Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (27 page)

Adria nodded. She knew a lesson when she heard one. But this one, at least, unlike much of what the Sisters taught her, seemed to hold some real meaning for her life. She smiled a little to encourage him, and he acknowledged this with a nod.

“With respect, Ma’am, I know that you are disappointed, but consider this…. Matron Taber has presented you with something useful, instead of some pretty trifle for a princess. Even more, she has given you something of no use now, but in anticipation of your future. It is not simply a gift, but a show of faith... a legacy you will have to earn by action, by time and by training.”

He ran his fingers over the carved runes. “As you train your arms to the strength of this bow, you must also train your knowledge, your will, and your honor — for without these, you will not know your true target, and your weapon will always fail to find its mark.”

After a moment of real consideration, Adria nodded gratefully, and chose her words carefully. “Thank you, Sir Rodham. Your words are well spent, and you serve my father’s house well.”

“Well said, Ma’am. And I accept your words with thanks.” He returned her bow, and nodded his head as well. “I am no King, Your Highness, and I cannot pretend to know one’s mind, but I think His Royal Majesty, your father, would just as wisely have granted you this gift. And what we earn, we earn for all our fathers.”

Adria nodded, turning her head so that he would not see her sudden and unexpected reaction. After he had risen to return to the others, Adria returned the bow to her room, and continued with lighter weapons and a renewed attention to lessons of all kinds, from Knight, from Sister — and at last, once again from chess.

Her father summoned her not long after her fourteenth birthday. He said nothing of his illness, and neither mentioned the tournament or her gift, and instead simply motioned for Adria to sit and begin a game, as if nothing had changed, as if they had played only the day before. He seemed eager for it, and yet something about him remained unfocused as they wordlessly began advancing pieces.

It had taken several years for Adria to learn the game well. But now, she was finally often able to match him move for move. Occasionally, when he was more distracted than usual, she even defeated him, but always with good humor. Still, when she won, she knew it was because of a deficiency in his play as much as any innovation in hers. This was never the best way for her to learn, and so when it seemed that, in this first game after his long illness, he was not readily matching her, she emboldened herself enough to point it out.

“Father,” she smiled, as he made an oddly inferior move in the middle game, only to realize it just as he sat the piece down. “You’re not concentrating.”

He flashed a nervous smile, then frowned thoughtfully, sighed and crossed his arms. “No... I am sorry.”

She made the obvious best move — it still would infuriate him if she made a weaker move to match his, despite what he had first taught her of balance. He had once corrected her upon this, crossly, “The best games are balanced because the players are balanced. When one is a better player, it is only right that he should win.”

“Even when he is a she?” she had quipped without thinking. It had not improved his mood, but had also not worsened it. She often had some conversational maneuvering room.

Now, she reluctantly used the space he clumsily provided to her advantage, and pressed him in words as she did in the game. “What worries you?” she asked, hesitating a little. “Your illness?”

“I am much recovered,” he shook his head and said, a bit distantly, “I merely…. It is only diplomatic matters.”

Diplomatic matters
... This almost angered her. She was fourteen, and now easily the match for her brother and his peers in almost every way, and still her father dismissed her easily in any real concern. Still she remained a princess in a tower, with only the servants and her acquaintances to bring her news — and much of this suspect.

But Adria calmed herself, for what she had to ask could not be suggested with any extreme of emotion. 
This game is one of logic,
he had told her once. 
If you play filled with wrath for your enemy, or with the fear of loss, you will hesitate to do what is necessary, and you will fulfill the prophecy of your emotions.

“Father,” she began, as soon as he was playing well again, and the game had returned to expected balance. “I have learned a great deal from you, and from Taber and the Sisterhood, even despite my tendency to ignore Taber’s influence.”

“You have,” he nodded, without emotion, though his eyes flickered with sudden renewed focus and intelligence. 
He knows what I will say,
Adria realized far more quickly than she once had. Even when she could not maintain her balance, she understood when it was lost. 
It is like our very first games again, and I am a move behind. The game has already been decided for me. But is it intelligence which guides him? Experience? Or… prophecy?

And she was a little afraid, but knew better than to reveal it — she knew it was the revelation of fear or anger which gave strength to an opponent, not the emotion itself. It was a deeper lesson she had learned from chess, from Taber, and from boys with wooden swords, an intelligence she had already used to her advantage on more than one occasion. Adria knew she might not get this chance again, and she dared not let it pass.

“I have learned much for myself, as well, that you and Taber might have denied me,” she continued. “And I am grateful that it has been allowed.”

He nodded, again without emotion, and moved a piece between them.

“I am my brother’s equal in most ways, and in some ways his superior.” She made her corresponding move.

Ebenhardt blinked, and watched her evenly, and responded with his own piece, without even watching his own hand.

She paused to show she was not anxious or frightened of him. She met his gaze, though her heart beat rather more quickly than she would have liked. Somehow, she kept her hands from shaking as they exchanged pieces on the board. He had left one of his knights open, and Adria captured it. She was one piece ahead, but she had moved first. He matched her now, despite his earlier lapse of attention.

