Incite, page 12
Amiria takes another bite of the treat, “No. I’ve been busy working.”
“Gross, working class,” the girls hiss as they migrate their group away from Amiria.
Now standing alone, Amira wipes her face with her sleeve, discreetly eyeing the social life surrounding her. She didn’t want to make small talk with them anyway, her stomach is her primary focus. She is starving, she purposely skipped lunch so she can indulge herself with the banquette.
“You must be Ms. Rey.” A man says behind her. She turns around to see one of the second lieutenants of the Winged Cavalry. “You’re almost unrecognizable without your gear on. You should wear dresses more often. Who knew you would be so beautiful,” he compliments.
He bows to her like Earl Barric, but instead of flaring his hand backward, he holds it out forwards palm facing up with his intentions being for her to place her hand in his so he may kiss it. Amiria does not respond this way. The Second Lt looks up from his bow to behold a half-eaten pancake sitting in his palm.
“Thanks. I wasn’t sure where to put that,” Amiria says. “I’ve got this itch.” The unforgiving fabric of her sleeves digs into her skin as she struggles to reach the middle of her back.
The Second Lt straightens up, blinking blankly at the pancake in his hand. “Umm.” He lets out as he observes Amiria as she presses her hand to her opposing elbow, stretching it to reach the spot on her back. He sets the pancake on the table, whipping his hand on the cloth. “Ms. Rey? Are you all right?”
“No. I can’t reach it,” Amiria says, spinning. With a huff of defeat, she snags a knife from the table. “These stupid sleeves,” she gripes to herself, exasperated, holding the dull side of the blade using the hilt to reach between her shoulder blades.
“You know, you’re acting a fool right?” he says with a raise of his lip.
Amiria points the knife as she speaks. “What am I supposed to do? Use the wall?” Her eyes widen at the idea and scans the wall for something useful.
“Uh.” The Second Lt pretends to notice some friends and waves. “It was, um, nice talking to you. I’ll see you around, Ms. Rey.”
Amiria barely nods a goodbye as she spots a smaller door frame leading to the kitchens. “Perfect.” Stabbing the knife into the gingerbread she sets off in the direction making it only two steps before she stops short.
“Ms. Rey, care to dance?” a gentleman appearing in front of her asks, holding out his hand to her with a chalice of wine in the other.
She can’t get a break. “Well, yeah, I kind of do.” She leans to peer around the man to the door that will save her.
Instead of the door, she spots her father leering at her from across the room. “Actually, maybe dancing doesn’t sound bad right now.” She reaches out, stealing the chalice from his hand. “Let me borrow this.”
Stealing the silver chalice from his hand, she dumps the contents at their feet. She shivers with delight as she relieves the itch with the brim of the chalice. Tossing the chalice on the table, she takes his hand. “All right. Let’s go.”
Pulling him out to the dance circle near the musicians in front of the mosaic windows, Amiria already regrets her choice. Everyone is holding hands. Their laughing faces spin across the floor. Their arms swing to the beat of the band.
Amiria hates dancing. The same dances every time, nothing new, nothing original. The choreography is simple and basic. Not a single drop of individuality as everyone moves in synchronization.
The dance circle opens a gap wide enough for her and the man whom she dragged over without bothering to learn his name to fit in. She takes the hand of the person next to her and side steps to the left nearly stepping on their toes.
The circle stops and they start spinning to the right. They stop again. Still holding hands, the group steps in closing the circle. They raise their hands to head height. Pulling out away from the center they step back in with one foot then back out. She thinks, after all the years of training to master the grace and fluidity of swordsmanship she would be able to dance.
Amiria knocks into the person beside her as the group changes direction, earning her a sideways glare.
Great. She thinks as the group slows to a stop again. Every other person including Amiria lets go of the hands and bounces to the beat as they dance into the middle of the circle.
