Defenders of the Black Crown, #2, page 7
Aven could think of no way to redeem herself from that comment. She stifled her anger, visualizing burying it into a pit. With care, she replied, her voice stable. “My father was a strict Libren, so much that he was appointed as a diacon to care for the farmers around us and teach them the ways of the Almighties. We honored them in Candor. It’s not only about prayers and offerings. You learn how to treat the land, to grow crops, to bring new life from death in a practical way. Libre teaches you how to balance your life and your relationships. It can be a powerful way to heal. Candor would fall without the scaffolding that Libre provides.”
“Perhaps that’s why I find no use for it. I have no need to grow crops, and I have nothing to heal from.” Allyn paused, scratching his chin. “But I suppose it’s something for you to pass the time. It gives you purpose? That’s great. It would be something though if you had a way to contribute your leadership skills to someone other than yourself, holed up in this little room, praying and being sad.”
"I suppose you mean that as a compliment. I think I am making the best use of my days as I’m able.”
“The best use?” Allyn scoffed.
“It's not running a duchy," she muttered, "if that's what you mean—"
"It's precisely what I mean! How many people were under your charge? You ruled a duchy, giving purpose and prosperity to thousands of men before breakfast. Why haven't you fought for your place to be treated as equal with me, Bell, and Rowan? We've never led anyone, it seems unfair, doesn't it?"
Aven felt herself struggling to keep up with the rapid and changing pace of his rhetoric.
"Listen," Allyn said, extending his hands, "I'm surprised no one has advocated this for you. All I heard for months was how we had to save you, because you were a critical ruler who could have been spared from the Boens. We all risked our lives to bound everywhere through East Shore, or Boenarya, whatever we call it now. Good men died because we needed to rescue you and Lady Islabell. But for what?" He threw up his hands and slapped them hard against his thighs.
The sudden sound made Aven jolt.
"I have no answer," she replied coolly.
"Why would you?" Allyn gestured toward her chest, "Really, why would you? Why is it up to you to advocate for yourself, when you're seen as common born? How can you go make demands for treatment when you won't even be heard because of your parentage?"
"I understand, but bringing me this does nothing to solve it."
Allyn pushed a breath through loose lips and shook his head. He began to pace in the chamber, though it was a small space to do so.
Aven was about to ask him to leave, but he spoke before she could.
"If I had any say, I'd demand it. I'd demand that you be given all the same rights and voice that we are. Do you know that we are asked to consult on what is done with Boenarya? Me, and Finn, and Rowan? The audacity! How are we able to consult on the very lands that you ruled over? I've hardly been, and Rowan knows little except some specific vulnerable fishing places he brings up. How are we meant to make decisions on a land with so little knowledge, when here you sit."
Aven felt a sting behind her eyes. She shook it away. “I appreciate your visit. I’m afraid I haven’t...I’m not informed about any of these ‘consults’ you speak of. Neither would I be invited to join them. So, I’m afraid I have nothing to offer to this conversation. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid I’m not feeling up to company.”
Allyn idly twirled at a corner of his mustache, making no move toward the door. “I wanted to tell you about the caravan to Candor. Unless you already know?”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, well I’m glad I thought to tell you. Here I thought maybe Rowan would, but then I knew he hadn’t been to see you.”
Aven’s insides clenched as if a fist had pummeled into her gut. “What is the caravan, then?”
Allyn sighed, “We’re going back. Micha has charged us to return to Candor. He has arranged safe passage for our caravan, not to be harmed by the Boens. They will escort us to the Calam Mountains and we will ride to Candeo.”
“And Rowan, he is going to Candeo?” Aven’s voice broke against her will.
“Yes. Rowan, Sir Jonn, and I. Micha chose us to go and advocate for a peace treaty with the Boens. Finn is to stay behind, under Bell’s care. Barton hasn’t decided, though I think he’s content here. The choice was left for only him to make, and the rest of us have no say in it.”
Aven wanted to reply about Barton, but didn’t speak for fear she might let loose the well of emotion swirling up inside her.
