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They've been practicing for a few hours now, the roar of the rushing waters of Kanzua's dam all around them in the small training room. The soft whistle of her blade sings, trying to get him to attack her right side. Tamacti knows this weapon as if it were his own blade, having trained her with it since she was a child. By pure instinct he blocks her swing and they resume their battle dance, their blades clashing in a controlled rhythm.
The princess has almost mastered her weapon, the Whistle Sword - an elegant blade befitting her status. It would only be a few more years and with practice she would be so good she wouldn't need him anymore. This thought has a bitter aftertaste, he notes with a certain melancholy. Nevertheless, he is proud of the young woman.
But now he can hear her unsteady breathing, her almost silent curse as his next blow tears the sword from her weary hands. It clatters to the floor and glides across the training room until the noise stops. There is silence for a few moments, until he hears her soft, relaxed laughter. He allows himself a soft chuckle and releases the tight grip on his own blade's hilt. It was good practice, he concludes.
Her clothes rustle as the princess turns in the direction they both heard her sword slide. Her steps are surprisingly even as she picks up her blade and then her question hits him out of nowhere.
"Tamacti Jun, you surely know what love feels like. You are a married man, aren't you?"
"Soon to be a father, yes," he gently answers her. "My wife is a good woman." But their connection was born out of pragmatism, and while he still respects his wife and she is dear to him, he doesn't think of love when he thinks of her.
He's not sure if he's ever been in love. Of course, he felt the love everyone has for their parents. His father taught him patience when fishing for salmon and when he was still a little boy, his mother sang him to sleep every night, her voice the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.
And even if he doesn't love his wife, a second heartbeat has been beating under her own heart for several months, the midwife said. Soon there will be a child, a strong boy perhaps, whom he would take to the river every autumn and they would fish for salmon. Maybe the baby will be a girl, he thinks, a sweet little girl like the princess once was. He knows he's going to love that child and probably already does while it's still in the womb.
They grow up so fast. Six years ago on the day of the princess’ tenth birthday he was sworn in to protect her, guard her and train her - a retainer for princess Maghra, loyal at all times. It was a great honor for him, even greater than his promotion to general. He still thrives on the pride he felt that day and it was a pleasure to be with the princess. It still is.
The pitter-patter of her small leather-clad feet followed him through the palace of Kanzua everywhere he would go until that fateful day the king died. Since then, the princess had become more serious and kept her back straighter than ever. Her happy laughter died away and she drew the silence around her like a shield.
Only once did she allow herself to cry, at least around him. And just this once she took his calloused hand with her delicate fingers and squeezed it so hard that he heard his bones crack. He would also never forget how he carefully untied her fingers and dared to pull the princess into a gentle embrace.
So she cried for her father very quietly for a while, her hot tears seeping through his shirt, the smell of salt and sadness surrounding them both. To this day he can't explain why he did it, but the need to comfort her had been so intense that his lips finally touched her forehead in an almost imperceptible kiss. An unthinkable act that feels both sacrilegious and right at the same time.
But if he can comfort her like that, he will - or so he told himself.
Her heartbeat quickened, as fast as a rabbit's, and then she calmed down. Words weren't needed, they understood each other at the moment even without them and didn't need to talk about what happened. She was a young girl, grieving for her father … and to an extent for her sister too.
“You must rule … soon.”
He knew how the crown princess hungered for her birthright and how heartbroken she must have been to hear those words whispered to her sister by the king. But these were the last words of a man weakened by sickness. The fever must have been in his head, and even if the king did indeed murmur those unfortunate words to his younger daughter, Tamacti chose to turn a deaf ear to them. They weren't meant for him, after all.
The crown princess was not an easy child to love, at least he has to admit that. The bond between the sisters seemed at times stable and vacillating at others, although he never doubted that they loved each other dearly. But even then, Sibeth Kane was strong-willed, determined to rule, and had the full support of the council and generals. Perhaps if Maghra had been a little older... No, he shouldn't even think about the young princess usurping the throne. It would be treason, blasphemy even.
