by Zoe Marriott
His words trailed off and they both went still. Staring at each other – into each other. Spellbound.
It was as if I had ceased to exist.
“Uldar?” I questioned, hating the uncertain note in my voice. The nausea was worse than ever, making me gulp. “Do you know her?”
“No,” he muttered absently, not taking his gaze from the girl’s radiant face. “I’ve never...”
What in the Frosty Hells is happening here? Who is this girl? And, most importantly – why am I standing by like a stunned peahen letting it happen right in front of me?
I took a deep slow breath, centring myself, the way I did before addressing the Council of Three or commanding a member of the Royal Guard. “Prince Uldarana. Get off the bed.”
The Prince started, dropping the girl’s hands. “Oh, er – yes. Um. Sorry.”
He eased back, making placating gestures which might have been aimed at either of us, as the girl’s eyes drooped sadly. I narrowed my own at her. She was certainly entitled to help. She was not entitled to clutch at strangers as if they were her stuffed poppet.
“Now,” I said firmly as Uldar moved back to stand next to me, “I’m sure this is all very confusing. But we are going to try to aid you. Can you write? Could you write down your name for us, and where you come from?”
The girl’s eyebrows quirked and she made a strange movement, a kind of fluid shrug, with a little flick of her hands. The expression in her vivid eyes seemed to say: “Of course I can write? Can’t everyone?”
Uldar rushed to fetch some rough paper, an inkstone and a brush from the tiny desk shoved into a corner of the captain’s cabin, quickly grinding the ink and presenting the results to the girl as elegantly as if they were a courting gift. I pretended not to notice, then pretended not to notice Uldar’s sudden look of embarrassment, darted in my direction, when the girl fumbled with the writing instruments. I was less successful at grinding away my own ignoble sense of satisfaction that she didn’t write as beautifully and gracefully as she apparently did everything else.
Eventually, with some frowning and blotting of ink, the girl managed to produce a page of surprisingly neat script. Uldar took it eagerly, then frowned.
“This is not Silingan.”
“Is it any other language you recognise?” I asked, leaning in.
He hunched his shoulder against me, like a child protecting their test-paper from a sibling’s curious gaze. “No – I only read Silingan,” he confessed. He turned the paper around, as if he thought it might make sense upside down.
“Let me see it. I can read several languages; it might be familiar to me, even if I can’t read it.”
With a grudging huff of breath he handed the paper over. I scrutinised the page. The writing was elegant, swirling, complex – and like literally nothing I had ever seen in my life before. It almost resembled pictograms, such as those used by the Ulmenni in the Northern Mountain tribes of my home. But their writing ran in lines from top to bottom, whereas this – unless I mistook – went from right to left and then back again in the other direction, sweeping across the page in the same way that water swept across the delta – or a tide over a beach.
Fascinating. But also, now that I had boasted of my skills, frustrating.
“Well, I don’t think she comes from Yamarr, Yangshan, Vishiman, Olland, the Engmar Empire or Cerpia,” I said with an effort to sound unruffled, handing the paper back.
The Prince smirked as he took it, cockiness restored. Then the girl shifted on the bed, her head tilting enquiringly, and Uldar’s gaze flew back to her like the hand on a compass searching for North.
“She must have been on a trading ship. And now she’s all alone, without anyone who even knows her name. How awful.”
“Yes,” I agreed, trying not to let the words rend at me. All alone... “Awful.”
“We have to call you something,” he said, moving closer to the bed again. “Just for now. What about – Shell? For your beautiful eyes?”
The girl looked blank. Not upset, or angry. Simply uncomprehending. That wasn’t her name. Discomfort squirmed in my gut. Few here could pronounce my full name correctly, but I wouldn’t wish to be re-named for another’s convenience, most especially not for something as superficial as my eye colour. “Perhaps – ”
Before I could finish the thought there was a heavy knock at the door. It opened swiftly, admitting the Captain. “We’re safely in dock,” he announced with a perfunctory bow. “Servants and sleighs are waiting for you on the quay if you’d like to follow me.”
