by C. E. Murphy
BELINDA PRIMROSE
8 February 1577 Aulun, isolated by the sea
Memory, from what others said, did not stretch so far back.
The dream came often, sharp enough to take her breath on waking, but no one remembered the moment of her birth, not with clarity; not at all. It was only a dream, nothing more. Belinda crawled from her bed, pulling a duvet, down-filled and heavy, with her: the keep fires were long since banked for the night, the comparative heat of the winter day left behind. Her first steps were warm, onto a tapestry rug that told the story of hunting a white deer. The next steps were icy, nimbly taken on tiptoe before she scrambled into the velvet-cushioned window seat. The duvet hissed across unheated stone as she hauled it up.
Frost spread across the windows, spiked fingers growing up from the lead lining between the sheets of thin, undistorted glass. Belinda pressed a fingertip against the thickening frost, melting through to the cold glass below. Water beaded and spilled over the lead, a glistening black line picked out by the half-moon’s light. She put her finger in her mouth and pulled the duvet farther up, hunching and squirming her shoulders until the warm comforter slid between her back and the chilly stone wall. Her breath fogged on the window, mixing with scattered clouds to obscure the moon for a few moments before winter proved stronger than one girl-child’s exhalations and clarity crept back over the middle of the pane.
Memories she trusted more than the dreams reached back to her second Yule. The pageantry of Yule, she was told, was less than the Christ Mass whose date and name had been set aside by the Reformation Church as it schismed from the Ecumenists. Still, call it Yule or Christ Mass, gifts were exchanged in the shortest day of the year, just as they had been for what seemed to Belinda to be uncountable centuries past.
The first remembered gift from her rarely seen, beloved papa: a tiny dagger, sharp for all that she was not yet two years of age. Had her nurse—a dour-faced, dull woman with a grim sense of propriety and little in the way of imagination—not been so shocked, so very determined to remove the toy from her determined grip, Belinda thought she might not remember it at all. As it was, she carried it even now: a soft length of string, clipped from a chemise, held it around her waist. The tiny dagger and its soft leather sheath made an impression against her spine when she leaned harder against the wall. By day it was tucked against skin, held tight by corsets and layers of fabric, inaccessible but reassuring. The blade had dulled with time, leaving it barely more dangerous than a butter knife. Yet, without it, Belinda felt naked. Vulnerable.
There were dancing shoes the next Yule. Now, more than nine years later, she still remembered the tangy flat taste of disappointment in the back of her throat, although she smiled and put the shoes on her toddler feet and danced with the tall, brown-eyed man called Lord Drake by the others, and Papa by herself. Standing on his feet, she learned the steps to the dances of the Old Measures: the Quadran Pavan and the Tinternell were her favourites, for the fun of saying their names more than the dances themselves. At her third birthday her nurse dressed her in the costume of a grown-up lady, rich cream that brought out highlights in her brown hair, and with farthingaled skirts that allowed her small size to manage the weight of the dress without stumbling. That night she danced each of the eight Old Measures with Lord Drake, solemn and determined to do her papa proud.
And the back of her mind repeated: it cannot be found out.
Those were the words Papa had whispered to her that morning, when he gave her the second blade of her short life. A rapier, he called it, weighted and sized for a child, but only young gentlemen learned fencing. “So,” he told her, with the air of a conspirator, “we must be secret, and never let Nurse know. You have learned your dances with great patience,” he teased, “and this is your reward, my girl. The grace learned on the dance floor stands anyone, man or girl, well in the art of fencing.”
Belinda threw herself into her dance lessons with an enthusiasm entirely unexpected by the long-nosed man who tutored her.
By the time she was five she understood she was spoilt; within a year, she understood why. Her real father was dead in a war, and Rosemary, her mother, had lived only long enough to bear the child her husband had gotten on her before joining him in the next world. Robert, Lord Drake, was the only relative Belinda had, and properly he was uncle, not papa. He called her Primrose, in remembrance of the sister who had died, and those who thought of it at all admired his fortitude in taking on the child’s well-being. Drake was a favourite of Lorraine the queen, and her jealousies would fain to include even a girl of Belinda’s tender years.
