Lisha

He had completely lost track of time. All he knew was that long after his tears had dried, he still could not sleep. With the hay tickling his back, Gilvantes stared at the tent ceiling, listening to the whistling wind.

“I didn’t know his armour absorbed mana,” said Lisharotte. “I’m sorry, Gil.”

“Why are you apologising?”

“I didn’t know how much it’d hurt you.”

“I got you killed.”

“Nonsense. People die in wars, Gil. I just happened to be the one you knew.”

“And I’m the lucky one?”

“Yep.”

Gilvantes turned to face the glowing light on Skyrend and prodded it with a finger, something he had never tried before. Her halo was as warm as her flesh.

“Hey,” snapped Lisharotte playfully. “Where are you touching me?”

“I don’t know, do you?”

They laughed.

“They must still be sorting through the personal belongings,” said Lisharotte after overcoming her laughing fits. “Can you do me a favour, Gil?”

Feeling equally amused and ridiculous, Gilvantes snuck past the yawning sentries into Lisharotte’s tent. He thanked Urzu that she had one all to herself. Despite having bested Malice, he knew he would not survive the humiliation of being caught with a woman’s private belongings in the dead of the night.

“Well, princess,” teased Lisharotte after Gilvantes returned to his own tent. “See anything you’d like to try on?”

Dropping her bulging backpack, Gilvantes shot Lisharotte the grin of a prankster. “I risked my life to bring this back. There better be some saucy underwear.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve always been a warrior first and a woman second.”

“We can work that out later. Now, perhaps you can enlighten me as to why you would risk sullying my good name to bring back your things.”

Lisharotte went quiet. For a while, her halo appeared to be writhing. Gilvantes reached out to her. This time, she did not tease him.

“It's Rosie,” she said. “Her doll’s hat is not finished.”

After some rummaging, he produced a small bonnet and a sewing kit.

“I didn’t get to the hem.”

Gilvantes drew Skyrend and placed the blue sword to one side. “I’ve got time.”

Threading the needle like a seasoned seamstress, Gilvantes moved without thought. Up and down, in and out, it was as if someone was holding his hands.

“Gil, whatever happened to Princess Nadia’s reunion with Prince Bronham?”

“Oh that? Remember how she went out to collect a debt of twenty golden emperors?”

“Of course.”

“Her first mate had dragged back the debtor, who, as it turned out, was Bronham.”

As he continued to sew, Gilvantes began telling of how Princess Nadia purchased her boat. He went on to the later volumes, guiding Lisharotte through the plot beats. He spared no details on how Nadia turned the single vessel into a fleet that conquered the northern waters. With animated motions, he enacted how the princess and Bronham accidentally kissed each other.

“And that is how Princess Nadia became the Pirate Queen of the North Sea.”

“You remember it so well. Why I’d wager you must’ve read this a dozen times to the kitchen maids.”

“Two dozen.”

His hands stopped.

“What’s the matter, Gil?”

He took a deep breath. “Just missing the finishing touch.”

“You can do it, Gil.”

He put the hat down. Lisharotte waited in silence.

“Sorry,” he apologised, wiping his eyes. “Give me a moment.”

“Okay.”

He reached for the hat but caught himself again.

“Gil, I’m… dead.”

“I know that!”

“Look around you. I may not be around, but you’ve got two corps to fight your battles now. You don’t need me anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“Fay is going to be a lovely wife. You treat her right, you hear me?”

He nodded.

“You’re going to win the throne and the empire will prosper. Your future will be bright.”

“But you’re not in it.”

Lisharotte sighed. “I was never going to be part of it, Gil. Urzu’s foot, why couldn’t you just be a grain merchant?”

Gilvantes picked up the hat. For a moment, he thought of ripping it to shreds so he’d have to start again. Instead, he pulled the thread through, completing the hem.

“I’ll send it to your father.”

“Thank you.”

Her halo bloomed into a floral rainbow. The tent went dark. Wrapping his arms around his legs, Gilvantes curled up.

Cradling a baby, Lisharotte stared at the headstone. They had just buried her mother. She looked down at her sister, who stared back at her while sucking on her thumb. Smiling, she poked at Rosie, producing peals of laughter. Shovel in one hand, Druvail took his firstborn by the shoulders and ushered his daughters home.

With a sniffle, he sat up. Was this Lisharotte sharing her family with him?

Lisharotte was riding hard while Rosie clung to her for dear life. She had half a dozen boys behind her, yelling hopelessly as she jumped over the thickets and sprinted for the finish line. Rosie glanced over her shoulder and poked her tongue at the other racers. Many spectating adults shook their heads in disbelieving disapproval. In their final act of defiance, the two Gevallan girls pumped their fists in celebration.

The corner of his lips, salty with tears, curved upwards. Namda. How fitting a nickname.

A red parrot found Druvail while their tribe rode north. Lisharotte peeked over her father’s shoulder while Rosie clambered onto his head. The letter had the wax seal shaped into a shield. It was from the Ormdrakes. That night, Lisharotte, feigning sleep, followed her father out of their family wagon to the edge of their camp. She rushed over and wrapped her arms around the departing man.

Gilvantes paused. She could not have been more than ten at the time. How long had she cared for her sister alone?

It was a hard winter that dusted even southern Walthuria in frost. Huddling under layers of woollen blankets with Rosie, Lisharotte brought their wagon to a halt. They had stumbled upon a military camp. The commanding officer, an unusually tall Krimbal woman with crescent ears, had ordered her men to furnish the travelling nomads with supplies. Lisharotte spent the rest of the day watching the training ground, mesmerised by this warrior with the Najar sabre.

The prince chuckled. Now he knew who inspired Lisharotte to take up the spear.

The heat of summer in Melzuriam was melting Lisharotte. With a groan, she removed her helmet and wiped sweat from her face again. The handkerchief, already wet, only served to redistribute the moisture. Sighing, she rode her hoary horse into the royal racecourse. The gallery exploded with cheers as she lowered her visor. Her opponent was an older man more than twice her size. Her hands were shaking as she couched her spear. Could this be her moment?

Gilvantes remembered the spectacular conclusion to the finals. Lisharotte had swung under her horse, evading the incoming spear, while delivering a decisive thrust from her suspended posture. How could a manoeuvre so original and bold come from this frightened little girl?

This should’ve been a pleasant lunch between father and daughter who had not seen each other in months. Instead, it soured. Wearing a faint blush, Lisharotte informed Druvail of her relationship with Gilvantes. Her father covered his face in despair. He got up from his seat and began explaining—with waving arms—the impossibility. The girl slammed the table and stormed out. She did not want to hear another word.

He blinked. That must have been back in Karambell. Lisharotte was mentally ready for another woman to come into his life long before he was.

The visions fragmented into images. Lisharotte spent her winnings on a Walthurian Blackbear doll. Lisharotte unhorsed three suitors in quick succession. Lisharotte burning yet another love letter from Hador without reading it. Lisharotte channelling lightning under her father’s supervision. It’s as if she was trying to share every minute detail of her life with him before her departure.

But then, as it did so many times before, darkness came.

“Goodbye, Gil.”

“Goodbye, Lisha.”

Alone again, he looked to Skyrend. The fourth glyph was much less cryptic. It was a thunderbolt.