Barrindar wished he could fight the coming war in Arturo's place, hacking down enemies with the swift, strong strokes his half brother displayed in practice and Barrindar could only emulate. But he understood the practicalities that came with his position. He was sixteen, still a few years short of his full growth. His war skills were adequate at best, and the world could not spare the life of another Bearnian heir. With Arturo dead, Marisole slated for the bard's position, and Ivana barred from the lineage by her elfin blood, even if she possessed a full range of faculties, it left only Barrindar, his two little sisters, and Matrinka's youngest child in line for the throne. In the past, the staff-test, now the Pica Test, had failed dozens in the search for a proper king or queen. No one cared for the current remaining odds.
The prince's thoughts shifted from his own agonizing loss to those of the people around him. He wondered how many women sobbed quietly in their beds, how many children curled in helpless balls at the realization that their fathers, their mothers, and they themselves might die in hopeless, screaming terror.The coming war would claim many lives, and the unfairness of who it took had already reached Barrindar personally, with the loss of Arturo. If they won, they kept their land, filled with wailing widows and orphans. If they lost, every one of them died. Barrindar was not sure which was worse.
Light footsteps behind him could not rouse Barrindar from the torture his own thoughts inflicted. The bare thought of such misery cut him to the depths of his heart and soul. When he opened himself to the suffering of his people, it proved a burden he could scarcely bear. Tears filled his eyes, his chest squeezed shut, and the simple act of breathing became a laborious chore.
If the newcomer spoke to him, Barrindar did not know, too desperately lost in his misery. But, where no words or touch could penetrate, something else did. The light notes of a mandolin, soft but powerful, seemed to envelop him. And the sweet voice that followed drew him inexorably into another world.
She sang of war and pestilence, of grief and regret. The bitter-sweetness of Marisole's song came to him as emotion rather than words. Barrindar could not have recalled a single poetic lyric; he absorbed it as a thing inseparably whole, a heart-searing expression of reality. He surrendered to the sound, unable to escape it, drawn wherever it might take him.
Barrindar's ears rang with the clash of steel, and he became snared in a battle for his life. Though not a warrior himself, though he had never tasted real battle, the slash and parry still seemed strangely real. His powerful arms rose and fell with need. He knew only a courageous swell of patriotism, a need to protect his precious family and friends from the hordes of pirates that assailed them. Dragged to a mind-set Barrindar could never have found on his own, he discovered each victory brought a fresh wave of joy, an unshakeable certainty that he would survive. If his companions died, he would see to it they never, ever did so in vain.
Transformed into a valiant soldier, Barrindar found a song-world that turned battle into delight, that transformed desperation into driving courage. He would succeed because failure was unthinkable, impossible. These pirates were humans, albeit vicious ones, and they would fall to his blade like wheat to a scythe.The thrill of victory went from desire to reality. With the help of so many allies, Bearn won the war. Women embraced their triumphant warriors or consoled their hapless neighbors, regaling them with stories of fallen bravery.
Swept along by the song, Barrindar hurled himself into Marisole's arms. Impact knocked the mandolin to the ground, where it loosed a sour note. The song died instantly and, with it, the intensity of misplaced emotion it inspired. But Barrindar found himself lost in another. Marisole felt so fragile in his arms, a perfect porcelain doll that needed his protection. He held her close, suddenly excited in a new and more powerful way. Though blood sister to Arturo, Marisole had never seemed like a sibling to Barrindar as her brother always had. He had considered her more like a beloved cousin, perhaps because she resembled her Erythanian blood father while Arturo favored their Bearnian mother, Matrinka.
Marisole broke free and rescued her mandolin. Examining it carefully, she smiled and leaned it solidly against the low granite railing. "I'm glad you liked my song."
Freed from its spell, Barrindar stared at Marisole. Though tall for a woman, she barely reached Barrindar's chin. Her dark-brown hair, a bit too light for a full-blooded Bearnide, fell in a thick cascade, clipped together at the back. Her nose and lips were generous, her eyes a deep hazel, and her face soft and youthful. She had, only recently, turned nineteen; and the grim anticipation of the coming war had utterly eclipsed the celebration. "Your song was marvelous, as always, Marisole. But, right now, I'm driven by something else." Difficult words came with surprising ease, "I just never before realized how stunningly beautiful you are." It was a lie. He had noticed her beauty every moment of every day since even before Arturo's death, but he had only just found the courage to say so.
Marisole flushed from the roots of her hair to the tip of her chin and allowed him to draw her into another tight embrace. She wrapped her arms around him as well, and her touch felt as light and gentle as butterflies. If Barrindar squeezed just a bit harder, he could break her in half.
Barrindar buried his face in her hair. It held a hint of musk, the sweet, natural odor of Marisole. He had always found it pleasant; now, it drove him wild. "And you smell wonderful."
"But I haven't bathed in two days," Marisole protested. "And I'm not wearing any perfume."
"I know." Barrindar could not keep a hint of lust from his voice. "I like it."
Marisole pushed him away. "Barri, cut it out. We're… we're… halfway… siblings." Her words faltered. "Aren't we?"
Rebuffed and ashamed, Barrindar released her. He turned away to look out over the city again, and the grief her song had stripped away began creeping over him again. "Bloodwise, we're farther apart than our father and your mother. And the populace demanded they marry."
The observation got no immediate reply. Just as Barrindar thought Marisole had sneaked away to save them further embarrassment, she spoke, "You're right."
Barrindar thought he heard a hint of joy and relief in her tone, but worried he had only imagined it. He started to turn, then froze, afraid of the expression he might find on her face.Thoughts of courting women had come to him only in the last year, and Marisole had risen to his mind near the first. He did not understand why her response had become so urgently important to him, especially given the looming war. Or, perhaps, it was because of it. Insignificant as it seemed in the grand scheme of the world, he did not want to die a virgin.
"My father and mother are cousins." Oblivious to the turn of Barrindar's current thoughts, Marisole worried the original problem. "But my blood father isn't related to them at all. In fact, he's not even a Bearnide, which bloodwise, makes us…"
Since Marisole seemed incapable of finishing, Barrindar filled in the blank. "… distant cousins."
"Kissing cousins," Marisole added with a smile.
Now, Barrindar turned fully, unable to hide his own grin. Despite all the madness going on below him, perhaps because of it, he had discovered something important missing from his life. He reached for her again, cautiously this time. "Marisole, if Bearn survives this, if we survive it, maybe…?"
"Maybe," she repeated, rushing to his arms, "we shouldn't wait to find out."
Barrindar could not have agreed more.
Bearn's Strategy Room buzzed with conversations in several different tongues. Darris remained quietly at his king's right hand, trying to absorb every feature, every nuance of this historical moment. Nowhere in his research could Darris find a time when all the countries of the continent had united in a common cause. The nearest they had come was the so-called Great War, three centuries past, where the armies of the West and North had come together to battle the Eastlands. Now, even the Eastern king held a place of honor at the table.