Belinda listened hard, and understood the words not said: she was a forgotten child, her birth parents of no particular import, her adopted papa’s nobility a gift from a fond queen. It was enough to make a good marriage of, if she were charming and healthy enough to bear strong children. Robert was easy with money, but his visits were rare, and bittersweet. He had little time for her, and so her drive to accomplish all the things he might expect of her filled her hours, in hopes of making him proud.
That the things he expected were unusual for a girl-child passed by Belinda without note; the only other children she knew were the sons and daughters of the serving class, and they, of course, would be expected to learn and do different things. So Belinda learned reading and developed a fair hand at writing; studied history and politics, and when her nurse objected, the old woman found herself left with a pension to see her to the end of her days and no more girl-child to meddle with. Released from that stifling watch, Belinda became adept at horseback riding and swordplay, and learned to stay out of the way when Robert visited with other nobles, understanding she would be called for when and if she were necessary.
She never was.
Colour rushed along Belinda’s jaw, crawling upward until her cheekbones felt scarred from the heat. Her reflection, faint in the frosty window, darkened perceptibly. She pressed her forehead against the glass, listening hard for a hiss, like water striking hot metal. Ice melted against her skin, silent, a bead trailing down between her closed eyes. It tickled, pushing the blush back down with an itch. Belinda relaxed her jaw, keeping her eyes closed, determined not to rub the tiny blot of water away. It slid down her nose, the itch subsiding, and she let out a puff of air. Frost steamed, melted, and crystallized again under her breath.
Clear memory was a curse, when the memories were of waiting for the call that never came. In summer of her ninth year it was Robert’s honour—and burden—to host the queen’s court for a month. The estate was in a flutter; Robert came early, barking orders and clapping his hands together, suddenly master to a house that had drifted along in quietude without him. He carried Belinda around on his shoulders, deliberately unaware that she was too old and too big for such behavior. Giddy with happiness, she was blind to exchanged glances among the servants. For a blissful week, she rode out every day with her papa, hunting and bringing back boar and deer to dress the tables with for the queen’s visit. She pleaded, cautiously, for a new dress, and got two. The evening before Lorraine’s arrival, Robert came to Belinda’s room and knelt, taking her hands as he smiled at her.
“I will call for you, do you understand? When it’s time for you to be presented to the queen, I’ll come for you, my dear. Until then, it’s best if you stay out of sight. Will you do that for me?”
Belinda, dressed in one of her new gowns, tightened her fingers around Robert’s and nodded eagerly. “Of course, Papa. I can wait.”
For thirty mornings, Belinda dressed with care, choosing one of her two new gowns or the very best of the older ones, and stood by the door, fidgeting and breathless with hope. At noon and night she ate the same rich meals that the courtiers in the dining hall below ate, but dined alone in her room, meals carried up from the kitchen by the servants, and waited with all the reserve she could muster. At sunfall each evening, she undressed as carefully as she’d dressed, and retreated to her bed, strands of coldness wrapped around her hea
rt and tempered with hope for the next dawn.
At the end of thirty days, the queen and her court rode away again, Robert with them. Belinda knelt in the window of her room, fingers pressed against the thin glass.
Robert did not look back.
Belinda began, that morning, the game of stillness.
It was a game of nonexistence, of not being there. The rules, as Belinda laid them out in her mind, were simple: she would be stronger than the events around her. A biting fly might land on her skin; she would learn to ignore the tickle of its feet as it walked across her throat. If it bit, she would learn to hold inside the flinch of pain and the slap of motion to dislodge it. A scratch earned in a fencing bout would no longer pull a gasp or paling cheeks from her; a burn from the embers might raise a blister, but not a cry.
The rules were easier in thought than action.
In the beginning there were more failures than successes. Belinda taught herself to use the memory of Robert’s shoulders in the soft gold sunlight of morning as a cloak, wrapping it around herself. She made it into armour, hardening the memory of being left behind into a layer of protectiveness between her skin and the invading entities.