“Wait!” Uldar said, as the Captain began to turn away. Then he stopped, as if suddenly losing his place in his words. The pause drew out. Farang shifted his weight and I resisted the urge to tap my foot. After a moment Uldar looked at me, a question in his eyes.
“What is it?” I asked, a little impatient. The puzzle of the girl’s origins aside, I was all too ready to leave her and the accursed sea behind. The Captain was a competent man, and had no doubt dealt with survivors like her before: he would know what to do much better than Uldar or me.
Either I had said the wrong thing or the right one. The Prince firmed his lips and addressed the Captain again. “Tell the servants to prepare for another guest. Shell is coming to the Palace with us.”
Found in the ruins of the great library at the Ice Palace of Silingana, after the thaw
I don’t remember entering the Silingana for the first time.
I don’t remember how it looked as we approached it in the dark, huddled in the strange sleighs pulled by giant horned deer, though it must have been spectacular – emerging through the falling snow and dark pines as we climbed the steep hill cliff above the sea. I don’t remember which door we were welcomed through, what stairs we climbed.
What I remember is a dream. A dream of dark water, and a pale form that drifted restlessly amid the waves, reaching for me. I remember reaching back, calling out. And the sensation of falling – flailing, struggling, helplessly jerking – that tore me from my death-like slumber in the night. I remember the scream that I choked back, and lying sleepless in a pitch-black room, the dimensions and smells of which were entirely unfamiliar. The way my pathetic, wheezing breaths echoed from the walls because there was nothing else to be heard. The quiet was as heavy and suffocating as a shroud wrapped around my body. The stillness was unbearable.
And I realised that I missed the sounds of the ocean. I missed the movements of the ship. I missed what had almost killed me.
How could that be?
9
The next time I opened my eyes it was light, and a faceless shadow was hovering over me in my bed. My body solidified in instinctive fear, staring until the shadow resolved itself into a person. A woman.
She stared back at me wordlessly, one hand outstretched as if to touch the pale blue silk counterpane that lay over my breast. My eyes flickered over her as my brain roared to wakefulness. She was middle-aged, with greying hair pulled back into severe bands. Her dress was plain, and she wore no jewellery. A servant? But no servant would dare to enter without announcing themselves. An intruder.
Beneath the sheets my hands formed slowly into fists. If she moved, I would seize that vulnerable hand – still hovering over me – and twist it left, forcing her off balance, and strike at her face as she fell.
“Who are you?” I asked quietly. My words were rough with sleep – but even enough. Do not betray weakness. The lion turns on the weak prey and devours it. You must be the lion, always the lion. Never the prey. “What are you doing here?”
The woman dropped her hand and straightened as if she had been burned. “My Lady – ”
“Highness,” I interrupted as I slowly, slowly pushed myself upright. Neck creaked and crunched. Spine tweaked and twinged. My hip felt as if I had been thrown from my horse into a pit of rocks. One side of the borrowed, too large nightgown drooped off my shoulder, but I scorned to adjust it in front of her. Staring the woman directly in her dark eyes, I con
tinued. “If you are here to attempt to harm me, you should at least use my correct title.”
“Oh! Oh – I – I beg your pardon Ma’am – I mean, Highness. I am the Queen’s personal maid. She sent me to assist you.”
A likely story. “Then why did you not knock?” I questioned, eyeing the heavy candlestick – silver with a blue ceramic base – that rested on the small table beside the bed. One well aimed blow to the temple and the woman would go out like a snuffed candle.
“Knock?” She repeated the word as if it were preposterous.
“Yes. Knock.” I allowed the Silingan word, with its sharp consonants, to sound on my tongue like a whipcrack. “A royal servant hardly enters the chamber of a Princess without the courtesy of knocking. Nor does she approach the Princess’s bed without leave.”
The woman’s face was flushing a slow, blotchy red. “Begging your pardon, Highness, but that isn’t the way things are done here.”
