outsmarted by Milos Tiernan. There’s no shame in it; Tiernan’s shrewd above all else.”
“That was treachery,” Longwell said, reddening. “My father gave Milos Tiernan a perfect opportunity to get revenge on Syloreas for invading their territory; it could have been mutually beneficial for both our Kingdoms and instead Tiernan stabbed my father in the back.”
The Baroness kept an infuriating smile perched upon her lips, giving her an impish look that caused Cyrus more intrigue than he cared to admit. “I thought it was an exceptionally clever way to pit two enemies against each other to maximum advantage. After all, it wasn’t as though there’s ever been any sort of peace or alliance between Actaluere and Galbadien-only a few years without war between us.”
“No formal peace, but no formal war either,” Longwell said. “It was basest treachery.”
The Baroness shrugged. “See it however you like; Milos Tiernan walked away from the conflict with more territory and an army ready for the next war. Your father’s Kingdom limped away just as Syloreas did, with countless young men dead, less territory than when you started, and forced to concede what you’d lost. If the point of war is simply honor and not winning, you’re still doing it wrong. I hear tell your father’s soldiers are just as savage when sacking a town as Briyce Unger’s are.”
Longwell did not answer, and seemed to slump slightly forward on his horse, his eyes focused ahead. Cyrus watched the dragoon for a long moment, and when it seemed unlikely he would ever speak, he did. “I cannot argue with that.” Longwell rode off a moment later, after the silence had hung in the air. He rode toward the back of the column, ignoring several soldiers who hailed him along the way.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Odellan said, “perhaps I should speak with him-and inspect the column while I am at it.”
“Certainly,” Cyrus said with a nod. Odellan turned his horse and rode away. Cyrus turned to speak with the Baroness, but she was already gone, ensconced in a conversation with Nyad and Ryin, the three of them riding side by side.
The next week passed quickly, the flat lands over which they traveled speeding their journey. Longwell seemed to come alive again a few days after the conversation with the Baroness. He had been sulky and withdrawn, causing Cyrus to privately wonder if he had been that depressing to be around when they had first set out on their journey.
Only a few days later, they came around a bend in the road and something enormous became visible on the horizon. Cyrus was riding at the front of the column as he almost always did, and when the silhouette began to take shape as the sun was starting to set behind them, he wondered if perhaps it was a cloud bank.
“That is the Castle of Vernadam,” Longwell said, riding to the fore to come alongside Cyrus. “That is my father’s home.”
“Not yours?” Cyrus asked.
He caught a glimmer of regret from the dragoon. “Once perhaps. Not anymore.”
They bedded down for the night in a clearing, and as the campfires lit the sky, Cyrus stared into the distance, where he could still see the faintest shadow of the castle on the horizon. He heard someone move next to him where he stood at the far edge of the army’s camp, and he turned to see the Baroness, clad in her riding outfit but with a blanket wrapped around her to guard against the chill of the early evening.
“There stands Vernadam,” she said, almost whispering, “a place I never thought I would see, not in my lifetime.”
“No?” Cyrus looked over to her, saw the wind stir her hair. “The borders of your lands don’t seem too hostile to crossing, if it were for just a person by themselves.”
She looked over at him, her glazed eyes returning to focus. “Women do not travel alone, and the Baron does not travel this far outside his holdfast.”
“How long were you married?” Cyrus watched her. She didn’t answer him quickly, as though she were taking her time coming up with the right reply.
“Only a year or so,” she said. “It was a very quick arrangement, really.”
“Hm.” Cyrus nodded, looking at the fire. “Less than a year and already happy to leave him behind. He must have been a real monster.”
“As though you don’t already know.” He could feel her bristle.
“I know what he did to others,” Cyrus said, reaching for a branch and stirring the embers of the fire with it. “I know how he treated strangers in his land who meant him no harm. So, yes, that gives me some idea of how he might treat his wife.”
“You have no idea,” she pronounced, and her words were stiff. “Beatings were commonplace. Whippings he saved for occasions of special displeasure, which seemed to happen whenever he was drunkest.”
“You’re not making me sorry I left him to die,” Cyrus said, holding the branch steady, letting it catch fire. He watched the flames lick at the healthy bough, saw the first black scoring appear upon it.
“As you said, I’ve been married for a year and I was glad to leave him to die,” she said stiffly. “I never considered myself a cold or vicious person, but perhaps I am.” She looked away and her eyes fixated again on Vernadam’s shadow in the distance. “I certainly was not much of a wife, to hear my husband tell it.”
“I doubt you gave him any cause for beatings or whippings,” Cyrus said, letting the branch drift through a pile of ashes. “Because there is no cause for such things, not between husband and wife. He did not seem the sort of man whose justification I would accept as anything other than the petty anger of a man denied something.”
“Denied?” She looked at Cyrus and wore the faintest half-smile. “I denied him nothing. Not my body, at all hours, not his favors, requested day and night. He came to me often in the hours of the morning too early to be measured by any light, and I would give him that which he craved so fervently, no matter how asleep I was. Once, he came to me when I was in a deep grog. I moved too slowly for his liking, so he dragged me by the hair out to the courtyard where he bound me to a post, naked, and had his way with me in front of all of his men and the servants and everyone.” Her lip quivered, but her eyes smoldered like the fire. “So that he could show them-and me-that he ruled his household with a firm and unyielding hand. When he was done, he left me there for a day, without food or water, like a common thief or drunk, and forbade the doctor to see to my injuries.”
The twigs at the end of Cyrus’s branch caught on fire at last, and he pulled it out of the flame, holding the length above it, the smallest reaches of it burning with a light of their own. “How did you get saddled with him?”
She looked away again. “My brother gave me to him in marriage, in hopes of gaining his favor.” She looked back at Cyrus. “Since my father is dead, my brother was well within his rights to give me to anyone he wanted to.”
“And now?” Cyrus watched the slow burn of the twigs spread up the branch. “Now that he’s dead, wouldn’t your brother want to marry you off again, to someone else?”
“No,” she said simply. “Because now I am damaged, imperfect.”
Cyrus frowned. “Because you’ve been married before? By that standard, I suppose I’m damaged and imperfect, too.” He raised an eyebrow. “Which I actually am but not because of being married before.”
“No,” she said. “Because of the scars. Because of the whippings, the beatings … and … other things he’s done to me.” She swallowed hard. “He used to say that he had left his mark on me, that no other man would ever want me, or would ever have me, after what he’d done.”
“I don’t, uh …” Cyrus looked at her. “I’m sorry, I mean, I’ve seen you in a … somewhat revealing dress … I guess ….I mean, I didn’t see anything.”
“You wouldn’t.” She shook her head, very slightly and perched on her lips was a rueful smile. “The men and women in the courtyard the night he dragged me out and tied me to the post, they saw. But he kept it … all well below what the rest of the world would see. Women are expected to maintain a certain standard of propriety, after all.” He saw a single tear flow from her left eye, down her cheek, to rest on her defined chin. It was a perfect droplet, just the one, and it lingered there. “The simple loss of my virginity to my husband would not be considered enough to defile me for life, to make me untouchable to other men for marriageable purposes.”
“Ah,” Cyrus looked at the Baroness again, saw the smoldering anger in her eyes, and felt it touch him.
