“Why?” Galanthus asked in her curt fashion.
Seated deep in thought, and mayhap only by chance roused by the hostility laced in that one single word, Valerian lifted her face, and shrugged.
I had dreaded the words. Something in that girl, the wyvern heir of the Loredan, had assured me of no alternative course to the matter, and still for the animosity between her and Acis I had wished that it would not be. At the time, the least of my concerns was her reason, only what to come.
It was during the symposium a few nights after the day at the Sanctuary, and when we had just returned from patrol, Valerian, waiting for us in the Hall, informed us that she had formed a new pledge.
Perhaps she did not care all that much. Once, after Marigold’s death, Gladiola had discussed the prospect of retirement with the saintess. There was little doubt she would be honored as a healer and Salvia’s companion onboard. But she hadn’t. The pensive look remained under her shaded brow of late, and her mask from before that fateful day at the sickbay returned. More than aught of us, more than Litzia, what she lost in the hunt of Sheol would ever haunt her. Anyone else would have quit and forever forsworn the oath. This was Valerian, and Valerian chose the path closest to mortal penance. Regardless of who her pledge might be, perhaps.
“Make your decision not so lightly,” Gladiola warned, feeling this too, “you of all should know the consequence of thoughtlessness.”
Valerian gave our Prima Alae a warm look, if weary, “I know, Gladiola. The Loredan girl persuaded me, and I acknowledged her, that is all.”
“Still,” Gladiola clicked her tongue, “a Loredan. It is not fair to dismiss her for what she has not done. But you know how matters stand.”
“I know,” Valerian repeated quietly.
“And have I no say in this?” Galanthus said, quietly also, but with an edge.
“No, you have not,” Valerian stretched out on the couch, fingers picking a pillow’s loose thread. She seemed to me deep in thought, contrary to Gladiola’s accusation of thoughtlessness. “My pledge, my choice.”
“Then blame me not if aught happens to Loredan at the trial, when I settle the matter by my own hand.”
The white wyverness had a way of being direct.
“Galanthus!” Gladiola raised her voice. This was her voice of authority, commanding to foes and allies alike.
Galanthus turned to her, darkened. She had a way of being directed. And she would not relent. Not her, I sensed. She was not one to rebel, nor one to lose control, but there is one thing she put in higher regard than aught else, be it her leader or her own well-being, I daresay even her loyalty to the captain.
A gentle hand squeezed on our Prima Alae’s shoulder. “At ease, my pledge, you are overwrought. Galanthus skylarked, surely. Besides, Litzia and Aster, have you no trust in them?.” Hortenisa sent a look full of meanings my way. Deep blue eyes that carried an infinite allure, but I glimpsed a faint hint of the old empire’s mysteries in her.
“This night is adjourned,” declared Gladiola, grim of face, “You all may go now, but you stay a while, Aster, I wish to speak.”
Valerian rose wordlessly and left. Galanthus stared after the blonde rider, but she too obeyed.
“I shall find Acis, and relate the news,” said the wyverness without once approving the remark from Hortensia, who departed also.
Now Gladiola sat still beneath the iron disposition and a weariness that slipped out by way of a sigh. “You too, Litzia, you may go.”
“I am one with her in the pledge,” the wyverness argued.
“And I your Prima.”
The wyverness’ eyes narrowed. “Aster won’t hide a thing from me.”
“So be it. And take the maid with you,” she said just as Thea began an excuse to stay.
Thus, begrudgingly, my friends left. And I was left quite alone with Gladiola in the Wreaths. Even with the couch’s comfort and familiarity, it was no less apprehensive than when she had ambushed me some days before. More, for she was staring long at me. I could see naught but the gravest affair to be soon uttered. Concerning myself specifically, no less. Not Litzia, who was the main component of our pair, with whom I could only offer any value as a stand-in for a knight. By myself, I was but a slight azure slave.
“Worry not,” she said to me and, I thought, at least in part, to herself. “Hortensia is right, I’m overloaded. But that is the meaning of responsibilities.” The woman was sitting wide, facing me with her hands resting on her lap. She lifted her eyes to look straight into mine, “Litzia, what do you think of her lately?”
“She?” I lied, “Nothing out of the usual, I think.”
Gladiola shook her head, “It is no secret she has no love for our Mistress, Aster. Why do you think she’s still here?”
Gladiola does not know my pledge-sister was bound to the mark, I thought. Only Thea and I were aware among the Anemone. I could understand her reason. I did not have it in me to betray her. Never. No matter what.
“I will not compel you in this matter,” Gladiola continued, “it is against my honor to force upon you the choice between loyalty and sisterhood. But it is my oath-sworn duty to take care of my own. And I think your pledge-sister was planning a thing unwise.”
