Visitors Past and Present (New)
Visitors Past and Present
The house of Chiron was not much to look at from without, although that would not have prevented some from calling it idyllic. The aged warrior had made his home upon the slopes of Mount Pelion, one of the mountains that lay around Mistral, across the valley from the great city itself. His dwelling was made of wood, stout logs piled on top of one another to form a cabin, if the word did not conjure up something too small compared to the reality, which was of a perfectly reasonably-sized house that just happened to be made of wood and on its own halfway up an otherwise scantly-occupied mountain. A goat was tethered up outside the front door, aimlessly chewing on the grass as Terri-Belle approached down the dirt track, and to her left, she could see the waters glistening as a stream ran down the mountainside nearby. Behind the house, tall trees grew, green and twisted of limb in the Mistralian fashion, their leaves turning golden at the edges as autumn drew near.
It was, as Terri-Belle had thought, idyllic, or at least it was someone’s conception of idyllic.
This was in my prayers, a measure of land not so large, and, near the garden, a spring of pure water, and above this, a little patch of woods. The gods have given me more and better.
Well, if the rustic idyll was what Chiron wanted, then who were gods or men to stand in his way?
And yet, Terri-Belle had come, not to stand in his way precisely, but to drag him away from it to an uncertain end.
A dog barked from inside the house as Terri-Belle approached the front door; she was ahorse, mounted upon Oakheart, and his hooves pounded a little upon the dirt track. She reined him in a few paces before the door and dismounted, tethering her horse to the post that Chiron had conveniently placed there for visitors. Terri-Belle rested her spear lightly upon her shoulder as she walked the rest of the short distance.
The door, like the rest of the wooden house, was unpainted, although there was a fancy door knocker shaped like a horse’s head nailed to it. Terri-Belle seized hold of the handle in one hand and knocked robustly, making a thumping noise that seemed to echo all around.
The barking of the dog — dogs now; it had been joined by another — grew louder from within the house.
“Quiet! Quiet, both of you!” squawked a woman’s voice from inside. “Quiet, or there’ll be no dinner tonight!”
The dogs began to quiet down. There was a moment’s pause before the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman, as tall as Terri-Belle herself, with auburn hair turning to grey in places, dressed in a gown of light rose with a belt of golden leaves clasped about her waist.
Her name was Chariclo, and she glared at Terri-Belle with her hazel eyes. “What do you want?” she demanded.
Terri-Belle drew in a breath. “It’s good to see you again too, ma’am,” she said.
“It is not good for me to see you,” Chariclo declared. “I can guess why you are here. The answer is no.”
Terri-Belle rested the butt of Thunderbolt upon the ground. “Isn’t that Chiron’s decision to make?”
“Don’t talk to me like this does not concern me, my lady,” Chariclo snapped. “I am his wife; this is as much my decision as it is—”
“Chariclo,” Chiron’s voice, rich and deep, echoed out from somewhere inside the house. “Who is it, dear heart?”
Terri-Belle forestalled any answer that Chariclo might have given by calling out, “It’s Terri-Belle, Master.”
“Terri-Belle?” Chiron repeated, and Terri-Belle heard the sounds of hooves upon the wooden floorboards before the man himself emerged into view at the far end of the hallway. “Terri-Belle!” he cried, advancing towards her. “My dear girl! What a pleasant surprise.”
Chiron was a man older than his appearance, although Terri-Belle wasn’t sure exactly how much older he was because she wasn’t certain how old he was. He was someone who appeared to have been around forever, a huntsmen and a trainer of huntsmen — a trainer of heroes. He had never taught at Haven, but all the best warriors had been instructed by him, if only for a little while. The great houses competed fiercely to have their scions accepted into his tutelage, but — as his modest dwelling might attest — he did not charge exorbitant fees for the privilege, but rather, chose his charges very carefully, selecting only those who interested him, those in whom he saw potential.
It had not made him rich, but it had given those trained by him a certain imprimatur of status. To have been taught by Chiron was to have been marked out as something special by one who was said to know quality when he saw it.