Amiria fakes her smile as she bobs awkwardly to the middle with the other half of the dancers. Putting their right hands into the air their fingertips touch as they circle. The larger outer ring remains still waiting for their partners to return. Amiria’s group finishes their dance, and she takes the cue to follow everyone back into line.
Girls in the room snicker as Amiria’s boots are exposed while jumping side to side. “Yuck, look at those ratty things.”
“How disrespectful to wear something so hideous to the king’s ball.”
“Is she expecting to win over a nobleman like that? A man marries a woman because she is a lady, not because she acts like another man.”
Amiria’s face is flushed. Her body heat caught inside the unbreathable fabric. She knows the heat and sweat radiating from her face can cook a small meal. Releases her hands, she fans her face as she steps away from the dancing circle.
Peeling the collar of her dress away from her skin she attempts to circulate air flow for any sort of relief. Amiria groans in frustration as she can barely pull the fabric around her arms and torso away from her skin.
“I need something to drink. Can we get something to drink?”
The man steps out of the dance circle to check on her. “Now? We can get something to drink after we’re done dancing,” he instructs, grabbing her hand to drag her back to the ongoing circle.
Amiria yanks her hand free. “I’m done dancing. I’m getting something to drink.” Turning on her heels, she stalks across the room directly for the wine barrels.
Picking up an empty chalice she fills it to the brim. Downing the drink like it’s water she fills it up a second time. Mid-chug a man clears his throat attempting to grab her attention. Amiria doesn’t take the drink away from her lips.
“Excuse me, miss. Don’t you think you should slow down? Did your mother not teach you how to sip?”
Amiria’s eyes narrow. She glares sideways at him around the metal rim.
“Or you can carry on. Sorry to bother you,” he says, retracting his initial statement and slowly retreating into the crowd.
After her fourth drink, the room begins to blur. She feels better.
Anyone not within arm’s reach of her is lost from her vision. Her surroundings are no more than a smudged oil painting. She leans against the wall alone. Tilting her chalice, she watches the scarlet liquid twirl around its prison.
A hand slips around her waist. The touch is so slow and subtle that she can barely register the pressure of it until it’s too late. She is pulled tight against his chest.
“A beauty such as you shouldn’t be standing alone.” He flirts, a slur in his voice signaling he has had too much to drink.
She looks up trying to focus her vision on his face. She doesn’t recognize him. “Let me go!” She demands, firmly pushing against him with her free hand. Her drink sloshes in the other leaving blood-like droplets at his feet.
“Ah come on. Let’s have some fun,” he seduces, pulling her in tighter.
He leans down into her, his face invading her personal space. She can feel the warm air of his breath on her neck and ear. The stench of cider is strong in her nose.
“I said let go!” she shouts, throwing the rest of her drink in his face.
He jumps back surprised. His grip loosens around her waist. Taking advantage of the opportunity she steps back freeing herself from his enclosing arm. Before she can gain another step away, he grabs her forearm. His hand is large enough to fully enclose her thin wrist. He tugs her forward out muscling her.
“HEY YOU! STOP!” a voice calls out.
“You’re going to pay for that.” He holds her arm up as if he is holding a torch.
She’s pulled forward off balance. The pain in her arm screams and begs for her to make the crushing grip stop before the bone breaks.
“UNHAND HER!” the same voice shouts. A young guard only a year older than Amiria, pushes through the developing audience, but he doesn’t reach them before Amiria reacts.
“I SAID LET GO!” she howls. Using the heel of her hand she strikes, hitting the man in the nose.
The world succumbs to tears. He drops Amiria, his hands shooting to his face. Blood gushes from his nose adding to the red wine stains on his top and the floor around them.
“You wench!” he curses, spitting blood that has run into his mouth from his nose.
The man’s friends rush to his side as they hand him handkerchiefs to stanch the bleeding, but the shorter guard with straight auburn hair is at his side.
“Hands behind your back!” the guard, William, demands reaching for him.
The drunken man blinks back the tears clouding his vision and swats his hand at William, who takes hold of his wrist and presses his other arm to the man’s bicep and takes a step to the side and back, throwing the man to the floor.