“You may join us, or you may stay. But when I thought of you here in the bullocks and the way things have been for you, I thought you must be unhappy. There's no chance you are satisfied with how things are in Ediva."
"You're right," she whispered. To keep him from seeing the tears threatening to flow, she went to the window and stared out at the froll slaughterhouse below. It was not unlike the pig farms of her childhood home. Allyn was so quiet behind her, Aven hoped perhaps he had left. She watched two men wrestle a froll to its side and brand it with a flaming hot iron. Her stomach roiled at the familiar sweet smell of burning flesh.
Allyn shuffled behind her, breaking the silence. "Has no one been visiting you?”
She rolled a shoulder without turning around.
He sighed, “I'm so sorry. I've been busy lately, learning about the Boens. We're trying to understand them so we know what to expect, I suppose. If we can get into their minds, we can guess the next moves they will make, and perhaps keep them from attacking..."
He continued to explain to Aven's back as she felt a tear fall. Soon another followed. She didn't wipe her eyes, she stared at the farmers below. She easily remembered the last time she’d spoken to her mother. It was before she’d met Raena, one of the times she visited Candeo and held council with Queen Zarana. Aven had gone to the pig farm where her parents and five older brothers worked. It was the first spring after Eathon's death, and Aven had still felt tender and broken. When she went to her family, she implored them to leave Candeo and come to House Colby. Aven's mother, Gailia, had been angry and cold, spitting on the floor and insisting she’d rather serve a true queen than be humiliated by bowing to her own "snooty daughter". Aven thought that was the most pain she would ever feel; how naive she'd been of what true grief was yet to come.
"...and we're meeting beside Painter's Lake tomorrow. You may join us."
Aven snapped out of her faraway thoughts, "Tomorrow? The caravan?" She glanced over her shoulder and saw him nod.
"If you're there, I'm sure you may go with us. That way you could stay with Rowan, if you still want to." His tone lifted as though asking a question.
Rowan.
Aven spun to face Allyn straight on, and she felt the dam break inside her. Her fingers began to shake and Aven clenched her fists to keep him from seeing. She raised her chin, not caring if a remnant of tears remained under her eyes. Inside her, everything twisted and turned like a hurricane, growing in volume.
“I don’t want to,” Aven snapped.
Allyn flinched.
“I don’t care about staying with Rowan,” Aven clarified, stepping forward with arms flexed. “I don’t need him. I don’t need any of you to help me. I didn’t need you to come in here and tell me any of this, I was doing just fine.”
Allyn raised his hands, “Aye, all right—”
“You’re misguided and wasting my time, at best. Rowan is even worse. I’d prefer you stop coming around to tell me about him. I’ll be on that caravan because I have family and business to tend to back in Candeo. No other reason. Let yourself worry about your own politics next time, and leave me out of it.”
He sneered under his mustache with thinly veiled disgust. “I’m trying to do you a favor.”
“Save it. I don’t need favors.”
Allyn balked, his jaw dropping.
Aven knew that the switch in her demeanor was unwanted. Allyn appeared afraid, or intimidated. Either way, it didn’t matter to her. Aven would not be a little helpless girl anymore. Not for Raena, especially.
Allyn muttered to himself, then repeated it, louder. “Suit yourself, Duchess. Come back with us, or don’t.”
Before Aven could lurch forward to bark another word of spite, he was bolting from the room, huffing aloud as he did.
Aven paced the tiny chamber, keeping one eye on the door as if daring anyone to come through it and face her wrath. Part of her wished Raena might appear, begging her to join the caravan, so Aven could roast her alive with words. She shook her hands to ward off their shaking at the thought.
With a set of her jaw, Aven’s mind was made up. She would take the caravan, but not to unite with her old noble allies. She would do it on her own, the same as she always had, relying only on herself.
Unburdened for a moment, Aven returned to the labor of her tapestry. She stitched the story of her councilors: Angeline Mondraken, Thadeon Cross, Eljoy. She recreated their likenesses with as much justice as she could manage. But the panels with the garons taunted her, reminding her of making Raena’s tunic. Raena, proudly wearing the tunic. Aven paused several times, wringing out her fingers, willing them to steady. When she couldn’t ignore her tremors any longer, she stood, leaving the needlework for another day.