Conversely, to have him refuse you was … difficult. When he had declined to train Swift Foot, preferring to retire instead, Father had been very disappointed in her. Although not as disappointed as Swift Foot had been in herself.
The man himself was a faunus, a horse faunus with brown equine legs and equine hooves which thumped upon his floor, and the legs were barely hidden by the shorts he was wearing; his top was a little better covered up in a light brown tunic and a cloak of green across his back clasped with a pair of golden leaves. His hair was long and dark, turning to grey in places, as was the wild dark beard that erupted from his face. A crown of laurel leaves — real laurel leaves, and fresh too, by the look of them — adorned his brow.
Terri-Belle bowed her head. “Master,” she murmured.
“'Master,'” Chiron repeated. “How long has it been since I taught you, that you call me ‘Master’?”
“Too long,” Terri-Belle murmured.
She missed those days. She missed the simplicity of them. The innocence of youth, before someone was killing all of her huntsmen.
“Times change,” Chiron said, not unsympathetically. “Might as well try to stop the changing of the seasons. But it is good to see you again, my lady.”
“Please, no,” Terri-Belle said, holding up one hand. “I may not be your student anymore, but you don’t have to bow and scrape to me. It would feel too bizarre to contemplate. May I come inside?”
“Of course,” Chiron said, gesturing for her to come inside. Chariclo sniffed, but made way for Terri-Belle to step in through the door and rest her spear against the wall.
“Come into the kitchen,” Chiron went on, turning his back on her and leading the way, leaving Terri-Belle and Chariclo to follow. “Would you like some wine? Something to eat, perhaps? We have bread baked in our own ovens, cheese from our own goat—”
“Does the wine come from your own grapes?” Terri-Belle asked.
“Only if you want to be poisoned,” Chariclo muttered.
Chiron chuckled. “Sadly, I haven’t quite gotten the hang of winemaking just yet, so it will be from Markos’ vineyard.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “If you wish to partake, that is?”
“I will not decline, either food or wine,” Terri-Belle replied.
“Excellent!” Chiron proclaimed. “Excellent!”
He led them into the kitchen, where a pair of ageing hounds were lying in front of the burning fire, heads pressed against the floor. Their names where Aello and Agre, and they had belonged to Actaeon, an old pupil of Chiron’s from before Terri-Belle’s time, and when he had been killed — Chiron had never talked about what had killed him, if he even knew — then Chiron had taken in his hounds. Aello got up from the floor and wandered over to her, tongue hanging out, panting slightly.
Terri-Belle knelt to give him a scratch behind the ears, smiling slightly as she did so. She envied him, that he could be pleased so easily, that a little thing like being scratched behind the ears could make him forget his troubles; if, indeed, he had any troubles to forget.
The kitchen was rustic, but spacious, with joints of meat hanging above the fireplace and strings of garlic hanging from the walls. Chiron sat down at a plain wooden table and gestured for Terri-Belle to take the other.
Terri-Belle too sat down. Chariclo filled a wooden bowl with rich, dark red wine and set it down upon the table with a little too much force.
She did not sit down with them, but lurked in the corner of the kitchen, listening to their conversation without being part of it.
Terri-Belle found herself trying to ignore the woman’s presence. “How is retirement treating you?” she asked. “Is the life of a farmer everything that you thought it would be.”
Chiron chuckled. “I’m no farmer,” he said. “Chariclo does most of the work, I must admit, although, I … I—”
“Gets underfoot,” Chariclo said.
“I dabble, here and there,” Chiron said. “Mostly, retirement has given me a chance to indulge my hobbies: astrology, botany—”
“I remember when you taught me the lore of the herbs of healing,” Terri-Belle said. “It hardly sounds like a hobby to me.”
Chiron shrugged. “Now, I can look beyond healing herbs. I can potter about, growing whatever plants I see fit, and there is no one to tell me that I should have found something better to do.”
“And that’s why you retired?” Terri-Belle asked. “To grow plants and watch the stars?”
“There’s nothing wrong with plants or stars,” Chiron informed her. “How much do you remember of the herb lore I taught you?”
“Not as much as I should,” Terri-Belle admitted.
