III.

you know that i want you

& you know that i need you

i want it bad like a bad romance 

By unspoken agreement, that night is the first of many they spend together, walking the dark halls of the castle and talking together.

There is nothing overtly romantic about it; they’re simply two old frenemies who have a lot of stories to tell. Roran pours out his insecurities and many, many mistakes as a young ruler, wounds he’s kept festering out of sight, wounds he tells everyone else are healed. In return, Birgit tells him what she failed to mention in her businesslike letters and reports: the whole adventure with the pirates, the pain of losing a son to a senseless accident, her successes and failures as a governor.

Neither of them care to address the question of why they cannot meet for these long talks during the day. As it is, in daytime they hardly ever see each other. Roran’s got enough business to attend to, between running a kingdom and trying to be a good influence on his children, that he, at least, has an excuse.

Birgit can’t say the same. She finds daytime court life to be excruciatingly boring. The most excitement anyone ever gets is playing croquet in the garden or visiting the poorhouse to distribute kitchen scraps and old clothes. She begins to spend the entire day in anticipation of seeing Roran.

He shows her all around the castle, from the lookout towers to the enormous library to the treasury and armory deep below the ground. “I miss the days when I could get lost in here,” he comments once, during their exploration of the latter. “Getting lost in your own home is a unique kind of thrill.”

Shortly after that, he pranks Birgit by slipping down a side passage while she is distracted. Her reaction, presumably, is gratifying: she calls his name a few times, mutters something about him being a bastard, and promptly takes a wrong turn and ends up in a room full of rusty old torture devices left over from Galbatorix’s reign. As she’s looking around in keen interest mixed with thinly veiled horror, Roran contrives to jump out at her from behind a rack of wicked-looking blades.

Her scream summons a guard, who then has to be assured that there is nothing wrong, and that the King was just being a rude dickhead as usual. The poor guard goes away with his ears sizzling from Birgit’s language, utterly confused as to why the King is actually laughing at such blasphemy.

“I’m flattered,” says Roran, through his chuckles, when the guard is gone. “You only insult people you like.”

“Sometimes I make exceptions,” she teases.

“Right. You called Galbatorix a son of a whore once. I assume you don’t like him, although… is there something you’re not telling me? Perhaps he was your mysterious lover.”

Ever since that first night, Roran has been trying to convince Birgit to tell him the identity of the lover she hinted at having. Naturally, she won’t tell him anything; she enjoys keeping one secret from him, though she spills everything else.

“That’s not even funny,” she says, though she smiles at his teasing tone. It’s nice to hear him genuinely laugh. She gets the feeling he hasn’t done it very much lately.

“You’re right,” he admits. “And probably not even possible. Did you ever actually meet him?”

“Never,” she says. “Did you?”

“Just once,” Roran says, shuddering. “I was with Eragon when we met with him to negotiate. He was—gods, you know what was scariest about him? Was that he was so normal looking. Might have been any man off the street. No scars, no red eyes or fangs. But when he talked, you could hear the madness in his voice.”

“I wish I’d met him,” Birgit says speculatively. When Roran gives her an odd look, she explains, “He was the most powerful man in a hundred years. Maybe more. Natural talent for magic, strong, handsome—but what was most dangerous was his charisma, the way he made people trust him. I can see why so many chose to support him, at least at first. If it weren’t for the madness, he’d have been the greatest King in the history of Alagaësia.”

“Funny,” Roran says. “They said the same about Palancar.”

Ever since his relation to the ancient King was confirmed by some dusty scribe looking through miles of genealogies and who-begot-whom, a lot of things have made sense. His months of madness trying to get revenge on the Ra’zac for kidnapping his sweetheart—the way the Carvahall villagers had followed him without question. Nasuada choosing him as the future King, with the kingdom’s wholehearted approval. Before, all those things had taken him by surprise, but now he understands. The madness runs in his blood, and so does the leadership. He just has to ensure the latter is always in control of the former.

Birgit sees and accurately reads the look on his face. “You’re not a spoiled, inbred fool like he was,” she says. “Your roots as a farmer, your time as a soldier, even stealing that ship—all that makes you a better King than any princeling heir. You know what your people feel like, because you’ve been them.”

He looks down at her, taken aback by the sudden ferocity of her tone.

