Helen I — to be left behind

The tailor sighed and tugged at the yoke on her shirt. “My lady, if you could stand still this would be over with much sooner.”

“Perhaps if you weren’t insisted on pricking me with more holes than a witch’s barrel I wouldn’t be so inclined to move,” she said. “You tailors wield deadly weapons. I won’t have it said otherwise.”

“My lady, there is nothing deadly about a needle,” the man replied. “Except perhaps its eye.”

“Its eye?” Helen craned her neck to look at him. His mouth was drawn taut.

“Yes, and its worrying sense for tastelessness.”

That did it. She threw his hands away and demanded him out of the room. When she was alone, she pulled the shirt over her head and discarded it onto the floor, replacing it with a well-worn blouse and a floppy cap.

This was the fourth tailor that Father had called. It was a wonder there were so many in Seton at all. Then, Dorian said that the rangers went through clothes as if they were burning them for warmth, on account of the manner of peat found around Copernicus. He would have found this funny. She wrapped her hair into a bun and fixed it into place with an ornate pin: a slender black thing, with a red anemone on its end, the sigil of House Carmine.

She saw it less and less these years with the growing strengths of each Blue, and soon there would be the long Blue when the mire freezes over and the clouds descend in ‘kniven storms’. Those flowers that flourish in the plains and at the feet of the Vangeline would be torn to shreds within a week. Only those more frail, bastard flowers, that thrived in rocks and grey-rot roots stood any chance of surviving. And then, when the clouds lift, and in the coming thaw, their heads would be the first to rise. But not the same. With each passing Blue their beauty faded.

Her father said that it was the price they had paid for taking it as their namesake, the Carminium Mordant, and that in a timeless age at the birth of their house, the beauty of the anemone had been unparalleled by anything in the world. The first of their name, Eggor Carmine, had been so enraptured by it that he ordered an entire field be picked and preserved in his home. His wife had been pregnant and ill, but after smelling the flowers she gave birth prematurely to a pair of healthy and beautiful girls. Since then, all the women of House Carmine had been blessed with peerless beauty, or so the stories said. But Helen saw herself well enough in the mirror; she paled in comparison to even the flower in her hair. Even in its faded state, there was a profound grace to its shape that no person could ever hope to bear.

She touched a finger to its petals to calm herself. A knocking at the door interrupted her. She smoothed down her skirt and straightened out.

“I am inappropriate” she called. The door did not care. It swung open and in strode a man of incredible height and width, so tall that when he straightened out the door looked tiny, even if it was almost seven feet high. He ignored Helen entirely and set upon the pile of fabrics and clothes tossed into the corner of the room.

It was a moment until Helen spoke. She tried to hide the shyness in her voice. “Father. I can explain.”

He grunted. That was all. Henry Carmine, her father, was terribly scary when he did not speak. If she didn’t know him to be an incredibly thoughtful man, she would have thought him imposing too. He finished folding the clothes and placed them on her bed. Only then did he speak.

“You are not well,” he said. It was not a question. His voice was low, and slow, like the groaning of wood.

“I don’t want to go, Father. I cannot bear to see him.” She paced across the room. “I’ll have to speak to others. I’ll have to smile. I’ll have to wear a nice dress. Don’t you understand how this is torture?”

He looked at her lengthily. “You knew him well?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said shortly. “Melinoe would often share his recipes with me, and when Thomas would find out he would pretend to be angry even though we both knew he never was. Men are loud, but not all of them are quite so soft. She once said that she complimented him on a pie he baked on their honeymoon. A pie, Father. He smiled for a week thence and couldn’t get the thing off his face. Every week since he’s cooked that same pie, even when the orchards have had a weak year and the price of apples is fifty brones.” Helen paused. It sounded silly to be saying. Though Father was not laughing. “There’ll be no pies anymore Father, don’t you understand?”

He nodded slowly. “I do. But if she is your friend then you should be there for her. Cry if you must.”

But this was the problem. Helen did not know if she was capable of that.

Still, she could see that her resistance would lead nowhere. Father was already dressed in his white and red robes, formal wear of the house colours. He refused to wear his armour on such occasions. Like her mother, her father had a strong affinity for fashion. Helen turned to her half-completed dress. It filled her with an incredible sadness. Funerals were not the time for dressing up. Nor did they much at all for the dead. They were consolation for the living, and there should be no consolation for those left behind. So said House Carmine. So said Eggor Carmine, first of his name.

###

It was cold, and the air in the yard was thick with the breath of horse and mule. It clung to Helen’s face as she approached the barracks in her pretty new dress. The tailor had decided on a simple thing, a black and brown kirtle with breeches and her favourite boots beneath. She was to ride to the cemetarian with the house guard. This only soured her mood further. Helen didn’t much like riding, preferring instead the long walks into the village to meet with her friends. Most of all she enjoyed how the climb back to the manor felt in her calves and thighs, and how the sharp blue air burnt in the back of her throat. She imagined running out of the manor before anybody could stop her and disappearing into the mire. She stopped and stared at the horizon through the gaps in the buildings. They were not far—only a mile or so from its edge. Dorian was out there now. If she did run he would surely find her.

