But the newcomer takes a hasty knee, showing that he’s not a threat.
“Rise,” I tell the man, and he bobs upward, his flushed skin coated in a sheen of perspiration.
“I come bearing news, Your Highness.” He stares at me with wide eyes. His hands twitch at his sides.
“Go on.”
“There was a fight in the market.” The man’s breath bursts out. His gaze darts from me to Leif. “And your champion was involved. Baltroit Bromier.”
Hearing Baltroit’s name shoots dread through my system. I can only imagine the worst about the fight he’s mentioned. Baltroit has likely been thrown in the cells and will remain there for the rest of the week. He won’t be able to compete.
“Where’s my son?” Segrande demands.
In the background, the thunder of hooves and the first crash of jousting poles echo across the field. The guard’s mouth bobs open and closed, regret and sympathy fill his eyes, and I know what he has to say is worse than I’ve imagined.
“He—he—he collapsed, sir. He’s dead.”
* * *
First, there was disbelief, angry shouts of denial, and threats against the guard.
Then, after we return to the castle, to the quiet, dim room where Baltroit’s body has been laid on snowy sheets, only then is the terrible truth impossible to deny.
Segrande rushes to his son’s side while I wait by the door, giving him space. The last stretches of daylight slip through the window.
For a long moment, Segrande says nothing. He stares down at Baltroit’s still, still form.
“My son,” he whispers, the sound gravel and air, pain and pleading. “Oh, my boy, what’s happened to you?”
I step forward, considering what I might say, as Segrande collapses against the edge of the bed, throwing his arms over his boy’s chest.
A keening wail rises up out of Segrande, anguished and raw, as if part of his own body has been severed.
And then he weeps.
If there were some way I could lessen his pain, I would. All I can do is stand beside him, offering little comfort, as he curls protectively over Baltroit and presses a kiss to his son’s brow. Despair rattles Segrande’s fingers as he sweeps his son’s disheveled golden hair to the side, fixing it like he probably did when Baltroit was a young boy.
I see the depth of love a father should have for his child, and I know Segrande’s loss is something I’ll never forget.
His pain and grief are etched on my soul.
Chapter
26
Lirra
SNEAKING INTO THE CASTLE HAS BECOME ALL too familiar, and yet I know this will not be the last time.
It took a while to help Orli feel safe and calm again. Death is never an easy thing to witness. For Orli, haunted by recent trauma, the scene in the market today was a debilitating portal into her terror-filled past. I don’t think she noticed me or realized I was the one holding her tight until long after I got her home.
Now I’m headed to the last place I should be going. Perhaps I, too, am struggling with Baltroit’s death more than I realize, because the only place I want to be is with Aodren.
The castle is eerily silent. No doubt, mourning customs have begun.
I wait for the change of guards. Since two are always stationed in the corridor, the only way to reach Aodren’s room is by taking the servants’ passage. When the guard on the bottom floor switches shifts, I have a free minute to sneak into the passage. The rest of the way to Malam’s corridor is clear.
I pick the lock on Aodren’s door and slip in unnoticed. His head is in his hands; he could be asleep, sitting at his desk. But when the door swishes closed, he glances up, eyes red. He shifts his elbows, and I see a few pieces of parchment and a quill. Who could he be writing to at this late hour?
“Hullo, Aodren.”
He scrubs his face, appearing confused, as if he cannot fathom my reason for being here. “Now . . . isn’t a good time for me.”
“I know. I came because I didn’t want you to be alone.”
His eyes flare for a split second before his attention skips to the window, to me, to his hands that are now pressed against the desk in front of him. And in the breath between seconds, I suddenly see another side of Aodren, one I hadn’t noticed before. A lonely man who has known very few friendships. Where does he go when he needs safe harbor? A place of comfort? Love?
After witnessing Baltroit in the market, seeing his uncontrollable rage, I’m certain Sanguine had something to do with his death. I’ll have to tell Aodren eventually, but now isn’t the time to discuss it. Aodren needs emotional support. I didn’t know Baltroit well, but I have experience with loss.
“Today was hard,” I tell him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I . . . It’s very late.”
“I can leave if you want.”
“No.” His fingers rake through his hair, scratching his scalp and then stopping to comb his messy locks back into submission. “I mean, you don’t have to go.”
“All right.” I walk deeper into his chamber and move to the chair nearest his desk.
Aodren picks up the quill and rolls it in his hand. He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and while I’m content to sit here in silence with him, I get the feeling he has no one to help ease his burden. Da, Astoria, and Orli have always been there for me to turn over all my worries, frustrations, and fears. Who has been here for Aodren?
“I know we do not know each other well, but if you need to talk, I’m here.”
He drops the quill and stares blankly at the parchment on his desk, half-covered in swoopy handwriting, though I cannot read what’s written.
“I knew him, but I wasn’t . . . he and I weren’t friends,” Aodren says. “He was my guard, and I—I could’ve done more to know him.”
“I suppose we can always do more for those around us. But don’t discredit yourself. You gave him an opportunity he longed for. And even after the melee, I know you treated him with respect and provided him encouragement.”