With William apprehending the man, a taller guard with short dark hair named Robert, seizes Amiria by the arm.
She rips her arm from his grasp, “Don’t touch me!” she screams. Robert recoils at the recognition of who she is. “None of you have the authority to touch me!” She stumbles back with her swaying vision.
The room pauses, frozen in time. No one is sure on how to react to the scene that is playing out before them.
“Ms. Rey, I’m going to need you to vacate the hall,” exclaims the guard alarmed by her outburst toward him. He is lost on how else to handle the situation. She is correct and he does not have the authority to lay a hand on someone with her title. His eyes find the Winged Cavalry brass standing idly by in the crowd. They are the only ones who have the ability to seize her, but none of them move a finger.
“Best thing I’ve heard all night.” She sighs with a sag of her shoulders.
Every eye following, their faces showing signs of ease that this pariah is done spoiling their night. Mairead peels herself from the wall and glues herself back to Amiria’s side as she flees the hall.
Field Marshall Rey stands in a group with the Lt General and Colonel of the Winged Cavalry. They remain silent holding their tongues until the large double doors are shut once again.
“Was that your daughter?” the Lt General asks.
“I’m afraid so,” he answers by holding back any emotion.
“Women in the Calvary are a breed of their own aren’t they,” The Colonel jokes. They all laugh except Field Marshall Rey who frowns at their humor.
Across the room, Captain Guatier stands close to the General. She raises her lip in distaste at the space Amiria last occupied. Captain Gautier rests his hand on her shoulder. “I know, but she is the only one in line for field marshall.”
“The Reys are a dying family who feel as if they are untouchable. They need the Gautiers to take control and run this Calvary efficiently,” General Gautier says smugly.
Seventeen
“AAHHHHHHHHH!!!” Amiria belts, releasing her frustration. Her voice echoes off the corridor as she stumbles down the hall.
“Ms. Rey! Ms. Rey! Let me help you walk!” Mairead calls over the hollers and reaches out to steady Amiria.
“I don’t need your help.” Amiria’s voice lowers. She dodges Mairead’s helping hands, “I don’t need anyone.” Anger returns, “What I need is this damn dress off.” She hikes up her skirt and searches the interior of her boot revealing a dagger.
“Of course, you have that.” Mairead throws her hands. “What are you going to do? Cut the sleeves off?”
Amiria presses the tip of the blade into the seam at her shoulder.
“Amiria, don’t.”
Amiria gives a sly grin.
“Amiria,” Mairead warns. “Amiria drop the knife.” Her orders fall useless to the floor between them as she watches helplessly while the threads of the gown are severed. Then with a significant rip, Amiria tears both of her sleeves free, the shorter falling to her feet as the longer under-sleeve bunches at her wrist.
Mairead comments sarcastically as Amiria continues to the next. “Well, you need them to match.”
Letting the sleeve hang like the first Amiria’s hands go up to the front lace of the kirtle. “Amiria! No! Bad!” Mairead leaps forward to stop Amiria’s fingers struggling to untie the knot.
With her grace returning, Amiria spins away bumping Mairead’s arms away with her shoulder. Her voice grows soft as she speaks to the empty air in front of her. “People don’t truly want to be with you. They only want something. Once they get what they want, they leave. I like you Mairead, but you’re only here because you’re paid.” Unsuccessful with the knot Amiria takes her knife and cuts the ribbon, letting the kirtle fall open like a vest. “So, you should just leave too.”
Mairead nervously looks up and down the corridor, “Ms. Rey. Please stop this. Let’s get you covered and take you back to your room.”
Dropping herself down onto the ground, Amiria pulls the purple fabric taught with her legs and punctures a hole. Wiggling the dagger, she saws at the fabric starting the tear. Returning the blade to her boot, she finishes the tear ripping it the entire way around exposing the bottom half of her legs.
“What am I to do?” Mairead slaps her hand to her face.