“Lovely as always my lady,” a man said. Frey Nutus Horne, captain of the guard and gefreit of the mire. He bowed stiffly, bending forward with both his knees and waist. She bowed back in the same fashion. He frowned. “Your father would be displeased to see his daughter debasing herself for a mere soldier.”

“A mere soldier? I’d have it known that you deserve the utmost respect.”

He smiled at that. On such a day the guard was adorned in the yellow-white armour of the Mabbastree over a feathered red gambeson, the colour of which always filled Helen with immeasurable pride. In the morning light, he shone. He held his helmet underneath his arm; a narrow thing with two golden branches that erupted from its crest as if horns, or the antlers of a fenelk. A reminder of where they came from.

“You flatter me, my lady. The horses are ready, but your lord father will be joining us after the ceremony.”

Helen was appalled. “He’s not coming?” she asked. “He insisted I attend, and yet he would remain home, and for what?”

“There’s been a matter.”

“Half the garrison’s wives were indebted to Mr Allwright, I should hardly think there are any matters beyond that of his death.” She was all of a sudden furious. The saving grace of this facade had been her father’s presence, who had a particular affinity for mourning within him as if he had been born dead. He was an extraordinarily sincere man. Without him, it would be up to her to speak to the family, and that would only make things worse. She scoffed. “I’ll drag him out myself if I have to, where is he now Nutus?”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that.”

She cried out, “I demand to see my father. And what will you do if I turn around and spend a half-day looking for him? If he has already left? I see the gates have been opened once.” The gravel was torn in an arc following its foot.

Nutus sighed and buried his head in his hands. Eventually, “If I tell you, will you come with us?”

“If it suits me.” Helen stared at him fiercely. Unfortunately, he was an equally fierce man and was entirely unbothered.

“I trust you’ve heard of the traveller that arrived several days past? He has business with your lord father. As you well know, traversing the Evangelium is no easy task and the Lord Carmine is obligated to receive all travellers that are capable of doing so.”

“If this man cannot respect the dead, I don’t see what business my father could have with him. Why now?”

“I don’t know, my lady.”

“Nutus,” she demanded.

“All I heard is that it concerns your education,” he said eventually. As if drawing blood from a rock.

“Education?” Helen echoed. “You’re telling me a tutor passed through the Vangeline? This is a joke.”

“Oh cheer up Frau,” said Rupert Dunn, the quartermaster of the rangers, and her father’s best friend. He appeared behind her and laughed. “Honestly, that way you’re protesting, anyone would think you was afeared a’people.”

Helen looked away. “It’s not so bad these days Rupert.”

“You’ll be just fine aye. If it helps, just say you’re too overcome or, what’s it Nutta?”

“That works,” Nutus replied. That was a cute nickname Helen had never heard.

Rupert nodded. “Overcome then, bout’to cry. Proper sobbing, and don’t be giving me that you can’t do it, I’ve known you to cry at a pillbug.”

“I saw that happen,” she replied hotly. “It’s different.”

“Oh I heard she’ll be hung as a witch if she don’t cry,” said Glenn Carmine, following at Rupert’s side.

Helen scowled. She hadn’t thought he would be attending. “Thank you cousin for your concern.”

“Plenty a’rope dear,” he laughed.

“Enough,” Nutus said. He did not speak loudly, but his words were followed by an immediate silence.

Behind her cousin was Frey Halson Fennir and Frey Baelen Castor, two of father’s personal guards. Helen was surprised to see them too, especially with her cousin who had not yet been anointed.

“The Lord Carmine is busy, or so he says,” said Frey Halson Fennir. He winked at her. “We’ll be travelling with you, princess.”

Helen blushed. Frey Halson was the youngest member of the house guard. He was also the youngest gefreit in Selannon at only nineteen years of age. Only one year older than her. Helen didn’t know of any gefreiter from beyond the Evangelium, but she imagined that they would be most like him. He bowed and spoke to her softly. “Would you bear your dear lord father’s hypocrisy for today?”

“Well… if you insist. But I’ll be having words with him when we return.”

“Is this all?” Nutus asked. Baelen Castor nodded, and Nutus gestured to his page to retrieve the horses from the stables.

Rupert nudged Helen’s shoulder. “I’ve good news for you Frau, Dorian will be returning within the week.” Helen tried to hide her joy, but it was impossible to banish entirely from her face. He wasn’t expected back for another two-week! Rupert laughed at her. “I’ve little reason to think he’ll be dragged into Deily’s business when they are in Seton, but just in case I’ll see to it his father leaves him for at least a day or so. Fight on Frau.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Helen said. She was grinning. At the mention of Dorian all business with her father was forgotten. “But thank you, I’m sure I can make use of that information in some way.”

