II.

i want your drama

the touch of your hand

i want your leather-studded kiss in the sand

i want your love

love love love

i want your love 

They end up in the empty throne room, wrapped in the fur lap blankets that Roran uses during particularly drafty sessions in court. Even their whisper-voices echo in the wide, bare chamber. Roran shrugs deeper into the furs and watches Birgit’s lashes cast long, flickering shadows on the scar that cuts across her cheekbone. Somehow, even this public chamber feels intimate, in the dead of the night with only two guttering candles. Alone with her.

He’s always admired Birgit. She’s the kind of woman it’s hard to ignore, hard to forget—he remembers her bold strategic moves during the war, her unwavering support. And he particularly remembers the night she kicked that arrogant sailor in the balls. If ever he loved and feared someone at the same time, it was her, in that moment—her fearless independence is a turn-on, reluctant as he is to admit it.

The second he laid eyes on her at supper tonight, he knew he was in for it. Her gown was too tight to be decent and her hair high enough to endanger the chandeliers, but she pulled it off with a roguish, devil-may-care swagger that was totally unladylike—and all woman.

It’s too easy to talk to her. She talks like a man and flirts like a woman, and he can never quite tell which she’s using on him—sometimes it’s both at once. Watch your step, Stronghammer, he tells himself sternly. She’s dangerous.

She leans against the base of his throne, furs tucked around her casual as anything, waiting for him to speak.

“You first,” he says finally.

But she shakes her head. “I’d rather hear your troubles before spilling my own.”

“Well then. What shall I tell you?”

“You could start, perhaps, by telling me why you’re awake and pacing the halls.”

He runs his hand through his hair. The grease he uses to flatten it is wearing off, and it’s beginning to stick up wild as always. “Katrina and I had words tonight,” he admits. “She says I need to see more of my children. She thinks I should teach my daughter ‘how to be a queen’—like it’s an arithmetic lesson! She accused me of being a bad father, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s true.”

Crown Princess Palancara, affectionately known as Cara to her family, is nearing her tenth birthday and shows an annoying tendency toward her mother’s ways of thinking. Early on Roran had hoped to instill a love for history and justice in his daughter, hoping she would rule after him. But after a while it became clear that, while Cara is good at changing her siblings’ soiled diapers and can best her mother at needlepoint, her future dreams extend only to being swept off her feet by a handsome prince and settling down with a family. Ruling a kingdom is beyond her.

Roran has become increasingly worried that he has begotten a succession of stupid children, but he can tell their mother no such thing. The only one he has any hope for is six-year-old Garron, his third child, who begs the nursemaids to let him attend court and has gotten quite good at chess. The rest are their mother’s children—eight-year-old Cadoc wants only to play at fencing and riding horseback, and the two youngest are spoiled and whiny.

All this comes pouring out as Birgit listens expectantly. “I wish I could borrow your children,” he says finally, exasperated. “Nolfavrell is just what I want my boys to be—brave, smart, levelheaded.”

“If you ask my opinion, Roran—you expect too much of them,” Birgit says. “Mine were a handful at that age, too. A child’s personality isn’t fixed until they’re well into their teens—that’s what children do. They grow and change. I’ve never yet met a child who cares for history or politics—wait ten years and you’ll see. They may yet surprise you.”

He sighs. “How can you be sure? I knew Katrina since birth, and she’s always been the same. Always unsure, always hanging back and letting others decide for her—I should have known she’d never be a good queen. I expected her to change like I did, to change from Carvahall villager to responsible royalty. I guess it was too much to ask.”

“Well, my husband was an overbearing, meddlesome blowhard,” Birgit says. “Have my children turned out that way?”

“No. Of course not.” Roran sighs. “Thank you, Birgit. I can always count on you for good blunt advice.”

“You’re welcome. And while I’m at it, here’s more: I think your wife’s right. You ought to spend more time with your children, if only to give them a better influence than their mother is providing.”

“You agree with her?” Roran says, surprised.

“That’d be a first, wouldn’t it? Listen, Stronghammer, it’s no secret I think Katrina’s useless. That seems to be something we have in common these days. But children learn by imitation. The parent they watch most will be the one whose actions they copy. It’s your job to make sure you’re that parent.”

He nods thoughtfully. Already, ideas are forming—ways to steal his children away from their mother and bring them into his world. Birgit, with a few well-spoken words, has inspired the exact feelings of paternal duty that Katrina sought to ignite with an hour of shouting. A new wave of contempt arises for his wife. Other women can be rational about things like this.

“Your turn,” he says, shaking off those uncharitable thoughts. “Now you tell me something.”

“What would you like to hear about?” she asks.

“How you got that scar. The real story.” He heard her, earlier, telling Albriech she got it fighting a sea monster singlehandedly—an obvious fib, though an entertaining one.

“That’s a costly request,” she says quietly, running her fingers across the mark. “Are you sure you have a tale equal to it?”

He keeps his face blank. “We’ll see.”

