiously for news about the north gatehouse. After a few days she found a message slipped under her door, indicating nothing special about the gatehouse cellar but for a handful of prisoners. She bit her lip, despairing. Why had the message told her to go under the north gatehouse? Perhaps there was a tunnel nearby, a secret way out that circumvented the gatehouse altogether. But she couldn't ask a prince to snoop about, it would be too conspicuous.

Frustrated, she picked up another small piece of paper from the table in her room, slowly scratching out the question she wished to ask him. Decisively she walked through the door and down the steps to his desk once more. He looked up expectantly, and she held forth the note. He took it and read the words, raising his eyebrows.

"It was the apothecary's assistant who gave it to me for you," he answered coolly. "She is a Berelthian prisoner and expressed her loyalty to you most courageously."

Litheian stared, stunned. It hadn't occurred to her that people -- her people -- still remembered her and might move on her behalf. The world outside the walls containing her hadn't existed in her mind for so long, she had nearly forgotten there was still a war being fought. Conscious that their fathers were enemies, she stepped back from him, wary.

She trusted him enough now not to attack her, to give her what she needed, and allow her to read and write. But as for passing secret information....

"Do you need more ointment?" he asked, and she frowned at him in confusion. "Let us say you do, for your scars," he continued. "I can always return to the apothecary seeking such a thing."

She held her breath, tasting the opportunity within her grasp. Clearly this woman trusted him enough to hand him something important, if he were telling the truth. She'd seen enough of his handwriting these past weeks to know he hadn't written the message. She licked her lips before turning the paper over and reaching for his quill to write her instruction to him. Ask her why the north gatehouse.

He took the proffered note and read it, nodding before consigning it to the fire. "I will do so," he said simply, then returned to his work.

She eyed the ledgers and letters sideways before turning to browse the shelves. She would need to keep track of when he went out and when the servants came in to clean the library. Then she would be able to read just what it was that kept him so occupied, perhaps even pass on the information.

But how to bypass the prince? He was kind, but unlikely to help her escape or let her slip through secrets of the Anderthan palace, when the watch changed and what the servants wore and which places stored the weaponry. She would have to find a different intermediary, but who, and how? The servant girls always moved together in twos and threes, perhaps not wanting to be caught alone among so many men.

Litheian sighed. She would have to wait to see if this apothecary's assistant could answer her first.

***

Bethaer hissed softly, seeing the mottled purple that bloomed across the woman's face. She shook her head at him as the apothecary came out from the back of the premises, wiping his hands.

"My lord prince!" he exclaimed, pushing aside his assistant roughly. "What brings you to this humble place?"

Bethaer leaned on the counter and smiled mischievously at the man. "I need something for my stamina," he said in a low voice. "You know the kind."

"I do indeed," replied the apothecary, chuckling. "She keeping you up all night?"

"The other way around," he said gamely. "But I'd like to go a little longer."

"I have just the thing for you, my prince."

The apothecary's voice faded as he stepped into the back, and Bethaer shifted his gaze to the woman standing before him. He opened his mouth, but she shook her head again and looked down at the counter, where her hands were spelling something on the worn wood. Not safe.

He swallowed and nodded, then slid on a smile as the apothecary returned bearing a small, stoppered jug.

"This poultice works wonders, my lord prince," he said proudly, offering it to him.

Bethaer unstopped the cork and nearly dropped the thing at the pungent odor.

"Ah, forgive the smell, your highness. 'Tis truly ghastly, but works much better than the sweet-smelling kind."

Bethaer sniffed at it again before recorking the jug. "And this won't make her ill?" he asked.

The other man chortled, slapping a hand on the woman's shoulder. "I use it myself and have heard no complaints," he said, winking.

Bethaer resisted curling his lip in disgust. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing at all, my lord prince," assured the apothecary. "But do use it sparingly, a little is all it takes."

He nodded and thanked the man, fighting the disappointment he felt. Returning to his chamber, he looked about for the princess, finding her in the study. She stared wide-eyed at his defeated frame, and he shook his head.

"It is not safe for the apothecary's woman," he relayed, and watched her sag dejectedly. "I will try again in a few weeks," he promised, "but there is very little I can do without my father knowing."

She nodded and went back to scouring the shelves. He returned to his chamber, grabbing a cloth from the bathing room and sitting on his bed. He poured out a small bit of the foul liquid onto the cloth, rubbing it around as though he'd used it to clean himself off. Then he threw the soiled linen down the laundry chute. He'd do this every day until the jar ran empty, then he'd once more have an excuse to visit the apothecary. Hopefully the man would be out next time.

