He chuckled, then coughed. A lung ailment? The air was chilly and damp down here. I frowned at the guard, but it wasn’t her fault. Prisons were not built for comfort.
First, I’d take care of the questions most important for Raffar. “Before we can discuss doing anything for you, we need more information. You said Aldar killed your people.”
He laid his head to the side as if implying I wasn’t completely correct. “He did not kill. His fault they are dead.”
“Explain yourself.”
He walked toward the door of the cell. Ironfern wood bars kept him from reaching too far out, but I leaned back anyway.
“I say to translator that we come in peace to talk to King Raffar about treaty. He yell at his soldiers in Farnskag. Suddenly, they fire arrows at us. We don’t expect it, and we shoot back, but we are too slow. All of my people dead. Only I was captured.”
Chills ran across my shoulders, and my eyes slid to the side, to the guard and to Freyad, who stood with bored expressions on their faces. They had no idea the prisoner was accusing Aldar of telling the Farnskager soldiers to fire on innocent diplomats. I’d thought Aldar incapable of killing the men himself, but he’d proven to me that he was clearly able to mislead others into making wrong—and potentially deadly—decisions. But why?
“Why do you think the translator did this?”
“Translator’s Stärklandish not so good?” Jonas shook his head, and a dry, sarcastic laugh shot through the cell. “No. It makes no sense. Unless . . . there are old stories. About Watchers having favorites. Maybe he is worried Stärkland is the favorite?” He grinned a bit. “If I were a Watcher, I would favor Stärkland.”
I glanced down to hide my smile. Yes, if I were a Watcher—or a god—I would choose sparkling Azzaria over the other nations also.
Still, it made no sense. If there was one thing about Aldar I believed, it was that he wanted the best for Farnskag. Or what he assumed was the best, anyway. Aldar had worried that returning the prisoner to his country would put Farnskag in a position of weakness. So, before they took Jonas prisoner, had Aldar believed that an alignment with Stärkland would elevate the other country’s importance? How would killing the diplomats support Farnskag? Had Aldar assumed a preemptive strike would keep future Stärklandish troops on their own side of the border?
I stared at Jonas. No matter what I thought, there was absolutely no proof. Should I take the word of a foreign prisoner over the king’s official translator?
A heavy sigh rushed from my chest because I couldn’t decide now. “And my sister Scilla—what do you know about her death?”
He shook his head. “Maybe same reason my people were killed. She came to border near Caotina to meet with me. She wanted to bring gift of peace to her betrothed.”
What? Scilla had met Jonas and had planned to bring a present to Raffar? “A gift of peace? How?”
He gestured between himself and Freyad and the prison guard. “Peace between us . . . between our countries. Princess Scilla and I met at border. She said she would talk to King Raffar, convince him to speak with me about a treaty. I believed she had, but my letters to Farnskag went unanswered. Then I heard Princess Scilla died, shortly after our discussion.”
He paced back and forth, pounding a fist into his palm. “But the idea of peace was a good one. I come here to continue discussions myself. We happened on translator and the soldiers, and he did not listen to me. I am here . . . in the dark . . . since.”
The story spun in my head like a cyclone. But I still didn’t know who killed Scilla. “Do you know how she died?”
His pacing stopped and he leaned against the bars. With a defeated sigh, he said, “No, but I know this—do not trust the translator.”
I took a step back, ready to leave the stink and the headaches of the prison while I pondered all Jonas had said. But without evidence . . . I pivoted and surged forward again. “This attack and the peace talks with Scilla—is there a written record?”
The prisoner’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, of course. I wrote it myself, in Stärklandish, but also in Azzarian. I hope that someone—not the translator—would see it who knew one of the languages. But the translator rewrote it for the king in Farnskag.”
Which meant Aldar could have changed it any way he pleased. I nodded. “I will investigate further. And I will return.”
A curious smile tugged at his lips. “Thank you, Queen Jiara.” His eyes dropped to my bracelets. In a perfect echo of Raffar from the other night, he said, “Keep her safe, Watchers.”