“Father, I would begin to share the weight of your diplomatic concerns, and more. I would become a novice in the Knights of Darkfire, though I know it is not the custom for women. I would fight for Heiland, in your name, and even in the name of the Sisterhood, if it is truly the best way to bring order to the world. In time, I would serve as your marshal, and lead armies in your name, alongside my brother. I will… I will help you to make him strong, and together we will be able to serve you better than he will alone. This you know, and this I know. I would do this despite the objections of Hafgrim’s pride, and despite the laws and will of Taber, for you are my king and my father, and I would put none above you, no one who lives or who may yet come.”

Her father sat motionless for some time without any revelation, seeming neither to focus deeply upon her nor to remain distracted. Then he sighed heavily, and looked down to the board to examine their position, and Adria was able to do the same, without having retreated from his gaze. She kept her breath controlled, but feared he could hear the beat of her heart from where he sat.

They looked over the pieces, and Adria saw with some trepidation that she had made a mistake in taking his knight — that he could now pass a pawn, and would soon have a queen, and with it, in six or seven moves, victory. He would have to make a mistake for them to draw. She glanced up, to see if he realized his advantage, and she could see real emotion now. He sat sadly distant, looking straight through the board, the game itself somehow forgotten.

He regrets teaching me now,
she thought with alarm. 
He regrets turning this game into a larger lesson.
And she felt suddenly seven years old again, with the childish fear that they might never play the game again, that she might never again have a chance to know her father. 
I should have waited to ask. I might have proven myself more, somehow. I might have…

“Adria.” He was watching her now, and she had not realized it. His eyes had focused, and they showed real sadness now, real fear. Like Taber, he had rarely called her by her name, and now it opened a knot like a serpent uncoiled in her stomach, and she knew that she had lost the game utterly.

He knows me as well as he knows the game. It has already been decided, even before I spoke a word, moved my first pawn.

“Adria,” he repeated, sighing. He spoke gently but firmly. They were only father and daughter, somehow — not a king and his prince, but only a princess. 
Now he will say it is time for me to marry, to produce heirs, should Hafgrim fall upon the field of battle in his name. He will say I…

“You cannot be a Knight of Darkfire.” He reached out, and set his king down upon the side, giving her the game he had already won. He had never done this before, and the motion angered her even more than his words.

We shall never play again
, she realized. 
He has broken our bond, and for the first time treated me as a child.

“Name the reason,” she challenged. She could not hide the anger in her tone, now, the clenching of her teeth, the flushing of her face.

He drew his hand up to his chin and considered. 
He will lie,
she realized, still angry, but now a bit startled.

“
The milk of a mother’s anger runs to venom in the child
.” He spoke in Somanan, strangely, and as she realized the words, her mouth opened in astonishment. They had sometimes teased each other in the language, but rarely had he used it for a serious argument. It was an admonishment. Not once had he ever mentioned the existence of a mother, and not once had she found the courage to ask. She had known, somehow, not to ask — or perhaps had learned not to, in a memory long forgotten.

“Who is my mother?” she asked, barely a whisper.

And he smiled, and shook his head. He was not only patronizing her — he was mocking her outright. There was something even spiteful in his tone. Adria’s face flushed, and her heart beat even faster, and she clenched her fists in rhythm beneath the table.

He has turned our game into a childish distraction, and still he would deny me my birthright as an adult and an heir.

Aloud, she accused, a little desperately, “I am Taber’s child, after all, and you hate me for it, as you have come to hate her, in your growing madness.”

His eyes flickered, though he still smiled. This allegation did not surprise him in the slightest. He merely shook his head again, but it was not clear what he was denying. He was calm now, controlled, relaxed in the assurance of his victory over her, as if she had been born for the pleasure of this denial, for his spite of her mother or for Taber and for the power of women whom he could not yet control.

You sit huddled in your citadel, Father, while the women of your life have stolen your power,
 Adria thought. 
You think I will be the next to blame for your own weakness, your illness. You do not see the future. You only allow it to be brought about in your name, and there will be no order in your world.

But the words would not matter, even aloud. She was not even certain she believed or understood them herself. The game was decided, and so was Adria.

“You forfeit, Father?” Adria whispered. “You would make me your pawn instead of your knight.”

And Adria rose for the first time without permission, and she turned away from her father and to the doors of his solar. She shut them gently as she left, careful not to show her anger, and careful not to meet his eyes again, not to look back.

Perhaps I am weak to you, after all. But it was you who taught me that only a pawn can ever become a queen — she just has to make it to the end.

Adria stole Twyla’s clothes for the second time, and for the third time in memory, she completely dressed herself, in coarse-spun linen and wool, trying to ignore the feel of it against her skin. She left a gold coin of her father in its place, hoping it would bring some recompense to Twyla and Kaye, and not persecution.