The tiny dagger, held against the small of her back, began as an irritation, and became the test itself. Days turned into weeks, and the stiffened brocade of her dresses changed from pressing the hilt of the dagger uncomfortably into her spine to something she no longer noticed, and finally felt undressed without. She sharpened the little blade, and drew it carefully against her palm, waiting days for each last cut to heal, until she could part the skin without tears.
Then she began with fire.
When Robert returned at Yuletide, nothing could touch her unless she allowed it to. She had grown, taller and more slender, beginning to leave a child’s shape behind even at the youthful age of nine. The cloak of memory grew with her, pinning tightly against her skin, constricting and safe. Robert’s gaze upon her was sharp and appraising, even approving. She thought, in between moments, that he could see the wrap of memory that clung to her. Challenged, she strengthened it, lending it her indifference in the form of an uplifted chin and a cool hazel gaze.
Robert’s smile grew warmer.
Once rooted in her bones, the game of stillness spilled out of her. The near-perfect memory that both blessed and dogged her wouldn’t let her forget the moment when the stillness became larger than she was. She was dressed unfashionably, though the brown velvet was expensive enough to almost forgive the colour; Belinda didn’t care. The depth of the fabric made her hair rich and soft-looking, especially against the gold net snood that kept loose curls from falling into her eyes. The dress was a Yuletide gift, warmer than the two summer gowns. Extra length was nipped into the hem, a seamstress’s silent expectation that Belinda would grow taller still before spring. For now, she curled her fingers into the velvet’s weight, lifting it a few inches to allow her feet clearance from the petticoats and skirts. She clung to the shadows along the manor stairs, following the curve down into the great hall. It was cold, the new year a few hours from ringing in. Belinda’s boots, lined with rabbit fur, flashed beneath the hem of her gown as she trotted down the steps.
Voices echoed upward from below. Belinda hesitated between torches, recognizing Robert’s voice and uncertain if she was welcome to greet his evening’s company. Footsteps echoed off the stone floors, coming closer. Robert’s voice dropped in confidence, words becoming murmurs that rumbled in the small bones of Belinda’s ears. She stood frozen with indecision, then knotted her fingers in her skirts and scurried back up the stairs, ducking into a shadowed doorway.
The choice was well-made. Speech became more easily understood as Robert and his guest mounted the stairs. Belinda caught her breath, leaning into the doorway, pulse leaping in her throat as she willed herself not to be seen. Her dagger, like a reminder, pressed neatly against her spine. Belinda’s breath spilled out of her again, on the verge of silent laughter. The next breath was slow, calmness washing through her. Tranquility stretched taut, like a pulled bow, then snapped. In silence, it surrounded her, tucking her safely into the shadows. Belinda lifted her chin brazenly, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She leaned forward from the doorway, confident in the darkness and eager to see the man in whom Robert confided.
They came around the head of the stairs shoulder to shoulder, heads inclined toward one another. Robert was the broader, his shoulders dwarfing those of the other man, who was narrow and thin-featured. Black hair, thick and oily under the torchlight, was swept back from his face, worn much longer than fashion dictated. Whoever he was, he could not belong to Lorraine’s court: Robert’s brown hair, clipped short with a hint of fringe to hide the hairline itself, was the style favoured by the Queen for her courtiers. The stranger’s beard followed the line of his jaw, mustache neatly trimmed around a thin mouth; that, at least, was the popular look. He had a hawkish nose and deep-set eyes, black in the torchlight. His voice, low-pitched, was marked with an accent: Khazarian, from the sprawling empire beyond Echon’s eastern borders. “—begun. The imperatrix is with child—”
Rumbled amusement from Robert: “That was quickly done.”
“As it had to be,” the dark man replied. “With the imperator’s wars, that Irina has even a chance of childbearing is—”
“A blessing to us all,” Robert said, tone lofty and sanctimonious. The dark man let go a staccato laugh that cut through the stillness surrounding Belinda. Her heart lurched, one too-strong beat, though her body never dreamed of betraying her with a flinch. Robert turned his gaze away from his dark companion, meeting Belinda’s eyes through the shadow. She read no leap of recognition there, no sign that he had seen her, though her pulse fluttered alarm in her throat. Within a moment his gaze left hers again. He extended a hand, gesturing the dark man to precede him as he pushed open the door to his private rooms. Light and heat swept out, the fire inside testimony to the servants’ knowledge that Robert would entertain tonight, although Belinda herself had not known.