At the time he could only hope that the princess would also dismiss and forget her father's last words. It would be safer for her.
And over the years, the girl blossomed into a woman. But still she was young and sometimes foolish like all young people.
So Tamacti Jun already knows where her question comes from and he also knows that his answer didn’t satisfy her curious mind. Before she can dig any further, he does her the favor of spitting out the name of the man she's thinking of.
"Jerlamarel." The contempt in his voice must have been so obvious he heard her swallow. He immediately regrets the harsh tone but it is what it is.
Ever since Jerlamarel appeared in Kanzua, the court has been at odds over whether to hate or love him. He must have a certain charm since the queen has accepted him as a lover after such a short time and he seems to feed her ravenous appetite well enough. Tamacti didn't care, the queen's love affairs should be her own, although he would prefer her to be more discreet about her affections.
But over time, Princess Maghra took a liking to this man, Jerlamarel, who always seemed to have a smile in his voice and an answer to everything. For a time, Tamacti felt that the princess had her mind on young Lord Harlan. At least, despite his sharp tongue, Harlan seemed to have feelings for her, and if he can make her laugh and be happy, Tamacti could be fine with that. But in the end, a possible engagement turned into a friendship and the problem remains. Because the court gossips more and more about the princess and Jerlamarel.
"You don't like him," the princess remarks on the obvious. She sounds disappointed, but he could be wrong. She's gotten better at hiding the feelings in her voice and her heart. In a few years she will have perfected that royal mask and he dreads that day, if he's honest. But she's still a young woman, so obviously in love it hurts.
"I don't trust him," Tamacti clarifies, and the princess snorts in a remarkably unregal manner.
“Is it not the same thing?”
He almost smiles at her painfully naive question. "You know better, princess Maghra," he tells her, and she seems to think about it.
After a moment of comfortable silence, she raises her voice again. “But he knows so much and he understands me.”
Of course he does, Tamacti thinks bitterly, only to wonder at himself when the princess starts chattering about Jerlamarel. It's all seemingly harmless things, like giving her fragrant flowers, small wood carvings, and all the conversations she can have so carefree without the deceptive court routine.
But it's an illusion, Tamacti thinks. Jerlamarel may woo Maghra with that innocent air, but he is still the queen's lover. How long will it be before the queen finds out about this and the sisters are at odds with each other?
This is building up to a catastrophe. Queen Kane is already becoming unpredictable in her religious zeal. It is said that Paya's Witchfinders are burning more and more heretics at her command. Some rumors are suggesting that the Queen is actually losing God’s favor.
As much as he would like to dispel those rumors, recently, words have reached his ears that even the council and the generals are divided. Some prefer the rule of the queen because it is her divine birthright and that’s not up for debate. Others whisper that this particular queen is turning out to be a tyrant and that a new possible queen is ready to succeed her.
Maghra.
They want Maghra to become Paya’s new queen.
They want this sweet, innocent girl to throw the whole realm into chaos, to rise up against her sister, who for now holds Paya together with an iron fist. But for how long?
And what does Jerlamarel want?
****
“No.”
“Tamacti Jun, please. We only need your vote in our favor. The other generals and the council, they would listen to you.”
Her voice is pleading so sweetly to him and he so desperately wants her to stop this madness. A diffuse pain thunders under his skull, and Tamacti remains silent. The princess doesn't take it well, he can feel that and he doesn't even need the deeper intuition of a presage for that.
“Jerlamarel said…”
“Jerlamarel could be a witch for all I know,” he growls in her direction, interrupting her.
Her robes rustle as she takes a step back from him, and he immediately wants to beg her forgiveness. She's still his princess. Her anger is palpable through the air but also her pain. Has he hurt her with his accusation against the man she believes to be in love with? Or is it because she thinks he doesn’t trust her with the crown? He wants to trust her, he really does.
