StarCrossed

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  Lyll consulted the timepiece she wore on her girdle, and sighed. “There’s some castle business I must attend to,” she said. “We’ve not heard back from the messenger we sent down the mountain several days ago, and he is overdue.”

  I felt a stab of worry. “Berdal? What do you think happened to him?”

  Her expression softened. “Probably just got caught by some bad weather. But we were hoping he’d bring news we’ve been expecting for several weeks now.”

  “What sort of news?”

  “Word from the Crown, regarding the representative we hope they’re sending for Meri’s kernja-velde. Nothing serious, but we thought we’d send someone after him, just to make sure. Lord Antoch and Lord Daul are going to ride out in the morning.”

  “Together?” The word squeaked out of me.

  She frowned. “Of course. Celyn, what’s the matter?”

  I shook my head — what was I supposed to say? Don’t let Antoch ride off alone with Daul? They’d been alone together every day for weeks. If Daul was planning on throwing Antoch off a mountain, he’d had ample opportunities before.

  But Antoch hadn’t ever confessed to treachery before.

  “Isn’t it dangerous on the roads? With the — bandits?”

  “They’ll have guards. And I expect they’ll bring back some good game, as well. They’ve spotted some wild sheep on the hills below us. We’ll have mutton stew next week!”

  Now. Now is the moment to tell her. “But Daul never goes hunting,” is what made it past my lips. Lady Lyll just gave a little chuckle and kept walking, while I hoped desperately that whatever guards Antoch brought with him wouldn’t turn on him if Daul suddenly shouted, “He’s the Traitor of Kalorjn!” into the windswept air.

  We’d reached the Lesser Court doors, and Lady Lyll took her leave and went inside, followed soon after by Lord Wellyth, who gave me a brief, stately bow. I lingered, suddenly suspicious. Why would Lord Wellyth care who was coming for Meri’s kernja-velde?

  “What’s going on?” Meri slipped up beside me, and I jumped. Blast — I was getting soft. She never would have gotten the jump on me in Gerse.

  I edged to the side to let Meri peek through the crack in the doors with me. “Some kind of meeting,” I said.

  “They’ve been having a lot of those. Usually after we meet with the suitors in the afternoons — Mother makes me leave, and the others come in, and they talk there for hours.”

  “The others?”

  “Everyone — Lord Wellyth, and the Cardom, Lord Sposa . . .”

  “I want to hear what they’re saying.” Through the gap in the doors, I tried to see a place to sneak in and conceal myself. Was there a back entrance to the Lesser Court? I couldn’t remember.

  “We could try the gallery,” Meri suggested. “The minstrels’ gallery for the Round Court backs onto the Lesser Court, and there’s a grille, so the people in the Lesser Court can hear the music.”

  I turned and stared at her. She was grinning. “Mother made Phandre and me polish it one day. I don’t remember where you were.”

  I tossed up my hands. “Lead the way.”

  Tucked behind the musicians’ seats was a fretwork panel that screened us from view but let us hear every thing from the Lesser Court with perfect clarity. Listening to the shift of bodies and voices inside, I guessed there were five or six people there besides Lyll. Meri crouched beside me, trying to peer through the gaps in the grille.

  “I can’t see anything,” she said. “Just a lot of chair backs.”

  “Just listen,” I whispered.

  “Lord Wellyth,” said a warm voice I had no trouble identifying as Lady Lyll’s. “If you’ll remind us all where we left off last time?”

  “Certainly, my lady.” I heard a rustle of papers, a cough, and then Lord Wellyth’s thin, reedy voice. “We had settled on the restoration of properties and council seats to exiled families, and on the relief of the Heresy Tax levied against those families — but we were still disagreed on the matters of liberation of lands claimed by the church —”

  “The Celyst church,” somebody put in.

  Meri turned to me, her brows pulled together. I shook my head and turned back to the grille.

  Another reedy cough. “Yes, well, as I was saying: liberation of lands claimed by the church in the last twelve years.”

  A chair squeaked angrily. “Since the Edict of Crenns? That’s nothing! We must demand back all the lands the Celysts have taken since Bardolph took the throne!”

