The Blackberry Queen

Cling—cling—clang.

Swords clashed in the courtyard of the Palace of Eau-Claire. Countless pairs of eyes remained fixed on a most gripping duel. An old master—his blade dulled, but his mind sharp—parried and countered his student’s attacks with practised ease. The apprentice, meanwhile, fought with all the fury of a dark-maned lion.

Oscar Rivière, twenty-three years old, was the heir to the Duchy of Rivière. Though many described him as distant and observant, in combat, he regularly delivered the most fiery performances. When a deft thrust sent his mentor’s sword spinning into the dust, enthusiastic applause rippled through the gathered crowd.

Günther returned the training weapon to the rack and joined his student, clapping his hands in turn.

“You fought well today—again.”

Oscar wiped the sweat from his brow as the sun began to bathe the duchy in its finest light.

“You say that as if I didn’t just defeat you, Günther,” he remarked stoically.

“I spotted a few openings that could have cost you your life. Fortunately, I still care about my wages,” his mentor joked.

“Don’t go easy on me. I’m no longer a child,” Oscar protested.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a shadow crossing one of the great windows along the castle façade.

His father.

Oscar sighed without even realising it.

Günther raised an eyebrow, lifting his gaze toward whatever the young man was watching.

“A ghost?” the mentor asked.

“Worse,” the heir muttered, before turning on his heel.

In the early afternoon, the sun watched over the valley. Soldiers alternated between patrols and guard duty. The scent of fresh bread perfumed the town; the clinking of spits and the bright colours of ribbons crowded the streets.

From the heights of the castle, Oscar observed the bustle below, one hand resting against the windowpane. The castle felt so cold by comparison.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Abélie, a young servant, polishing a vase. He was just beginning to turn his attention back to the distance when he frowned. Wasn’t that the fifteenth time she had cleaned that vase?

“Abélie.”

The young woman jumped, her grip tightening around the feather duster, as though caught red-handed.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Are you spying on me again?”

She cast guilty glances to either side before clearing her throat.

“Me? I wouldn’t dare, my lord.”

Oscar turned to face her, one hand on his hip.

“Don’t try to fool me. We’ve already discussed this. If you don’t stop this nonsense, you’ll end up getting caught,” he warned her sternly.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, moving to clean a painting that was already spotless just a few steps away.

“If I may say so, my lord, you’re the only one who ever notices my… bad habits. You, and that old fox.”

“Of course you won’t fool Günther with such a poor performance.” He pointed out, his patience wearing thin. “Get to the point. What do you want?”

Beneath her foolish airs, Abélie smiled.

“I overheard your father muttering with one of his close advisors.”

Oscar’s gaze hardened. His father?

“Go on. But choose your words carefully.”

Abélie nodded and spoke slowly, mindful of her surroundings.

“He mentioned an arrangement. A deal was successfully concluded. Something concerning you. Unfortunately, my curiosity nearly got the better of me—I almost broke a glass, and I couldn’t hear any more.”

“I told you you’d end up getting caught,” he warned again.

“He suspects nothing. But whatever it is about you… It sounded serious. If you’d like, I could investigate further.”

She suggested with a grin. Oscar dismissed the idea outright.

“Don’t do anything foolish. And stay out of sight. I won’t save you if you end up in the dungeons.”

“Of course, my lord… But if I hear anything new, I’ll come tell you.”

Without waiting for dismissal, she skipped away. Deep down, Oscar wondered whether it was truly wise to indulge the young woman’s strange obsessions.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. In his small study, Oscar reread and sorted letters of little importance. He was only permitted to handle repetitive grievances and a few requests for credit—nothing more.

He had received sufficient education in financial matters. But his father kept a firm grip on the duchy’s economic affairs. And Oscar knew exactly why.

He stacked the letters absently, his thoughts still lingering on his training. Perhaps he could practise archery tomorrow. Or even horseback archery—if he left early enough, it might be possible. He needed to become stronger…

The unsteady pile collapsed onto the desk after an inadvertent sweep of his hand. Oscar ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He pushed his chair back, gathered the letters, and rose. Some fresh air would do him good.

He was not strictly required to deliver the sorted correspondence to his father in person. Although he was paranoid, Andreus usually entrusted the servants with such transfers—proof enough of how insignificant this portion of the mail was.

Still, Oscar insisted. Simply because it mattered to him.

He knocked on the office door. Two light taps. No response. His heart pounding, he knocked again—two firmer knocks. He heard his father’s dry voice tell him to enter.

Acerbic.

Oscar drew a breath and stepped inside.

Andreus barely glanced at his son, buried in paperwork.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve brought you the mail you asked me to sort, Your Grace,” Oscar replied simply.

Matching action to words, he placed the small stack in a corner of the desk. Only the scratching of a pen answered him. Oscar waited, then eventually cleared his throat. The pen stopped with a harsh scrape.

“Yes?”

“Will you let me know if it’s properly sorted?”

“Oscar, I trust you’re capable of sorting such insignificant correspondence. Otherwise, it would mean I failed your education,” his father replied curtly.

“Then perhaps you could grant me greater responsibilities?” Oscar ventured. “I’m ready,” he added.

For the first time, Andreus lifted his amber gaze to meet his son’s blue eyes. His furrowed brows carved lines across his face. A few strands of grey disrupted the dark hair he had passed on to Oscar.

His gaze remained cold, despite its warmth of colour.

The duke seemed about to speak, then sighed. He dipped his pen back into the inkwell, just as he buried his head once more in his work—and his poor decisions.

“Go. It no longer matters.”

“What do you mean by that?” Oscar tried, but his father cut him off sharply.

“Go. I said go. And don’t disturb me again!”

Oscar could almost feel the walls bristle. His blood roared in his temples. He lowered his head and took his leave, the door slamming shut behind him.