But he still feels the ghost of her grip on his hand after her father died. After all these years, he still feels her slender frame in his arms while he was holding her when she was crying. She was so young then when she accepted the little consolation he dared to give her. She still is. Maghra has her whole life ahead of her. Even if he votes in her favor, what if this uprising goes wrong? The queen would be forced to execute her own sister. The thought of his princess dead and her body adorning the ceiling of the great hall ached in his heart and in a place so deep in his soul he wasn't sure it even existed. Does it make him a coward?
For a heartbeat he longs to take her in his arms again, to give her warmth, to breathe in her scent, to tell her everything will be fine. But the moment is fleeting and any word he would say would likely be a lie. And Tamacti Jun doesn't lie to his princess nor is it his place to be affectionate with her.
It's eerily quiet in the room, but then he hears her sniffling.
“The day will come when you will regret your decision. I promise you that, Tamacti Jun,” she finally announces, and then he hears her cane clicking across the floor and her footsteps retreating.
Had he known that these would be the last words she would ever speak to him, he would have done everything to save her from her cruel fate.
****
They found a body in the royal chambers. They said it was the princess. Maghra is dead and Jerlamarel is gone. The queen screams herself into a frenzy, and as Tamacti listens to her wails, he's not sure if she's crying for her sister or her lover. Does it even matter anymore? He failed her, his princess.
Cold water splashes over the bones of Kanzua's dam where he crouches down, screaming himself hoarse, driving every thought out of his head until everything is numb. He knows he’s there for several hours but how he finally got home, Tamacti has forgotten. There’s only the remembrances of Maghra’s hard grip on his hand, her body against his own, her weeping and he would weep with her had he any tears left.
His wife and children - there are two by then, a boy and a girl - know better than to approach him. That night his body burns with fever as hot as a pyre. His dreams are of strange nature. There is Maghra's soft laughter and the smile he could hear in her voice. Why must God punish him with all of this?After two days, the fever finally breaks and Tamacti's path leads back to the palace, back to the queen.
It's the day he takes his oath. Find Jerlamarel, who has since been declared a witch by the queen. Hunt his princess's killer without mercy. Twenty years of conscription will have to do, he thinks as they put the first God-bone spike in his ear.
And so he kisses his children goodbye, knowing that he won't be there in the autumn to take them to the river. Not even next autumn or the one after that. They'll be grown up, maybe not even recognize his voice or his touch when he comes back. But they will be well off.
Pyre after pyre will be lit in his path of holy justice. Jerlamarel will burn as soon as he hands over the witch to Queen Kane. And while it won't bring back his princess, it should at least give him grim satisfaction that Maghra has been avenged and the world purged of the witch. If he can't feel anything else, then at least that should be enough.
Years pass, then a decade, since he almost caught up with the children of Jerlamarel. He still wonders if he can feel anything other than the emptiness of losing Maghra and his regret for disappointing her, failing her. But his Witchfinders are good company in these cold times, and he thinks maybe, maybe he can make peace with Maghra's death.
He tried, at least for a while, but the screams of all the people he maimed and killed pierced his mind. Well, hell must wait, for his only way is forward.
Until finally the words of a woman believed dead and the soft jingling of the princess's bell turn his world upside down.
***
One year after the battle of Pensa
"I would be lost without you, Tamacti," Maghra's soft words reached his ear so softly after he wrapped his arm around her slender shoulders. It feels so right.
“How so very sad for both of us.” They share a quiet chuckle at his words and resume their way out of this hellhole her sister and her husband died in.
Maghra has been happy with Baba Voss and her children all these years and he is grateful for that. She deserves to be happy, and Tamacti would do anything to keep her out of trouble so she can be happy again without her husband, whose death he still envies, even if just a little. His wish for a warrior's death can wait as long as she wishes. If Baba Voss taught him anything, it is that he must earn his death, but he must also earn his life. Tamacti knows Hell awaits him when he dies, but Hell can wait a little if Maghra wishes. And sometimes he catches himself thinking that maybe life can get good again.