  “And you know he’ll never agree to that.” That might have been Lord Cardom.

  “Let him refuse. We’re ready. The timing couldn’t be more perfect, not with Bardolph sending Astilan to bully Corlesanne —”

  Lady Lyll broke in. “We’re not ready,” she said, speaking low. “This is the path we agreed on. It will take at least another seven months to pull together enough resources for a military operation.”

  “Then the first thing we must address is that intolerable concession barring us from rearming.” That was a woman’s voice, and it sounded familiar — Lady Cardom, perhaps?

  “And that will be the first thing they look for. What do you think Bardolph will do the moment you ask to put a couple cannons on those warships you build?” I definitely knew that voice: Eptin Cwalo.

  “We might as well roll over and capitulate, to take your position!” cried another man. Lord Sposa, I thought.

  “Gentlemen! Play nicely or go home.” Lyll’s voice was light but firm. Amid some squeaks and mutterings, there were reluctant grumbles of assent. “Good,” said Lyll. “Lord Petr, please continue.”

  The debate went on, Meri and I listening as they hashed out the finer points of King Bardolph’s offenses against the people of Llyvraneth, and the actions by which His Majesty might avoid an armed uprising of his subjects.

  “It sounds like some kind of charter of grievances,” I said. “They probably mean to present it to whoever the king sends to Bryn Shaer.”

  “Mother said they’re not ready to go to war. But we saw all that artillery, which means —”

  I nodded. “They don’t think the king will agree to any of their demands.”

  Snow fell thickly as Daul, Antoch, and a handful of guards rode off the next morning, burying their tracks and obscuring their path down the mountain. I stood on the tower walk and watched them go, and within moments they were lost in a swirl of white.

  Lyll swept us into a flurry of prep ara tions for the kernja-velde, a mere two weeks away now: final fittings for Meri’s gown, elaborate rehearsals of the ritual, and endless yardage of embroidery for the ceremony. Meri had formed quite an attachment to Marlytt, who instructed her on every thing from dance steps and hairstyles to — I suspected — how best to comport her affair with Stagne. Not that I thought Meri would actually be so foolish as to tell Marlytt she was secretly seeing a Sarist magician behind her parents’ backs, but if I were a young girl in need of romantic advice, I knew the one person at Bryn Shaer I would turn to.

  When I wasn’t pinning up hems or sampling delicacies for Yselle in the kitchens, I was keeping the prince company. Lady Lyll had con sented to a small carving knife, and Wierolf whittled halfheartedly at a lump of wood that might have been on its way to becoming a cow. I could tell he was restless, though, so to keep him from overexerting himself before his wounds were ready for sparring, I dragged a plank of wood in from the kennels, and we took turns using the knife for throwing practice. Wierolf etched a circle in the center of the board for a target. My aim was almost pathologically bad, but with the prince’s coaching, I was improving. I could actually hit the wood, blade first, almost every time.

  It all kept me busy enough to — mostly — take my mind off of Daul and Antoch and the missing Berdal. I did make one last, fruitless search of Lord Antoch’s rooms, hoping for evidence that would prove he was or was not the Traitor. But aside from a curious door hidden behind his bed, which appeared to lead nowhere interesting, there was still no
thing incriminating among his belongings.

  More than anything, my fingers were itching to get inside Daul’s rooms and rifle through them. I was determined to find out what he was hiding behind that charmed lock. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it, and the more I resigned myself to the fact that there was only one way to get in there that I hadn’t tried yet. I was going to have to go in from the outside — up or down the side of the building.

  And directly below Daul’s rooms, by some stroke of Tiboran’s genius, were the rooms occupied by Lady Lyll. Rooms I was already well familiar with.

  Opportunity came when Lyll and Meri were in the kitchens one morning, working with Yselle on Meri’s birthday menu. Last night’s snow should keep everyone safely tucked into the warmer rooms at the center of the castle, and no one would be wandering the statue garden at this hour.