I dipped my head in farewell, agreeing with his request to the Watchers. The more I learned about Aldar, the clearer it was I might need it.
Chapter 21
Aldar held up the slate with the number three spelled out on it.
Without a blink, I asked, as hopefully as possible, “One?”
He grinned good naturedly. “Great job!” An encouraging pat on my arm. “See, I told you that you would begin to remember them.”
I forced a satisfied smile to form and waited for the next word. Considering all the practice with Raffar before he’d left, and with Freyad, I knew most of the words Aldar tested me on, even if reading them was a guarantee of eyestrain and a headache. But I made a point of getting at least a random third to half wrong when Aldar was around. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to when he said I was correct or not. Sometimes, I had no idea what a word was and guessed. Often, I was “right.”
If Raffar had been around, I would have turned Aldar in. He hadn’t kept up his end of the bargain. But if it was only my word against his, would the Farnskagers believe me? Especially if my accusation was nothing more than hesitant stuttering and pointing to words in the lexicon? I’d seen them interact: Raffar and Freyad and Matid and the others. They liked Aldar. They trusted him. No, I needed to keep watching him, figure out what his real goal was.
Today, Freyad and Matid were both busy. Aldar was supposed to watch over me in the afternoon, but there was research to do—research that he couldn’t know about. I had to shrug off my fear of venturing out alone and keep investigating. And I had to get rid of Aldar, so I could sneak over to the royal records depository.
My tutor wiped a cloth over the slate. Before he could add a new word, I embraced the cold spot in my heart and brought up the one topic that always got to him: “How is your father?”
His eyes turned glassy, but his voice was steady when he said, “Not very good. It’s hard to see him in such pain. We’ve been to several doctors. Raffar even asked for advice from some of the best in Farnskag. Nothing’s promising. No medicine seems to help.”
Aldar’s sorrow seemed so earnest, but when it came to him, what was I supposed to believe? Not that it mattered. Hoping his sadness was real, I said, “Aldar, it’s so important that you spend time with him now. Today even.” My voice caught—I didn’t have to play at being choked up. “If I had known I would lose Scilla . . .”
“But Raffar said—”
“That you needed to watch over me. I know. And Freyad and Matid are both busy at training today. But there’s been a change in plans. Not sure I caught all the details—
something about soldiers participating in javelin testing where I should bestow honors to the best—what I did understand is that Freyad will be here in less than an hour. I’ll just wait in my suite until she arrives. Believe me, I don’t want myself in any danger. Not after the mess I got into with that elephant bird.”
“You’ll get there,” Aldar said. “It’s just a matter of practice.” He sat on the edge of his seat, clearly ready to run off.
One more careful nudge should do it. “I’ll be fine here. And besides, I can’t handle any more tutoring today. Please, Aldar? Give me a few moments rest before Freyad comes and drags me to that dusty training field?”
He bowed his head slightly, and with a little smile, said, “All right, Queen Jiara. And thank you. I really do want to visit my father.”
“Of course.” I
nodded and accompanied him to the exit. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
After closing the door behind him, I rushed to the window near the desk. I could see the street in front of the manor from there. Five minutes later, he stepped out the door, and I flew from the room. The manor staff knew they were to watch out for me, so I tiptoed through the halls and toward the stairs. A servant scrubbed the floor in the entrance hall—heart pattering, I ducked back around the corner and sneaked down the rear staircase and into the fresh-cut-grass scented garden. From there, I strode past the bird pens, slowing down enough to see that Fleetfoot’s mother, in pen number three, was on her feet. A weight floated from my shoulders. They might be scary animals, but it hadn’t been her fault.
The records depository was in the same area as the square, just down the street from the meeting house and the monolith. It was impossible to prevent myself from being seen, but since Raffar traveled alone all the time, I kept my head high and waved when anyone noticed me. It couldn’t be common knowledge that I required a nursemaid. That would be too embarrassing for Raffar. With my long hair, being inconspicuous was impossible anyway.
