Chapter Five

  Death Makes Liars Of Us All

  Once the King's contingent had left, the party grew quieter. There were still many men at the table, many of whom were the royalty and representatives of the colonies, and they were rather less boisterous than the Vastrum nobility. The remaining men were lower-ranking officers and others not of rank or status to attend the king. Like the women, foreign-born were not allowed to attend the King’s after-dinner gathering. Julia found that this was often how the high-status men behaved wherever she went. They all had their little clubs and parties where they congratulated one another on their successes in this war or that conquest. She found such talk dull, and it was all they ever seemed to discuss. Her father had often been party to such male gatherings. Fighting was all her father had ever truly cared about, it seemed. Her father had killed and fought across the colonies. He had only married and had a child because it was the proper thing to do in society. Colonel Marcus Emmanuel Gorst. The hero of Caribonne. The victim of General Blackwater’s incompetence and Kurush An-Beya’s cruelty. A commoner raised from the ranks and an absentee father. When Julia was small, her mother died in childbirth along with a baby brother who might have been but was not. Her father had not remarried. She had been left with her governess no less than seven times for seven wars in seven colonies. She had spent time in Kathalamanyr, Dravan, Huz, and then Vurun, where her father had died. For all his flaws, she still missed him terribly. He had been the centre of her whole world.

  “Don’t you think?” Helena said with a laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Helena, I was lost in thought,” Julia answered.

  “Are you unwell?” Her friend asked, looking upon her with concern.

  “Only tired. What was it you were saying?”

  Helena smiled and repeated herself, “I was saying, don’t you think the prince of Kathalamanyr is very dashing?”

  Julia glanced in the direction that Helana was looking. The young man was handsome, if rather foppish. The prince was seated and debating hotly with a Dravani nobleman. He was dressed in a white silk suit called a sherwani. His suit was made in the style of the northern colonies, with a high neck and long sleeves. He wore a red cape draped across his shoulders. He had soft features and an easy smile beneath a well-trimmed dark moustache. He laughed and then glanced over at Helena briefly.

  Julia recognised Captain Khathan sitting with the men, listening intently to their debate. He was frowning deeply at what the prince was saying. The captain was a thickly built man, muscular and olive-skinned, with a large moustache and deep brown eyes. He wore the uniform of a Vastrum officer rather than the traditional sherwani that the rest of his people wore. She thought him more a man than the fellow from Kathalamanyr. She did not say so.

  “Is he not?” Helena insisted.

  “I suppose,” Julia replied haughtily.

  “You suppose?” Helena laughed, “Do not tell me that marriage has made a prude of you?”

  In the days before their imprisonment, she would have agreed and laughed with Helena, but she did not like to be pushed, and Helena could be pushy. She did not want to argue. Instead, she began to excuse herself, “I am exhausted from my trip. I believe I will retire to my room for the night.”

  “It’s early yet,” Helena insisted, “The fun is just beginning.”

  “Good night,” Julia said as she stood. She felt herself sway as she got to her feet. She had drunk more wine than she realised. She put her hand on a chair to steady herself and found her footing.

  “Have it your way.” Helena sighed, “I might just find my way over to where that prince is sitting.”

  “Careful your father doesn’t see you flirting. He is liable to kill that man just for looking at you the wrong way.”

  “He’s never killed a man for looking before and certainly never a nobleman.”

  “They weren’t natives doing the looking.”

  Helena waved her hand, “Go to bed, you old shrew.” She said, laughing.

  Julia patted her friend’s shoulder, “Goodnight.” She said more softly. Then she walked away. She had to ask several servants to point the way from the residency. They directed her down grand hallways towards the large foyer and the main doors. She walked out into the night. Stars twinkled in the dark sky. It was late. Even the cool air of the night was still humid in Ayodh. She had been hoping for relief from the sweltering sun and the stuffy banquet hall. Apparently, there was nowhere where one could find respite in this land.

  “Do you need an escort back to the cantonment, Lady Julia?” She heard a voice ask. She turned to see whose. It was Mar. His pale cheek shone in the light that streamed from the doorway. In the near darkness, his eyepatch seemed to be a bottomless pit on his light face. Many of the ladies seemed to find Mar a gaunt, pale, and almost skeletal figure, and they shunned him. To Julia, he seemed an odd but genuinely kind man. He was a commoner like her father had been, raised to a position based on his skill as a soldier. Though she did not know him well, he felt familiar to her. Her husband seemed to trust him, as did most other officers of the 13th, so she trusted him too. He seemed a kind face in these unfamiliar lands.

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  “How very gentlemanly of you. Yes, that would be appreciated.” She answered.

  He offered his arm. She took it.

  There was a commotion behind them. “No!” a female voice cried out, her voice thick with Vuruni accent. “You will unhand me!”

  “Roxana, please, you’re making a scene.” Roxana and Lord Havor spilt out through the door and into the night.

  She was in a very fine, shimmery, form-fitting gown. Roxana straightened her dress with one hand. She was still holding a half-filled flute of sparkling white wine. Havor had his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his tie loosened. Her hair and makeup were dishevelled.

  “Roxana,” Havor said again, “Please.” He extended his hand to her.

  The Vuruni princess Roxana saw Julia and Mar standing there watching them in the dark. The princess, along with Julia and Helena, had been one of the many women prisoners taken during the retreat from Vurun. She had been forcibly married to Kurush, the pretender of An-Beya. Most noblewomen had been protected from harm, but Roxana had not been protected from Kurush. The princess looked at Julia and Mar, “You are returning to the cantonment?”

  “We are.” Julia replied, “Mr Pyke was just preparing to escort me home.”

