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Chapter Text

Commander Constano Grissini of the Imperial Army had his unit at the Candian border at noon. Parade rest. Calm. Ready.

The Candian foreriders didn’t arrive at the border until well after the Bulb had fallen below the highest point in the sky. And when they did arrive, Constano wasn’t impressed. Their lines were sloppy. Their swords clanged against their sides as they rode. Their captain had the air of a dilettante. Constano ordered his men to salute anyway. Clean. Crisp. Perfect.

It was not the first time Constano had been disappointed with a national fighting force and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. After all, his troops were part of the reason they were no good. The Imperial Army conscripted a third of the children of each of Calorum’s nations into its service, ensuring that no one country might grow more powerful than the Concord itself. The Imperial Army was the largest military force in Calorum, and operated with a standardized efficiency that outclassed even the native Ceresian troops.

And it had been twenty years of peace; from what Constano had seen, many national troops had not been training with any urgency. Though many people who had fought in the Ravening War remained alive, and remained in power, its horrors had fallen out of immediate memory. Young people who had never known war were coming of age. Constano himself did not remember the turmoil his Imperial Army was created to prevent; he had been a squalling infant during the Ravening War, a child of poor Ceresians who were just lucky to have survived. They had been proud to hand him over to the Imperial Army when the officer came knocking on the door when Constano turned ten.

Constano had been proud when General Chapati gave him his orders to escort the Candian delegation to Comida and protect them during their stay in the capital. It was an important assignment. It was a vote of confidence in his abilities as a commander, and as a diplomat. King Amethar would likely be named the next Concordant Emperor.

Constano had been practicing his Candian, practicing his court manners. He had read up on Candian politics and the illustrious history of the House of Rocks. The ten-year-old in him wanted to see legendary The King’s Sword, Payment Day, and the massive monarch who wielded it.

As the Bulb floated slowly down toward the horizon, Constano looked to the road.

“They should be here by now,” he said, brow furrowed.

The captain of the Tart Guard looked surprised, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“I suppose so,” he said.

Your king is unaccounted for and the best you can muster is ‘I suppose so’? This is what separated an Imperial soldier from even a member of a royal guard. Constant vigilance. An intuition for how things should go.

“It is possible some ill fortune befell them. We will go meet them.” Constano’s men snapped to attention, anticipating his command. “We march into Candia to meet the King.”

They didn’t have to march very far before they saw and heard why the Candians had been delayed.

There was a large peppermint tree felled on the road, a caravan of carriages stalled behind it. Beyond those in the field were more members of the ineffectual Tart Guard engaging with what looked like marauders from the Meatlands, clad in jerky and armed with bacon-steel.

As Constano drew closer, at the center of the scrum he could see the massive form of who could only be King Amethar of the House of Rocks, Payment Day glinting in the afternoon light of the Bulb, fighting off assailants with the help of a lumbering knight in golden plate. With them was a woman in black, whirling with a thin blade. Her dark eyes met Constano’s mid-block, and he thought he could see trepidation, then relief. He gave her a nod. The Imperial Army was here. All would be well.

A battle cry ripped from his chest. His men joined him, voices lifted to the Bulb.

“Charge!”

As he charged, he heard a woman’s voice shout “Abracadabra!”

He wracked his brain for the meaning of that word. He had been studying Candian language and culture, but he didn’t recognize it. Scouring the battlefield he saw a woman by the carriages making a strange motion with her hands, almost as if she were reaching out to catch something. A thick sparkling fog emanated out from her palms, fast and thick. He faltered and covered his nose and mouth. The sweet-smelling purple mist did not seem to affect his breathing, but it obscured the field almost instantly; he looked up and couldn’t see the sky. He heard the shouts of his men around him but couldn’t see them, even though he knew they should be just behind him.

He heard the shout of a young man.

“Help! The king is dying in the fog!”

“Friends of Candia have arrived to defend the king!” Constano yelled. “Men! Ready yourselves; when the fog lifts we will strike.” He forged ahead into the fog, holding his spear out across his body to protect himself.