He wasn't though -- not the next time, nor the one after that. Each time Bethaer returned to his chambers with only more of the disgusting, oily stuff, and soon autumn turned to winter turned to spring.

He welcomed the warmth and light, though not the return of fighting that had died down over the colder months. Berelthia had appealed to the High Council, he'd heard, and Sytheire -- his mother's homeland, on the coast -- had poured a great deal of their coffers into refreshing the beleaguered armies of Anderar's enemies.

Inside the palace it was quiet, but in the city streets he knew things were turning lean. The cost of wine and women had increased, he'd heard his men complaining, and he could only imagine the price of bread.

As for the princess, she had grown more sure and less tense, though she still flinched at the slightest unexpected noise or movement. She was practicing her writing, he guessed, by the large amount of paper that was burned in the brazier by his desk and the improvement of her hand as she asked for more ink. He could also tell, by the way his papers rearranged themselves, that she was reading the reports that came in, the ledgers and missives from the front lines. Without a map or the ability to listen in on the meetings in his father's war room, she had no way of telling how poorly things were looking for the Anderthan army. But the information she could find was still valuable and would grow more so every day once the spring campaign began in earnest, after the mountain passes cleared.

But that wouldn't be until after the spring festival, which was looming in the weeks ahead. Bethaer knew his father was planning something big, perhaps reviving the old custom of the fertility rite from before Olandrion's time. He shook his head, wondering if the priests and priestesses knew his father might ask two of them to couple before the whole city, in imitation of the sky god impregnating the earth goddess with all the creatures that flew and walked and swam.

But it wasn't his concern, so he put it out of his mind until the day Olandrion summoned him to discuss the preparations for the festival. By tradition, a member of the royal family would light the main bonfire in the central square of the city to begin the celebrations, so he wasn't surprised.

"My son!" boomed his father as he was ushered in.

Bethaer bowed, unfazed by Olandrion's undue elation. He was used to his father's mood swings and played along.

"It pleases me to see you this day, il-hanaan," he said. By his father's jubilant mood, he must indeed be preparing the lurid spectacle.

"And I to see you!" He smiled widely and clasped his hands together. "You have an integral part to play in this year's festival, my son."

"I do?" he asked, stomach tightening. Perhaps his father wanted him to do the deed himself with some poor temple maiden.

"Yes, it won't be very difficult, I assure you, but the result will be quite grand."

"As my king commands, so I shall do," he replied evenly. It would be uncomfortable and distasteful, but he could manage it.

"You know of the old fertility rites, don't you, my son?" Olandrion continued.

"Yes, il-hanaan."

"You'll be playing the part of our great Yealar" -- as he had suspected -- "and that wench will be the goddess Hamin."

Bethaer's breath froze in his lungs. Surely he'd misunderstood. "Which one, il-hanaan?" he asked once his throat unstuck.

"You know, the one you've been enjoying these past months, locked up in your rooms."

His heart constricted as the horror set in, and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling lightheaded. "Is that appropriate?" he said, before he could stop himself.

" 'Appropriate'?" sneered Olandrion. "Don't tell me you also have qualms because she's not a virgin?"

Bethaer winced. He must have spoken already with the high priest and priestess, who would surely have voiced the same complaint.

"I only wish to see you avoid the wrath of the gods, il-hanaan," he said, desperate.

His father gave a hacking laugh. "I'm sure Yealar doesn't care one bit that neither you nor her are untouched." Bethaer set his jaw. "As for you, my son, you'll do your duty as my heir and show those Berelthian bastards our resolve remains as strong as ever."

"If I may speak, royal father," he said, though inwardly he trembled. "Is it... truly wise to antagonize them?"

Bethaer had only a moment's notice to duck before his father's goblet flew at him, screeching against the stone floor and ringing eerily in the unnatural silence. Olandrion stood, walking down the dais ominously slow.

"Now listen here, my son," he snarled as Bethaer knelt before him. "All you need to do is fuck Endorran's bitch daughter one more time, and you'll do it so the whole of Jashil can see!" He paused, then added in afterthought, "And if you don't, I'll find someone who will. And he can have her, too, as you march to the front!"

"I shall do as my king commands," Bethaer replied, gritting his teeth. He stood slowly, bowing once more before backing out of the room.

Heavily he tread his way back to his hall, up the stairs and through the anteroom. Pausing, he pivoted to the parlor, yanking up a pillow and biting it hard. He screamed into the dense fabric, the vibrations pulsing in his head. Unsatisfied, he threw it back down and began punching, releasing motes of dust into the afternoon sunbeams as they filtered peacefully through the shutters as though to mock him.