  “Very well. Wizard, you will escort me as well.”

  Havor stepped forward, “I will come with you.”

  Mar looked deeply uncomfortable at the circumstances being thrust upon him, “My Lady, I think it would be better if Lord Havor…”

  “It would not be better.” Roxana interrupted him sharply. “He can sleep with the horses until he is sober.” Then she drained her wine glass and threw it away into the courtyard, where it shattered. Then, the princess took off her high-heeled shoes, turned and started walking barefoot in the general direction of the gate of the residency.

  Mar shrugged helplessly at his commander.

  Havor waved him off, “See that she gets home safely, Mar. I will follow shortly.”

  Roxana was not waiting for her escort to accompany her. Mar and Julia turned and began to walk swiftly towards the exit of the residency, trying to match Roxana’s tempestuous pace. The residency had a low wall with metal gates barring the main entrance. The gate was open to let party guests come and go. Several guards were posted at the front. They stood at attention. The upper-class cantonment was only a short walk down a clean, well-paved street beside a canal. Mar gave the guards a nod as they passed, and the guards saluted in return. Then turned left from the gate and went down the avenue. They passed several fine buildings that were richly adorned. These were the courthouse, the main temple, and several smaller but richly appointed residencies used by various noblemen and officials. At the pace Roxana had set, it did not take them long to arrive at the long row of cottages that served as the officer’s quarters. Julia was nearly out of breath when they arrived. She left Mar, gave him a curtsy and a smile, and then watched as Mar had to jog to chase down Roxana and make sure he got home as well. Then she turned and went inside.

  The cottage was a small single-story home built in the fashion of a house in Vastrum. It was not large, but it was enough for the two of them. She entered the bedroom and began to prepare for bed. They had no servants. That had been one of the first and biggest fights upon leaving Dryden’s family home in Vastrum. She had demanded servants. Dryden had explained he did not have the means and would heretofore only have his officer’s salary. Not a meagre sum, but servants were out of the question. She had realised, weeks after the argument, that servants had been an unreasonable demand. She regretted pushing so hard. Their marriage was the very reason Dryden had been cut off from his family’s wealth.

  Julia thought to Roxana and Havor. Had she and Dryden looked so different during their own fights? She thought probably that they had not. They had probably been just as loud, as furious, as difficult, disrupting the lives of their friends and the people around them. She knew that all Vastrum men feared their wives causing a scene. Roxana had certainly caused that tonight. Julia herself had caused scenes a few times. It was a useful tool, one of the few ways a woman of Vastrum could achieve victory in an argument. Threaten the causing of a scene, and a man will contort himself to avoid it. Her governess had taught her that. She wondered that her governess could know so much about men but be a spinster herself.

  Once she had prepared for bed, she slipped under the covers, blew out her oil lamp, and rolled over to sleep. She could not. Her mind did not quiet. It often nagged at her, demanding she worry about this or that. She rolled over. Had she been too hard on Dryden? What if he left her again? Edward had said her husband needed the right hand to guide him. Was he insinuating that she was that hand or that he needed a mentor like Edward? Gods, she wished her mind would just bloody quiet down so she could sleep! The door opened, and she shot up in bed.

  Dryden entered. His presence was looming and dark, “Julia, are you awake?” He asked softly in the dark.

  “I was just falling asleep.” She faked a yawn as if he had disturbed her, “I thought you would be out later.”

  Dryden sparked a match and leaned in to light the oil lamp by the bed. The lamp sputtered to life as Dryden lit it. His face was grim. He stared down at her with a kind of sad look in his eyes. He began to unbutton his uniform. “Julia…” He began, and then he was lost for words. Something was wrong.

  “What is it?” She asked, her tone pinched. She leaned in and instinctively put a hand on his arm.

  “I am going to need you to be strong.” He said, “I need you to be my dutiful wife—a soldier’s wife. I cannot have my house divided, not while I am away.” His frown deepened, and he looked off, staring at the wall, trying desperately not to meet her eyes.

  She knew instantly it was war. Her father had always come to tell her with the same shame. “Will you be long? Are they sending many of you?” She asked.

  “They’re sending everyone. Months at least, maybe years. I expect it will be a long war.”

  “Where?”

  “Rhakan. Can you do that, Julia, be a soldier’s wife?”

  It was ever the same with these men who called themselves soldier. Her father. Her uncles and cousins. All dead. Now, her husband. A calm came over her, not borne of relief or happiness, but the calm of acceptance, “I can, John.” It was not that she wanted to accept it. She had no alternative before her. “I told you once that I would not live on the Queen’s mercy with some small pension in a tiny apartment in Vastrum. I will not die a war widow and spinster. I have already accepted that you must go. It is your duty, and you will do it. But, you will come back to me, John.”

  “War makes no promises….” He began.

  She cut him off, “No. Not that again. Promise me that you will live.”

  He was silent, bright eyes studying her. Gods, but he was a striking, handsome man. It was hard to look into his blue eyes and hold her ground. But she was stubborn, the one good thing her father had gifted her.

  “Promise me by all the dead gods of Vastrum and the living gods of this land that you will come back to me alive.”

  “You would make a liar of me, Julia.”

  “What are lies to a dead man? Promise. It.” She just needed to hear him say the words. She knew he might not live, even if he said the words. She was not unreasonable. She just needed him to promise her something. Anything. One little token of affection, one word that said she would not be forever alone, ever abandoned, left behind. One promise that he would return. Even if it was only a pretty lie. It cost him nothing.

  “Death makes liars of us all, in the end.” His tone said she had won.

  Julia breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I promise. I promise it to the dead gods and the living. No matter what it takes, I will return to you.”