In Heaven and Earth (20 page)

Ah, love, let us be
true

To one another! for the
world, which seems

To lie before us like a
land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful,
so new,

Hath really neither joy,
nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace,
nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a
darkling plain

Swept with confused
alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies
clash by night.

‘
Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust’,
The Book of Common
Prayer

In sure and
certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty
God our
brother N.
; and we commit
his
body to the ground; *
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust

Chapter
Ten

‘
Get with child
a mandrake root’, John Donne, ‘Go Catch a Falling Star’,
1633

Go and catch a falling
star,

Get with child a mandrake
root,

Tell me where all past
years are,

Or who cleft the devil's
foot,

Teach me to hear mermaids
singing,

Or to keep off envy's
stinging,

And find

What wind

Serves to advance an
honest mind.

Chapter
Eleven

‘
A Book of
Verses underneath the Bough, a Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread— and
Thou’, Omar Khayyam, trans. Edward Fitzgerald,
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

A Book of Verses
underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of
Bread—and Thou

Beside me singing in the
Wilderness—

Oh, Wilderness were
Paradise enow!

‘
Perchance to
dream’, William Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act 3, Scene 1,
1603

To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life

‘
There’s no
place like home’, most famously from Frank L. Baum,
The Wizard of Oz
, 1900,
but has been around for much longer as a proverb.

‘
knits up…
ravell'd sleeve…’, William Shakespeare,
Macbeth,
Act 2, Scene 2

Methought I heard a voice
cry 'Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--

‘
If we had
worlds enough and time’, Andrew Marvell, ‘To his Coy
Mistress’,

Had we but world enough
and time,

This coyness, lady, were
no crime.

We would sit down, and
think which way

To walk, and pass our
long love’s day.

Chapter
Twelve

‘
Let me not to
the marriage of true minds admit impediments’, William Shakespeare,
Sonnet 118

Chapter
Thirteen

‘
None but the
brave deserve the fair’, John Dryden, ‘Alexander’s Feast’,
1697

‘
Did he who
made the Lamb make thee?’, William Blake, ‘The Tyger’,
1794

When the stars threw down
their spears

And water'd heaven with
their tears:

Did he smile his work to
see?

Did he who made the Lamb
make thee?

‘
Come live with
me, and be my love’, Christopher Marlowe, ‘The Passionate Shepherd
to his Love’, 1599

Come live with me and be
my love,

And we will all the
pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves,
hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain
yields.

‘
For in that
sleep of death what dreams may come’, William Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act 3, Scene 1,
1603, see above

‘
There are more
things in heaven and earth, Vairya, than are dreamt of in your
philosophy’, William Shakespeare,
Hamlet,
Act 1, Scene 5, horribly
misquoted

Also by Amy Rae Durreson

The Lodestar of Ys

Emyr
’
s
Smile

From
Dreamspinner Press

A Frost of Cares

Spindrift

Lord Heliodor
’
s
Retirement

Gaudete

The Ghost of Mistletoe Lock

From DSP
Publications

Reawakening

Resistance

Recovery (coming
April/May 2017)

Author Bio

Amy is a
quiet Brit with a degree in early English literature, which she
blames for her somewhat medieval approach to spelling, and at
various times has been fluent in Latin, Old English, Ancient Greek,
and Old Icelandic, though these days she mostly uses this knowledge
to bore her students. Amy started her first novel twenty-one years
ago and has been scribbling away ever since. Despite these long
years of experience, she has yet to master the arcane art of the
semicolon.

Contact &
Media Info:

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|
Website
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|
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The Lodestar of
Ys

Sjurd is
convinced that Celyn of Ys is the most irritating man alive. It’s a
good thing that Celyn is engaged to Sjurd’s brother, not him,
because Sjurd loathes the brat, and it’s quite mutual. When an
elopement and the threat of invasion force the two princes
together, however, they have no choice but to marry and fake true
love to keep their countries safe. Can warrior Sjurd and diplomat
Celyn find any common ground?

Read the
first chapter below…

Chapter
1

Celyn: Aged 14

THE FIRST time
Celyn met the oaf was aboard the flying ship
Llinos
, on the eve of their betrothal
feast.

Not, of course, that they
were supposed to be marrying each other. Celyn was sister’s son to
King Pryderi of Ys, which meant his main value to the crown was as
a minor marriage pawn. He certainly didn’t have anywhere near
enough status of his own to merit an engagement to the newly
selected First Prince of Axholme, who had been named heir elect by
the acclaim of his gathered bloodline; was military leader of
already legendary status; and was (Celyn was soon to learn) an all
round arrogant prat.