“You never know when you’ll be in a pinch, far from conventional modern medicine,” Chiron reproached her. “But a plant that has no practical value may still be beautiful, and a star even more so. Sometimes, when the nights are dark and the moon is new, I look up with my telescope and see all the constellations spread out so brightly above me. I could spend hours mapping them, charting their movements from night, just looking at them. Looking at them and wondering if there is anything finer in life than this?” He paused for a moment. “But the truth is, I retired because, having trained my greatest pupil, there didn’t seem to be much point in going on. Pyrrha … seemed as good a line to draw under my career as any.”
“He never taught anyone so good as her before,” Chariclo pronounced, with what seemed to Terri-Belle to be just a little too much relish in her voice as she looked pointedly at Terri-Belle — Terri-Belle would, and had, admit that it was true, but there was no need to rub it in like that. “He would never teach anyone so good after. Why not retire then? Why not finish on a high?”
“Chariclo … may mean some offence,” Chiron added diplomatically. “But I mean none when I say … having trained the evening star, what else was left for me to do?”
Terri-Belle did not reply for a moment. Rather, she picked up the bowl of wine and raised it to her lips, tipping it upwards so that the rich red wine flowed out of the bowl and into her mouth. It was tart but fruity, with a slight nutty quality to it. She set down the bowl and picked up a napkin to dab gently at her lips. The napkin came away stained red, like a bloody bandage.
She set the reminder of recent events down on the table before she said, “Is that why you wouldn’t train my sister?”
Chiron sighed. “I meant no disrespect.”
“You refused my father; how was he to take it except as disrespect?”
“Your father made a request of me,” Chiron replied. “I, with all courtesy, declined his request. If he was offended by that, it was not my doing or my intention.”
Terri-Belle’s brow furrowed. She said, half-fearing to know the answer, “Was it simply the fact that you wished to retire, or would you have changed your mind if Swift Foot had shown greater promise?”
Chiron looked her in the eye, without flinching. “Swift Foot is as good as Jason or Meleager when they came to me,” he said. “She could be as skilled as you one day, if she is well taught.”
“'Well taught,'” Terri-Belle repeated. “But not by you.”
“No,” Chiron agreed. “Not by me.”
Now it was his turn to reach for the bowl of wine, picking it up and drinking out of the other side of the bowl to Terri-Belle.
“Do you keep in touch with any of your students?” Terri-Belle asked. Chiron had not kept in touch with her, but she was a little curious — she was now, at least; it might not have occurred to her to ask if it were not for Chariclo’s blatant favouritism — to know if that reflected on her in any way.
“No,” Chiron informed her. “No, not anymore.”
“‘Anymore’?” Terri-Belle said. “You used to?”
“Yes,” Chiron murmured. “I used to.”
Terri-Belle blinked. “When did you stop? Why?”
“Why do you think?” Chariclo asked, although she had her back to them now, cutting up bread on one of the kitchen surfaces. With her knife, she gestured briefly at the dogs that sat by the fire.
Terri-Belle glanced at the hounds, sitting contentedly, the firelight dancing upon their fur. Agre looked up at her, as if he could sense that he was being regarded, and let out a little high-pitched whine before laying his head back down and closing his eyes.
“Actaeon,” she whispered.
Chiron nodded. “Actaeon,” he repeated. “He and I remained in touch. He visited me often, sharing stories of his exploits, judging my later pupils. He would always deny that they could ever be as skilled as he was, as swift, as cunning.” He smiled, if only for a moment. “And then he died, and his hounds found their way to me.”
He glanced at Aello and Agre where they lay. “I took them in, of course. What else could I do, but … I realised that if I had treated them all the way that I treated Actaeon, then … ten thousand fates of death surround us, as the poets say; I didn’t want my home to become a mausoleum full of relics of old students passed on. I didn’t want to be reminded of them, left to ponder the question that always haunted me with Actaeon: could I have taught him better?”
“You wonder that?” Terri-Belle asked. “Truly?”
“Should I not?” Chiron replied. “My pupils die.”