The door was locked, so I pulled a rope, and a low two-tone clang sounded from within. After a few moments, a short person with soft cheeks, narrow shoulders, and a head shaved bald greeted me. I knew the registrar was a man because Aldar had spoken of him, but he was either surprisingly young to have such a position or he was trassovi, which was Azzarian for people whose actual gender didn’t match their gender assumed at birth. The translation in Farnskag was on the tip of my tongue—I’d learned it when meeting the groundskeeper at the manor—but I just couldn’t force it all the way up to my brain. I’d look it up later. For now, I smiled at the registrar, who had the same zigzag-lined leaf tattoo as Aldar. I didn’t want to draw attention to what I sought, so I used my reputation as a foreigner. The more harmless I sounded, the easier it would be to get time alone with the documents. As pleasantly as possible, I said, “I hello documents water under yes?”
The registrar blinked three times. His eyebrows high, he asked if I could say it again.
I took a deep breath because I had to see my plan through, no matter how silly I appeared. Then I smiled extra nervously and said, “Sorry. Water under yes I need see?”
The man swallowed and fetched a slate and a slate pencil. “Please . . . can you write it?”
I shook my head and didn’t have to fake the look of embarrassment I aimed at the floor. I pointed to my eyes and then around the room.
The registrar nodded, the crease over his nose deep. “You’d like to look around? Of course, Queen Jiara.”
“Thank you,” I answered with a grateful smile.
He ushered me in and, with a shrug, went back to a high desk and began writing.
I wandered the aisles. As in Mother’s records depository, there were scores of wood-covered codices held together with wooden rings. Some were dark-colored woods and some light. Some gleamed from the thousands of hands that had touched them during the past decades, and others had no hint of a patina. I picked one up every now and then to get my bearings in terms of which records were kept on which shelves. Names and dates meant births, marriages, or deaths. On another shelf, names and monetary amounts indicated tax records. When I found the collection of Farnskager laws, I knew I was getting close. Then finally, a codex containing legal decisions and evidence.
I flipped through the pages until I found the last one inscribed—a theft of sweep from a local family. Sweep? That couldn’t be. I looked again. Sheep. That made more sense. I paged back. Another minor crime, so back again. A loose piece of parchment rested in the codex. I didn’t understand the first few words at all, and my focus hopped around, searching for a word I might recognize. At the bottom, the words were in Azzarian, just like Jonas had said. So, the document was written in two languages: Azzarian at the bottom and . . . some of the letters at the top had two dots over them. That meant it must be Stärklandish. It had to be Jonas’s statement.
Slowly, I pivoted and viewed the registrar with a sidelong glance. He copied text from an extra-large slate to parchment. His eyes diligently on his work, he didn’t look at me once. Turning away as casually as possible, I slipped the loose parchment under my tunic and tucked it into the waistband of my pants. Then I studied the sheet it had been stored next to. This sheet was definitely in Farnskag, and I recognized the names Aldar and Jonas, but with the words hopping like they did, I needed more time. And my lexicon.
The wooden rings holding the pages together had a small opening to allow for new pages to be added. I slid the rings around so that the openings faced the inside.
“Can I help you, Your Majesty?”
The registrar’s voice was so close to the back of my neck that the codex nearly slipped from my grasp. I held it flush against my chest, both to hide what I’d been reading and to prevent pages from becoming dislodged.
He held his hands out to take the codex from me. I froze. I had to find a way to get rid of him. I had to take this page with me. So . . . I coughed . . . and coughed and coughed until I barely squeezed the word out, “Drink?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, right away!” He disappeared down a dim hallway. With a light thud, I dropped the codex on a table and removed the page I needed. As with the other parchment, I stuffed it in my waistband. Then, maintaining my loud, increasingly hacking cough, I turned the wooden rings back to secure the pages again and shoved the codex onto its shelf.
