Somehow, he managed to crawl from his bed every morning and attend to his duties, though the effort proved more and more difficult with each passing day. He lost all desire for food; everything he put into his mouth tasted like dust. He ate only because he must in order to stay alive, and increasingly, that was beginning to look like endless torment.
At sunrise, on the twentieth day after Thessalina and her army had left to join the Imperial Army, Magnes stood once again on the battlements, looking down and wondering how long it would take to hit the ground should he decide to jump. Gazing out from the dark, terrible place that had become his prison, death seemed like the perfect choice, if only he had the courage.
He blinked…and found himself on the wall, crouched between two crenellations. He blinked again…and rocked on his heels, fingers caressing the rough stone. He blinked a third time and relaxed into the embrace of the air…only to have unseen hands snatch him backward.
A man’s voice, shrill with distress, cried out his name. Strong arms wrapped about him, pinning him against a leather and metal-clad body.
“Gods! Lord Magnes, what’re ye doin’? Ye almost fell off’n the wall!”
A shaft of sunlight pierced the veil of clouds that squatted on the horizon, dazzling Magnes’ eyes. He lifted a hand to his face and it came back wet with tears.
“I…I don’t know what I’m doing,” he stammered. “Help me!”
“Just tell me how, milord!” The guardsman released Magnes from his bear hug but stood close, his broad face twisted with confusion.
Magnes started at the man and dredged a name from somewhere deep in his memory. “Talin.” he croaked.
“Come down to the yard with me, milord,” Talin coaxed. “Please!” As he spoke, the guard inserted himself between Magnes and the wall.
Magnes nodded in acquiescence and allowed Talin to lead him down. At the bottom of the steep stairs, the guardsman touched his forehead in salute, then stood regarding his lord with embarrassed concern. He seemed at a loss as to what to say or do next.
Poor bastard. It isn’t every day one’s lord attempts to throw himself from the battlements , Magnes thought.
“Thank you, Talin.” Magnes couldn’t bear to look at the guardsman’s face, for fear the pity he had see in the other man’s eyes would shatter him completely. What had happened-no, what had almost happened-up there on the wall filled him with nearly as much shame and horror as the original act that had precipitated it.
Talin ducked his head and kicked at an imaginary clod of dirt. “Don’t need no thanks, milord. Just doin’ my duty,” he replied. “Will you be all right now, milord?”
Magnes nodded. “You may return to your post,” he said.
The guard bowed again and started back up the stairs. Just before rounding the first curve, he turned and glanced over his shoulder at Magnes, shook his head, then disappeared from view. Magnes sighed. By nightfall, the entire castle would be abuzz with the news that the duchess’s brother had tried to kill himself.
Magnes had known he teetered on the crumbling edge of a cliff and, sooner or later, he would fall. Perhaps the gods themselves had a hand in his rescue, perhaps not; either way, he knew he had to do something, change something , in order to step back from the brink.
Only one person could help him now.
Greenwood Town lay a day’s ride from Amsara Castle. Magnes’ final destination stood on the town’s eastern edge, set back from the road down a tree-lined path. He arrived just as the sun touched the crowns of the trees, setting them afire.
A big black dog chuffed up the path to greet him, letting loose a single deep bark, but the effort proved too lackadaisical to cause any alarm. Magnes’ horse Storm snorted in equine disdain. A child’s piping laughter floated on the warm air, commingling with the happy squeals of an infant. Storm plodded on, escorted by the black dog, and soon the house came into view.
Magnes drew rein at the gate and swung from the saddle. A boy of about seven summers sat cross-legged in the middle of the yard, entertaining a toddler with puppets made of twigs and bits of brightly colored cloth. The boy looked up as Magnes tied Storm to the fence post, then pushed open the gate.
“Ma’s out back,” the boy announced. He had a narrow, well-sculpted face beneath a shock of black hair, high cheekbones and dark intelligent eyes.
Magnes smiled. “Is your father at home?” he asked. The boy shook his head, quick and sharp as a bird.
“Naw. Da’s off with th’ duchess, fightin’ in the war,” he replied.
Of course , Magnes thought. “Will you go and fetch your mother, then?” The boy’s brow furrowed as if he were thinking very hard. Abruptly, he nodded, dropped the puppets, climbed to his feet, then swung the baby into his arms. Staggering under his burden, he disappeared around the side of the house. Magnes waited.
After he had counted forty of his own heartbeats, she appeared.
Magnes had always been able to discern her thoughts just by reading the subtle cues of eyes, brow, and mouth, but as the young woman approached, wiping her hands on a clay-stained apron, her face remained unreadable. She stopped an arm’s length away and simply looked at him, hands hanging at her sides. The boy came to stand beside her, the baby still in his arms.
“Hello, Livie,” Magnes murmured.
The Most Precious Gift
I heard you’d disappeared after the duke died,” Livie said.
The wind that always came with sunset rattled the tree branches overhead. It lifted the hem of Livie’s skirt and blew strands of her raven hair across her brow.
“I went south to Darguinia.”
Magnes searched Livie’s face in vain for a clue to her thoughts. The toddler, a girl, began to fuss, but before she launched into a full tantrum, Livie scooped her out of the boy’s arms.
“Come inside,” she said. “It’s getting too dark out here.” She turned and led the way into the cottage. Once inside, she plopped the baby onto a rug before the hearth, then moved around the room, lighting the lamps with a burning splinter. “Sarian, go fetch me some bacon from the smokehouse,” she called out over her shoulder and the boy scampered out the door.
Magnes settled on a stool by the hearth and waited for Livie to finish her task. The baby had found a bit of fluff on the rug and was absorbed in pulling it apart with her chubby fingers. Magnes took a deep breath as he wrestled with his pain and regret, but the feelings proved too strong to be easily vanquished.
This should have been our home and our child , he thought.
“Her name is Rose,” Livie said. She pulled a chair up beside him and sat. “She’s just past her second birthday.”
“She’s beautiful,” Magnes managed to answer. He feared he would sob if he said any more.
“Sarian is my husband’s son by his first wife,” Livie explained. “She died giving birth to him. I’m the only mother he’s ever known.”
They both looked up as the boy burst into the room, out of breath and carrying a chunk of smoked meat. Livie stood up, took the bacon from his hands, and carried it to the table. Sarian followed, licking grease from his fingers. Livie sliced the meat, laying the strips on a platter while the boy watched, shifting from foot to foot.
“C’n I have a piece now, Ma?” he asked.
“Be patient, love,” Livie replied gently. “Ma’s almost done.”
“Sarian,” Magnes called out. “Come over here and talk to me.” After a final, lingering glance at the food, the boy spun about and flung himself on the floor at Magnes’ feet. He looked up, regarding his mother’s visitor with all the gravity a seven year old could muster.