When the horses were gathered and their party saddled they set off on the short descent of Norhill towards the cemetarian. The air was crisp and cool, and as they emerged from the shelter of the Carmine estate a gentle breeze settled hamth against their backs, bringing with it the mellow scent of dirt and spent wood of the mire. Indeed, it was far too pleasant a day to be burying a man. The bridleway cut through the natural contours of the hill at twice the steepth of the footpath, straight down the slope at an angle that would otherwise break the ankles of any similarly travelling people. All of the horses in Seton were raised at Kenelm farm and were immense, sturdy creatures. Half of the healthiest rag of each year was donated to the Carmine stables as the farm’s tax. Twice as nimble as a goat, and three times as fast as a fenelk, they were impressive beasts. Helen’s horse Wulbaerns was the second largest in the stables and the most reliable. Each time they rode together she felt guilty for neglecting her so. The stablehands took good care of the horses but it wasn’t often she took Wulbaerns out to hack. She patted her neck now, running her hand across the thick sinews and tough fur. She whinnied in approval. All forgiven, then.

They arrived at the foot of Norhill and the gates of the cemetarian in a halfhour. The place was shrouded by a great forest of redwoods and urglevines The affair was much more restrained than Helen expected. Of all the guests, those from Norhill were by far the best dressed. Helen recognised most of the attendees. Most of them she had been expecting. All but her and Dorian’s father of the Council of Seven was present; the smith Garnet Hoshien, and his daughters; ranger Liliana Oakleigh, and her husband Adrian Oakleigh; Castor Nelson—Helen looked around for Christos but could not find him; High Mastraes Emmet Weber of the college; and his protegee, Elathan Daine. Of the other guests, many were those who frequented the Allwright family home. But Helen was most anxious of all to see Melinoe Allwright. As their column cantered into the yard of the cemetarian, her stomach sank. Rupert had not been wrong. She was afeared of her, of what she might have to say. She was never good at this side of living as Lord Henry Carmine’s daughter.

Their eyes met and Helen’s heart fell into halves. She was so beautiful in her white-brown mourning robes, heavy and thick set across her body so as to obscure her form. On her head was a pale green laurel and a crown twisted from the spines of the Mabbastree. And still, even from their considerable distance, Helen could not mistake the grief in her eyes. She flung herself from Wulbaerns back and hurried through the crowd, pushing at faceless bodies until her arms closed around her friend desperately. She kissed her cheek and whispered into her ear. “To be left behind,” she said.

“Is all that we can ask,” Melinoe finished, her words broken by sobs.

When she was calm they left the crowd behind and went walking through the cemetarian grounds. The trees reduced the distant chatter to nothing more than a quiet hum. Leaves crunched underfoot, stripped dry by the air around the Mabbastree. The cemetarian was the realm of the Mabbastree, an island on land of Blue air and twisting trees. All the deceased of Seton were offered to the Mabbastree. Once, it had been a magnificent palace with grand stone structures and idols dedicated to the pale kings. It was said that they constructed this place to honour the Mabbastree. Now it was nothing but ruins, and the pale kings nothing more than whispers and legends. Only the main chapel and the courtyard yet stood on the outer rings of the cemetarian a mile from the Mabbastree.

Closer to the centre, the trees were as cold as the air. Like those found in Guyun, no axe could sever their trunks and no leaves adorned their branches. Yet they were still living, so the groundsman said. Fed by the souls of those that were offered to the Mabbastree.

“Hungry, isn’t it?” Melinoe said softly. “How many people do you think there are?”

“Ever?” Helen asked. She shook her head.

“Right here. Beneath the trees.”

“I’m not sure. Thousands?”

“Oh maybe. Maybe tens of thousands. What’s one more?” Melinoe smiled and took a leaf in her hands. It crumbled immediately. “Say Helen, did you know that I wanted to be an explorer before I married Thomas? Not one of those silly rangers. A proper explorer.”

“We didn’t know each other then.”

“We didn’t? What a shame. I was full of dreams then. The things I was going to do! I’d cross the Vangeline and travel the world. See the animals we read about in the college, the wide sea, vast fields of green grasses—proper grass, not the heath we see on the mire. I’d claim the northern lands where there’s nothing but ice and snow for the entire year and scour the draplanes at the edge of the world. And then when I’m done I’d come back home, and home would be waiting for me just how I left it.” She paused for a long time. “But even Seton changes, doesn’t it? You forget, because it’s so slow. Because the Blue lasts so long.”

“I’m sorry Mel.”

“It’s fine. I just hope that Thom didn’t live for nothing.”

“He made you happy,” Helen offered. “He was happy.”

“The damned fool.” A desperation came across Melinoe then, contorting her face until it was unrecognisable. She clutched at Helen’s shoulders with fierce hands and wild eyes. “Promise me, Helen. I don’t know what the future holds, but promise me that if the time comes when you find something you need to survive that you won’t wait. Don’t throw your life away for some silly woman. Promise me that when the time comes you’ll leave this place behind.”

Helen could only think that she had misspoke, and that the old words were terribly cruel things.