And suddenly there she was again, the woman in black, right in front of him. Her black skin shone with sweat. Her long black braid swung around her head as if in slow-motion, sending sparkling purple fog swirling around her rapier.

The bacon-steel blade of a Meatlands marauder entered Constano’s field of vision before its wielder did, ruining the dream-like image. Constano swept the charred blade aside and brought the pole of his spear down on the man’s neck, forcing him to bend over, giving the woman in black the opening to plunge her sword into the marauder’s back.

She skewered the enemy combatant then looked up at Constano with something odd in her eyes. Something like surprise, which shouldn’t have been there—she was a formidable swordswoman, and he was an Imperial soldier sent to support the Candian guard. This was his job.

He clapped his hand on her back. “Well done!” He kept wading through the fog, trying to find King Amethar.

“What’s your name?” he heard a the woman call out.

“Commander Constano Grissini of the Imperial Army. I’m sorry we were late.”

It seemed like the fog began to dissipate almost as soon as it had emerged. Constano made it to King Amethar just as visibility was good enough for his archers to quickly dispatch the rest of the marauders. They were trained to finish fights quickly and cleanly.

“Search the area,” Constano said. “There may be more.” He watched his men dutifully fan out across the field and the road, stepping over the bodies of marauders and Tart Guard. Miraculously, it seemed that none of the Candian delegation had been lost, though many were injured and would need care.

King Amethar himself was sitting on a stool by one of the carriages, also nursing injuries, surrounded by attendants. Constano approached and bowed deeply.

“Your royal majesty, I am Commander Constano Grissini, at your service. I regret that we did not arrive in time to prevent your injuries and the injuries to your men. If you had lost any I would have laid down my spear and resigned.”

King Amethar nodded with a grimace. “We can handle ourselves.”

“Clearly you can. I can see by the bodies of these marauders that you unleashed Payment Day. Bulb save me, The King’s Sword, I mean.”

King Amethar did not seem to notice the gaffe. Perhaps they did not have that superstition in Candia, that you were doomed to be cut down by a weapon if you uttered its name. The king simply shifted his weight and shook his head.

“I’ll tell you, Theobald and Lapin are awful to have to spend time with when there’s no fighting to be done, but it’s nice to see Theobald acting like his old self. And even Cruller was in the mix. It felt good, honestly. It felt really, really good. Honestly, thank you for showing up late.”

“I suppose I will have to say you’re welcome, your majesty,” Constano said, taken aback by the king’s frankness. King Amethar was by all accounts a man uninterested in the pomp and circumstance of his title, but his informality was almost unnerving to witness in person.

The woman in black was at King Amethar’s side, her mouth quirked in a fond smile. She looked younger than she had on the battlefield. Somewhere around his age. Slender.

“Your people are a credit to you,” Constano said, trying to get the conversation back on track, to remind himself of his place. “Your woman-at-arms is a talent with the blade.”

Amethar followed Constano’s gaze, landed his eyes on the woman, and looked back at Constano, mildly bemused. “That’s my daughter.”

Constano’s heart dropped through his stomach. He launched himself into another bow, hanging there, bent in half as if waiting to be beheaded.

“I am… Your majesty… Your highness…” He gaped like a fish; it felt like all of his Candian had left him. “I am so… I beg your forgiveness. I did not know.”

He fixed his eyes on the bright fuchsia grass, fighting back the urge to look up and gauge the royals’ response to his feeble attempt to salvage the situation.

“Stand up, Commander,” said King Amethar. “How were you supposed to know?”

Constano straightened. He read only mild irritation tinged with amusement on the king’s face. The king was also wincing while a few servants clucked over his wounds; it looked like there was a gash on his leg that particularly pained him.

With shame Constano turned to the woman in black, who could only be Princess Jet of the House of Rocks. Her clothes were of finer make, perhaps, than a woman-at-arms’ should really be, though they were only trousers and a doublet. And he could see now that she wore a beautiful necklace that seemed to glow in the evening light. On her noble face he saw a strange, tentative kind of pride.

