Some soundless, invisible signal stopped Vanita mid-thought, made the hairs at the nape of her neck bristle, made her look up just as a shadow began to darken the kitchen floor.
“Hello maidy,” said a voice behind her, rough as sandpaper, rough as cut glass.
Chapter Nine
Not conventional
It was a bright red, she thought, the slick, slightly glistening colour of muscles beneath the skin, when the fat and flesh was cut away. Not blood, no – she would have thought that a few years before, but she had seen too much blood now. Something else…
“Ash, what the devil are you looking for up there?” Derrick hissed beside her.
For their second council meeting, the duke had insisted rather unnecessarily that Ash keep her peace and try to look feminine and quiet (her words admittedly – she couldn’t remember his) while the men talked. This made the already slow minutes creak along like centuries. She’d had to find something to interest her, and the only thing she found remotely interesting was the red ceiling.
“Did I miss something important?”
“Well, this Walters fellow, he was saying that there has been a real “ebb” in outsiders coming to the gates for shelter. What’s an “ebb’? They’re all talking about it now.”
“An ebb is when someone is really bored and goes away because everything is so boring that they’d rather be at home.”
“If there is still a home to go back to.”
“Derrick, like that’s going to make me concentrate more on the council meeting…”
“Munitions experts? What say you?”
All the “men” were looking at them. So Ash dutifully turned her feminine face towards Derrick too.
He cleared his throat, darting looks at Ash, but she just smiled her feminine smile.
“Ah, with regards to the, ah, ebb… I think that there may be many reasons why peasants and mobs and such might go away. I think we cannot focus on that so much as developing new weaponry, giving them something to come back for.”
“Well said, ser!” Rize was wearing a red doublet today that matched the high colour in his cheeks and Ash couldn’t help but notice, it contrasted wonderfully with his black hair and eyes.
“Derrick is most correct. We should concentrate on the end goal here. Our objective should be twofold – build defensive weaponry to hold off the carriors; offer it to our countrymen as a peace offering and also to again give them agriculture to fight for! My experiments with plants have made tremendous progress, and just yesterday –”
“Highness let Walters finish,” said the old Head Pathfinder, placing a rather familiar hand on Rize’s arm. He shushed immediately, like a child, and looked docilely at Walters as he began speaking again.
As Walters began to drone on again, a small piece of parchment was shoved into Ash’s hands under the table. She and Derrick looked down:
Walters is the Head Pathfinder’s son. He trained
in most of their ways. Not many people know this.
Ash looked up from the note at the Head Pathfinder. Walters was mentioning that he had “surprising numbers” in terms of food stores, but she didn’t look remotely surprised, she never did. Ash had thought before that this was an occupational necessity for a prophet person, never look taken aback, but perhaps it was more…
“… At 122, same as two days ago. And that concludes my numbers.” The breakfast bells punctuated Walters” closing as though it had all been perfectly timed. “Thank you all,” he bowed, looking directly at Ash as he did so.
“How long has Walters been steward?” asked Ash through smiling lips to the duke near her as they stood.
“Not long. The king’s usual steward, Pevann, was poisoned just under one month ago.”
“Ah.”
The prince was being talked at by the Head Pathfinder in the corner. Ash swished over to them and curtsied deeply. She had worn orange today, to subtly gain some favour before asking her request. Just as she dipped her head, she fleetingly caught the astute gaze sum up her orange frock. Again, the icy, cold feeling along her spine told her to be very, very careful with this woman.
“Esteemed Head Pathfinder, good morning. I was hoping I may trouble you in your rooms later today for –”
“For requesting a letter be sent to your sister. Oh yes, the Path knows. Of course you may, child. Perhaps sometime after what used to be lunch time.” A throaty chuckle. “I will see you then, and may the Path guide you.”
She curtsied again, then left, the icy feeling permeating every part of her body now. How had she known? Had that been all she had seen of Ash’s motives for coming to the Pathfinders” lair? Hopefully. Well, it was true, she had been wanting to get a letter to Vanita now that she knew from the duke that she could. And at the same time, she would see more of this Pathfinder. Before that she would make sure to run into Rize accidentally and find out what he had been going to say.
Her skirts swished, undulating like a snake on the floors, as she went to the Great Hall.
***
Later brought with it more stone passages, twisting away from the ones Ash was beginning to get used to. She walked alone down the serpentine corridors, thinking. Rize had said the overlords and nobles who mattered would really begin getting behind the new crossbow bolts she and Derrick were advocating if they could see a demonstration. They were as cooped up as a bunch of brooding mares, if the prince was to be believed.
Almost immediately, she shook herself. If the prince was to be believed, indeed! She would go mad thinking like this. She scowled at the fine tapestries that had begun to appear on the walls.
Eventually, she reached the tower that Rize had spoken of, and climbed. Here, rather than fine tapestries, there were crude paintings of men, horses, flowers and, of course, birds – done directly with some sort of paint onto the tower wall’s stone. As Ash climbed the tight circle within the walls (almost close enough to touch her elbows) the paintings continued. They had clearly been done by a child’s hand, maybe several children, and the way that the paints had dribbled down to the floor was somehow macabre, unsettling. She would rather have had bare walls than these brightly coloured figures with monstrous heads and wide red mouths dancing jaggedly along the dark grey stone.