I considered her for a moment, then nodded. “Then it was an innocent mistake.”
The woman nodded sharply. “Very well. Now – ”
“It will not be repeated, however,” I interrupted. No one, not even my Mother, had taken that tone with me since I was a small child. I wouldn’t take it from the Queen of Silinga herself, let alone her maid.
The woman gaped, the flush deepening. “I – I beg your pardon?”
“There is no need to do so again.” I told her blandly. With the greatest effort I kept my face pleasant as I brushed back the covers, swung my legs out of the bed, and stood. If the mattress had been one bit softer I would not have been able to do it. There was a terrible instant when I thought my aching, bruised knees would give way, but I kept my gaze unwavering, staring her down. “I have already accepted your apology. Now I will give you your instructions. In the morning before entering my chamber – or indeed, any private chamber of mine, at any time, when the door has been closed – you will knock, and you will wait for my leave to enter. Is that clear?”
The woman’s gaze fell before mine. Her shoulders lifted and slumped. “Yes, Highness.”
Victory. “Good.”
“But her Majesty won’t like it,” she rallied, still staring at the blue and silver rug beneath her feet.
“I am sure her Majesty will be pleased to accommodate her guest’s wishes in the name of hospitality,” I returned, just a fraction less evenly this time, as my hip throbbed. “You may leave.”
That brought her head up again. “You’re to be washed and dressed and – ”
“I am not yet ready to dress.” Nor was I ready to be ordered around like a recalcitrant child. “You may wait outside the door until you are summoned, if you wish.”
With a little tut of annoyance the woman whirled around and scurried from the room. I listened for it, but she was apparently too well trained to allow the door to slam behind her.
My trembling knees dumped me down onto the mattress. Breathing hard, I dragged the collar of the nightgown roughly back into place, fabric bunching in my fist. Tears stung at my eyes and made me all the angrier. My ladies would never have let that woman through the door.
“Princess! Help me!”
No. No, I would not think about that. Instead, I would think about the presumption of that awful woman. Who had given these people the impression that I was a biddable girl ready to be trifled with by all and sundry? A lady’s maid barging into my room, watching me while I slept, and then having the audacity to order me about – me! Just who did they think I was?
And then, like a sudden spray of icy water in my face, remembrance: my medicine. I mustn’t get upset. Not until I had taken my medicine. My gaze skittered around the room like a panicked mouse and alighted on a crystal goblet and decanter, located on a low wooden trunk that sat at the foot of the bed. I pounced on the decanter and found it contained not water but some clear, golden cordial, flowery and sweet. It would do to mix and down my powder.
When I had swallowed the liquid I stared at the amount of medicine that remained with a grimace, running my tongue over my teeth. Whatever else today had in store, I must begin my attempts to find a new source of the drug. And fast. The dried herbs that it was made from were not rare or even expensive, though the exact blend was somewhat unusual. I had developed it myself, through painful trial and error. But getting hold of it in secret...
If the court of Silinga was anything like the court of Yamarr for gossip and rumour, that would be the true challenge.
A sharp, coppery tang tingled on the tip of my tongue. I had bitten the wound on my lip again. I licked the bloody place gingerly then forced myself to stand. These were to be my chambers, my domain in the Silingana. I had been too exhausted last night to do any more than bathe – taking advantage of the small but well fitted toilet room behind the screen to my left – and fall into bed. Now I had the chance to explore.
This room was not large, but it was beautifully appointed. Roughly circular, with walls of a strange silvery colour and texture. The floors were thick with plush, soft rugs in shades of blue and silver which made it pleasant to walk even in my bare feet. The bed was a four poster, hung with silky material, draped lavishly so that it pooled on the rugs. There were no windows. The light streamed down, chilly and just as blue as the silk, from a round glass cupola in the high, white ceiling.
And it was silent. Utterly silent. I could have thrown a pin from one end of the room to the other and heard it fall. If, of course, I had owned a pin.