Aodren shuts his eyes and breathes through his nose. “His death is in my name . . . like so many others,” he murmurs, and a fissure forms in my heart. His voice, raw and bereft, makes me want to cry because he sounds so lost. So alone. And filled with guilt.
“This isn’t your fault.”
He looks at me, unconvinced, and then reaches for the letter he’s composed. He folds it and starts to pinch the edges flat.
“When my mother died, I was badly burned in the fire,” I find myself admitting.
Aodren’s head snaps up, his fingers stilling on the letter. His attention unleashes a bout of nerves. It’s a silly reaction, really. I can see he wants me to continue, but I’m not used to being open with anyone except Orli.
“My father blames himself for not coming to save us faster, not stopping the men who did it. He even blames himself for speaking out . . .” I pause, not wanting to lead him down the dark tangent of Malam’s past.
“Against the Purge?” he asks, filling in my blank space.
I chew my lip. “Yes.”
Aodren sets the letter down. “He was right to stand up against the Purge. He was the only one brave enough to do so.”
“Yes. But can you see, the fire that killed my mother and scarred me changed my father as well. The grief was too much to bear. He questioned his actions and blamed himself. It’s not his fault, though. I never blamed him, and yet his guilt worsened when I started having nightmares as a young girl.”
“What were they about?”
“Mostly about being trapped. Tight spaces have been a problem for me ever since my da told me how my mother died. When the Malamian guards set fire to the walls of our home, my mother and I were trapped inside. I don’t remember it, of course, but there is a large scar across my back and side, and knowledge of her death has planted seeds of fear in me. I know it’s irrational, but the moment I’m confined, logic fades. And I know it’s not my father’s fault. It wa
s just something terrible that happened.”
“I’m sorry, Lirra,” he says.
I respond with a grim smile. “I didn’t mean to tell this story to draw your sympathy.”
“I know.” Aodren picks up the letter and runs his fingers over the crease. “I understand what you’re saying about guilt. But it’s difficult not to feel responsible. At least in some part.”
“You know it’s not your fault, right?” I ask, pleading.
Aodren holds the letter, hands no longer working at anything. “On some level, yes. But . . .”
“But?”
“There was more I could have done.”
“Like what?”
“If I had paid more attention to the rumors about the Channeler oil before we reached the summit . . . If I had talked to Baltroit. There are people from the market saying he died because of the oil. There are guards who say they saw him drink it. I didn’t know he had access to it.” He stares up at the ceiling. “If I had known . . .”
“You could’ve what?” I push him, and a scowl shifts over his face. “There’s no way of knowing if you would’ve found answers or caused more problems.”
He abandons his seat and tosses the letter to the desk as if the ink is laced with poison. “Problems are my specialty lately.” He cracks a cheerless grin.
“What else is going on?”
“An old rule was uncovered about the jubilee. King Gorenza brought to my attention that members of the Channelers Guild cannot represent a kingdom.”
Was it only yesterday that Aodren talked to me about Aunt Katallia? If she cannot perform for Malam at the jubilee, who else will stand up for Malam?
“What will you do?” I ache for him. He already has too much to bear.
“Find another Channeler. At least, that is my hope. Time is running out and there are few willing to expose themselves as a Channeler to a kingdom with a history of killing Channelers.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“There is one girl I might’ve asked. I considered it even, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But it would require asking her to announce allegiance to a kingdom she doesn’t currently claim as her own. Nor do I think it would be fair to ask so much of her, after all Malam has done to her and her family,” he says in a subdued tone. My skin tingles all over. I think he’s talking about me. “I wouldn’t mind, however, if she wanted to move to my kingdom for a time. I’ve gotten to know her over the past week, and I’d like to know her better.”
My mouth goes dry. I could never stand up for Malam. Considering it makes me feel like a traitor to my mother, my father, and Astoria. But, at the same time, his suggestion starts a thrumming in my veins.
Aodren must sense my hesitancy, because he gives me a rueful smile. “Though I might want to ask, I won’t do so officially. It wouldn’t be fair.”
I see what he’s doing. He’s putting me before Malam. In all the time we’ve spent together, this is the first time he’s not putting his kingdom first. And I’m not sure what to make of it. Part of me wants to help him.
I’m relieved he hasn’t really asked. Da and I left too much behind there. I could never go back.
The guilt and pressure he feels, I’ll never fully understand, because I’ll never rule a kingdom. His eyes are still closed, so I eliminate the distance separating us and wrap my arms around him, hoping to take away even an ounce of his pain. Aodren jolts in my arms, not realizing at first my intention, and then his hands clutch my back and tug me tight to his body.
Aodren has taken on the responsibility for thousands and thousands. His countrymen see the distance between themselves and him, looking to their king as a figurehead instead of a person. Yet Aodren chooses to see his people, their needs, their pain, and their grief, and take them on as his own.
I turn my head to rest my cheek on his chest, and listen to his heartbeat.
If only he didn’t have to stay this course alone.
* * *
The mourning custom in Malam is two months of silence. In Shaerdan and Akaria it’s one week. In the Plovian Isles it’s three days. And in Kolontia it’s not clear they mourn their dead at all.