“Ten thousand fates of death surround us, as you say, which no man may escape or avoid,” Terri-Belle responded. “And while they live, before inevitable destiny claims them, those taught by you win glory unsurpassed. You are the trainer of heroes; you cannot say that it brings you no honour, nor pride.”
“I didn’t say that,” Chiron corrected her. “I don’t keep in touch with them, but I follow their achievements. I read about them. I read when you were named Captain of the Imperial Guard and Warden of the White Tower. I read of Pyrrha’s battles against the White Fang, and this grimm attack more recently — what in the name of all the gods has been going on in Vale?”
Terri-Belle shrugged. “You had better ask the Valish; all I can say is that they have been incompetent … but that their incompetence has allowed Pyrrha to win great glory, and it has given us a wakeup call I fear we sorely needed.”
“And how is the mood,” asked Chariclo, “regarding Pyrrha’s glory?”
Terri-Belle twisted in her seat a little to look at her. “The whole city celebrates her achievement.”
Chariclo snorted as she set down a basket of bread, cut roughly into triangular wedges, down upon the table. “You don’t believe that,” she said. “I certainly don’t.”
Terri-Belle sighed. “Perhaps there are some who are jealous of her accomplishment—”
“'Perhaps'?” Chariclo repeated incredulously. “When Pyrrha was training with Chiron, I once caught Jason and Meleager plotting to put something in her food to make her sick, to punish her for showing them up. There will always be those who envy greatness.”
“You’re right,” Terri-Belle admitted. “But few would be so gauche as to admit it publicly.”
“Chariclo was Pyrrha’s nurse,” Chiron informed her. “She keeps a far closer eye on her life than I do.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” demanded Chariclo. “Her mother was too weak to take care of her. I went to the house, and I saw her for the first time, and I thought ‘this cannot be the mother of a newborn babe! Surely, she must be her grandmother!’ But no, she was Pyrrha’s mother, though she looked so old that I could hardly believe it. Hippolyta told me she would never bear another child, and I could believe that, for the gods had taken all her strength and put it into this squalling girl. So I fed her, and I washed her, and I wiped her bottom; I am entitled to know what happens to her afterwards.”
“You know that she’s dating some Valish boy,” Terri-Belle said.
Chariclo sniffed. “I know. I have seen his picture. He has vacant eyes and a foolish smile. He does not deserve her.”
“We men never do, dear heart,” Chiron declared. “We never deserve the women who find it in themselves to bear our follies and our foibles.”
“That is true,” Chariclo agreed. “That is very true.” She paused for a moment, before she said, “She must love him very much.”
“So sure?” asked Terri-Belle.
“Why else would she put herself through so much fuss and bother, over a nobody?” Chariclo demanded. “He has no family, he has no money, and all the news, they call it an absolute disgrace, a shame on Mistral, an insult. Why endure it, if not for love?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Chiron agreed. “And good for her. Humans are not meant to live alone, but in union with one another. And marriage was the best thing I ever did, far moreso than training Pyrrha Nikos.”
“And don’t you forget it,” said Chariclo. She started to cut up some cheese. “I hope he treats her right. Boys can be very cruel.”
Terri-Belle winced. “How is Hippe?”
“Well enough,” Chiron said. “Her boy will be old enough to start combat school soon.”
“Following in the family footsteps?” Terri-Belle asked. “Speaking of which, Carystus is well.”
“For now,” Chariclo muttered.
Terri-Belle looked down into the bowl of wine. “For now,” she conceded. “The world has grown more dangerous.”
“When has the world not been dangerous?” Chiron asked, with a glance down at Aello and Agre.
“It feels as though it has gotten worse,” Terri-Belle said. “And not only in Vale.”
“Which is why you are here,” Chiron said.
“Yes,” Terri-Belle answered. “That is why I am here.” She drank a little more wine and dabbed once more at her mouth with the cloth. “I want you to take up arms again.”
“No!” Chariclo cried. “No, you are retired! You have done your part, run your race!”
“Dearest—” Chiron began.
“Don’t ‘dearest’ me; this is my house, and I will not have this talk.”
“This is Chiron’s decision to make, don’t you think?” Terri-Belle asked.