“I’m more of a princess of the people,” she said. Then she looked down in what appeared to be embarrassment. These Candians. Highly irregular. But a princess of the people she truly seemed to be, on the field with a blade, defending herself and her retinue as other Candian nobles and servants looked on from the carriages.

“I myself am a soldier of the people,” Constano said, surprising himself that he could string together a coherent sentence. “It is an honor to escort you, your highness.” He turned back to King Amethar. “It is truly a miracle nobody died here.”

“It was horrible but we managed,” said a tall brown man dressed in primogen’s robes who approached from the direction of one of the other carriages. This must be Primogen Lapin Cadbury, the miracle-worker. Constano bowed to him.

“Of course, Primogen Cadbury, I do not know what miracles you have worked here today, but I thank you for them.”

The primogen’s eyes narrowed.

“It is to King Amethar that you must be grateful. He single-handedly fought off the bulk of these marauders who were obviously sent to kill him, which I would’ve thought should be your job.”

“Okay, Lapin,” the king said. “That’s enough.” The primogen closed his mouth. “The Commander couldn’t have known about this, and he came to check when all was not as he’d expected. We can’t ask for more than that.”

Constano nodded in gratitude. “Again, I beg your majesty’s forgiveness for our late arrival.”

“It’s not necessary,” said King Amethar.

A woman who was the mirror image of Princess Jet, but with a rosy complexion, came up behind the king. Constano realized it was she that he had noticed loose the fog on the battlefield. He had never seen any miracles that looked like that, roiling and purple, dark and sparkling. The magic he had seen and felt only ever in a healer’s tent was all bright light and warmth, the power of the Bulb.

“Pops?” Princess Ruby asked. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah I’m alright,” said King Amethar.

“Princess Ruby is touched by the Bulb,” said Primogen Cadbury, his eyes fixed on Constano.

“Amen,” said Princess Ruby quickly.

Defensive. Strange. Constano had certainly noticed that the spell was different than anything he’d ever seen before, and it must have shown on his face, but he had been willing to accept it as simply an odd manifestation of the Bulb’s power; Candia had sworn fealty to the Bulb like all other nations in the Concord. And unlike the Meatlanders, who everyone knew were only keeping up appearances for the sake of peace, Candia—indeed, the House of Rocks itself—had contributed a saint to the Bulbian canon. Saint Citrina was a martyr. Her holy relic, the Book of Leaves, was kept in the Cathedral of St. Arugula in Comida. No one would question the House of Rocks’ faith.

And yet.

Purple fog that obscured the light of the Bulb did not seem like holy magic. And Primogen Cadbury was all too quick to provide an explanation when Constano had asked no questions.

“I suppose I should not be surprised to hear the niece of Saint Citrina is also chosen by the Bulb,” Constano said, digging deep into his core to maintain a calm facade. This was diplomacy. The maintaining of appearances. The mincing of words. “The gifts manifest in ways strange and uncommon in Candia, I think.”

“Right,” said King Amethar.

“My favorite aunt,” said Princess Ruby.

There was an awkward silence. King Amethar, the princesses, and Primogen Cadbury all stared at him.

“Your majesty, I have just one question and then I will leave you and your family in peace. Do you wish to make camp and rest here for the night? Or do you wish to travel to the next Imperial garrison in Fructera? It will grow dark before we reach it but we have lanterns and more guards, and your advance guard as well down the road.”

The Candians looked to King Amethar, who hauled himself to standing. Up close, his bulk was truly impressive.

“We should make haste,” he said gruffly. “I’m the only one hurt enough to sit around and I have no interest in sitting.”

“Very well,” Constano said. “I will ready my men and we will head out.”

Chapter Text

Constano’s second-in-command, Efren Pandesal, materialized beside him as soon as he’d stepped away from the royals. Efren’s timing and judgment were impeccable.