I held my breath. Why now?
The woman tapped her leg impatiently, “But I know not what. And if she had not confidence in me, I had hoped that she would have in her pledge-sister. Know you she has been looking for someone in Tithonus?”
My mind went blank. The questions writ clear on my face.
Steadily, my Prima Alae laid out the facts in a quiet voice, containing it in the circle of our Wreath, “I have an eye and a mind to see, and to think. On our patrol, she stirred at the slightest occurrence in the city, as though she waited for a signal. And she has asked for leave for tomorrow.”
I knew all that, and yet had not connected them into one narrating thread. In the end, our pledge might connect the emotions, but not what the soul may see fit to conceal. And Litzia was adept at closing off herself. I wondered if she had a mind to tell me later, or in truth she had hidden many things from me, and still more she would keep from my knowledge.
“So you do not know either. I have hoped otherwise, but even now, I give you the word that I shall not overstep my bounds into the matter of your pledge, not when it can still be unraveled between you two. Knowing that your pledge was… uniquely made.”
I stirred in discomfort. How much does she know?
“What should I do, Gladiola?” I said in earnest, “I do not know as well as I should like. And what she would not say, I dare not ask.”
“That is no way to sustain a pledge,” she said firmly. Her eyes narrowed, judging. “But ‘tis not for me to tell you what to do, Aster. Do not mistake that because I am human, my senses are better than yours. Only the Gods know the right course among many. Think you knowing is inviting regrets?”
I did not have the knowing eyes, I did not even understand feelings or emotions fully. Such things as regrets were unknown to me. Real regrets, that is, not the errors, and physical pains and flogging to which I had been subjected. Still, I hesitated, the thought of it alone brought me immense dread.
And still, I could not bear not knowing. Litzia had become someone dear to me, in so short a time. It was not that I felt unworthy of the pledge, I never asked for it. But when we connected and all of mine were laid bare, in her there still existed a closed-off corner that ever taunted me – a void that threatened to banish the warmth kindled by the pledge. It is seeing a stranger in the embraced beloved. It is happiness teetering on the cliff to despair. I could not bear it. And no regrets could be more insufferable than that dread in me.
“I would rather know,” I said.
Gladiola nodded. If she had never acknowledged aught in me, at least at that moment the truth of my resolve was reflected in her eyes.
“Rise at dawn and see Hortensia at the spanker-mast. She will aid you in tailing your pledge-sister. Then judge for yourself what is right, my Ala-sister. I have faith in you.”
And so the secret conversation ended. And a new resolve was born in me.
But the most challenging part of it was doubt. I had no certainty if my choice was right, much less the excuse of being for Litzia’s good. My desire to know was one born solely out of selfishness, which Gladiola had wisely made possible by the absence of my friends’ judging eyes. And when I faced them – when I met Thea in wait beyond the Hall of Wreaths’ door – it seemed inevitable that I would yield.
“So what was it?” she asked.
I paused, not knowing how to answer. It was perhaps too much to ask for her understanding until all of this was over.
“I…I do not want to speak of it, Thea.”
She stared at me, not entirely in shock. But her eyes were critical. “You do not want to?” She made no effort to force the truth from me, and yet her mere presence, our history together, all undermined my resolve to keep peace. For as long as I could remember, we had shared every little thing with each other. Sometimes I think I speak to her more than I do to myself. It was no use after all.
“Gladiola…”
She stopped me. A palm was raised as she sighed wearily. In her fashion, she stood thinking without lowering her hand, with patience. And then, “Fine, you don’t want to talk about it, then don’t. I know it can only be related to Litzia anyway. But do try to avoid doing anything unwise, you hear?”
Words were still in a tangle upon my lips, and I could not give her a prompt answer. I had never done anything unwise in my life, no chance to. But I nodded, swallowed, and nodded again.
That satisfied her. “You can apologize later. Buy me something, for instance, next we are in the city.”
I chuckled with a wry smile, “Sometimes it feels like you only need me for my coins anymore.”
She did not respond to my joke, but drew away, shaking her head, “What I need of you, you do not want to give, Star.”
With that, she left for the servant cabin. Leaving me to wonder if that too was a counter-joke.
So troubled, I made my way in haste to bed.
The night was still young, but in our shared cabin, Litzia lay quietly behind the sheer curtain, drawing her breaths evenly. I wondered if she, like Thea, had guessed the subject of Gladiola’s conversation. To be sure, she hadn’t cared enough to ask. And would not, if the next day’s event would transpire in the manner of my worst fear.
