Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

The fifth week.

Mrs. Summers caught them on their way back from practice. Him, Rose, and Connor, with Lochlann bringing up the rear. Connor was saying something, and Rose was laughing. Strands of red curled wildly around both their faces, sprinkled over with melting snow. There was a storm starting. The sort with large, heavy flakes that would turn the entire city to white before the hour was out. The housekeeper was carrying something red and bulky bundled in her arms. When she spotted them coming through the door, she lumbered her way through a perfunctory curtsy, then promptly snapped:

“Wipe your feet, boy. Lieutenant. Your Highnesses—” The old woman paused, then nodded briskly. “That’s a good look for you, Princess. It’s nice to see that pretty face of yours.”

Rose flushed. Her right cheek turned a brilliant shade of scarlet, and her left a deep shade of mauve. Her hood was down, and her scarf shoved deep into a pocket for safekeeping; even her hair was drawn back. “Thank you,” she said, ducking her head.

“And who was it that did your hair?” the housekeeper cooed, running a finger over the smooth braid. It was somewhat worse for wear after their practice, but still holding strong. Connor sported a matching one. “One of the maids?”

“You could say that,” the younger prince said, with a smirk.

The housekeeper followed his gaze to Aaron, who was standing quietly to the side, his boots properly wiped off on the entry rug. She quirked an eyebrow. “Well now. Aren’t you just full of talents.”

“He’s teaching us to knife fight,” Prince Connor said, with great enthusiasm.

“Full of talents,” Mrs. Summers repeated, narrowing her eyes. Aaron wiped at the snow on his jacket, too, so as not to possibly drip on the castle floors. “Here. For you.”

She shoved her bundle towards him without ceremony. Aaron took it, and carefully shook it out. It was a coat. An incredibly thick, incredibly warm coat. There were no tears or stains, and the color was not faded in the least. It was dyed a deep red, like banked embers; the buttons were polished gold, worked so that each was in the shape of a dragon.

“Am I allowed to wear this?” Aaron asked.

“I did say it was for you, didn’t I?” Mrs. Summers said. “One of the nobles took offense with how ratty your coat looks. They donated this to a lost cause.”

“But really… am I allowed to wear this? It’s the royal colors. And it’s… new.”

Connor tugged at one of the arms, examining the cuff links sewn to the sleeve. “It looks like one of Orin’s.”

“The gentleman wished to remain anonymous,” Mrs. Summers said.

“No, it’s definitely Orin’s,” the boy persisted. “See? He likes this gold trim. It’s on all of his things.”

Mrs. Summers may have tried to defend the donor’s identity further, or she may have given up the fight. They were not to know. For at that moment, the princess tried catching a scream behind her teeth. The sound that came out briefly sent Aaron and Lochlann reaching for their weapons, until they caught sight of the look on her face. Her shoulders were hunched as high as her neck. Her hood was up. There was a slow trail of water making its way down the side of her face.

“There is a snowball in my hood,” she said, softly, her voice coming as if from across the ocean; as if from the peaks of the dragons’ mountains, in the heights of the western isles. “There is a snowball. In my hood.”

“I knew you’d put it back up!” her twin chortled.

The look that came into her eyes was one of sheer fratricide. Then they were off: the prince running as if the Wild Hunt itself were baying at his heels, and the princess leaving a trail of melting snow behind her.

Mrs. Summers watched them go, then wordlessly limped in the direction of the nearest mop closet.

Aaron grinned after them all. Then, when the hallway was quiet again, he held up the red coat at arm’s length. His coat. His entirely new, actually-for-him coat. It took him a moment to recall that Lieutenant Varghese was still behind him; behind him, and watching him.

“I have a new coat,” he told the man.

“How very nice for you,” the lieutenant of the guard replied.

* * *

The sixth week.

“What, no princess today?” Lochlann asked, stepping into the courtyard uninvited.

“No,” Aaron said, continuing his practice. Real steel shone in his hand. No practice blade, not when he was alone.

“Did she finally get sick of you?”

“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” Aaron asked. “Or are you still too injured for real work?”

The lieutenant of the guard watched him for a moment. Aaron felt his face flushing, but kept on with his drills. So what if they were nothing like the smooth motions the redcoats went through each morning? He knew which end was the sharp one. All the rest was practice. His real goal was to build back up his stamina, so that a few thrusts didn’t leave his head spinning.

“Fight me,” the lieutenant said.

“If you wish.”

The man drew his sword, and they faced off.

The first steps were circling ones. Testing of the ground, and each other. Seeing who would make the first move. Lochlann seemed to think that Aaron would. That was his first mistake. Aaron had nothing to prove in this; he wasn’t the one who’d been crippled by a half-dead man. Lochlann’s limp showed noticeably as he moved, his right foot scuffing the snow. Aaron feinted a lunge and the man leapt back a step, setting his guard, but the only thing that met him was Aaron’s smile.

The second lieutenant charged.

A sidestep was all that was needed. Then Aaron was across their circle again, and Lochlann left to recover his footing. Aaron didn’t try to counter attack; there was no point. They both knew he could have struck if he’d wanted to.

The next few rounds went much the same. Lochlann was like a warhorse; he was trained to charge and trample. That probably served him well enough in the battles the rat catchers fought. Theirs was a straightforward way of fighting. See an enemy, cut it down. They tended to have more armor than those they fought, too. Not so much now.

