Last Petal on the Rose and Other Stories Read online

  Feeling as though he had just intruded on something intensely private, Janos retreated. He hurried back down the tunnel, pulling the concrete slab back into place behind him. When he got back to the garden shed, he started to head back toward the castle, and then hesitated. He couldn't get the image of the stranger out of his mind. If he'd been stomping around in there, cursing, it would've been frightening but not unexpected, and he might have been able to go to bed, his curiosity sated. But he hadn't seemed threatening. Just hurt, and tired, and alone.

  Which would have changed in an instant if he'd realized you were there, Janos told himself, but so far this hadn't been a night for listening to logic, and he doubted that was going to change anytime soon. Instead of going back to his quarters, he retrieved a pair of shears from the garden shed, and walked through the gardens, searching.

  Finally, he found what he was looking for. A deep red rose, with touches of yellow at the edges of its petals. Every flower in this garden had a meaning, meanings that were taught to children along with their first understanding of colors. Bouquets were gathered to express specific feelings, from love to hate and everything in between. Valeria's favorite had been pink-and-white, representing joy.

  Red and yellow roses meant, "I'm sorry".

  Before he could rethink this admittedly insane idea, Janos retreated back into the shed, and made the journey to the First Castle once more.

  He wasn't so foolhardy as to try and put the blossom anywhere upstairs—he had already tried his luck enough for one night—so instead he placed it in the middle of the wide, weather-worn table in the entrance hall that had been abandoned along with the building itself. Then he hurried back to the lower levels, taking a moment to catch his breath before he returned to his own castle.

  It had been pointless, he thought. The prisoner wouldn't know what the rose was supposed to signify, wouldn't have any ideas about the color symbolism.

  But even given that knowledge, he couldn't regret what he'd done. Maybe all it would be was a bit of color, of life, in that dusty, drab place, but that was better than none at all.

  Perhaps he would take another rose tomorrow.

  *~*~*

  The next night did indeed find him delivering another rose, though this one was a deep, rich purple, its meaning "I will help". The night after that, the kitchen served glazed lemon bread for dessert, and Janos surreptitiously wrapped one of the small loaves in his cloth napkin and brought it upstairs to his room, waiting until nightfall before he changed into sturdier clothes again and headed for the garden shed.

  He couldn't fully explain to himself why he was doing this. The other man was locked away miles and miles from his home; a flower or a delicacy wouldn't change that. Whatever this was, it wasn't truly helping. To do that, he'd have to show the prisoner the exit so he could get back home, and he couldn't risk that.

  So what was it? he wondered. Was he returning here night after night because he knew that his family would panic if they realized what he was doing? Or because he hoped they would? Was this some way of proving a bravery he'd never had a chance to test on the battlefield? Or was it simply something different in the midst of his daily routines?

  Janos wasn't sure, nor was he sure he wanted to know the answer. All he knew was that every day, he looked forward more and more to nightfall, and the tense, excited feeling in his stomach as he closed the door to the garden shed behind him. Days were spent always half-focused on what presents he could bring. Food and drink from the kitchens other than the base items and water that he watched the armed guards take in; paint and paper from the artists' rooms; scented soap from the bathing quarters (because a tub filled with rainwater was suited for an animal, not a person); books from the library or his own personal collection (granted, he wasn't sure the stranger could read, which was why he chose tomes with quite lovely illustrations); a thick woolen blanket when the weather began to grow chilly; and of course, flowers from the garden.

  In an odd way, Janos started thinking of the prisoner as a companion of sorts, even a friend, albeit one he never saw or spoke to. He would bring in items one night, and the next night when he came back, they would be gone. That in and of itself was a communication of sorts, he felt, a 'thank you'.

  Which was why the ambush took him completely by surprise.

  Sometime over the past weeks he'd stopped bothering to even try and conceal his footfalls. He left gifts every night; they were gone by the next. The prisoner knew when he would be by. But he stayed upstairs, leaving Janos in peace, and the arrangement worked quite well.

  Arrangement. That was probably his first mistake, thinking of this whole thing as something they had both agreed to rules for.

  He didn't have time to run, only barely had time to flinch. By the time Janos had registered that one of the shadows had detached from the wall, was charging straight at him, he was hit in the chest and driven back, slamming so hard into the wall behind him that he felt dust and stone fragments tumble down from the wall, landing in his hair and on his clothes. His breath came out in a panicked and very undignified squeak and then hands were around his wrists, the stranger's body still bracing him against the wall.

  "Who are you?" the prisoner snarled, and Janos was so startled to hear recognizable words from him that for a few seconds all he could do was stare open-mouthed in shock.

  This apparently wasn't what the prisoner was looking for, because he leaned forward further, and he really wasn't going to get any answers if he didn't let him breathe.

  "Who are you?" he repeated, and for one awful instant the words "Prince Janos" almost left his mouth.

  Fortunately, he realized what a monumentally stupid thing that would be to say, and instead told him, "My...my name is Janos. I work at the castle."

  "Why do you keep coming in here?"