No, First Prince Sjurd
the Great Oaf got to be engaged to Mathilde, second daughter of the
Principality of Challoner, a realm bigger and richer than Celyn’s
beloved Ys. Challoner, not coincidentally, was possessed of a very
large standing army and an unenviable geographical position right
between the Axtooth Range and the border of the Perth Empire.
Celyn, on the other hand, got to be engaged to the new First
Prince’s younger brother Ivarr, a development with which he was
entirely happy.

Ivarr was in possession
of the following virtues, all to be welcomed in a spouse: he was
only eighteen months younger than Celyn; he possessed the use of
all his limbs; he could hold up his end of a conversation, albeit
not as fluently as Celyn himself; and he had a rather pleasant
smile. (This latter point would not have appeared as part of
Celyn’s essential criteria a year ago. It had, however, become more
important of late, along with the realization that he was very
relieved that his uncle had affianced him to a boy, even if it had
been a purely political decision about not producing further heirs,
when they might have to evacuate everyone beyond the Veil of Storms
if the Empire did come over the mountains.)

The only problem with
Ivarr that Celyn could see so far was that he came with an
attachment. The attachment’s name was Hrolf, and he wasn’t very
impressed by Celyn either.

“
Do you ever
stop talking?” Hrolf demanded, crossing his arms and looking down
his rather long nose at Celyn.

“
Eloquence,”
Celyn remarked, trying to ignore the fact that Hrolf, over a year
younger than him,
could
look down on him (clearly they grew them big and stupid in
Axholme), “is a gift of princes.”

“
Not any prince
I’ve ever met,” said Hrolf.

“
And how many
princes do you know?” Celyn demanded.

“
Sjurd and
him,” Hrolf said, pointing his thumb at Ivarr, “and he’s too busy
thinking about things to talk much.”

“
I’m sure I’ll
get better with practice,” Ivarr said, looking rather worried.
“I’ve only been a prince for a month. Until they chose Sjurd as
First Prince, I thought I was going to be a turnip farmer when I
grew up.”

“
Urgh,” Celyn
said, wrinkling his nose. “Was there nothing better you could
grow?”

“
I like
turnips,” Ivarr said, a little more firmly. “They’re unfussy, and
you can write poems while you’re waiting for them to come
up.”

“
Oh,” Celyn
said in relief. “Well, if you’re a poetical turnip farmer, that’s
perfectly all right.”

Ivarr beamed at him,
displaying that rather nice smile again. “Do you like
poetry?”

“
Er,” said
Celyn. A lie at this point in a lifelong relationship was bound to
have unpleasant consequences, but he didn’t want a row when they
were getting on so splendidly. “Not exactly. Which is to say, not
yet, but I’m sure that’s just lack of exposure. I mean, I’m bound
to find some I like. Eventually.”

Ivarr sighed
wistfully.

Hrolf snorted and went
back to his pet topic. There was a certain grim inevitability to
Hrolf’s conversation, Celyn had already come to realize, rather
like the way a flying ship accelerated towards home when no one was
working the rudder. Right now, he was saying, “That’s right. Real
princes don’t waste time with poetry any more than they talk too
much. Sjurd says actions speak louder than words, and he should
know. He’s probably never read a poem in his life. He’s a proper
prince.”

“
And I’m not?”
demanded Celyn.

Hrolf gave him
a look that said clearly not, but he wasn’t going to be rude enough
to point out the blindingly obvious. “Sjurd’s a
fighting
prince.”

“
I could
fight
you
,” Celyn
offered. Hrolf might be bigger, but Celyn was pretty sure he was
meaner.

Hrolf snorted
again. “Sjurd fights brigands, and Imperial spies, and misthounds.
He wrestled an ogre once, and it almost throttled him.” He held out
his hands to demonstrate, eyes bright. “But he headbutted it in the
balls, then smashed its brainpan on a boulder, and its brains went
up his
nose
, and
he didn’t wash them out for three days, not until he’d killed the
whole nest and rescued the children they’d nabbed for their
supper.
That’s
a
real prince.”

“
Holy Dwynwen
protect us,” Celyn breathed, covering his own nose with a wince.
“That’s
vile
. No
wonder he doesn’t like poems. He probably can’t understand any
complex ones because he’s been hit in the head too many
times.”