Aaron had no intention of crossing blades with the man. Daggers weren’t meant for fancy battles, and they certainly weren’t meant for blocking sword swings. He let the young guard vent until both of them were breathing hard, then he called it.

“Enough. I’m tired.”

“We’re not done yet,” the lieutenant said.

“Yes, we are.” He slid his blade into its sheath, and turned his back in dismissal. Counted in his head: one, two—

Snow crunched behind him.

Aaron spun as the guard charged, and lashed out with his foot. Lochlann stumbled.

“Knees are fragile things, aren’t they? Hit them at just the right angle, and no one will be chasing you, not for a good long while.” Aaron stepped away. “Take a break, Lieutenant. We’re done.”

“You said you didn’t remember,” the man panted, staring back at him. It wasn’t hatred in his eyes. Lochlann wasn’t that kind of fighter. Hatred would come later, after the battle was over. For now, there was only wariness.

“I don’t. But I know how I fight.” Aaron shook his head, and backed off a pace. He raised a hand, and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. “We’re done.”

It was never that easy. The lieutenant surged back to his feet. Aaron tried to sidestep, but the man was too close, and their fight had brought them to a corner of the courtyard. He was boxed in. A moment later, there was a hand balled in the front of his shirt, and a sword at his throat. The stone wall was frigid behind his head.

“Why did you come to the castle?” the guardsman demanded.

“I’m no threat to you or yours,” Aaron panted, extremely conscious of the blade at his throat. The steel was cold, and he couldn’t tell if the bite he felt was from the blade or the chill. He held as still as he could, hoping not to find out.

Definitely the blade. Lochlann pressed a little more firmly, and it was definitely the blade. He didn’t think it was drawing blood yet, but it was close.

“Not what I asked,” the lieutenant calmly stated.

No, it hadn’t been. But what was there to say? That his Death had told him to come, and he’d stuck around because being the castle errand boy was oddly satisfying? The man wanted something solid. Aaron had nothing for him.

Worse: he’d told the truth. He was getting tired. His breath was coming hard. He couldn’t get his own blade out fast enough; there was no way to sneak the move, not with their bodies so close. Gray was starting to dot his vision, and it had nothing to do with the lieutenant.

“Lochlann,” he said, “I’m not going to answer. So kill me, or get your sword off my throat.”

Incredulity summed up the guardsman’s reaction; incredulity, then anger. His hand tightened in Aaron’s shirt. A tense moment passed.

He removed his sword, and backed off a pace. Aaron gratefully eased himself away from the wall and back into the open. He took in a steadying breath, and eyed the crates which were stacked against the hawkery’s wall: could he make it there to sit, or was he going to pass out?

The fist struck Aaron squarely under his left eye. He went sprawling onto the paving stones and stayed there, watching the clouds of his breath drift away.

This was better, actually. The ground was a lot steadier than he was; the spots on his vision started to clear.

“Feel better?” he asked, after a moment.

“Yes,” the lieutenant replied tersely.

“Good.” He counted to ten in his head. “Can I get up now?”

Lochlann grunted, which Aaron took for a yes. He rolled back to his feet, and took a seat over on the crates, nursing his eye. Lochlann sat as far from him as possible.

“Who’s trying to kill them?” Aaron asked.

“You tell me.”

Not helpful. “I’m going to say this once, Lochlann. You can believe me or not: I’m no assassin.”

“Really. Then explain how you fight.”

“No thank you.” He tugged the sleeve of his sweater down until it covered his hand, then scooped snow up into it, and set it over his eye. It was already swelling shut. “You gave me four weeks. If you’ve changed your mind, I’d like to know.”

“If you don’t like my hospitality, feel free to leave early.”

“You think I like being here? It makes me feel like a kid again.”

“Coddled?” the lieutenant sniped.

Aaron looked at him long and hard through his good eye. “You and I had very different childhoods,” he finally said.

Children depended on those around them for food, and warmth. For safety. They had no choice, no matter what came of it.

“They’re kids,” Aaron said. “People shouldn’t hurt kids.”

The lieutenant met his gaze. “I don’t think the world works that way.”

Aaron broke the look first. He took the snow away from his eye, and balled it up. It left a white impact mark on the opposite wall.

“Rose heard a banshee last night.”

Lochlann straightened. “Are you certain?”

Aaron slumped back against the wall of the hawkery, and nodded. “It was a few hours before dawn. She crawled into bed with me, and cried herself back to sleep. That’s why she’s not training today; she’s been with her father. I think Connor is, too.”

Lochlann looked at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Finally, he settled on: “You shouldn’t let her do that. She should have gone to her nurse, or her brothers.”

“I’m not going to hurt her, Lochlann,” he said tiredly.

The guardsman shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s… She’s a princess, Aaron. Her going into your room without a chaperone, it has to stop. You’re not on your deathbed anymore. We can’t afford rumors. Not now.”

“She’s just a kid.”

“She knows better. And if she doesn’t, you need to.”

“She was crying.”

Lochlann ran a hand through his hair. “God. You’re the kid. How did you ever survive as an assassin?”

“I’m not an assassin,” Aaron repeated. He looked over at the guardsman, but Lochlann was staring elsewhere; at that nowhere-place where thoughts lived.

“She just heard the one?”

Aaron nodded.

Lochlann sat back. “There’s still some time, then. When an O’Shea dies, they all keen.”