XXVI. THE WHITE JARL

  “You can surely hit him harder than that brother.”

  Morgaine stood at the entrance of the training yard, dressed in an elegant stola draped over one shoulder. The copper tinted fabric contrasted with her fiery hair. The pommel of Kohl’s sword collided with his stomach, demanding his attention. Asho glared at his friend. He reached up to unbuckle his helmet as Morgaine entered the yard. Her hands ran along the shelves of swords, spears, and axes that rested on the racks.

  “Those might be a little heavy for you.” Asho smiled.

  “It’s no matter." Morgaine paused at the vast collection of bows. “Archery suits me better.” She raised a hesitant eyebrow. “Would you care for a round?”

  “I’d enjoy that. Kohl?”

  His friend eyed them as he restocked his equipment. He removed his helmet and shook his sweat damp hair out of his eyes. “No. I’ll leave you to your peace.”

  Morgaine’s cheeks inflamed as her brother exited the training yard. It wasn’t lost on Asho that they were now truly alone for the first time since his arrival. Asho took his time examining the longbows. He ran his suddenly clammy hands down his pants. “How was your morning?” He asked.

  “Autumn is at our doorstep.” Morgaine selected a lighter shortbow. Asho grabbed a longbow and hefted two quivers over his shoulder. He followed Morgaine as she walked over to the targets. “You should join me for a ride sometime.” Morgaine offered quietly.

  Asho smiled to himself. “I’d enjoy that.”

  “You finally learn to ride?” Morgaine turned around, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well I’m hardly the equestrian you are.”

  Morgaine snorted under her breath. Asho set the quivers on the ground. They fell into companionable silence as they took their practice shots. It had been months since Asho had held a bow in his hand, and his first shot went high, clearly missing the target fifty paces away. Morgaine’s shot was slightly better, embedding itself in the target’s flank. Morgaine smiled challengingly. Asho shook his head. “I’m warming up.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Asho’s next shot flew true, embedding itself in the bullseye. The prince smirked. Had he been with Kohl, or those boot licking Sugian nobles, he would have already been gloating. But of course, Morgaine was a better archer than Ditas or any in his entourage. The prince knew better than to challenge Morgaine. Her next two shots flew straight into central mass. Asho languidly nocked his next arrow instead, admiring Morgaine’s slender form as she drew back her shortbow. She inhaled, her mossy eyes narrowing in concentration. When she exhaled, Asho knew from the resounding thump that the arrow found home.

  Morgaine lowered the bow, her fierce eyes locked on his. “My brother tells me you are to marry a Pi-Yenjan princess. Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” Asho flushed from forehead to neck. Morgaine continued. “Have you met this betrothed of yours?” Asho aimed for the furthest target in the field; a hundred and fifty paces away. He calculated the arching shot, picturing a great white stag as he pulled the bowstring to his ear. “Well, have you?” Morgaine demanded.

  Asho inhaled, exhaled, released. His shot bounced off a nearby tree. He cursed under his breath. “Yes. I have.” Asho slung his bow over his shoulder and marched towards the targets.

  Morgaine’s sandals quickly followed. “Asho! Wait. What is she like?”

  “She’s not you, okay?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Were his cheeks burning from excursion or from the embarrassment of his admission? Morgaine ran ahead of him, placing herself between his body and the target. “Asho?”

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  Asho stared down at her. This close he could see the dark rim of forest green around her irises. The dance of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her sweaty copper hair, coming undone from her braid. His fingers itched to place her curls back behind the shells of her ears. Asho chided himself and looked away. “Your father certainly had no shortage of suitors for your hand.”

  “On the Horned God of course I do. I have refused to hear any of it because I thought that we were, well, more.” She whispered.

  He looked away. “We were children Morgaine.”

  “You are a man now, and I a woman. Are you really going to stand here and tell me that you will allow this? Will you not fight for me? For us? If what we had was true, by all the gods of the Skytops why won’t you—”

  Asho’s chest cracked. “Please, Morgaine, not you too. I cannot fight the will of the Conqueror.”