Amiria leaps up now free of her shackles. She sways slightly from the quick movement, the jagged remnants of the dress hanging loose around her knees.
Facing away from Mairead, Amiria rests her cheek on her shoulder and speaks with a distant voice. “Don’t follow me.”
“Amiria?”
“Please.”
Mairead stands beside the discarded scraps of gown as she watches the fragmented girl hold herself together and walk alone.
With crossed arms, Amiria lopes through the courtyard of sleeping flowers lit by crystal moonlight from the cloudless sky. She can still hear the faint music following her down the corridor she had escaped from.
Her body collapses to the marble bench surrounded by primroses. Slumping forward she hides her head in her hands. The muscles beneath her prickled skin shudder in the cool night air.
“What do you want?” She mumbles angrily into her hands.
Calix stops beside the bench, his eyes as pale as the moonlight. “How did you know it was me?”
She looks up at him from her hands. The bundle of fabric still around her wrists, “I know the footfalls of all our teammates. You need to recognize if it’s friend or foe behind you.”
Calix nods as if he agrees, but his face shows he hasn’t thought of that before. “May I?” he asks, gesturing to the space beside her.
“Whatever,” she grunts, scooting over to make room. She waits for Calix to take the open seat beside her before continuing. “Why did you come out here? You want to make fun of me too? Sorry, I wasn’t raised to be a lady. You can’t drop me into a place like that and expect me to blend in,” she vents.
Calix shakes his head. “No. I didn’t come out here to mock you. I thought your punch was pretty impressive. It was a great shot. I’m positive you broke his nose.”
Amiria smiles. “You think so?”
“Yeah.” He pauses, twisting his hands in his lap. “Truth is, I came out here to apologize to you.” He takes a deep breath. It fogs in front of his face as he lets it out slowly, “I saw the way you were treated in there. It made me reflect on myself a bit. The way I have acted towards you.” He meets her eye, “I’m sorry Amiria. I truly am, you deserve better than—” He motions to himself. “This.”
Amiria blinks dumbstruck. Calix...is apologizing? He gave her a compliment that wasn’t about her appearance? The same Calix who thinks he is above everyone else. The same Calix who acts as if she is nothing more than an object he needs to obtain is the same Calix who is apologizing to her about his behavior. This is the first time she knows of since meeting him that he has admitted to doing anything wrong.
Amiria shivers again as the breeze comes down from the rooftop and fills the garden.
“Here,” Calix says, removing his pourpoint, and drapes it over her bare shoulders.
“One apology can’t change all the times you’ve harassed me with your persistence,” she tells him.
Calix now only in his long sleeve black tunic drops his shoulders with a sigh, “I know. I don’t expect you to forgive me after only one apology. To be honest I’m not the best with people. I was brought up and taught that if I want something, the only option is to take it. My father can be...well, you know how he is.”
Amiria remembers spying on them around the corner. How his father belittled him there in the middle of the castle corridor. If that is how he treats him out in the open for anyone to witness, she can’t imagine what has happened behind closed doors.
She scrunches the ruined sleeve away from her forearm examining the red mark where the drunken man had gripped her, but instead sees her scars of battle. Small white lines and marks cover her arms from years of training and now fighting. They aren’t the most noticeable at first glance, but she knows they don’t stop at her arms. Her skin will never be beautiful.
Dropping the sleeve, she pulls the pourpoint in close around her. The smell of chamomile and mint wafts up to her. She knows what can leave scars upon one's skin, but what scars the soul?
“I do like you, Amiria. I’ve never liked anyone how I like you.”
Amiria is no longer cold as he drives the confession through her. He likes her? Why? Is this another one of his ploys? Is this a grand scheme to win her over and then leave?
She never believed him when he sought her out, always assuming his intention was for the power in her name. Other than her name, what reason does she have? Girls fawn over him daily while he soaks in the attention. Then there are the occasional girls that exit his room in the morning. For the past three years, Amiria has never known him to be in a serious relationship with anyone.