“Why?” Galanthus asked in her curt fashion.
Seated deep in thought, and mayhap only by chance roused by the hostility laced in that one single word, Valerian lifted her face, and shrugged.
I had dreaded the words. Something in that girl, the wyvern heir of the Loredan, had assured me of no alternative course to the matter, and still for the animosity between her and Acis I had wished that it would not be. At the time, the least of my concerns was her reason, only what to come.
It was during the symposium a few nights after the day at the Sanctuary, and when we had just returned from patrol, Valerian, waiting for us in the Hall, informed us that she had formed a new pledge.
Perhaps she did not care all that much. Once, after Marigold’s death, Gladiola had discussed the prospect of retirement with the saintess. There was little doubt she would be honored as a healer and Salvia’s companion onboard. But she hadn’t. The pensive look remained under her shaded brow of late, and her mask from before that fateful day at the sickbay returned. More than aught of us, more than Litzia, what she lost in the hunt of Sheol would ever haunt her. Anyone else would have quit and forever forsworn the oath. This was Valerian, and Valerian chose the path closest to mortal penance. Regardless of who her pledge might be, perhaps.
“Make your decision not so lightly,” Gladiola warned, feeling this too, “you of all should know the consequence of thoughtlessness.”
Valerian gave our Prima Alae a warm look, if weary, “I know, Gladiola. The Loredan girl persuaded me, and I acknowledged her, that is all.”
“Still,” Gladiola clicked her tongue, “a Loredan. It is not fair to dismiss her for what she has not done. But you know how matters stand.”
“I know,” Valerian repeated quietly.
“And have I no say in this?” Galanthus said, quietly also, but with an edge.
“No, you have not,” Valerian stretched out on the couch, fingers picking a pillow’s loose thread. She seemed to me deep in thought, contrary to Gladiola’s accusation of thoughtlessness. “My pledge, my choice.”
“Then blame me not if aught happens to Loredan at the trial, when I settle the matter by my own hand.”
The white wyverness had a way of being direct.
“Galanthus!” Gladiola raised her voice. This was her voice of authority, commanding to foes and allies alike.
Galanthus turned to her, darkened. She had a way of being directed. And she would not relent. Not her, I sensed. She was not one to rebel, nor one to lose control, but there is one thing she put in higher regard than aught else, be it her leader or her own well-being, I daresay even her loyalty to the captain.
A gentle hand squeezed on our Prima Alae’s shoulder. “At ease, my pledge, you are overwrought. Galanthus skylarked, surely. Besides, Litzia and Aster, have you no trust in them?.” Hortenisa sent a look full of meanings my way. Deep blue eyes that carried an infinite allure, but I glimpsed a faint hint of the old empire’s mysteries in her.
“This night is adjourned,” declared Gladiola, grim of face, “You all may go now, but you stay a while, Aster, I wish to speak.”
Valerian rose wordlessly and left. Galanthus stared after the blonde rider, but she too obeyed.
“I shall find Acis, and relate the news,” said the wyverness without once approving the remark from Hortensia, who departed also.
Now Gladiola sat still beneath the iron disposition and a weariness that slipped out by way of a sigh. “You too, Litzia, you may go.”
“I am one with her in the pledge,” the wyverness argued.
“And I your Prima.”
The wyverness’ eyes narrowed. “Aster won’t hide a thing from me.”
“So be it. And take the maid with you,” she said just as Thea began an excuse to stay.
Thus, begrudgingly, my friends left. And I was left quite alone with Gladiola in the Wreaths. Even with the couch’s comfort and familiarity, it was no less apprehensive than when she had ambushed me some days before. More, for she was staring long at me. I could see naught but the gravest affair to be soon uttered. Concerning myself specifically, no less. Not Litzia, who was the main component of our pair, with whom I could only offer any value as a stand-in for a knight. By myself, I was but a slight azure slave.
“Worry not,” she said to me and, I thought, at least in part, to herself. “Hortensia is right, I’m overloaded. But that is the meaning of responsibilities.” The woman was sitting wide, facing me with her hands resting on her lap. She lifted her eyes to look straight into mine, “Litzia, what do you think of her lately?”
“She?” I lied, “Nothing out of the usual, I think.”
Gladiola shook her head, “It is no secret she has no love for our Mistress, Aster. Why do you think she’s still here?”
Gladiola does not know my pledge-sister was bound to the mark, I thought. Only Thea and I were aware among the Anemone. I could understand her reason. I did not have it in me to betray her. Never. No matter what.
“I will not compel you in this matter,” Gladiola continued, “it is against my honor to force upon you the choice between loyalty and sisterhood. But it is my oath-sworn duty to take care of my own. And I think your pledge-sister was planning a thing unwise.”