  “If you were to become Emperor, your will would move the sky and sea. Not his!” Morgaine placed a hand to his chest. Asho’s cheeks inflamed at the heat. “Please, Asho. I cannot wait forever.”

  I don’t know if I can promise you forever. Asho fought bitterly. Morgaine’s hand was still against his sternum. So warm, so tender, so tantalizingly close. Asho wondered what it would be like to feel her skin against his again. To brush his lips against hers. All he had to do was lean down. What if this was his only change before that awful day when he was wed off to that fourteenth daughter of the Pi-Yenjan Emperor. What if, after the triumph left Ironore, he never saw Kohl or Morgaine again?

  Your hedonistic desires are noted prince. The Conqueror’s words flooded through his mind like a bucket of cold water.

  Well let them be noted. Asho thought fiercely. He leaned down, cupping Morgaine’s head in his palms, and kissed her.

  It was late when Asho collected his clothes and left Morgaine’s quarters. He snuck past the Ironoaks guards with inflamed cheeks and rushed down the stairwell back down to the rung that housed the guest quarters. Asho scurried through the halls for his rooms and stopped dead at the Conqueror’s voice. “I see your party has arrived from Thrys. Welcome to Ashenia.”

  From Thrys? Asho threw himself against the wall. He crouched down, riveted in place. “Thank you, Emperor Ashiphiex. Governor Ironside. We have come to pay tribute for your generous leniency towards our nation.” The man’s voice was painfully raw, as if severely dehydrated. Asho gulped and peered around the brazier to get a glimpse of the stranger. His body was covered in a thick collection of white pelts and furs that encased his torso and limbs. A scarf, blood red with intricate ruins was pulled to the bridge of his nose.

  A young attendant hovered at the corner of the White Jarl’s robes. The boy was half the looming figure’s height, with a red caul that ran across his brow in a bowl of thin, dull strips. His skin was nearly translucent; his cheeks pockmarked. The boy noticed him, and he pulled on the White Jarl’s sleeve.

  The hood turned slowly towards him. His eyes were hidden in the shadows of his intimidating hood. Asho had no idea what color they were. If the White Jarl even had eyes at all. Asho’s stomach shot into his mouth.

  The Conqueror cleared his throat. “Come here prince.” he barked.

  Asho stood and walked towards the small group. The White Jarl and his strange attendant were not alone. There were perhaps another two dozen guards in the hallway, all dressed in thick pelts and furs from the north. The White Jarl tilted his head and evaluated Asho meticulously. “I take it this is your heir?” He rasped.

  “One of them.” The Conqueror clipped.

  “I know what this looks like!” Asho interjected hurriedly.

  “And I know what this is.” Ream Ironside countered with little humor.

  “I see.” The White Jarl’s bony hands receded into his robes. “A philander does not bear well for Thrys.” The Thrysian ruler turned back to the Conqueror. “Is your heir to join us for our discussion?”

  The Emperor’s lips thinned. “Not tonight, I believe the prince has found himself otherwise occupied.”

  Asho’s cheeks inflamed.

  The White Jarl inclined his head, and the acolyte hastened to open the door to the Conqueror’s chambers. The Conqueror shot Asho a withering stare when his guests' backs were turned. Governor Ironside scornfully shook his head. “Go to bed Asho.” He ordered. “Your bed.”

  Asho flinched as the Centori closed the door behind them. The White Jarl’s guards watched him curiously from their posts along the hallway. Asho straightened his spine and hardened his eyes. Like the Conqueror’s; like the Stormlord’s. He walked with his head held high down the hallway towards his rooms, instinctually knowing the White Jarl’s party’s eyes were following him. His legs screamed at him to flee as his mind raced. Urging him to get away from the Conqueror’s venomous contempt. To run from his continuous blunders. To hide from the ugly, awful wrongness that had radiated off the White Jarl.