  "I—well— He had seen this moment over and over again in his mind, except in his idle daydreams the stranger had been across the room or perhaps speaking to him from the stairs, from anywhere that would give him some respectable distance so he could think. And he would give a blithe, charming answer, and the man would thank him for the gifts and perhaps make a request or two, and Janos would tell him that he'd see what he could do. "I don't know."

  He'd been stupid, Janos realized, he'd been so, so stupid, because he'd unconsciously believed that since he wasn't coming in with the guards and their crossbows, since he wasn't associating himself with the groups who came in to gawk and throw rocks, that he wouldn't be hurt.

  The pain in his wrist proved him wrong now; he could feel the bones grinding together under the strength of the man's grip. He had seemed intimidating behind the bars of the cage but now he was downright terrifying and huge; there was no earthly reason that a man should grow to be so tall, and it would at least be a little better if he could see his face but the moonlight was coming in from the windows and ceiling behind him, casting his expression into shadow, and he was absolutely certain his wrist was about to snap and before he could help it, he let out a cry of pain.

  To his shock, the man immediately let go of his wrists and took a step back.

  Janos didn't wait to see what might happen next, didn't pause to say anything else, he just dodged around the prisoner and ran, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to get down the stairs. He heard no footsteps following and wasn't sure it would have mattered even if he had. He slid back into the opening to the tunnel and yanked the slab back into place, racing down the tunnel back to the garden shed, slipping and falling more than once on the loosely-packed dirt.

  He pushed up the floor of the gardening shed and lowered it back into place, crouching there for a long time, preparing to scream for help should the man have followed. After several moments passed with no sound or movement, Janos cradled his sore wrist in his left hand and cried.

  *~*~*

  It wasn't until he was back in his room, still shaking, that he realized something. The man's skin had smelled like the leatherleaf soap he'd left fo
r him.

  Yes, he was clearly paranoid, and more than a little hostile—his wrist would be well-bruised come morning—but he was using the gifts. That was a start, surely.

  He didn't get much sleep, instead drifting between formulating a basic plan and wondering where all his common sense had gone. He'd been very fortunate, he thought, that the prisoner hadn't just killed him outright. He should count his blessings and be done with it.

  Instead, once the sun had risen high enough for his father to be done with his morning meetings, Janos went to him.

  "Father," he said. "I was wondering if I might have a look at some of your private papers? The ones about the western lands? I wish to learn more about our new territory."

  "Ah, thinking about a diplomatic position, are you?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Good, good," the King said. "Of course, it'll be a while before those beasts settle down enough for you to be safely sent there, but I like the ambition. Come on."

  He strode briskly to his quarters, Janos hurrying to catch up. Once there, he caught sight of a brown-haired form on the bed, half-covered by blankets. Mariska was still sleeping, and he quickly looked away, his face reddening.

  Apparently oblivious to this, King Lorand took a key from a small pouch at his waist and unlocked a tall cabinet, pulling the doors open to reveal stacks upon stacks of books and handwritten papers.

  "Should be over here," he said, reaching for the top right shelf. "Just looked through some of them myself recently—ah! Here you are."

  "Thank you," Janos said, staring in bafflement at the tiny sheaf of papers. He'd expected to nearly be bowled over with the weight of at least a dozen books. Was there really so little information about the land they'd just taken over?

  "You're welcome," the King said. "Anything else?"

  "Not at the moment, no," he answered, and the King nodded and then strolled over to the bed, sitting down next to Mariska.

  "Up, I said. The ambassadors from Kaido aren't going to greet themselves."

  Feeling worse than awkward, Janos hurried from the room, retreating back to the safety of his own quarters, where he spread the papers out on his bed.

  Of the eight pages of information, three of them were maps estimating the range of the western lands, and one was an illustration of a village the writer had come across. Both the men and women were topless, wearing a dark, draping material around the waist that fell to just past their knees. He had heard that it was warmer off to the west, but it was still jarring to see so much bare flesh. In the castle, a skirt cut too short or sleeves rolled up past the elbow would set tongues wagging for a week.

  Everyone in the drawing wore a multitude of necklaces, and Janos wondered at their meaning, if there even was one. Were they simple decorations that people wore for fun, or did each of them mean something specific in the way that flowers did here?

  It took Janos less than half an hour to read through all the information available, and when he was finished he leaned back against his headboard, feeling more frustrated than enlightened.

  Nothing truly useful. Simply notes from two explorers who had gone wandering into the western lands, one of whom wrote extensive and snippy notes about how barbaric and strange their unexpecting hosts were, while the other one wrote fawningly about how 'charmingly backwards' their society was, and how fascinating it was to see 'a culture so thoroughly removed from the trappings of manners'.

  The prisoner had spoken the mother tongue, Janos thought. Had neither of the explorers thought to talk to the people they were with? The notes were filled with their observations of customs and what they thought each might mean, but no direct quotes from the folk they were observing.

  "Ridiculous," he grumbled, gathering the papers up and setting them on his bedside table. He almost wanted to march over to the garden shed right now, papers in hand, and get some honest answers, but after last night, the thought of visiting caused an unpleasant tightness in his stomach.