“The Meatlanders, eh, the bandits, I should say, bound and gagged the family that lives in that farmhouse,” Efren said, gesturing to a bright pink structure at the edge of the field. “Threw them in a ditch. We freed them and searched the farmhouse and the surrounding area, but we didn’t find any other marauders, other than the twelve dead.” He nodded at the pile of bodies in the middle of the field, face grim. Efren was a good man. Killing didn’t delight him. “They are not of the Meatlands, though—they are Dairy Islanders in garb of Meatlands. It doesn’t make sense. The Dairy Islands’ alliance with Candia is still solid; we have heard no reports of a schism between them. But then again, there were conspicuously no casualties on the Candian side, so perhaps it was a coordinated… set-up of some kind? A ruse? I don’t know.” Efren sighed.

They had both expected this assignment to be fraught; the fact that a company of this size had been deployed to escort the Candian delegation betrayed the Emperor’s concern for King Amethar’s safety. It also, incidentally, confirmed the suspicions of courtiers who believed that King Amethar was the Emperor’s first choice to succeed him on the Concordant throne. The closer King Amethar got to that appointment, the bigger the target on his family’s backs would get. But Efren was right; it was implausible that the Dairy Islands would contest this choice, and downright unthinkable that they would attempt an assassination. It could only benefit them to have King Amethar on the throne—a ruler so famously friendly with and knowledgeable about the Dairy Islands.

The fact that none of the Candian delegation had been killed or even seriously injured was also strange. Efren’s insinuation that the conflict had been staged somehow would explain it, perhaps. But for the Dairy Islanders all to be killed—such a plan didn’t make sense. And if the performance was for his benefit, the information he could glean from such an event was murky at best. No, this was not a political stunt. It had been an ambush, pitched battle--perhaps King Amethar really was as good of a fighter as he was rumored to be. He must have personally trained his daughter. Constano felt his cheeks and throat redden at the thought of her, of his misstep earlier. Rumors of Princess Jet’s beauty and… vigor had reached Comida, but they didn’t even come close to capturing her fire.

“King Amethar will be alright?” Efren asked, breaking Constano out of his reverie.

“Yes, he is hearty and hale,” Constano said, straightening. “His attendants seem confident he will make a full recovery.”

Efren nodded back. “Some members of his royal guard were injured, but none killed. Honestly, it’s a…”

“Miracle, yes,” said Constano, remembering the Primogen’s insistence on the divine provenance of Princess Ruby’s magic. “Truly unlikely.”

“We are good at what we do, Commander, what can I say?” Now Efren smiled. “The injured guards are all safe in the carriages. None are so badly hurt they have to rushed to the garrison.”

Constano nodded.

“Even so, the king has elected to ride instead of make camp.”

“Well, the road has been cleared,” Efren said, shifting his weight to his other foot and resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Once the royal family and advisors are comfortable in a carriage we can set out.”

The injured Tart Guard occupying one of the carriages forced the Candian nobles to all pack into one carriage. Hardly ideal from a tactical standpoint, but it appeared they had convened some kind of impromptu council as well. No sense in disturbing them. Constano ordered his men into a formation surrounding the caravan. He hid the carriage holding the king by not making it obviously more well-guarded than the others, and hid himself by walking on the road with his men. Though he could ride, he did not joy in it, and he had found it was unwise to make the leader of the company stand out where he could be picked off by an enemy’s best archer, leaving his men without direction.

Constano heard rapidly approaching footsteps and reflexively gripped his spear tighter as he turned. He faltered when he saw that it was the Princess Jet, out of the carriage, seemingly trying to catch up with him.

“Lord Grissini,” she said, attempting a curtsey while walking. Constano stopped to bow.

“Your highness, I am not a lord. I am lowborn.”

“You fight like a lord,” she said flirtatiously.

Constano’s eyebrows shot up.

“He’s not, though, your highness,” a man called from the carriage. “Princess Jet, if you want—“

“Excuse me, Princess Jet, your highness, please,” interjected Primogen Cadbury, his nasal drone identifiable even from a distance. “Join us.”

The princess seemed to be surrounded by people who were trying at every turn to educate her, trying to tame her. As far as Constano could tell, they were failing spectacularly. She was spectacular.

The princess twirled her long black braid around a finger without looking back at the approaching carriage. A lock of her hair had loosed, itself from its confinement and fell across her forehead becomingly.

“My keepers call for me,” she said.

