Prince of Bryanae

Discipline. It was the most important word in Willow’s vocabulary, the pivot upon which her world spun. It dominated her every waking thought. It permeated her soul.

(… 117 … 118 … 119 …)

You could accomplish anything if you had the will to achieve. You could make a weak body strong, overcome insurmountable obstacles, attain seemingly impossible goals.

Take now, for instance. Some might have thought it impossible for any woman, let alone an elven one, to do a hundred and fifty pushups. But Willow did so every day, dominating her fatigued muscles and exacting great things from them.

(… 139 … 140 … 141 …)

The sweat dripped from her face onto the darkwood floorboards of her office, but she would not relent. The cloying cheerfulness of the sun shone through the window to bake her in a pool of brightness and heat, yet she paid it no mind. Her entire being was focused on the maintenance of the hardened weapon that was her body.

Her rapier lay sheathed within arm’s reach. Like her rapier, her body was hard and agile. Like her rapier, her body was lethal and beautiful — not beautiful in the vapid conventional sense of other women, but beautiful in the manner of a perfectly designed and tuned instrument.

And like her rapier, she was nearly ageless. Someday, she might break against a deadlier weapon; someday, she might be discarded by a fickle liege. But until that day she would retain her keen edge.

Her arms screamed at her as she did these pushups, begged her to quit, but she would hear nothing of it. She would yield neither to the pain nor the exhaustion. Hell, it had been pretty much more than century since she had yielded to anything at all. If her arms were too stupid to realize the inevitably of the task, well, that was their problem.

(… 144 … 145 …)

Yesterday’s inexplicable failure of her willpower would not happen again. The mere thought of the Incident caused her bile to rise. Cowardice and inaction had hitherto been unknown to her and she would die before she would look upon those failings again. She had put them behind her now, and she would never look upon them again.

(… 146 …)

She was in control of her body.

(… 147 …)

And she was in control of her mind.

(… 148 …)

She would never fail again. Failure was for the weak.

And…

(… 149 …)

      … she was not…

(… 150!)

                           … weak.

Willow collapsed to the floor, her cheek pressed against the wood. The sweat began to pool around her face, so she rolled onto her back, her chest heaving. She dragged in gasp after burning gasp of delicious air. Her arms felt like wet rags. The tang of her sweat mixed with the scent of oil to form a pungent musk.

Discipline.

Images from yesterday’s disgraceful battle flashed before her eyes: the feral blood-stained snarl on the fur-clad barbarian’s face as he lifted Private Drin from the ground with a single hand. Private Ritchell’s head split by an axe. And she, paralyzed with fear, helpless as a babe while her men were massacred.

Her willpower clamped down on these images, banished them from thought. Yesterday was the past. You could not change the past, only the future. She would not think on these images again. They served no purpose. She would think only purposeful thoughts.

Purposeful thoughts. Purposeful thoughts.

She rose to her feet in a single fluid motion and then dragged the towel through the pools of sweat with her foot. Her mind thumbed through the list of her tasks for today. What had to be done today? Purposeful thoughts.

Tamlevar. It was about time she did something about Private Tamlevar. In fact, it was long past due.

His commander was weak and stupid. He should have disciplined Tamlevar months ago. The private was becoming increasingly rebellious. He seemed to regard being in the Guard as some sort of game, reacting to orders from his superiors with something bordering on amusement and paternal indulgence. That was something Willow would not tolerate in her company. If Lieutenant Marcus were unable to discipline Tamlevar, then as Captain of the Guard, she would have to do it.

Discipline was her specialty, after all.

Elidon’s son or not, Tamlevar would learn to march in time with the others or he would march right out of the King’s Guards and back into civilian life.

Discipline had to be maintained.

Willow walked along the noisy streets of Bryanae noting, but uninterested in, the changes that had seemed to explode around her. If she wished, she could recall the days when the King’s Guard wore heavy plate armor, the occasion of King Edmund’s coronation, the arrival of the sorcerer Fyrelord, and most recently, the adoption of the Szun Steam Engine.