  Letting myself into Lyll’s rooms took no effort at all, and I crossed to the leaded windows. Everything was white and brilliant outside, making it hard to judge the distance to the ground. I put a hand to the latch and cracked the casement open. A whip of icy air snapped through the gap and a dusting of snow scattered off the sill and into nothingness below.

  I poked my head out the window, squinting against the sting of cold air. Daul’s windows were exactly above the ones I stood at; I’d just climb up, trip the latch with my knife, and slip inside.

  If the icy wind didn’t knock me off the side of the building.

  I pulled my head back in and made a check of myself. My kirtle was a sturdy, ser viceable wool, and I had tucked the skirts high into my belt; they shouldn’t pose much of a problem. The elaborate stonework had lots of hand- and toeholds. And there was no need to climb back down again; I’d just let myself out into the hallway on the third floor, shake out my skirts, and breeze down the corridor. I slipped Durrel’s knife into my belt, held in place by a ball of skirt beneath it.

  I hopped up to sit on the windowsill, nothing but cold behind me, and pulled my stockinged legs up onto the ledge, one after the other. Holding tightly to the window frame, I eased myself to standing.

  Gods — that wind! It knocked the breath out of me and the sight from my eyes. I pressed my cheek against the rough stones until the blast of ice slackened, then cracked an eye open to judge my next move. Grasping a jutting brick tightly with out-of-practice fingers, I hauled myself up.

  Gloves. Why hadn’t I thought of gloves? The stones were rough and freezing; it was a good thing I only had to go one floor up — my fingers would be numb (and useless) before too long. I stretched my right leg up and found the top of the window frame. Pushing off, I grabbed a stone above, and straightened.

  Close the window. I reached down with one cautious toe and gave the window a tap. It swung wide and almost caught; a little breeze might sneak in, but whoever found it would think only that it had come loose in the wind. Muscles stiff with cold and disuse, I made my way up the side of the Lodge, my hair whipping in icy strands against my eyes. Next time I’d wear a better hat.

  Finally I felt my fingers close on the window ledge above, and pulled myself up until my chin was level with the sill. The wavery glass was inconveniently draped with heavy dark curtains, and I could see nothing inside. I held fast to the sill and twisted an arm behind my back to liberate my knife, then slid the blade between the two glass panes. It caught the catch easily, flipping it open. With the blade clamped between my teeth, I eased my fingers beneath one pane and tugged it toward me. Ducking as it swung overhead, I waited a moment, then spit my knife out into the room. I didn’t hear it land — either the howling wind or a cushion of Corles rug muffled the sound.

  Almost there. I searched the wall with one foot until I found a good-sized stone with a ledge just big enough to hold all my weight. I pushed off hard, high enough to hit waist to windowsill, then tumbled into the heavy drapes, scraping my back against the sill as I skidded down to the floor inside.

  Corles rug. Not quite so soft on the tailbone as one might wish. I sat, frozen and breathless, just in case somebody had heard me, until the cold caught up with me and I started shivering. I eased to my feet and pushed into Daul’s rooms. The chambers were stuffy and thick with heat from the fireplace, which blazed ridiculously, even considering the snow.

  I tried to remember what I knew about Daul — not just the very little he’d hinted to me, but anything I’d heard him tell others, any clues I’d picked up from Cwalo and Lyll. He’d arrived here the same day as Marlytt and Cwalo — I thought back, picturing that scene. He’d been traveling lightly, no baggage. Where had he told Lyll he’d been? At the moment I couldn’t remember.

  I flipped through the papers on his desk, but there was nothing suspicious. Daul was smart and devious — he’d probably taken anything valuable with him — but he was also arrogant, and wouldn’t have counted on me going to such lengths to get in here. What was I looking for? Keys, notes — anything with that single arrow on a black ground, like the rings. My letters. I popped the lock on the desk drawer, sliding the whole unit out from the desk and laying it gingerly on top. There was nothing fastened to the underside of the desk, or the underside of the drawer, or inside any kind of false bottom.