Finally, with relief, she stepped out into a wide, circular room, filled with light. It was a busy-looking, unfurnished room that reminded Ash of her old tutors” rooms from childhood, although none of those were so fine as this. A copper kettle boiled brightly on a foreign-looking stand of some sort near her – without a fire! – and lattice windows let in the afternoon sun. It certainly didn’t seem a place where secrets might be lurking.
In the centre of the room, surrounded by a moat of emptiness, were six or seven desks with children of various ages at each one, heads bent down diligently in a way Ash certainly could not remember from her youth. They had either not heard her or had not cared – none of the bright heads, backlit by sun, looked up as she took in the room.
“Quite empty now, yes,” said a voice at her shoulder, making her jump.
She turned around sharply, glaring, but the steel grey eyes of the Head Pathfinder just looked back at her placidly.
“We had about twenty other desks, from children taken by carrior or fevered or starved, that are no longer with us. But we sent the desks down to use for firewood, they were upsetting the remaining children.”
“So, you teach the children here? You are the castle’s tutors?”
“Oh, yes. Strictly nobility, usually, but we always try sneak one or two servants” sons that show promise in. That has always been the head function of Royal Pathfinders, before such a noise was made about our abilities to see the Path, in these times. Education is what makes anyone able to see.”
“I wish I had the ability to see what would happen, that sounds a useful trick.”
She had meant it lightly, but the old woman cocked her head to one side as though studying the sentence. “It is no trick,” she said gra
vely. “Tricks are intended either to deceive or entertain. We only serve to show the Path and enlighten others.”
Her knife-sharp gaze was as hot as the fireless kettle. Ash turned to examine it for a moment – she couldn’t think clearly under those eyes for some reason. But the kettle seemed normal enough as she picked it up and inspected it. Once she was sure she was in control of herself again, she spoke to the Pathfinder over her shoulder:
“It is good that someone is taking such an interest in educating the young.” Still, none of the childish heads looked up. Were they enchanted that they did not hear?
“It has always been the duty of the royal Pathfinders, since time immemorial. We train them in the basic things, concentrating on the highest born because needs must. Of course, we do not train them in all a young Pathfinder would learn,” Here, she chuckled, seemingly impervious to Ash turning and fixing her with a cold stare.
“Of course,” she said frostily. “So, the conventional diet of histories and lettering, dances, inane chatter and embroidery and self-defence for the ladies? How useful in these troubled times.”
The Pathfinder’s had been looking at the children, but at Ash’s words her head whipped sharply back. She looked at Ash intently. At last, she said:
“There is danger in more than a few knowing the secrets of the ways of the Path. It’s not magick as people say, it’s a matter of training will and then matter to obey will. Needless to say, this could be dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“I have no doubt. I am seeking some “matter to obey will” myself. I have heard from the Duke of Novrecourte that you can magick parchment to send and receive messages.”
“Well, it is not magick, but yes. We used to do it with the birds, the crows, before of course that got out of hand. Now we use a technique of spatial awareness and focus that allows us to transmute matter from one place to another by a process of intense visualisation. In theory, this is applicable to anything, but it is a new form of our art for us, and anything with a mass heavier or larger than parchment puts too much strain on us.”
“Hmm. Well, I have a sister at Rhodopalais. Might I send her a letter?”
“We may be able to arrange that. Of course, we try to prioritise urgent messages in these times.”
Urgent? That Vanita might be dead in the broken remains of her house without Ash knowing wasn’t urgent enough for this woman? She fought with her seething emotions for more than a minute but, at last, Ash was able to turn a serene face back to the Pathfinder.
“Well, I trust you shall be the judge. I shall come by with a written message tomorrow.”
“Certainly. And, of course, it goes without saying that we read all communication which passes through us Pathfinders, for security purposes of course.”
“I will not have my private correspondence read.” Ash took one step closer, glaring. The old woman, to her credit, did not flinch or shrink from her frown, but merely looked back at her placidly again, no feelings of threat marring her creamy, unlined face. She merely shrugged. “Then your private correspondence will not be sent. I am sorry, but we must do all we can to safeguard the future and path of the realm.”
Ash stared hard at the Pathfinder and, finding no chink in the armour, turned to leave. She was halfway to the door when the old woman called after her.
“It’s not conventional.”
Ash turned, puzzled. “What? What isn’t?”
The woman’s face was still unlined and smooth, but there was a high colour in her cheeks now. “Self-defence for young ladies. It’s not conventional.”
“It’s the way I was taught.”
“Then your mother was a very particular kind of woman.”
Ash bristled. “My father had good ideas too, you know. Sometimes men do.”
“Some men are unconventionally good finds.” The woman’s eyes twinkled for a moment, almost like Old Merta’s, and Ash knew at once who she meant. Oddly, this was more of an offence than anything else the Pathfinder had said, and she turned stiffly on her heel.