The Szun engine was a technological marvel whose potential had barely been touched. It flooded the palace with light even during the darkest nights, pumped water from deep underground, and powered tools that enabled the carpenters for the royals to saw wood at an amazing pace.

So much change in Bryanae and only Willow was constant. As she headed towards the barracks, it occurred to her that she had walked these exact same steps many, many times. Figure twice a day for a hundred and seventy-seven years, that would be, what … over a hundred and twenty-nine thousand times.

A hundred and twenty-nine thousand times. What had it all been for? When was the last time she had enjoyed something she did? For that matter, was she even capable of enjoying anything had she the inclination?

Her thoughts were straying to useless matters again. She needed to remain vigilant. There was no telling when there might be trouble.

“Look, there goes the mighty Willow!”

Like now, for instance.

Willow glanced over her shoulder without breaking stride. Captain Eric Snyde lolled against the outside wall of Company A’s barracks, surrounded by a flock of his fawning admirers in the Guard. His handsome devil-may-care face held no allure for her. She felt only contempt for Company A and its captain.

Rich snobs, all of them. An embarrassing relic of the days when the wealth of one’s family determined one’s military rank. Soldiers in Company C died just as easily and stayed just as dead as those in Company A.

“Don’t worry, boys,” Snyde called out to snickers. “She’s normally much braver than what we saw yesterday. I’m sure she’ll never fail like that again.”

She slowed her pace a moment, stunned by the public affront. Snyde had never liked her, but he usually restricted his attacks to political backstabbing. Willow’s hands balled into fists, knuckles cracking. But then discipline prevailed and she resumed her march.

Later. She would deal with Snyde later.

“I never thought I’d see the day when the legendary elf Captain Willow would stand cowering while her men were slaughtered. For all her posturing, she’s just a spineless coward. It just goes to show that she’s only human, after all.”

That stopped her. Heat rose to her cheeks, and her rapier had half-cleared its sheath before she could stop herself. She heard the alarmed whispers of her antagonists. Snyde waved their concerns away with a single gloved hand, and then swept his long, dark locks from his face. His white teeth shone as his eyes dared her to respond.

Dammit, she thought, don’t make a spectacle of yourself. Show some self-control.

She squared her shoulders and then marched into the Company C barracks. The laughter of Snyde and his cronies followed her in.

“A-ten-tion!” Corporal Eddings shouted, and the men in Squad One leapt to their feet. The rows of bunks were expertly made and all gear had been stowed. At each man’s side was his rapier.

“At ease,” Willow said. Squad One wasn’t the problem. She gestured towards the door on the other side of the room. “Corporal, is Lieutenant Marcus with his squad?”

“Yes, Captain.” Eddings’s eyes remained forward, but she sensed his urge to glance at her. She had failed Eddings yesterday, just as she had failed all the members of the Guard. And they knew it.

“As you were,” she said.

She passed through the room and into the next. Squad Two came to attention exactly as Squad One had. Squad Two was not a problem, either.

She heard Marcus’s voice in the next room. That was where the problem was. Squad Three.

“I say,” she heard Marcus squeal, “this is absolutely wizard! Now be careful.”

She walked to the adjoining doorway. What she saw shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did.

Lieutenant Marcus was sitting in a wooden chair, grinning like an idiot. Private Tamlevar was holding that chair high above his head, gripping a single leg of the chair in both hands. He was attempting to set the chair leg onto the top of his head. Sweat dripped down his black face from which a dazzling smile beamed.

The rest of Squad Three watched the spectacle enrapt. Various nervous titters and muted shouts of encouragement filled the air.

“Quit squirming,” Tamlevar said, his muscles bulging. “This next bit’s quite tricky.”

“I say, you will be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course. Now quit squirming.”

Willow overcame her shock and a cold fury set in.

“Lieutenant Marcus!” she shouted.

