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Chapter 6 ~ A Wound to the Soul

Dàibhid

With the sellswords gone and the stress over their safety looming, I did the one thing I’d been desperate to do: I paid a visit to the farmers.

I’d wanted to go right after the attack on the farms over a week ago, but I had to be cautious. Had I gone immediately, I could have played into some sort of trap—what if the rebels, or the Exiles themselves, had counted on me making an appearance while everything was still chaotic? Though it had pained me not to be with those suffering in the moment, I’d listened to the voice that sounded like one of my father’s lessons—and to my guards—and stayed back.

But now, with the rebels responsible in custody and no attacks in recent days, there was no reason for me to stay back. The farmers needed my help, and I owed it to them to pay my respects in person.

Five guards flanked me as we walked through Ardanna’s streets toward the western gate. The captain of my royal guard, Liam Cearlann, stood at my right. While it had initially been his idea to wait, he’d known I couldn’t last forever. He’d known my mind since I was young, when I had a penchant for wandering the castle gardens and sneaking away to the library. He used to bring me snacks he raided from the kitchen and books he thought I’d like from his collection. Still did. His pale balding head reflected the sun as we walked, gruff beard and ring of silver hair turning white in the light.

The wind kicked up, shifting my hair into my eyes. My sword was strapped to my waist, tapping my leg as we wound deeper through the streets. Liam had suggested a carriage, or at least horses, for the entire trip, but I’d insisted on walking once we hit the border between the center and lower districts. The carriage was too showy, and it didn’t feel right parading horses in front of people who had just lost theirs.

Curious onlookers stepped onto the cobbled street. I’d forgone my crown, trying to keep the focus away from me and on those who needed it. I’d also worn casual clothes, a favorite pair of trousers and a loose shirt under a brown, fitted jacket—not that it was any different than what I generally picked for myself. But the guards dressed in their green uniforms emblazoned with the royal crest nullified whatever progress I could have made. Which meant people whispered as I passed, bowed and curtsied the best they could around bundles in their arms and children around their legs. A few of those children stared at me, mouths agape, and I offered them as cheerful a smile as I could. I smiled for the adults, too, but those required greater effort.

It had been drilled into me from a young age that it was unwise to let the people know just how bad things were. They knew some of the extent already, felt it themselves, but I had to look hopeful for them. Make them believe we had a chance, that I could protect them.

Perhaps I could fool myself into believing that I could do it, too.

I chided myself. I could do it. Would. I wouldn’t fail them again.

It was about a ten-minute walk from the western gate to the first farm beyond Ardanna’s walls. The field between was dry but still green; enough people had been able to contain the fire from reaching Ardanna proper. Insects still hummed, flowers still bloomed. But with each step toward the damage, the weight of a phantom crown bowed my head. The green grass turned brown, and while rain had washed most of the ash away, a few stubborn white flecks clung to the brittle blades. Hammers replaced insects, echoing off the remaining structures, while people carried goods from one farm to the next, cattle pulling timber behind them.

Two of my guards carried bundles of preserved food and extra tools for the farmers, and a cart would follow shortly, filled with items donated by local shops. I patted the pouch attached to my belt, identical to the ones the five guards carried. I took a deep breath and pushed on toward a group of farmers.

What looked like the eldest of them spotted me first, a towering man with ebony sunspots on almost equally dark skin. He dropped into a bow, the others following suit.

“Your Majesty, to what do we owe this . . .” He grimaced. Pleasure didn’t sound right to me, either. Within the charred fields, barns and houses were destroyed to varying degrees. Most in the group wore black mourning clothes, including the eldest farmer.

“I’m truly sorry for what happened here.” I kept my voice soft, gentle, though it wasn’t like it took any effort given the circumstances. “No one deserves to experience what you have.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, words catching.

I looked further down the road, to the fourth farm. The house was still standing, but that was about it. I pointed to it. “My great-grandfather helped cultivate that soil.” Any other words I may have said stuck on their way out.

One of the women sniffled. “We pride ourselves on that knowledge, Your Majesty. My grandfather was granted that land after your family was brought to the capital. That farm is now our pride and joy.”