“As they should,” Constano said. “You ought to join them in the carriage and rest from the afternoon’s exertions.”

“You’re not resting.”

“For the time being I shall walk on the road with my men. When the sun gets lower, perhaps, I will take the reins of a Candian meep if I tire. I am told it is like riding on a cloud. Like nothing else.”

“What do you ride in Comida?” the princess asked.

Constano opened his mouth to answer but another call from the carriage reminded him that he should not be having this conversation at all. “I’m going to have to insist, your highness.” It was the same voice from before. Constano craned his neck to see if he could catch who it was, but saw only Princess Ruby hanging out the window of the carriage. She called out in some kind of strange, chirping words that Constano could not understand.

“My sister calls,” said Princess Jet. “I’ll see you later.” She jogged back to the carriage, braid bouncing behind her.

Constano let himself watch her for a moment, then turned around to rejoin the formation.

According to plan, their ranks swelled to forty once they were on the Glucian Road proper. He was more comfortable here in the rolling melon hills of Fructera, his adopted home. The lines of trees in orchards stretched out like neat rows of ribbons on either side of the road. The sweetness in the air here was deep and earthy, not the bright zinging thing it had been even in the outskirts of Candia. He could not imagine what their castle must be like.

He walked and thought and listened to the chatter of his men. The weather, the tournament. The Emperor, the coronation. And the purple fog.

“It looked… dark,” young Ube said. “Like… the Hungry One.”

The others in the knot of warriors spat on the ground and crossed themselves. “Saints preserve us.”

“And it came from the princess’s hands, I saw it,” Ube continued, then faltered when he saw Constano approaching.

“You will not impugn the name of the House of Rocks, who we are sworn to protect,” Constano said. “I know it looked strange. For my part I… I do not know. But the Primogen Cadbury has reassured me that Princess Ruby has been touched by the Bulb like her aunt, the Saint Citrina. She is a miracle worker.”

“Yes sir.”

Constano didn’t hear much about it after that, but he knew it was likely that they were just more careful about when they spoke of such things. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.

He did attune himself to the movements of his charges. King Amethar rested in the carriage and was most often attended to by Lord Cruller, his right hand man. They had fought together in the war, and you could see the effects of those years in the trenches—a brotherly ease, superseding courtly manners, though the king seemed shy on those with everyone. Primogen Cadbury, getting on in years, also primarily rode in the comfort of the carriage. When he was not lecturing the princesses he was in his books.

Count Liam Wilhemina, the king’s ward, was given more leeway than the princesses to do as he liked; he often left the carriage to walk through the trees. Constano overheard Lady Cruller, the king’s advisor’s wife, instructing him in the medicinal herbs of the region, and Sir Theobald, the gold-plated knight of North Gumbia, pulling him aside to speak in hushed tones.

That is not to say the princesses were never allowed fresh air. They were sometimes given leave to walk alongside the carriage, though they were always chaperoned by Sir Theobald, whose brow seemed permanently furrowed.

Princess Ruby managed to convince their keepers to let her ride meep-back in the afternoons. It wasn’t long before she began to do tricks, standing up on the poor beast and balancing on one foot, even doing a flip on one occasion. She didn’t seem to understand how the men of the guard regarded her. Unladylike. Odd. Dangerous.

In some ways, Princess Jet was less… troublesome. But she seemed just as set on subverting expectations. No, that wasn’t it—she and her sister didn’t seem to understand what society’s expectations were, or even that there were any, which was ludicrous for young royalty.

He couldn’t help it; Princess Jet caught his eye again and again. His otherwise well-disciplined mind dwelled on her, sought her out, collected data on her habits, her idiosyncrasies, her… She favored practical clothes, dark trousers and blouses. She practiced the sword every day with Sir Theobald, even with her father the king sometimes. She seemed to be trying to teach herself to fight ambidextrously, but had not made much progress. She loved to talk to common folk, who were always dazzled and confused by her. Constano knew how they felt. She  liked to sit with the driver of their carriage, crunching apples and taking unladylike swigs of cola wine, looking for all her high status like a young corsair.