  He would visit again, he was almost certain of that. But not for a good long while. Give the prisoner time to hopefully calm down, and give himself some time to get over this damnable fright.

  Janos already knew what gift he would leave once he gathered the courage to go back inside. A white rose, which meant 'new beginning'. And he would leave a book on the meanings of flowers as well. If he could speak the mother tongue, hopefully he could read it as well. If not, the pictures of the flowers would hopefully provide a comfort; they always had for him.

  *~*~*

  Of all the people he might've expected to run into on one of his midnight visits to the library, Mariska was at the bottom of the list. Janos would've sooner expected to find one of the twins; their father was always getting after them to study more about tax laws and holiday customs among different villages and the like since one of them would take the throne someday.

  Mariska continued to stare out the window, clearly unaware that there was anyone else in the room. Janos rubbed the back of his neck and then moved slightly closer, clearing his throat.

  She turned to him quickly and then back to the window again just as fast, but not before he saw that one of her eyes was swollen shut.

  Forgetting propriety and the tense relationship the two of them usually had with each other, he scurried to her side. "Who did this to you?" he asked. "My father will—"

  And then he saw the look on her face and realized.

  It must have shown on his face, because she looked away again, her small hands clenching into fists. "Go ahead, laugh," she challenged. "I earned this, didn't I?"

  "No," he said solemnly. "No one earns such things."

  "It isn't always this bad," she told him. "It's because of that ridiculous war. I thought his mood would improve once we'd won, but those savages off to the west are far too confrontational. They've killed six of our soldiers this week alone! It'll get better. Once things calm down again, it'll get better."

  "Mariska." He swallowed hard, not daring to think too closely about this offer. "I can get you out of here."

  "I told you, he's..." She trailed off, something very close to hope dancing across her expression. "How?"

  "I know of a break in the outer wall," he said. "It's very small; entirely covered by vines. It was listed on a map done decades ago, one of the ones in my father's private files."

  "So he knows of it?"

  "Yes, but that doesn't matter," he said. "By the time he realizes you used it, you'll be long gone to—do you have somewhere to go? Family?"

  "I have family, yes," she told him. "Across the ocean."

  "You're from Pristaria?"

  "Yes. Which you would know if you'd ever bothered to speak to me." She sighed. "Pardon my manners. It's been a long night."

  "No, I understand," he said, suddenly feeling quite ashamed of himself. In the eight years that she'd been in this castle, he'd never once thought to ask where she'd come from, who her family was, who she'd been before she'd become the King's mistress. At first he'd been upset at the idea of someone taking his mother's place, however unintentionally, but he'd had more than enough time to get over that initial hostility. He should have reached out long before now. "I'm sorry."

  "It's all right."

  Janos looked out the window, to where the sun was just barely starting to peer over the horizon. "Tonight, as soon as he's asleep, grab whatever you need to bring with you and come to my room. I'll show you the way out, and hopefully he won't realize you're gone until morning."

  "Or afternoon, even," she said. "I can tell him that I'm going to take a tour of the villages come tomorrow morning."

  "Good idea."

  He started to continue, to ask her the questions he should have asked years before this, but she suddenly backed away from the window. "I need to get back," she said. "If he realizes I left the room looking like this..." She shook her head, and then gave him a faint smile. "Good night, Janos. And thank you."

  *~*~*

  When he heard the soft knock on
his door, Janos leapt up from where he'd been sitting on the end of his bed. Mariska stood there in a long traveling coat and carrying a small bag, and despite the yellowing bruise on her face, she looked as happy as he'd ever seen her.

  "Are you sure about this?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said, leading her into his room. "We'll go down the servant hallways to the Royals' private courtyard," he said. "Those halls should be deserted this time of night; morning kitchen shift won't be getting up for another hour or so. The courtyard opens up into the main grounds over on the northern side. From there it's a straight run to the opening in the barricade."

  "What if someone sees us?"

  "Well, if it's before the barricade, we just tell them that we're taking a walk around grounds because neither of us could sleep, and you've got everything ready to go for your village tour at daybreak," he said, nodding to her bag. "If it's at the barricade itself...you run. Have any coin in that bag?"

  She shook her head, and he went to his bedside table, unlocking the drawer with a key he kept under his mattress. He took out a large handful of blue and silver coins, and dropped them into her bag as soon as she opened it. "There," he said. "That should give you enough to let you hide if need be, or buy passage on a boat that the King doesn't have on his charter."

  Mariska nodded once, nerves clearly starting to overtake her, and he headed for the door. She took a deep breath and then hurried out into the hallway as well, walking beside him, her head high.

  They made it down the servants hallway without encountering anyone—given that the workers here had gotten no break in their duties after the intensity of the end-of-war celebration, it was no surprise they were taking any chance they could to catch up on their sleep—and then they were out into the Royal Courtyard. The only folk allowed here were himself, Mariska, the twins, and his father. His father was asleep, and if his brothers were up and about at night, it was to some Lady or Duchess's bed, not here.