The dark man inclined his head, thanking Robert for the gesture. The door closed behind them, leaving the hall dark and cold. Belinda remained where she was a few seconds longer, arms folded around herself to ward off the chill. Then shadow released her and she caught up her skirts, scurrying downstairs to tend to her original task of asking that more wood be brought up for her fire.
The door to her room opened late that night, cool air from the halls sweeping Robert and his companion in. The latter hung at the door, a scent of cloves washing on the air with his entrance. Belinda, buried beneath her duvet, came awake, her eyes still closed, her breathing still deep and easy. Familiar words raised goose bumps over her body, even beneath the warmth of blankets: “It cannot be found out, Robert. Not yet. It’s still too early.”
“I know, Dmitri.” Robert’s voice was a comforting murmur at the side of her bed. He put a hand against her forehead, brushing tangled curls away. Belinda followed her impulse, stirring, sighing a little, and turned her head. Robert’s voice warmed with a smile. “Sleep, child. Forget. The time has not yet come for you to know such things.” The words were intoxicating, heavy with compulsion: Belinda, trusting impulse a second time, kept her learned stillness about her, not resisting. A surge, like the sound of water suddenly bursting through a waterwheel, pushed into her mind, and, like water again, spread through her, trickling down her spine and into her fingers and toes. She could almost see it, behind closed eyelids, faintly golden and glimmering: a concept just beyond her understanding.
Sleep comes hard on the heels of that near-understanding, exhaustion waving through her so quickly she doesn’t hear the door close again. Doesn’t hear, most certainly, Robert’s sigh beyond that threshold, or Dmitri’s short sound of dismay. “She’s female. What did you expect? Power and ambition are built into the females.”
“I expected more time.” Robert exhales another sigh, then gestures down the hall. “Another cup of wine? She’s
young. Too young to show such talent.”
“They mature quickly. Faster than we’re accustomed to.” Dmitri falls into step beside the Aulunian lord, neither raising his voice above a murmur. “And they die young. It may affect the development of their skills.”
“Still, she’s yet to see her tenth summer, and if I hadn’t looked straight at her…”
“You’d have known. The air was charged with her hiding. Or have you become too inured to it already? Does power only quiver your skin when it’s an unfamiliar taste?” A mocking smile curves Dmitri’s mouth as he bows before the door to Robert’s chambers, inviting the other man to enter before him. Robert’s expression sours, but he goes ahead.
“Perhaps I’d have known. Still, it’s sooner than we anticipated, and ambition in women is not well looked upon here. You know that as well as I.”
“Can you control her?”
Robert gives the black-haired man a flat look as he pours wine, then sits before the hearth’s glowing embers. “Neither of us would be here if we were incapable of controlling one child. Our queen chooses her standard-bearers more carefully than that. She’ll remember nothing, nor have any urge to try again. She’ll be the creature we need her to be, and never question me.”
Humour plays upon Dmitri’s lips a second time. “I meant no disrespect.” That’s a fob, intended to soothe waters without being believed. Robert accepts it for what it is, and half a beat later Dmitri says, “You’re certain. You’re certain of her loyalty? Why?”
Robert snorts. “Because they always are, Dmitri. Faithful to the queen. It’s as much part of them as it is of us.”
“But they don’t normally show such promise so young,” Dmitri murmurs. “Watch her, Robert. Be cautious.”
“Heed your own advice. Return to Khazan. Watch Irina.”
“Mm.” Dmitri lowers his head over his glass of wine. “In time. Let Feodor crow over her pregnancy first. Irina wants me gone until they’re well settled. There are things to be done in Essandia. Rodrigo needs a mistress. Even an illegitimate claimant for his throne is better than none. His sister’s son is too far out of our control. I want a stronger hand there.”