  Inside the drawer itself I found the Carskadon hunting map I’d swiped from Lord Antoch’s rooms. I should return it to Antoch; the thought of Daul knowing I was in here while he was gone, magic lock still perfectly undisturbed, gave me a malicious thrill. Tucked beside the map was the forged journal, and though I leafed through it I still couldn’t tell what Daul had wanted it to say. The rolled-up map stuffed in my bodice, I shut the desk drawer and fiddled the lock until it snapped to, gazing around the rest of the room.

  The problem with castles is that they have all sorts of hiding places: nooks in the fireplace façade, loose flags in the floor, decorative urns or boxes, spice cabinets, hollowed-out stones in the walls . . . there could be anything hidden anywhere. I tapped my knife blade flat against my palm, looking around. Exactly like Antoch’s apartments, Daul’s bedchamber was set off from the rest of the room, up two polished steps and curtained off. I pushed aside the copper damask hangings and stepped inside. The massive bed filled up most of the chamber, and for a moment I considered the possibility that I might have to climb up there to look above the canopy. I found nothing in the rosewood chest beside the bed, or beneath the seat cushion of the ebony dressing chair, or under the rug. I grasped the crewelwork bed hangings and flung them open.

  And found something — but not the secret I sought.

  The slender form wrapped untidily in the linen sheets winced against the sudden influx of light and raised a bare arm in defense. I stared down, one hand still clutching the bed curtain. Silver-pale hair scattered over the pillow, and ice-blue eyes squinted open to meet mine.

  “Digger?” Marlytt’s voice was thick with sleep, as if she couldn’t quite fathom what I was doing there. She fumbled with the sheets. “Digger — wait!”

  I didn’t wait. I dropped the bed hangings and skittered back down the wide steps and was halfway to the door — the door with the lock that only opened from the inside. And how had Marlytt known that? Idiot.

  “Digger, wait.” That cool voice stopped me. Marlytt, still wrapped in the bedclothes, grabbed me by the arm. “This isn’t what —” She paused in the lie and pushed a handful of tangled wispy hair from her face. “This is exactly what you think it is. Every thought you’re having is absolutely correct.”

  I looked around the rooms once again. The evidence of her presence was subtle — no silk dressing gown thrown over a chair, no hairpins scattered on the night table — yet Marlytt was obviously at home in these rooms. The roaring fire — I was seven times an idiot. Rooms whose occupants are away for a few days don’t need to be heated.

  “Daul’s mistress?” I finally managed to get out. “You’re Daul’s mistress?”

  She eyed me steadily. “Daul’s whore, you mean? You can say it.”

  “But —” I grappled f
or words, as the events of the past weeks tumbled through my mind, each with a new significance. The things Daul claimed to know about me, the way Marlytt had urged me to avoid getting involved, the information she’d helped me piece together. Her cozy companionship with Meri. “How long?”

  “Long enough. He brought me here.”

  “Everything I’ve told you, every word I’ve said — or Meri! — has gone straight to Daul’s ear?”

  “Don’t try to play the wounded innocent here,” she said coldly. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “But you know what he’s been making me do!”

  Marlytt’s face was hard. “Yes,” she said, “and now you know what he’s been making me do.”

  I had to get out of there. I shoved past her toward the door, and snapped the bolt without even bothering to check if anyone was in the corridor outside. I ran down the hallway, not caring who saw me. How could I have been so stupid? I knew better than to trust Marlytt. And I’d put Bryn Shaer’s most precious secrets practically right in her hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I avoided Marlytt over the next few days, which was easy enough, as she kept herself scarce. Off scaring up other dupes to spy on for Daul, I supposed. What secrets had she managed to coax from Sposa or Cardom, with her soft voice and cool eyes? I tried to remember every thing I might have told her, and how damning it was, but there was nothing to be done about the situation now except take even more care — and keep Meri away from her.

  I tried to be angry with Marlytt . . . but I knew what Daul was — and I knew what Marlytt was, as well. She had her own priorities for survival; had she done anything worse than I had? Would I have done any of this, if it hadn’t been for Daul prodding me? The hidden weapons, the secret Sarists, this stupid mess with Antoch and the Traitor of Kalorjn? Daul’s whore? Well, that was me too. Even worse, after all that, I still hadn’t managed to find anything useful in Daul’s rooms.