The chair came crashing to the ground, and Marcus came crashing down with it. The members of Squad Three scrambled over each other to fall in before their bunks. All of them, that is, except Tamlevar. He knelt beside Marcus, who lay sprawled among the splintered wreckage of the chair.

“Are you all right?” Tamlevar said, his voice raised half an octave by anxiety.

“Yes, yes,” Marcus said, crawling to his feet. He dusted himself off, smiling broadly. “I’m fine. But I say, that was absolutely wizard, why I —”

“Lieutenant Marcus!”

Marcus blinked twice and then leapt to his feet.

“A-ten-tion!” he said.

At last, the squad came to full attention. Willow fought back her rage. The air puffed in and out her nostrils.

“Ah, Captain Willow,” Marcus said. He began to twirl his mustache nervously. “I’m … ah! … glad you’re here. Private Temvelar and I —”

“Tamlevar,” Tamlevar corrected.

“… Tamlevar and I were just —”

“Marcus,” Willow said, “shut up!”

Marcus’s eyes registered the pain of his humiliation. It was a bit like kicking a puppy, really. Poor Marcus. It wasn’t his fault he was so weak and stupid. He just didn’t belong in the Guard.

“Marcus,” she said, taking the edge away from her voice. “Wait for me in my office.”

She pointed her finger at Tamlevar like the Sword of Justice.

“But you I want to see now. Outside.”

She spun on her heels and left the barracks, Tamlevar in tow.

“You’re looking especially beautiful today, Willow,” Tamlevar said as they walked around the outside of the barracks. Willow headed towards the alley between the barracks for Companies B and C. Across the street, Snyde noted her presence and pointed her out to his cronies. The snickering resumed. Willow ignored them.

“Be quiet,” she said, not even slowing her step.

“I can’t help it,” Tamlevar said. He skipped ahead of Willow and then rested his hand against the wall, blocking her way with his arm. He beamed at her. “It’s love.”

Their eyes met. Tamlevar was one of the few people in Bryanae taller than she. It was a weird sensation, looking up at someone.

Willow tried to move his arm out of the way, but it wouldn’t budge.

She glared at him and clasped the hilt of her rapier. Tamlevar shrugged and moved his arm out of the way.

“It’s love,” he said, as though it were obvious.

“You are not in love with me,” Willow said, resuming her march. “Now shut up and do what I tell you.”

“Anything. I would do anything for you.”

“Then be quiet.”

“Of course. Because I love you.”

They had reached as private a spot as they were likely to get. The alleyway was shaded from the sun by the adjacent buildings. At the other end of the alley, a horse-drawn wagon clopped by. She detected a hint of spices in the air, wafting from the tavern down the street.

Willow closed her eyes, her teeth clenched. How to do this?

“Can I kiss you?” Tamlevar said.

Her eyes snapped open and her face turned red.

“No, you bloody well may not!” she said. Tamlevar’s smile fell.

“Listen,” she continued, “how you feel about me is irrelevant. That pathetic display in there with Marcus was just another example of a serious lack of discipline. You have made a mockery of the Guard, and have set a bad example for the other men at a time when we need a company of well-trained and disciplined soldiers.

“Now, you will act like a soldier and a representative of Bryanae and of Her Majesty the Queen, or I will personally set you on the road to Panineth and you can explain to your mother what happened.”

Tamlevar’s ebony face paled to a dark gray. “But —”

“No buts! Yesterday afternoon, foreign invaders attacked Bryanae on her own soil. That’s the first time in over a century that has happened. The attack was likely a probe, a test of our strength. It may be followed by a serious invasion.

“What the officers must do now is prepare a defense. We need to compose a set of strategies. We need to train. We need to drill. We need to be ready.

“What we do not need is to have to worry about a spoiled Illuminatus who can’t keep his mind on the defense of Bryanae and his pecker in his pants.”

“But —”

Willow prodded Tamlevar’s chest with a dagger-like finger.