She pauses for a few moments, her hazel eyes faraway. “It was near the end of our voyage,” she begins. “We’d sunk five ships flying the pirate guild’s flag, and we were finally on the trail of the leader. Or so we thought.”

Roran suspects he’s being told another whopper, but keeps quiet.

“We stopped in some tiny seaport for supplies and dropped anchor there for the night.” She takes a deep breath. “We didn’t know the guild leader had beat us there. His ship was anchored a league off shore waiting for his signal. They surrounded our inn in the night. Torched my ship—I lost three good men to the fire. Lost a fair few more trying to get away from the inn.”

She’s staring into the candle flame, and now Roran’s not quite so sure it’s a tall tale.

“Took me captive,” she says, her voice roughening. As the tale progresses, she has dropped into a seafaring accent. “My ship burning was the beacon for his crew to pick him up. They hauled me, the captain, and the first mate Robert into the brig in chains.”

Her eyes snap up to meet his.

“You only see this scar,” she whispers, touching her cheek. “You haven’t seen the others. They flogged us. Tortured us. You ought to know what flogging’s like, Stronghammer. It’s meant to break your spirit. Beat you down ‘til you’ll do whatever they ask to stop the pain. They tied us to the mast afterwards, half-bare, bleeding, barely conscious, and roughed us up. Not enough to kill, just to add insult to injury. Then they cut me down. Just me.”

“Oh, gods,” Roran says, and covers his mouth because the interruption is involuntary. He knows what Birgit’s about to tell him, and wants both to hear it at once and to shut it out of his mind forever.

“They took me by turns,” she says, her voice flat now. “The leader of the pirate guild was first… and last. I think he enjoyed my pain the most. He was a redhead, you know. I think Robin’s his daughter. I’ve no way of knowing, though, have I?”

“Birgit, stop,” Roran pleads.

But she won’t, or can’t. “After, they tossed us back in the brig. Robert, I owe that man my life. Swear he kept me from dying. He washed my welts with salt water and talked the whole time—talked me back from wanting to die. The captain had a broken arm and wouldn’t say a word to anyone, save for cursin’ the pirates. Those men loved me like brothers, and the pirates made ‘em watch, see.”

She takes a deep breath. “So the next day, they came back for me. I think they were going to kill us that time, but we never let ‘em. Robert got hold of a loose timber and started thrashing left and right with it. I somehow wrested a blade away from one of the pirates. I was so bloody mad I went berserker and hacked at everything that got in my way. They told me later I killed about ten of ‘em by myself. I saved the leader for last. Held him down and cut at him all gentle, ‘til he was cryin’ for me to kill him. Then I stabbed him in the chest so many times his shirt near fell off in ribbons. I remember standing at the wheel when it was all over, crying blood.”

Birgit brushes her thumb down the length of the scar again. “It wasn’t tears, really, it was this. Got it in the fight, don’t remember when or how or who. Lots of ‘em had knives. We used ‘em to weight the bodies when we tossed them overboard.”

“Then you sailed the ship back to port with only the three of you?” Roran asks.

“We hadn’t got more than a day’s journey out. Wasn’t hard.” Birgit shrugs. “What was hard was getting the bloodstains out of the deck.”

That’s the end of her story. They’re both silent for awhile, Birgit waiting for him to respond, Roran unable to think of anything to say.

“Have you ever told anyone before?” he asks finally.

“Parts of it,” she says with a shrug. “The rest of my crew, when we met back up at the port, I told them we were captured and beat up. I didn’t tell them about the rape. The captain and Robert are the only ones who ever knew.”

“What are you going to tell your daughter?” He regrets the question as soon as it’s asked.

“She asked when I was visiting last week. I lied,” Birgit says. “I said her father was Robert, my companion on the voyage, that he was the man I loved most in the world after my husband. It was only half a lie. I did love him… just never like that.”

Roran stares at Birgit, completely thrown by her riveting horror story. He can’t imagine what she’s been through. No wonder she distances herself from her children—the first three once tied her down to a domestic life she didn’t want, and the fourth is now a reminder of the worst moments of her life.

One more question spills out before he can stop it. “Has there ever been anyone?” He knows she didn’t marry her husband for love—gods knew Quimby never treated her like she wanted. He was the kind of man who wanted a servant, not a wife, and Birgit would never have chosen that for herself.

She cocks an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

Mortified, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Have I ever had a lover, you mean.” Birgit regards him levelly, back to her usual composure. One corner of her mouth turns slightly upward. “I’d love to tell you that story, Stronghammer, but it’ll have to wait for another night.”

She stands up, shedding the fur blanket, and collects her candle. “Good night,” she says softly, and is gone.

Roran returns to his bed, too, but sleep eludes him for a long while. When he finally does drop off, he dreams of pirates and blood, and wakes pinioned in his sheets like they’re chains.

 (shadow is burned

yellow dance and we turn

my lashes are dry

purple teardrops I cry

it don’t have a price

loving you is cherry pie)