When the caravan approached the keeps and minor castles they were staying in along the way to the capital, she was yanked into a carriage and changed into gowns more befitting an heir to a throne. For that’s what she was, he kept reminding himself. If King Amethar was named Emperor, as General Chapati and so many other learned people thought, Princess Jet would become Queen of Candia sooner rather than later.

Provincial lords certainly did not forget this fact. They pulled out all the stops to entertain the royal family. Banquets were given, musicians and players engaged, retinues of men were sent to bolster the Imperial guard. Sons and daughters were introduced, and made to bow and curtsey, and dance as the older generation looked on and remembered how they too were once made to bow and curtsey to each other, terrified of the matches their parents were making for them between glasses of wine.

After a rocky start to their journey, the Candian delegation was back on track; things were going according to plan. Constano stuck to his routine. He woke before his men to run in the rosy hours before the Bulb rose, alone and peaceful. They mobilized and moved out early, having many miles to travel. Constano walked, and called for rest, and walked again. He sent scouts ahead to check the night’s lodgings for dangers, for assassins, for more ersatz Meatland bandits. He rolled the attack over and over in his mind, the clang of bacon steel against rock candy weapons, the fog, Princess Jet’s rapier, her braid flying through the air, her arms and legs strong, sculpted out of rock candy…

He sparred when there was time, not comfortable with becoming an inactive military strategist. He had skills to maintain and men to remind of who was in charge. He was rightly proud of his prowess as a fighter, and his proficiency with the spear, his unconventional weapon of choice. It was one of his greatest pleasures in life to best men who bet their longsword against his spear, erroneously assuming their maneuverability would prove superior to his reach and vicious thrust.

He did so easily at Anjou Keep, wiping the floor with their captain of the guard, who barely had enough breath in him when they were done to salute and walk out of the ring they had drawn in the sand.

Constano rolled his neck, staying loose. He would cool down with some drills then dress for the banquet.

“Impressive, Commander.”

Constano whirled to find Princess Jet leaning against a column. He did not know how long she had been there. He bowed.

“Thank you, your highness.”

She approached and unsheathed her rapier.

“I’ve been watching, you really give them a run for their money. I’ve never fought against a spear before. I’d like to try.”

“Try what, your highness?”

“Sparring,” she said, as if she were suggesting a tea party to a child’s toy. “With you.”

“Oh, your highness,” he stammered. “That would not be appropriate.”

“Yes, Commander, I quite agree,” came the voice of Sir Theobald. The knight, armored in clanking plate as always, strode across the grounds to stand between Constano and the princess. “Your highness, you are late for your lessons with Chancellor Cadbury.”

“Do you not think it a good opportunity for me to practice fighting, with these Imperially trained soldiers?” Princess Jet asked. “Pops said I could compete in the tournament.”

“In a nobles’ tournament, yes,” said Sir Theobald. “With other highborn lords and ladies.”

“I thought you were going to compete if there was a joust.”

“No, your highness, I am lowborn. That would not be appropriate either.”

“Pops said he was going to enter you in the joust,” the princess said. “He said you were amazing in the Ravening War. I want to see.”

Constano smiled inwardly. The princess had a gift for tactics. Though she appeared naive about many social customs, she was a sophisticated manipulator of conversations. Sir Theobald was pushed onto the defensive. Distracted by the talk of the tournament, flattered by mentions of his martial prowess, he appeared to have completely forgotten his original demands that Princess Jet join her sister and the Chancellor for lessons.

“It would be highly… irregular for your father to enter me into the joust.”

“But if he did you’d have to compete, right?”

“I do as His Majesty commands.”

A smile flashed across Princess Jet’s face. She bounded away, no doubt to goad her father into entering their knight into the joust. She was the kind of girl who got what she wanted. But she was still young—she had allowed herself to be distracted from her own original aim as well. Thank the Bulb. Constano wasn’t sure he would survive sparring with her without embarrassing himself somehow.

Before rushing off after Princess Jet, Sir Theobald gave Constano a stiff nod. It seemed the knight had decided Constano didn’t merit a dressing-down. He had done the best he could.