When the registrar rushed back with a mug of tea, I coughed even more, then drank greedily.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I nodded. “Thank you. It was . . .” I ran a finger along one of the dustier shelves, then pointed to my throat and shrugged. “Thank you for drink.”
“Shall I call someone to get you?”
I shook my head. The last thing I needed was someone to take me on a tour of the market or library or a dozen other places I’d already seen. If I returned to the manor now, I could study the documents before dinner.
The registrar accompanied me through the depository toward the door. As we passed his workstation, my eyes caught on the paper he was writing—both Raffar’s and Aldar’s names were listed two times.
I pointed to the sheet. “What this?”
He nodded and hesitated, obviously considering how to explain to someone with language skills as poor as mine. Then he pointed to Raffar at the top of the right column. “King.”
I nodded.
“If king dies . . .” Then he slid his finger down the next names: Indgar, Gavrad, Betid, Ardeng, Anzgar.
Indgar? Anzgar? A memory scratched at my brain. I’d heard those names before. Who were they? Not that it mattered. If it was a list of names dealing with the king’s death, it had to be the order of succession. I concentrated on the next word. Below Anzgar was Aldar.
Aldar was in line for the throne?
Actually, that made sense. He was Raffar’s cousin, after all.
But there were two columns. I pointed to the left one where there were only three names: Raffar, Anzgar, and Aldar.
The registrar spoke slowly, “Raffar is changing it. Soon.” He placed his finger on the longer column. “New.” Then he pointed to the short list. “Old.”
So, at the moment, Aldar was third in line for the Farnskag throne. And “soon” he would be seventh. A chill scampered down my arms.
“How?” I asked, hoping he’d understand I wondered what rule was changing.
His brow furrowed, but then he pointed to the additional names on the new list and said, “Haamig.”
I rubbed my hands together, trying to remember the word. I’d heard it before. But every time my mind tried to grasp the meaning, it flitted away. The registrar pointed to some other text, but I only caught a few words. “He explained . . . fair . . . they are his brothers and sisters . . . they lived . . . learned. They are good people and . . . family.”
Haamig and brothers and si
sters. But Raffar had no siblings. I repeated the word over and over in my mind. I’d look it up as soon as I was home.
“Thank you,” I said to the registrar as I left the depository.
As I walked to the royal manor, the parchments safely hidden under my tunic, my head felt light and high. I’d run an errand all by myself. I’d understood most of what the registrar had said. And I hadn’t been in danger. When I saw Raffar in Gluwfyall, I’d ask him to drop the bodyguard duty. I could handle myself alone.
__________
When I arrived at the suite, a note from Aldar was propped against the door. He would escort me to dinner in the dining hall within the hour. Some of the most powerful traders were meeting in Baaldarstad to discuss economic strategy with the southern continent. They were looking forward to meeting me, so I wouldn’t have time to check the documents after all. But I slipped my lexicon from the drawer where I kept it hidden, and looked up haamig.
Adoption.
I slapped the lexicon closed. Now it made sense. I’d recognized the name Indgar because she was the adopted sister Aldar had mentioned.
All monarchies on the northern continent had birthright-
based succession. Mother had changed Azzaria’s two years ago, after Llandro had married his husband. Llandro had threatened to abdicate if the law wasn’t changed, and Mother had conceded. Now Llandro’s future children could inherit the throne someday. Apparently, Raffar had decided to follow my mother’s example.
I pushed myself up from the table, hid the lexicon before Aldar could arrive, and paced my room. Mother had worked for years to convince our family members that it was the best for the country. And everyone had agreed: once Llandro grew older and more experienced, he would make an excellent ruler. At the time, Scilla was supposed to live in Farnskag. After Llandro, I would have been next, but with my poor language skills, no one had fought to bump me to the front of the line. And Zito had been so little.
So how did the Farnskagers see it? Did the people, especially the royalty, accept Raffar’s change in plans?
A Dragonbird in the Fern Page 18