I forced the threat of tears deep down. I couldn’t cry in front of them. I needed to be their rock, even while commiserating with them. “I’m sure he’d be happy to know how much you care for it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and I had to look away.

“I’d like to help, however I can.” I waved forward the two guards with bundles. “This is just the start. Ardanna’s stores and I have collected goods to help you get back on your feet. There will be more arriving soon, enough for all of you. Food, seeds, clothes. And if there’s anything missing, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Two farmers took the bundles like they were newborns, mouths open in wonder. My chest tightened. They looked at the bags like they were the world.

But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. My great-grandfather’s old farm stared me down. The lack of crops on its soil stared me down. The lack of horses and cows and chickens hit me like a punch to the stomach, the lingering smell of burned clung to my skin. And the knowledge that there should have been more farmers and family members around us was a blow to my soul. The weight at my belt hung heavy in reminder.

“I’d like you to have this, too.” I extended the small pouch to the farmer closest to me, a man about a decade older than me. The coins jingled when he took it. The guards gave the rest to others, those pouches jingling just as noticeably. “More will arrive with the donations.”

The farmer’s eyebrows shot up as he removed a pure silver coin from within, stamped with the royal crest. His focus danced between me and the money. There was a chance he’d never seen a silver crest before, let alone held one.

“My gods,” a girl, no more than ten, said, pulling money out of another pouch. “Iron swords, iron sheaves, and silver crests.”

The eldest farmer stared at each type of coin himself before taking in how many pouches I’d brought. “This is too much.”

“Nothing will ever be enough.” The phantom wounds in my soul squeezed tighter, and I forced myself to talk through them. “But it will at least help you start over.”

The woman who owned my great-grandfather’s farm burst into tears. Silent tears flowed from others. Those with dry eyes seemed to be working to keep them that way. Liam glanced at me, like he was wondering if I’d manage to keep my own eyes dry for much longer.

“How can we ever repay you?” the woman asked.

“You can rebuild,” I said. “You can show the rebels they don’t get to win.”

They all stood straighter at that, including the young girl. Part of my soul knit together at the sight.

While I wanted to stay and help—build something, deliver the donations directly to the homes, whatever they’d have me do—Liam had made it clear that once this task was complete, we needed to head back to the castle. With how recently the attack was committed, there was no telling what risk I was taking on.

I didn’t particularly care; helping these people was more important. But I also didn’t want to bring out Liam’s mother hen instincts or encourage a heart attack. So, with reluctance, I wished the farmers and their loved ones well and began the trek home.

“You did what you could,” Liam said, quietly enough so the others didn’t hear.

“I know.”

His lips flattened like he knew I was lying.

We were only a few streets inside the city, light foot traffic stopping once again to see me by, when a flash of steel struck out from my left. One of my guards blocked it, preventing my cheek from getting sliced. Cries erupted from onlookers, but a few booming yells went up from somewhere unseen.

My guards framed me closely, swords drawn. The attacker had fled, though they were likely close by. I prayed the onlookers would go inside the nearest buildings and stay there.

Before the street was clear, the attacker returned, this time with friends. Swords met swords, and my guards clashed with rebels, tokens bearing the Exile crest a dead giveaway to their allegiance. Though my guards could handle rebels, they were outnumbered. Liam’s glance in my direction told me he knew as much, and that he knew there was little he could do to convince me to stay out of it. He looked squarely at my sword, almost exasperated, before moving aside to make room for me.

Unsheathing my sword, I flung myself forward, catching one of the rebels before he could injure Liam. The rebel swung at me again, the motion full of well-trained precision. The resulting clash vibrated up my arm and into my jaw, but still I pushed back. His expression turned to angry shock, as though he’d believed the lies the Exiles were spreading. But while I might not glorify war or wish to make enemies pay with blood, it didn’t mean I couldn’t hold my own.

Or that I was incapable of fighting back.