“That’s enough,” Aven whispered to herself in a chastising tone. “What do you owe them? What do you owe her? Nothing. She’ll continue to give you nothing. You’ve already made the right choice.”
She poured herself a cup of water and brought it to her lips, sipping, willing herself to focus on the sensation of drinking.
At the mindlessness of the act, it loosened her emotions. The reality of what Aven felt burst from within her like an epiphany.
Fear. Fear that if she entered that caravan, it would be the final act that would drive her and Raena apart, forever. Fear that Raena would continue to be ice cold. Fear that only a tiny sliver of intimacy would remain between them and Aven would weaken herself to grasp for it.
Fear. Of losing Raena.
A pained groan escaped from deep within her chest. Aven ripped it back, turning it into an angered growl. She took another drink of water and washed her emotion away with a gulp.
Slamming down the goblet, Aven shook her head.
She would go to the caravan.
She would return to Candor, and Raena would be responsible for dealing with that in her own way.
She wouldn’t fear something so silly.
Aven feared nothing.
_______________
When Aven reached the edge of Painters Lake, she held her satchels awkwardly. There was a bustle of thick, ruddy Edivan horsemen and stable hands loading up a long row of wagons. Aven counted nine wagons, five of them for carrying passengers and four for cargo. She resisted the urge to seek out familiar nobles of Candor, instead focusing on her task of finding the servant’s wagon.
It was cold, even though summer was near. Aven tucked her black hair behind her ears and pulled her woven hat down to cover them. She thought of how blistering hot the deserts of Candor would feel. She might miss Ediva, in an odd way. It was the most beautiful of all the kingdoms, she supposed, with the picturesque snow-capped mountains and swaths of infinity trees. Aven stared through her clouded breaths at the reflection of the peaks in the shallow lake. She tried to remember the names of them, wishing she spoke Edivan better, like Allyn and Bell did. With a huff, she decided this journey would be her chance to learn more of the language.
“Bow to the King!” a man shouted from behind.
Aven turned quickly and dropped to her knees, muddying her woven grey dress. She felt the icy ground soaking through the fabric and chilling her legs. Peering up through her lashes, she watched King Micha approach on foot, surrounded by an entourage of nobles and guards. Among them were Sir Jonn, Allyn, Raena, and Bell. Aven fought the shiver that ran through her at the humiliating position she was in, bowing prostrate before the knights who would have served her only a few short weeks before. As if thinking the same thing, Raena’s periwinkle eyes met Aven’s, then darted away.
King Micha gave a short speech in Edivan, mentioning the names of the Candorians and gesturing to the caravan. Aven inferred through context that he was giving them a blessing for the mission and journey ahead.
“Fla pas na halum,” Micha said, allowing a pause.
“Fla pas halamna,” Aven echoed along with the serfs and peasants, beside her. She’d been told it roughly translated to ‘joy from the Almighty of time’.
Micha gave a short bow and left, his royal guards following along. When he was out of sight, Sir Jonn bellowed a word in Edivan and the peasants began to rise to their feet. Aven did the same, remiss to see the dark stains on her skirts and the growing wet spots. Fortunately, her satchels were made of leather, otherwise the few clothing items and embroidery she’d packed would be soaked from sitting on the wet ground. She gathered them by the straps, her wavy black hair falling into her eyes.
“Does this mean you’re taking the caravan?” a familiar, husky voice said from above.
Aven dropped to her knee immediately, back into the mud. “My Lord,” she muttered, staring at Raena’s darkened leather boots.
“Oh,” Raena said, letting out a loud sigh, “please um, please stand up.”
Aven spoke through her teeth, “You know I can’t, my Lord.”
“Right.”
There was a brief pause, and Aven bit her lip, focusing on the little pool of dirt and half-melted snow between them. She could clearly picture Raena’s furrowed brow of frustration. Around them, Aven heard the continuing bustle of peasants loading the caravan, and she thought she even heard Allyn’s distinctive laugh in the near distance.