“Such a spoiled individual is what we call a liability. Liabilities are things that one abandons or sacrifices, because they add no value and expend valuable resources. Am I making myself clear?”

“But —”

“Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes moist.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Captain. You have made yourself clear.”

“Very well,” she said. “While you are in the King’s Guard, I expect you to obey orders without question, and to act in a matter befitting the uniform you wear. If you are unable to do so, I’m sure there are plenty of others who would do anything for the honor of wearing it.”

She turned away, and was about to walk off when he interrupted her.

“It wouldn’t fit,” he said.

Willow fought to keep the smile from her face and won. Her aspect remained as impassive as ever.

“I’m sure we could find a tailor,” she said and walked from the alley.

“Captain Willow?” Tamlevar’s tentative voice followed her.

She stopped but didn’t turn to face him. Her voice was a study in control.

“What is it?” she said.

“Why did you freeze up yesterday? That wasn’t like you. What happened?”

Her face contorted as the memories flashed through her mind, of yesterday, and of events that occurred centuries ago. Horror, rage, and anguish fought to make it to the surface. She suppressed the memories and emotions without mercy.

Discipline. Control. Willpower.

She waited until she was certain her voice was under her command once again.

“Not your concern,” she said, and walked away.

Marcus. Now she had to see Lieutenant Marcus. Assuming he hadn’t gotten lost on the way to her office, he’d be waiting there for her now. She’d taken care of Tamlevar, so Marcus was next on her list.

The sound of jeers and laughter caught her attention as she emerged from the alleyway. Captain Snyde again.

Her mistake. One task remained before she could get to Marcus.

Willow crossed the street and headed towards Snyde. His acolytes fell silent, but Snyde’s smile was untouched. He smoothed his moustache with his index finger. He wore over one of his eyes that ridiculous glass monocle that he liked to wear. As far as Willow could tell, it served no other purpose than to make him look like an idiot.

“May I help you, Lady Captain?” Snyde said with a mock bow. “More Barbarians, perhaps?”

Her face flushed and she clenched her jaw.

“May I have a word with you, Captain Snyde?” she said between her teeth.

Snyde gestured with a flourish. “By all means. I am ever at your service, Lady.”

Willow ground her teeth.

“I meant in private.”

“No can do, Willow. The Royal Family’s out and about, and I’ve been assigned to stand watch.”

Willow’s eyes narrowed. “Then perhaps you’d better go find them.”

He grinned, showing his perfect teeth.

“No need. They’re right there, across the street from the barracks.”

Snyde was right. She spotted the entourage of members of the King’s Elite outside a jeweler’s shop. Presumably, the Queen and the Prince were within.

“What’s she doing in there?”

“Her Majesty didn’t see fit to tell me,” Snyde said, and his cronies snickered. “Perhaps you should go and ask.”

“I might just do that,” Willow said, “but there’s something I need to do first.”

“Oh?”

Willow reached into her belt, and pulled out the pair of gloves tucked within. She slapped Snyde across the face with one of them.

Snyde’s face went crimson, and his audience gasped.

“Rapiers,” Willow said. “Sunrise tomorrow, by the water tower.”

“You’re joking!” Snyde said, his monocle popping out. “Duels are forbidden. We’d be court marshaled.” A sly grin crept onto his face. “I’d never be able to explain your death.”

“You should re-read your regulations. Duels are forbidden among the enlisted. You and I are officers.”

Snyde’s grin fell.

“But … but …”

“Did you have something else to add, Captain Snyde?”

“But —”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“But I can’t fight you.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re …”

“I’m what?” she said, her eyes like twin drills.

“You’re a woman,” Snyde finished lamely.

Willow turned and walked away.

“Then you should be able to defeat me with ease,” she called over her shoulder.

Terrific. Yet another task beckoned before she could deal with Marcus. Just as well. The wait would probably do him good. Give him time to form a coherent thought.