Wrapping my arms around myself and wishing for something to wear – anything, even a dressing gown – I walked uncertainly through the adjoining chamber. A dressing room, complete with cabinets, dressing table, mirrors and the other expected fittings, all empty because the possessions that should have adorned them were now bait for fish. The final chamber would be my receiving room. Much smaller than my public room at home, and again, circular. The furnishings were rich velvets and brocades in shades of midnight, with the odd accent of silver and white. There was a nook with a writing desk of pale wood. I gravitated toward it, absently picking up the leather bound book that sat on the blotter to flick through its pages. The thick cream paper was blank. A journal, then, probably intended to record social engagements.
I closed it and brought it to my chest, wrapping my arms around it. Any book, even a blank one, was better than none.
It felt as if someone had stuffed my ears with cotton batting. I did not think I had ever been any place in my life that was so quiet. Where were all the everyday noises of a palace? The bustling footsteps of servants, the barking of dogs or the trilling of a songbird, the odd whisper or giggle of gossip in the corridors, the sounds of guards drilling outside? It felt more like – like some beautiful tomb than any place for living people.
The words of the old Wind Caster drifted through my mind: “Built on the backs of Ice Breakers...”
He couldn’t have been serious. Surely. I must have misheard or misinterpreted. But in that case what had he meant? What had the old man wanted me to know?
Fully one half of the circular wall of the receiving room was taken up with heavy drapes, pulled securely shut. They blocked any view of the outside world, and made everything dim and shadowy. Abruptly suffocating in the still, soundless room, I strode across and pulled back the closest panel of fabric.
Blinding light lanced my eyes. I flinched violently, barely keeping a cry of pain behind my teeth as my lids snapped shut, prickling with tears. The journal fell to the floor at my feet with a thud. Clapping one hand instinctively over my face to shield myself, I fumbled desperately with the curtain.
“That was unwise.”
I spun in place, hands forming into fists as they flew into defensive positions. Who dared – ? Before I could open my mouth, I found myself firmly moved to one side. The curtain rustled. The heat of sunlight lifted from my back.
“If you had not banished the maid before she could speak to you, then you would have known that you must not open the curtains before
noon on this side of the palace. The light reflecting from the walls is too bright, especially for someone unused to it. Your vision will return to normal in a moment, however. There is no need to panic.”
The voice was feminine and cultured – but impatient, brisk to the point of coldness. It was the second time this morning that someone had talked to me as if I were a tiresome child, and I bristled, shrugging off the firm hand that tried to guide me. “I assure you, this is not panic,” I said icily. “It’s fury. I gave that maid orders that I was not to be disturbed until I called, and no one was to enter here without knocking.”
“Did you? No wonder Girda was so flustered.” The voice was unimpressed. “Why don’t you sit down?”
Pettiness urged me to shrug the presumptuous intruder off again. Common sense, and the desire to preserve my dignity, forced me to capitulate. I allowed myself to be guided down onto a giving, silky seat, blinking as vague, shadowy shapes began to form at the edges of my eyesight.
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, attempting to wipe away the tears that welled up in my stinging eyes unobtrusively. “However – ”
“You are quite welcome,” the woman interrupted, perfunctorily. “May I ask what Girda did to cause her expulsion from your chambers?”
“I merely instructed her to wait outside until I was ready for her ministrations,” I responded defensively, hands knotting into fists again. I checked myself, took a deep breath, and continued more calmly. “That such a simple request apparently caused such consternation reflects rather poorly on the household management.”
There was a short, heavy pause. “Indeed? Are your eyes recovering yet?”
My vision was beginning to return, colours and solid shapes seeping back toward the centre of my gaze. Opening and closing my eyelids slowly, I tried to make out who I was dealing with. She had seated herself on the velvet settle in front of me. Tall. Straight-backed. She was gowned richly in silver-blue brocade, with long sleeves trimmed with white fur. Elegant, white skinned hands lay calmly folded in her lap.