I held my breath. Why now?
The woman tapped her leg impatiently, “But I know not what. And if she had not confidence in me, I had hoped that she would have in her pledge-sister. Know you she has been looking for someone in Tithonus?”
My mind went blank. The questions writ clear on my face.
Steadily, my Prima Alae laid out the facts in a quiet voice, containing it in the circle of our Wreath, “I have an eye and a mind to see, and to think. On our patrol, she stirred at the slightest occurrence in the city, as though she waited for a signal. And she has asked for leave for tomorrow.”
I knew all that, and yet had not connected them into one narrating thread. In the end, our pledge might connect the emotions, but not what the soul may see fit to conceal. And Litzia was adept at closing off herself. I wondered if she had a mind to tell me later, or in truth she had hidden many things from me, and still more she would keep from my knowledge.
“So you do not know either. I have hoped otherwise, but even now, I give you the word that I shall not overstep my bounds into the matter of your pledge, not when it can still be unraveled between you two. Knowing that your pledge was… uniquely made.”
I stirred in discomfort. How much does she know?
“What should I do, Gladiola?” I said in earnest, “I do not know as well as I should like. And what she would not say, I dare not ask.”
“That is no way to sustain a pledge,” she said firmly. Her eyes narrowed, judging. “But ‘tis not for me to tell you what to do, Aster. Do not mistake that because I am human, my senses are better than yours. Only the Gods know the right course among many. Think you knowing is inviting regrets?”
I did not have the knowing eyes, I did not even understand feelings or emotions fully. Such things as regrets were unknown to me. Real regrets, that is, not the errors, and physical pains and flogging to which I had been subjected. Still, I hesitated, the thought of it alone brought me immense dread.
And still, I could not bear not knowing. Litzia had become someone dear to me, in so short a time. It was not that I felt unworthy of the pledge, I never asked for it. But when we connected and all of mine were laid bare, in her there still existed a closed-off corner that ever taunted me – a void that threatened to banish the warmth kindled by the pledge. It is seeing a stranger in the embraced beloved. It is happiness teetering on the cliff to despair. I could not bear it. And no regrets could be more insufferable than that dread in me.
“I would rather know,” I said.
Gladiola nodded. If she had never acknowledged aught in me, at least at that moment the truth of my resolve was reflected in her eyes.
“Rise at dawn and see Hortensia at the spanker-mast. She will aid you in tailing your pledge-sister. Then judge for yourself what is right, my Ala-sister. I have faith in you.”
And so the secret conversation ended. And a new resolve was born in me.
But the most challenging part of it was doubt. I had no certainty if my choice was right, much less the excuse of being for Litzia’s good. My desire to know was one born solely out of selfishness, which Gladiola had wisely made possible by the absence of my friends’ judging eyes. And when I faced them – when I met Thea in wait beyond the Hall of Wreaths’ door – it seemed inevitable that I would yield.
“So what was it?” she asked.
I paused, not knowing how to answer. It was perhaps too much to ask for her understanding until all of this was over.
“I…I do not want to speak of it, Thea.”
She stared at me, not entirely in shock. But her eyes were critical. “You do not want to?” She made no effort to force the truth from me, and yet her mere presence, our history together, all undermined my resolve to keep peace. For as long as I could remember, we had shared every little thing with each other. Sometimes I think I speak to her more than I do to myself. It was no use after all.
“Gladiola…”
She stopped me. A palm was raised as she sighed wearily. In her fashion, she stood thinking without lowering her hand, with patience. And then, “Fine, you don’t want to talk about it, then don’t. I know it can only be related to Litzia anyway. But do try to avoid doing anything unwise, you hear?”
Words were still in a tangle upon my lips, and I could not give her a prompt answer. I had never done anything unwise in my life, no chance to. But I nodded, swallowed, and nodded again.
That satisfied her. “You can apologize later. Buy me something, for instance, next we are in the city.”
I chuckled with a wry smile, “Sometimes it feels like you only need me for my coins anymore.”
She did not respond to my joke, but drew away, shaking her head, “What I need of you, you do not want to give, Star.”
With that, she left for the servant cabin. Leaving me to wonder if that too was a counter-joke.
So troubled, I made my way in haste to bed.
The night was still young, but in our shared cabin, Litzia lay quietly behind the sheer curtain, drawing her breaths evenly. I wondered if she, like Thea, had guessed the subject of Gladiola’s conversation. To be sure, she hadn’t cared enough to ask. And would not, if the next day’s event would transpire in the manner of my worst fear.