“I am his wife!” Chariclo declared. “If he dies, dragged out to battle, old as he is—”
“I’m not so old!”
“Then I will be the one to mourn for him, to weep for him, to embrace our children while they weep, to live without him in a cold bed and an empty house, is that not enough to make it my decision? You took my son away—”
“Carystus chose to be a huntsman and to join the guard—”
“And what a comfort that will be to me if he should perish, to know that he chose to go this death,” Chariclo spat. “Maybe if you had a spouse or children of your own, you would understand.”
“Well, I do not,” Terri-Belle said sharply, rising to her feet. “But I have three sisters; two of them serve alongside me, one starts her training in earnest next year. Do you think it would not grieve me if they perished in the field? Do you think that I would not rather venture forth myself upon the hazards of battle that they may stay safe within the walls of Mistral, busying themselves with paperwork and administration? Do you think that I would not risk myself ten times before I risked them — or your son, or any of my guards for that matter? Do not think that I am so cold as the armour that I wear. Not for a moment.”
She closed her eyes and turned away from Chariclo, presenting her shoulder to the older woman. “But I am also the Warden of the White Tower, not only a sister but a commander also, and I must have regard for Mistral’s need, and Mistral’s need is great. Mistral’s need is for every sword and spear and gun that can be mustered. And that is why I come to you, Chiron. I need retired huntsmen and huntresses to come in from the cold, at least for a little while, to make up our numbers. And you … your name carries great weight; if you come out of retirement, then others will follow. Do you have any contacts from your own generation, anyone you could persuade to take up arms again?”
“Some, perhaps,” Chiron admitted. “Theseus and Pirithouos would be up for it, I’m sure. Last time I spoke to them, they were both bored stiff. Maybe others, although I can’t guarantee they all have their own teeth. As for myself … are things so bad that you need the help of old hasbeens like us?”
“I doubt you will be a hasbeen even once they have laid you on your pyre,” Terri-Belle said. “But yes, things are bad.”
“These disappearances I’ve heard of?”
“Of course you’ve heard of that,” Terri-Belle muttered. “Not disappearances anymore. Someone … someone has been hunting down huntsmen.”
“And you want Chiron to put himself in harm’s way?” Chariclo said.
“I have taken steps to ensure that no one else will fall victim to this assassin,” Terri-Belle declared. “I have taken the complete administration of all huntsman missions into my own hands so that no one can pass information as to where huntsman will be at any given time. Secrecy has, and will continue, to keep our huntsmen safe.”
“Will it give you time to do anything but paperwork?” asked Chiron.
“It does when I leave some of it to fester for a little while, as I am doing now,” Terri-Belle said. “I believe that I have staunched the bleeding, but our losses have been significant. We are looking to build other forms of defence for Mistral, but it is slow going; poor fellows flock to the colours of Polemarch Yeoh’s new army every day, but it will take time to make them soldiers; we are buying androids from the SDC, and as a result, guild representatives beat a path to the Council chamber complaining that we are undermining the Guildhall by dealing with them.”
“Are you going to pay such objections any mind?” asked Chiron.
“No,” Terri-Belle said. “But even then … robots are not huntsmen.”
“I am barely a huntsman,” Chiron said. “I’m just an old trainer.”
“An old trainer who knows every trick you ever taught to every huntsman or huntress who ever came to you for instruction,” Terri-Belle replied. “Please. I would not ask if our need, Mistral’s need, were not great.” She looked at Chariclo. “Despite what you may think, I have no desire to disrupt your retirement. But I need swords, and more than that, I need men to wield them. I have gone to the Railwaymen to ask them to release their contracted huntsmen; I’d go to the White Fang and offer them an amnesty if I thought the people would stand for it — which they will not, especially after what happened in Vale. I need men. I need good men. And you are one of the best men I know.”
She smiled. “You retired because you would never train anyone as good as Pyrrha Nikos. I understand that; I accept it. She is unique, and you only have to watch her to know it. But I’m not asking you to train any new pupil, I’m not asking you to pass on your knowledge, all I am asking is that in Mistral’s hour of need you emerge from this cosy home you’ve made for yourselves and come to the aid of your kingdom. Is that not a fine epilogue for your life’s story?”