“That’s why I supported you every step of the way, from Carvahall to your coronation,” she says. A tinge of color appears on her cheekbones, but her gaze is unwavering. “You may have your moments of crazy stupidity, but when all is said and done, Roran—you’re a better king than they ever were, because you’ve never lost sight of what is important.”

“Did you just… praise me?” Roran feigns shock.

“Of course not,” Birgit says. The pink tinge spreads across her cheek. “I merely stated the facts, as I always do. How you take them—praise or insult—is entirely up to you.”

“Then am I to understand that calling me a dickhead in front of my own staff was merely stating the facts as well?”

“Naturally,” she says. She holds her face straight for exactly six seconds before a chuckle slips out and ruins it.

As they’re laughing, a scullery maid dashes out of a nearby passage—one of the servants’ shortcuts—and stops, giving them a strange look. “Your majesty. My lady,” she says, curtseying awkwardly, and disappears off in the direction of the kitchens.

“Are the kitchen maids up already?” Roran says. “Good gods. It’s later than I thought. Down here, with no windows, it’s too easy to lose track of time… we should get back, Birgit.”

“Yes, of course.” Birgit suddenly feels guilty for having stayed out all night. If someone were to see them sneaking back to their rooms together… well, it wouldn’t look right, and Birgit wonders how far wrong they’d be in their assumptions. She and Roran aren’t physically intimate, but the past few days they’ve been talking and teasing just like a pair of young lovers. Intense heart-to-hearts mixed with jokes and games like tonight—all that’s missing is the lovemaking.

What are you doing, Birgit? she thinks, suddenly very tired. It’s one thing to destroy the King’s marriage. But it’s another thing entirely to fall in love with him herself.

Her plan of revenge was always to destroy his marital happiness. It’s been brewing since she gave Katrina away at the wedding—she thought she could always count on the silly chit as a pawn in her game of revenge. But it seems Katrina’s done the work for her, and now she’s beginning to wonder if her plan so far has only served to bring him happiness.

Worse, she feels more and more that her own happiness has begun to depend entirely upon him.

This is not good.

“I need to get to bed,” she says briskly, pulling her coat more snugly around her sensible blue nightdress and beginning to walk away. “Good night, Roran.”

“Wait!” He jogs to catch up with her. “Birgit—there’s a dance tomorrow—that is, tonight. It’s an informal thing, you know, just the courtiers who want to come—they do it every sevenday. Mostly it’s the unmarried ones. Big courting ritual.” He stops abruptly, as if he feels he’s said too much, and then starts again. “What I’m trying to ask is, if you’re going—and I hope you do—will you save me the first dance?”

“Is Katrina not coming?” Birgit asks, more coldly than she means it.

“She never does. Hates dancing.”

Birgit knows that if she says yes, she’ll risk making them both the butt of gossip. She also knows that if she doesn’t get herself out of this now, someone’s heart is going to get broken, and it’s probably going to be hers.

And she knows that if she agrees, she’s going to have to spend the rest of the day practicing all those stupid dances she learned nine years ago and then promptly forgot.

But that doesn’t stop her from saying, “All right then,” and smiling at the delighted grin that spreads over his face.

***

As she curses and stumbles her way through half-forgotten dance steps with the long-suffering Hilde—as she upends her trunk across her bed and fervently wishes for a newer dress—even as she watches her maid’s deft fingers plait, curl, and pin her hair, Birgit considers not going to the dance.

She considers ordering her meal sent to her room, which is perfectly acceptable and done by several other courtiers who dislike communal dining. Considers telling everyone she is ill: it’s her time of the month; ate a bad sausage at breakfast; caught cold—no, better yet, the stomach sickness from Katrina’s brat. It’d be too easy. They’d all believe her.

Except, perhaps, the one person she seeks to avoid.

No, she decides after each fresh wave of doubt, I won’t lie to Roran. It would be an act of cowardice unworthy of the fearless Lady Shrrg that took down the pirates’ guild. She said she’d dance with him, and by the gods, she’ll do it.

The dress she ends up wearing is a shimmering silvery-blue thing she only wore once. It’s an empire-waist and used to be too big in the bust, so it fits better than the rest of her things. The long sleeves flare out in a way that she used to (and still does) find annoying, but the overall effect is rather attractive.

Hilde has, upon request, done her hair less voluminously this time, braiding strands of it into a knot at the back and letting the rest curl in artful wildness. She even wove a string of pearls through the braids like a crown, a touch that Birgit finds unnecessary but pleasing.