The Queen and Heir were abroad at a spectacularly bad time. The barbarians had attacked once. Who was to say they wouldn’t attack again? It wasn’t safe for the Royal Family to be traveling, especially with so light an escort. The King’s Elite were all deadly fighters (after all, she had trained them), but there were only four in sight. A well-planned ambush could mow them down before their swords cleared their scabbards. The Chancellor was an idiot to let Her Majesty and His Highness travel with so flimsy an escort.

The four Elite saluted Willow as she approached.

“Are they inside, Lieutenant Smize?” she asked, addressing the senior Elite.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Any Elite inside with them?”

“No, ma’am.”

Willow’s eyes scanned the street. It was too open. Too many places from which an attack could originate. Sure, the barracks were almost directly across the street, but by the time they’d heard the commotion, grabbed their weapons, and made it outside, the assassination or abduction could be over.

Of course, there was Snyde and his sniggering associates, but there was no telling how much use they’d be. Snyde had moderate skill with the blade, true, but he was also unpredictable, hence unreliable.

“You go inside with them, Smize.”

“I’m sorry, Captain. Her Majesty told me to wait outside.”

Willow arched an eyebrow. “Did she?”

Smize nodded, revealing for a moment the bald patch on the top of his head. All creatures aged except Willow.

“Very well,” Willow said. “I’ll have to speak to her about that.”

Smize’s eyes widened, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“Tamlevar!” Willow shouted. Across the street, the chastised Tamlevar had been walking in a desultory march towards the barracks. He halted and looked her way, his expression suddenly hopeful.

“Remain there until I come out,” she said. “Keep alert for signs of an ambush.”

The tall black youth looked puzzled, but he nodded. Good lad. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

That caught Snyde’s attention. He and his cronies stopped loitering and looked about. If something were to happen, it was clear they didn’t want to be caught napping when it did.

Willow entered the shop.

Standing in the doorway, Willow spied the Royal mother and son. Prince Vazerian was in his early twenties. He was like an ornate but flimsy chair upon which you dared not put any weight. He would already have been king if he weren’t so weak and undisciplined. Instead, power remained where it had been since King Eric had died: in the hands of Queen Tiranda the Fair.

Darting from display case to display case was Hamen, the shop’s owner and the only jeweler in the region to have obtained Master Jeweler rank. Hamen was short and roughly egg-shaped. He wore a seemingly unnecessary white smock that accentuated the ring of white hair that circled his otherwise bald skull. A wide, obsequious smile was plastered upon his face, and whenever either of the royal family spoke, he would bow with his hands pressed together, bobbing almost in time with their words.

“I tell you, mother, it’s too garish,” the Prince was saying. He pointed at a display case fashioned entirely of transparent glass.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Queen said. “The design you have in mind is totally inappropriate. It would be an insult to the Princess and an embarrassment to me.”

Even in her fifties, the Queen had lost none of her strength. Her fiery red hair was fading with streaks of gray, but they were bold streaks, and the Queen left them un-dyed. Go ahead and challenge my appearance, her hair said. I dare you.

“But mother …” The Prince’s voice was a petulant whine.

“Look, Vazerian, do you want to marry this woman or not?”

“Well, now that you mention it …”

“Do you?” The menace in the Queen’s voice was palpable. Even Willow half-flinched at the sound of it.

“Well, I —”

Willow cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, Your Highness.”

“Ah, Willow!” Vazerian cried out, his dimples deepening as he put on his pleased-to-see-you smile. “Good. Good! Excellent timing. Come over here a moment.”

The Queen glared at Willow and their eyes met. So much history was shared between them; none of it was pleasant. The Queen lowered her eyes first.

Willow approached the Prince and saluted.

“Your Highness,” she said.

“Thank you, Willow.” He pointed a bejeweled finger at the display case. “Tell me, which engagement ring do you like better: this garish mishmash of metals and jewels that my dear mother has selected, or this simpler, more elegant one?”

It seemed there had been an ambush after all, just not the type she had been expecting.