“Only if he comes back to the home at the end of it,” Chariclo muttered.
“He will,” Terri-Belle said.
“You cannot be certain.”
“No,” Terri-Belle conceded. “I cannot. But I will do my damnedest to make sure it does. As I would for any other man in my service.”
“In your service?” Chiron said. “I really will have to call you ‘my lady,’ won’t I?”
Terri-Belle looked at him. “In public, certainly. If you agree.”
“How can I not?” Chiron replied. “How can I not answer Mistral when she calls?”
“Easily,” Chariclo insisted.
“Perhaps,” Chiron murmured. “But I will not. I have spent my life training eager boys and girls, preparing them to become heroes. How can I sit at home now, when I am called upon to live the values I have passed on to others? How could I face Actaeon if I did that? I will call around, see how many other old fossils I can find willing to join me in one last war.”
“Thank you,” Terri-Belle said, a great feeling of relief flooding through her. “Thank you, Master. I will not forget this.”
“Neither will I,” Chariclo muttered darkly.
“Juturna,” Turnus said as he strode in, “we need to talk.”
Juturna didn’t look up from her scroll, her fingers tracing over the screen as she placed buildings on the map and set them to work. “Can it wait for a little bit? I’ve just spent five hundred lien on premium items for this game, and I’m going to lose all of them if the enemy overrun my base.”
“‘Five hundred lien’?” Camilla said, in a voice that sounded as though she was about to choke.
“Oh, hey,” Juturna said, glancing up to see that Camilla was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, just behind Turnus. “It’s not that much money, really.”
“It is a great deal of money really,” Camilla murmured. “To some people, at least.”
“And that’s why I win, because I’ve got access to big bro’s credit card,” Juturna declared gleefully.
“Put the scroll down, Juturna,” Turnus said.
“I told you, I just need—”
“Now!” Turnus snapped.
Since Dad died, Juturna could count the number of times that Turnus had raised his voice at her on the fingers of one hand. She looked away from her game, concentration torn from the barbarians who were currently breaking down her outer walls with the help of a dragon. Her hands still held the scroll, but they lowered until the device was resting upon her crossed legs, while she, sitting upon her bed, looked sideways at Turnus and Camilla.
Turnus had come inside the room, standing with his hands by his sides, curled into fists. He was wearing a suit — the trousers and jacket both had a tiger stripe pattern of orange and black — with a white shirt and no tie. Camilla stood behind him, still in the doorway, half in the room and half outside it, her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing a red dress that matched her eyes, with a high neckline wrapped around her throat.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“You’re not in any trouble,” Camilla assured her.
Juturna turned herself sideways on her bed, crumpling the light pink duvet cover beneath her as she moved to face the two of them. Frilly throw pillows in pink and red and white covered one side of the bed, resting against the wall, while a stuffed bear in a bow tie lay with his head upon the pillow.
“Then why does it feel like I’m in trouble?” Juturna asked.
Turnus walked further into the bedroom. Camilla followed, her tail barely raised up off the floor as she closed the door behind her.
The walls of Juturna’s bedroom were painted in royal blue, livened up with some posters of her favourite singers stuck on the walls: Weiss Schnee, Sapphire Shores, Coloratura. A katana that she had brought in an online sale because she thought it looked really cool but which she had never actually used also hung on the wall, at the back of the room behind the dressing table. It was Mom’s old dressing table, and Mom’s jewellery box with all of her necklaces and tiaras and her engagement ring sat there, mostly unused since Juturna didn’t really wear them that often; in fact, she’d pretty much only worn anything from out of Mom’s box once, and that was to borrow a tiara for her sixteenth birthday party. Her own jewellery box was smaller and had things like her studded leather bracelets and her array of black chokers. A vanity mirror sat on top of the dressing table, and a little cushioned stool sat in front of it. An acoustic guitar which she could totally play sat propped up against the wall. A bedside table sat, well, beside the bed, with a lamp and a charger for her scroll and a picture of the three of them, taken during the celebrations at the end of the last Mistral Tournament; Turnus and Camilla were all dressed up, standing side by side, lit up by the lanterns that stretched across the market stalls; Juturna was photobombing them, her face taking up half the frame, her tongue out and her expression wild.