Though I avoided killing, I had no qualms about putting rebels out of commission. After a few more strikes, I found my opening, striking a blow to his head with my hilt. He collapsed to the ground and stayed down. After dispatching two more in a similar fashion and a third with, regrettably, a jab that likely severed a tendon in his leg, each of the rebels found themselves on the ground, surrounded. My guards knew my priorities, and had done their best not to kill, either. Still, two rebels had died. I sent a quick prayer to Dérra to guide them to Afterlife—if only for them to wallow there for the rest of eternity. From what I’d seen, one of the dead had tried to go after a child when she wasn’t making headway against Liam. Liam hadn’t had much of a choice. I doubled my prayer for her to wallow with shame and regret.

“Who sent you?” I asked.

The one with the severed tendon spat in my direction. The look he gave me, a smug, cold grin, sparked a rare anger from me.

“Who?” I repeated. I kept the anger in check; they wouldn’t get a rise out of me.

But I let him see a flare of it in the grip on my sword. Had he murdered one of the farmers? Did he mourn the lives lost as I did, or were they simply bodies to be disposed of?

His grin fell.

“No one,” he admitted. Liam took a step forward, more intimidating than me in size. The rebel shook his head. “We heard you would be returning from the farms through this gate, and took advantage of it.”

If he was telling the truth, this was as random an attack as it could have been—no information to be gathered, no answers that I desperately needed to keep my people safe. My heart pounded so heavily it near choked me. How could I keep everyone safe when I had no answers and no way of knowing what was coming?

But the sellswords were on it. They would learn something we could use, and I could end this, hopefully before any more lives were ruined or lost.

And if this rebel was lying and someone had ordered the attack, we’d work to learn about that, too.

Movement behind the rebel caught my attention. One of his companions was stirring awake.

“Gather some of the city guards,” I said to no one in particular. “We’ll need help bringing them back to Bailanín. We’ll question them further there.”

The rebel pressed his lips together, paling.

“What will we do with them once we’re done questioning?” Liam asked.

“I haven’t decided,” I said, knowing it would make them more nervous. But I turned around lest they call my bluff. I’d deal with them after the next petition session, ask questions without torturing anything from them. No matter their answers, I’d likely sentence them to remain in the cells below the castle for at least a few years for attempted murder, but certainly until the Exile threat was gone. I didn’t need to increase their numbers. But I wouldn’t execute them; while that was some rulers’ way, it was my last resort. Besides, letting prisoners sit in cells had worked more than once to get confessions out of the guilty.

My bluff made one of the rebels bold, and she bolted down a side street. Guards gave chase. She was fast, but the guards were trained for this. I had faith they’d track her down.

Liam ushered me forward, my royal guards and a few city guards forming a wall around me as we made for the carriage and horses we’d left behind. I wanted to push through them, make the people see I was fine. But I wasn’t fine. This wasn’t fine. None of it was.

Even in the relative safety of the carriage, my fingers tightened around my hilt in case I needed my sword again. I took a deep breath, trying to hide my worry and doubts. But the thoughts kept circling my mind endlessly, draining what little energy I had left.

When we were almost within the safety of the castle’s walls, more shouting rent the air. Dread turned the air around me thick like soup, and breathing became difficult. I jumped from the halted carriage. I kept the fear to myself as I resisted Liam’s pull on my arm. A city guard would come by soon with news of what was happening.

“You need to get inside. Now.” Liam pulled again, and this time he succeeded in bringing me back a step. He lowered his voice. “You’ll get the news just as effectively inside as you will out here.”

I unplanted my feet despite myself and followed him, but I refused to move any further than the entrance hall. Liam stopped herding me, apparently satisfied.

Not long after, a city guard rushed through the front doors, frantic and covered in sweat. The sweat was mixed with something dark. Smoky. Soot. My knees threatened to buckle.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The Crown Bakery, Your Majesty. It’s . . .”

My chest stilled as I waited. As the worst played out in my mind, as I thought of the Leancormacs and their love for the capital and the capital’s love for them. As the last time I visited—only a week prior—made me wonder if I should never have gone in the first place.

The guard swallowed and tried again. “It’s been destroyed.”