Deaths have happened at the All Kingdoms’ Summit before. Because it’s impossible to put the entire event on hold for the many travelers who have come to Shaerdan, the rule book states mourning will be observed for two days.
People grieving don’t wander far from their lodgings during this time. Because Baltroit was one of the kingdom champions and his father is a dignitary, Judge Auberdeen and all the visiting leaders honor Baltroit by leaving the castle to travel to the cliffs where the funeral is held. Baltroit’s body is cremated, and his ashes are scattered over the sea.
I spend the days visiting Orli and Astoria, and testing my glider. I try asking around about the oil, determined to finish this job for Aodren and to help Da, even if he didn’t want my assistance. My searches turn up nothing about the maker or the supplier. However, talking to guards and the tournament healers verifies that Baltroit did, in fact, take Sanguine. I want to share this information with Aodren, but though I catch a few glimpses of him, he’s always surrounded by his guards, so we’re not able to talk.
The distant chime of the bells from the cathedral on the cliff signals the end of mourning. The Kingdoms’ Market will be open again. Tonight is the joust, and in two days is the jubilee showcase.
After bathing and donning a simple frock, I snag a biscuit and an apple and head out to my shed.
Loren and Kiefer tag along, two shoulder-height squirrels that crawl all over the place and get into everything while I attempt to load the components of the glider into the carriage. They bounce with excitement in their shared enthusiasm for the joust. For me, though, Baltroit’s death, along with Da’s absence, has dimmed my anticipation of any more tournament events. All I want is for the showcase to come and for my performance to go well. Today I’ll drop off my glider at the Elementiary. For safety and organization, Astoria and the showcase organizers require all equipment be turned in today. They’ll ensure it’s taken to the field for the performances.
The kitchen door scrapes open, and Eugenia steps out with Julisa on her hip. My youngest sister, a roly-poly babe, has a ribbon hanging from her drooly mouth. A wet mark stains the shoulder of Eugenia’s eggplant dress.
“Off to see Astoria?”
“Yes.” I gently push the wings a little farther into the carriage before shutting the door.
Her gaze zips to the twins, who are now chasing each other around the carriage. She tells them to carry on elsewhere. When they pay her no heed, she huffs and shifts Julisa higher. “You’ve been gone a lot.”
I nod. Eugenia has never needed additional information before.
“The boys said there was a young man here a few days ago.” I cannot tell what Eugenia is thinking.
“Oh.” I flounder for an answer. “He’s a friend.” It occurs to me that Eugenia might be upset that I’ve brought someone home. Someone Da hasn’t allowed into his circle of trust. “He’s not from around here. He won’t be able to find his way back.”
Her face lights with a knowing smile, though I’m not quite sure what she knows. “You haven’t brought a friend home before.”
“It’s never been allowed.”
She untangles her hair from Julisa’s wet fingers. “Your da wants to keep us safe. But since you share his work, I think you’re old enough to decide who is trustworthy. And who is dangerous.” Eugenia’s expression softens.
“You’ve been so busy doing work for your da. You deserve to invite a friend over.” Eugenia doesn’t know exactly what I’ve been doing, but when I’ve been gone this much before, the reason always involved Da’s work. For the most part, that is true now.
“Orli visits every week.”
“I meant a male friend.” She tsks as she walks across the grass toward me. Julisa babbles on her hip, swinging the slobbery ribbon. “Is he in town for the f
estivities? He’s welcome to come by again. You could invite him to Monday dinner.”
I step back and fake a coughing fit to hide my laughter. If only she understood who she was suggesting I invite to dinner. “I don’t think he’d be able to get away.”
“Just keep the offer in mind.” Eugenia watches the boys. When she speaks again, her tone is subdued. “I know not much has happened in Celize with the mourning of that poor Malamian boy, but have you heard any word?”
Smudges darken under her eyes, and her shoulders curl forward. I see now that Eugenia is tired. Possibly lonely.
I know what it’s like to wait for Da. Seems like most of my life I’ve been waiting for him to return. Eugenia needs someone to run after the boys, to feed and change Julisa, to talk with.
Aye, that person could be me.
But it should be Da.
“Not yet. But soon,” I tell her, calculating what other rocks I can look under to find out more about Sanguine. If I can solve this puzzle, Da will see that he can trust me to take more of the workload. Then he can be home with his family.
* * *
At the Elementiary, Astoria is talking to the group of Channelers who have come to check in and receive the performance placement for the upcoming showcase. Usually, she wears bright-colored dresses, but today she looks official in a long black dress that must be sweltering. To drum up interest for the two nights of jubilee, Channelers are encouraged to show their talents at the Kingdoms’ Market. Then, in two days’ time, at dusk, the tournament field will come alive with magic from twenty women. It’ll be a pale comparison to the grand finale, but it will be exciting. Participating in any night of the jubilee is a dream come true.
“Remember, women, we want them to see the strength of our magic,” Astoria says, enlivened by her cause. I’m too distracted by her arms, flapping like sluggish bat wings, to be inspired. “Let’s put on a show that reminds the audience why our abilities are to be respected and revered. Those who aim to harm us will see how powerful we are.”
Once a King Page 21