As Ash turned to go, something in the window’s view glinted in the sunlight below. She heart caught in her chest as she walked closer, still looking. It was a small, abandoned conservatory – rudimentary and squat compared to the one Rize had shown her at the palace, but it still made a portion of her heart ache – a portion she had not realised she’d given to him until that moment.
She saw the prince nearly every day, but he was just that – the prince. She had not had a moment alone with him where they were just Ash and Rize since the carrior had shattered her home all those days ago. She startled as the thought pricked her, the way a thorn or needle pricks, surprised that she actually missed him. Not the prince. Rize.
She needed to see him. Alone. Prince or not, he deserved to know how she felt, and… She stopped midstride. What if he did not feel the same way? Certainly, it was not the best time… And the king would be furious. He may well forbid them to marry. Not that they had to marry, or that she was even thinking about it, of course.
Her wonderings and wanderings had taken her to a different wing of the castle without quite meaning to. She came out of her thoughts to see airy passages lit with several windows and rugs spread occasionally on the floors. She had definitely strayed into some area meant only for nobility – and a very particular kind at that. On one wall was a monstrous painting as big as any tapestry, paint in a grand style, though scuffed around its bare corners where someone must have pulled off its original gold frame. A young girl Ash’s age peered out, holding an ornate gilt ball in her hand and crown the size and shape of a cake on her head. This must be the new-dead queen. By the look on her face, she was starting to rethink the whole queen thing already. So, then, these must be the ladies” quarters, traditionally adjoining the queen’s old chamber. She was looking at one handsomely polished wooden door, wondering if they had left the queen’s room empty or who had taken it, just when that door opened.
… And Derrick crept out.
Ash froze as still as stone, not even breathing as she stared. She was so motionless that her childhood friend almost walked straight into her.
“Ash!”
His shock made his voice go off like thunder, and they both jumped. Her name echoed and hissed down the cold passage.
“Ash, what are you doing here?”
She tried to laugh, but the sound died in her throat, and all that came out was a little wheeze. “I got lost. I see you know your way around, though. Whose rooms are these?”
“Never you mind, that’s whose.”
“Oh? I think as your fellow munitions expert, I have a right to know who’s minding you these days.”
She waited for the tell-tale Derrick redness in the face, the angry lowering of the brow. But instead he just sighed, looking tired and, possibly, a little guilty.
“I’ve got to have something to do all day, can’t I? With you running around with your prince.”
“He is not my prince, and how dare you!”
“How dare I? Tell me this, then, if you weren’t with him now, where were you then?”
“I can’t tell you. But I was not with him.”
“Of course not. You were with your many other friends in the castle, I’m sure. Embroidering with the women, no doubt that’s it.”
“As a matter of fact, I do embroider with the women.”
Derrick’s face clouded over; and he got that sour, surly expression he used to get as a child when he just wanted to lash out and hurt someone and didn’t care how. “Not from what I’ve heard,” he sneered. “I’ve heard it’s pretty generous to call what you do embroidery.”
“Oh really? And is that what you’re doing with them at this hour then?”
Derrick raised his chin and grinned rather lasciviously in a very un-Derrick way. “Not embroidery, that’s for sure.”
He took one last look at her before pointedly turning and walking to the very next door and, without a second glance, going right in.
&
nbsp; What a child. Ash stood there a few minutes more, still watching the empty passage where he’d just been, before realising her mouth was open.
Where did he get the nerve? Derrick had never talked to her like that before. If he had, she’d have had him whipped. No, forget that, she’d have whipped him herself.
She sighed, massaging her temples, and turned to try find her way back to her own room. There, she’d have someone draw her a bath and try to relax…
“Well, hello there.”
Rize, still in the doublet a juicy shade of raspberry, was leaning against a stone wall and staring at her.
“I’ve never seen you so close to my rooms before… looking for some company?” He waggled his black eyebrows at her.
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. First Derrick, now him… Ash scowled at the prince, thoughts about conservatories almost completely forgotten, and made to stomp right past him, only he caught her arm as she did.
“What’s the matter?”
“You, that’s what! How dare you, Rize… I may not be a lady, but I am still a lady.”
“That makes no sense –”
“I don’t care! Nothing makes sense in this stupid castle! And if you ever infer again that I’m coming to your rooms like some, like some, I don’t know, man would… Then, prince or not, I’ll put an arrow on your eye.”
Rize let go of her suddenly as though her skin had burnt him. “Fine, if that’s how you feel. I just wanted to say that our first munitions demonstration has been approved for tomorrow. But whatever. Wouldn’t want you thinking I was just some man…”
He stalked off first before she could. Ash sighed, looking up and down the empty corridor, trying not to feel so lost.
***
There was no sign of the prince at supper, which was gruel again. Ash had become rather short of friends since daybreak, so she sat with the noblewomen and ate listlessly as they twittered about Lady Faireweather’s health (who she had worked out was the other, less pretty version of Bella Nargosi) and other such nonsense.
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