There was also a soft chair, for reading or sitting, even though Juturna often preferred to sit on the bed for those things. Nevertheless, the chair gave Turnus a place to sit as he pulled it closer to Juturna’s bed before he sat down.
Camilla crossed the room silently and sat down on the bed next to Juturna.
Juturna snapped her scroll shut, resigning herself to taking a bath on all her premium consumables. Oh, well, it was Turnus’ money in the end.
“Seriously,” she said, looking from Camilla to Turnus, “what’s going on?”
Even seated, Camilla was still taller than her and able to look down upon Juturna whether she meant to or not. “Opis had a word with me,” she said softly. “About the visitor you had while we were away.”
“The— oh, you mean Doctor Watts?” Juturna asked.
“Exactly,” Turnus said. “You didn’t mention him. Camilla had to hear it from Opis.”
Juturna shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. He came in, we talked for a little bit, and then he left again. I didn’t think you’d want to know.”
“It’s what you talked about that I would have liked to have known,” Turnus said.
“How much did Opis tell you?” Juturna asked quietly.
“As little as she could get away with, I think,” Camilla murmured. “At times, she became quite embarrassed.”
Juturna winced. “Yeah, that … I did say sorry at the time. I think. Or maybe I just said I was going to stop doing it. Should I apologise?”
“That’s not important right now,” Turnus said.
Camilla reached out and took one of Juturna’s hands in her own. “Opis told me that … that you spoke of your mother.”
Juturna looked away, unable to meet either of their gazes. “I … yeah, I guess I mentioned it.”
“That wasn’t the only thing you mentioned, was it?” Turnus asked.
“No,” Juturna muttered. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Juturna,” Turnus said. “I … what possessed you? A stranger turns up at the door, and you tell him … about our mother, about us? About … about rulership?”
Juturna glanced up at him. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?” she asked. “You want to rule?”
Turnus did not reply. Silence hung in the bedroom, unbroken by any noise at all. The three sat there, in silence, Turnus and Juturna looking at one another, Camilla sitting to the side.
“That isn’t the point,” Camilla murmured. “The point is—”
“Yes,” Turnus said, and the word fell heavily from his lips. “Yes, I do wish it.”
Camilla did not try to speak again. Juturna did not reply. She felt as if her brother was not yet done, she felt that there was more to come, there had to be.
Turnus folded his hands together in front of him, resting his elbows upon the arms of Juturna’s chair. “There is no call we do not answer; there is no faith that we betray,” he murmured. “Do you know who said that?”
“No,” Juturna replied.
“You should do; this is our family history,” Turnus reproached her. “It was our great-great-grandfather, Lord Leto, who said that, when the Emperor commanded him to pacify eastern Sanus for Mistral. He was the governor there when the Great War began.”
“And in that war, he lost his life,” Camilla said.
“So did his son, our great-grandfather, almost,” Turnus said. “Our house was nearly destroyed, brought low by the Valish, by the barbarians, and by treachery. And then, after that, Father…” He got to his feet. “Our house has never gained anything from serving Mistral.”
“But to rule it,” Juturna said softly.
“It will never happen,” Turnus declared, turning away from her. “It cannot be done; it would … I could never … and yet, if wishing made it so…” He paused for a moment. “Our house is as noble as the House of Thrax, as long in line of ancestors, as notable for our deeds in war — moreso, even. And this kingdom…”
“What would you do with the throne, if you possessed it?” Camilla asked quietly.