“Well,” Raena mumbled, “you won’t have to bow to me when we’re in Candor. So, that will be nice.”
Aven’s tone gave away her displeasure, “If you say so, my Lord.”
“Erm, all right,” Raena’s voice broke with a nervous laugh. “Well, Bell is here, to say goodbye. She’ll want to...to say goodbye to you.”
Aven nodded, feeling a swell in her chest at the mention of Bell. She was about to ask where the lady was when Raena blurted out a warning.
“Sir Jonn is coming.”
Aven kept her eyes still fixated on the ground. She felt the cold seeping back into her skin through her wet skirts. She waited a moment, then watched the second set of boots appear alongside Raena’s.
Sir Jonn spoke, but only to Raena, “They’re ready to load, you ought to settle in. You’ll be in that third wagon, and I’ll be in the fourth with Allyn.”
“My own wagon? Lucky me.”
“Seemed the best choice, considering,” Jonn said.
Aven’s cheeks flushed with quiet rage that Jonn pretended she wasn’t even there, like she was any ordinary peasant. He knew better.
As if Raena read those thoughts, she asked, “What about Aven? Where can my Duchess ride?”
Jonn grumbled something indistinct, then spoke louder, “The pages and horsemen are in that wagon there, and I think the handmaids and peasant women will have a wagon. I’ll ask Elo, he’s the lead horseman.”
“Then she’ll have a wagon to herself?” Raena asked.
Jonn said something quiet, again, and Aven could only hear his tone. She wasn’t surprised that it sounded negative and condescending. When they were done whispering, Jonn walked away.
“I’m sorry about that,” Raena said, “this is horseshite, honestly. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable in the caravan.”
“It’s fine—”
“It isn’t. I hate it. I’m glad things will be normal again in Candor.”
“I said, I’ll be fine,” Aven said, raising her voice.
Raena made a humming sound.
Aven resisted the temptation to look up into Raena’s eyes and explain exactly why she would be absolutely fine and didn’t need any help. She didn’t want pity anymore, and she wasn’t going to let the Candorians continue to pretend like she would be returned to her status among them. They were lying, and they knew it. Aven wasn’t a duchess without a duchy, she was a pig farmer.
Someone called for Rowan.
“I have to go,” Raena said, “will you at least look at me?”
Aven lifted her chin, peering around as she did for any signs of someone watching. She saw that everyone appeared to be occupied with loading the horses and heaving supply bags into wagons. Hesitantly, her eyes trained on Raena, who wore a sad expression.
All of the anger in Aven quelled at the sight. She felt a contorted sensation in her chest that turned to a pang of guilt. She had hurt Raena.
They communicated without words, a sustained gaze of knowing. Raena’s face turned to something softer, yet apologetic, and Aven wondered if her own expression mirrored it. Aven soaked in how much change she saw in Raena. There was a change there from the woman she knew, and it wasn't just the strange look of Edivan clothes or the way Raena no longer wore the colors of Colby on her face and hair. In fact, if it weren't for the bronze crown and accouterments covering Micha, Aven might have mistaken Raena for the King at a distance.
"I'm glad you're coming to Candor," Raena said with finality.
Aven nodded, and lowered her face again. She stayed kneeled and watched as Raena's boots turned in the mud, then walked away.
CHAPTER 6
AVEN
NO ONE HURTS YOU MORE THAN THE PERSON YOU TRUST THE MOST
Aven was indeed put into a wagon with peasant women, who were regularly tasked with cooking for the rest of the caravan when they made camp. Allyn and Raena tried to approach her several times the first few days to strike up a conversation. Aven busied herself, joining the other peasant women in labor, and fixating on tasks every time the knights were near.
She also laundered the men’s clothes when they stopped in the afternoons. For the first week of travel, this was a freezing cold task. The rivers were rushing with glacier water from the Calam Mountains, headed to sea, and Aven’s hands were numb after the first few sets of trousers. The Edivan women were hearty and laughed when she shivered. They remarked after her red hands, nodding to each other as they continued to wash. Aven could imagine their mockery, but couldn’t help that she’d hailed from an entirely different realm.