“Good gods,” she says in shock when her maid finally propels her toward the mirror. “I look halfway decent.”

Hilde laughs. “Whoever he is, my lady, he won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”

Birgit turns to her sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Why, my lady, if I’m out of place, I beg pardon. But seems to me you’d not want to go to a dance like this ‘less there were some gentleman who’d caught your eye.”

“There’s no one,” Birgit says coldly. The lie tastes bitter in her mouth. “Perhaps I’m just tired of being alone. I can’t be a widow forever.”

Hilde says nothing, but Birgit knows the maid won’t believe her. Hilde’s been with her long enough to know Birgit’s quirks—she knows that her mistress is too stubborn and independent to marry again. She recalls, not so long ago, Hilde listening to her deriding the practice of marrying for power or security as “whoring oneself out to the highest bidder.”

If she and Roran continue like this, Hilde is going to find out. And despite the maid’s sworn discretion, others will start to find out as well.

One last moment of doubt. It’s not too late to invent an illness.

She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “Thank you for helping me,” she says in Hilde’s direction, and then sweeps out the door.

***

The formal ballroom is too grand for a private dance like this one, and the night is so pleasant that the dance is held outside. The main garden path is cleared for the dancers, and the musicians gather in front of the fountain. Lanterns hung from the trees aid the moon and the fireflies in lighting the place bright as day.

“Isn’t this fun?” Angela comments gleefully to Birgit as they stand on the sidelines sipping mulled wine. “I just love dancing. No one will ask me, naturally, but watching is almost better.”

Birgit watches Angela’s weird cat wind about her ankles and wonders where the hell Roran is. Two dances have already been danced, and she’s turned down a well-meaning (and not unhandsome) suitor for the first dance because she thought she had a partner.

But half an hour later, Roran still hasn’t shown up. Birgit dances with the fellow from before—Lord Darel by name, a council member who looks to be in his upper fifties. He’s pleasant enough, but clearly on a hunt for someone to end his lifelong bachelorhood. Birgit’s not what he’s looking for, and she ends up pointing this out rather bluntly.

Annoyed and disappointed, she wanders back toward the castle. I won’t even go to see him tonight, she decides firmly. If he can’t make time for me, then I—

“Birgit!”

He’s approaching from the castle, half-jogging, out of breath.

“I’m late, aren’t I? Damn.” He stops in front of her. “I’m so sorry. King business I couldn’t get out of—Lady Lydia was making trouble again, and it took all evening and an entire bottle of blackberry wine to shut her up about tax records.”

But Birgit is in no mood to be forgiving. “What are we doing, Stronghammer?” she says quietly. “Sneaking around, too guilty to be seen together out of the shadows—”

“No, that’s not true, tonight really was unavoidable—”

“But all the other evenings? Why can’t we meet when there are other people around? Why can’t we talk then?” Birgit steps closer. “Roran, we both know why. This isn’t friendship. This has never been friendship.”

His heavy breath brushes her cheek. Alcohol and blackberries. “You’re right,” he murmurs finally. “It’s enemies or lovers with us, isn’t it? Can’t walk the middle ground for long.”

Her heart skips to hear him say it like that, out loud. “So what now?” she whispers.

“You have to go back to Tierm,” he says. “It’s the only way.”

Heaviness settles in her chest. “I’ll leave tomorrow, then.”

She carefully steps away from him. The tension stretches and thins as she walks back toward the castle. She waits for it to break, to set her free so she can run back to her down-covered four-poster and scream into her pillow.

Her back is to him, so she doesn’t see him coming. All she knows is that one minute she’s walking away, and the next, he has her up against the doorframe and is kissing her like his life depends on it. And when she recovers from the shock, she’s pulling him closer, her blood singing with the adrenaline-laced ecstasy of loving him.

“It’s not the only way,” he says against her mouth, ragged and desperate. “Stay with me. I couldn’t stand it if you went away.”

“Say please,” she orders him.

He guides her away from the doorway, into the dark shadows behind the staircase. “Please,” he says in her ear. His voice reverberates through every one of her nerves.

She answers him by catching his lower lip between her teeth and digging her nails into his shoulders.

“Am I,” he gasps, “to take that as a yes?”

  (let’s play a love game, play a love game

do you want love, do you want fame

are you in the game?)