Turnus was silent for a moment. “This kingdom must be reorganised,” he said, “upon Atlesian lines. They understand efficiency in the north kingdom, they understand strength, they understand how to make themselves powerful. We are held back by too much deference to tradition and too much power given to vested interests. We must … a part of me thinks that the guilds and the ancient companies must be shattered to free the market of their influence, but — as much as we must free the market so that it may prosper as it does in Atlas — the Guildhall has long served a traditional role in keeping the commercial classes happy, and it would be foolish to jeopardise that. Still, they must be reformed, they cannot be allowed to gatekeep the market any longer; we cannot sacrifice prosperity for stability anymore, we can no longer afford it. We need to grow the economy to fund the defences that Mistral needs: an army larger than that of Atlas, and a great fleet too, to patrol our territories and systematically hunt down the bandits that infest these lands. I would encourage the great houses to raise their own forces, their own companies, their own armies, as they did in ancient times, and to put those sworn swords to use not only for their own glory but also for the good of Mistral, earning renown through good service to the kingdom. The time was when our nobility habitually sought to do such, but this modern world leaves no scope for such things, and so we are reduced to the pursuit of money or else to aggrandising ourselves even at the expense of the rest of Mistral. With all this strength at my command, I would spread the blessings of peace throughout Mistral and hunt down all malcontents. And then…”
“And then?” Juturna asked.
“And then I would cross the straits in arms and take back what should always have been ours,” Turnus said. “Eastern Sanus, that was stolen from us after the Great War. The land our ancestor died for.” He paused for a moment. “But these are dreams. Just dreams, nothing more. They have no substance; I cannot make them real. I do not dare to try and make them real. Dreams … and yet dangerous, all the same. I talk to you about it, here, to the two of you, in private, but I wouldn’t speak of them in front of all my men.”
“Seriously?” Juturna asked. “You don’t trust them?”
“I trust them with my life,” Turnus said. “But this … and you just spilled it out of your mouth to a stranger you had never met before; what were you thinking?”
“He was an Atlesian; what does it matter?”
“He said he was an Atlesian,” Camilla pointed out. “He gave no proof of that.”
Juturna blinked. “What are you thinking?”
“He could have been a spy,” Camilla suggested. “From one of the rival families, maybe even from the Steward himself.”
“To do what?” Juturna asked. “To see if you want to rule Mistral; why would he even think that?”
“Why would an Atlesian doctor turn up at the door, speak to you of such things, and then leave without a word?” Camilla asked.
Juturna hesitated. “I … I don’t know. Maybe … I don’t know. But if someone was out to get you. don’t you think that they would have, you know, come and got you by now?”
“Perhaps,” Turnus admitted. “Or perhaps now that their suspicions have been confirmed … who can say?”
“I didn’t mean…” Juturna began. “I just wanted … I just want you to be happy.” She reached out, and took Camilla’s hand. “Both of you.”
Camilla squeezed the hand that Juturna held. “What makes you think that we are not content?”
Juturna snorted. “Come on. I know you better than that.”
“And what I want,” Turnus said, as he came to sit down on the bed beside her, on the other side of Camilla, “is for you to be a little more careful and not talk so blithely to strangers. Perhaps he was exactly who he said he was and has now wandered off, never to be heard from again … but he could have aimed to use your words against you, and that…” He trailed off, and instead of speaking, he put his arms around her, one arm around her shoulders, cupping her cheek with his other hand as he pulled her inwards until she was leaning on him. “Dearer to me than all the wealth and honour of our house are you. Do not forget that.”
Juturna smiled. “I love you too,” she murmured.
And because she loved him, because she loved them both, she yearned to see them happy and all their dreams fulfilled.
If only there was a way.
If only she could see a way in which it might be done.
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If that Actaeon died like in the myth, you probably don't want those dogs around...
I love all the mythological references here. I wonder if Chiron thus also trained Pyrrha’s father, Achilles?
Furthermore, Markos’ vineyard? Is that an AC Odyssey reference? Because that would make for terrible wine.
And speaking of which…
As a member of the modern gaming community myself, that is legit one of the most rich elitist things I’ve ever heard.
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Yes, yes it is.
As someone who had to quit the modern gaming community because it was stealing my money, she's not wrong, though.
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Jutarna must be one of VA Game’s favorite sucker-I mean, customers.
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Gotta admit, I really like the mythology references you like to add into SAPR. It brings more colour to the story.
I spy with my little eye a Dune reference.
Good chapter. Mistral is desperate for defenders indeed... And Juturna is still dumb.