Shadowforged (Light & Shadow)

by Katson, Moira

  And another woman: “All his Majesty’s furniture! I ask you, will he be needing all four presence chambers? And a piano? What will he be using that for?”

  Not all of it was fairytale and complaint, of course. From the gossips, I learned that the King’s uncle Arman Dulgurokov would be smuggling his mistress along, disguised as a washer-woman, that no less than three of the council members had come to inquire about the availability of whores in the plains city, and that several of the young ladies of the court were atwitter about a masquerade ball that might allow them to slip away unnoticed with handsome men from Ismir. When I heard that last, I shook my head and resolved to speak to Miriel about it at once.

  When I arrived in her chambers, the place was a riot of color, swatches and bolts of fabric strewn across the couches and her bed. Miriel herself was being fitted for a gown, a deep red—permitted, as it was the color of House Warden—and choosing swatches of fabric for another dozen gowns. Netting and ribbons trailed all over the room, and a veritable army of seamstresses rushed back and forth, offering different colors and cloths for Miriel’s perusal.

  She shot me a look as I came into the room.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “Arranging your lodging with the stewards.” I leaned against the wall and folded my arms. I had wanted to advise her that half the ladies of the court would be trying to sneak into noblemen’s beds, and she had best be careful not to be accused of the same, but I was not about to do so with the seamstresses here. Seamstresses heard the best of the gossip, and they would be keeping an ear cocked to hear what the King’s reported mistress and her servant spoke of.

  Miriel made a show of ignoring me. Her excitement had bled away in the past few days, and now she was half-crazed with worry about this event, having been called to her uncle’s rooms nearly a dozen times in the past few days. There were lectures on propriety, and the fine line between reminding the King where his heart lay, and playing the whore. First, the Duke had thought it best that Miriel should appear the most accomplished of the Queen’s maidens, so that the Ismiri might think her a natural next Queen—but then he had called us back the same day to say that perhaps it was better if Miriel were hardly noticed at all. We had enough enemies here. The day after, he called us back to tell us that Miriel should be noteworthy, but not when she danced—

  On and on it went, and Miriel grew more and more frenzied and snappish. The King never failed to send messages to her, carried by Wilhelm Conradine, or passed to me by a Royal Guardsman. Still, in the flurry of preparations, the King was making good on his plan to appear finished with Miriel. He no longer looked at her at dinner, he did not stop to speak to her if he visited the maidens’ chambers after dinner, he no longer even met with her in the nights in case they should be watched. Instead, he danced with Linnea Torstensson and Maeve of Orleans, Elizabeth Cessor and Marie de la Marque, and from amongst the older girls he singled out Cintia Conradine.

  Miriel had to bear her own fear of his growing independence, and also the gleeful rumor-mongering of the Court; she was always surrounded by whispered comments and hidden smiles. The Duke’s suspicion of the plan—he had worried aloud that it might be a sop, only to avoid a scene with Miriel as he cast her off—only worsened her fears.

  She had started to take her frustrations out on me, snapping criticisms of every little thing I did, and our constant spats had only gotten worse. Every piece of spite and malice to which she could not respond at dinner was marked, totted up, and dealt back to me. It reminded me of the old days, her veiled insults and her anger, and no matter if she sighed and apologized, I was beginning to grow tired of it.

  So now I strolled over to one of her upholstered seats, pulled the expensive bolts of fabric off of it, and plopped down, propping my boots on the table. At once she turned to glare at me.

  “Get up.” She tossed her hair as she turned back to admire herself in the mirror.

  “Why?” I stayed where I was.

  “Because you need to be fitted for new clothes.” Her voice sharpened. “And because I told you to.”

  “I don’t need new clothes.” I looked at her gown and shrugged. “No one will pay any attention to me anyway, not if you’re doing your job correctly.” Her eyelids flickered at the blow.

  “You’re in my train, remember,” she warned. “People see you. We’re to be perfect. You can’t wear those britches and that tunic. And not those boots.”

  I had a moment of pure horror. “You don’t mean to put me in dresses?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d look a fool in a dress.” Only Miriel could take your words and slide them back under your skin without seeming to try. She smiled, sweet as poison. “But you could at least wear something better than that baggy old thing.”

  This argument again. I froze. Since our last birthday, I had grown like a beanstalk, shedding the baby fat Miriel had so mercilessly teased me for. At first, I had become so thin that my ribs had showed. No matter how much I ate—and all the cooks’ threats could not keep a growing child out of a kitchen—I never gained back the roundness in my cheeks or the childish pudginess on my frame. Even with stick-thin arms and sticking-out ribs, I had grown enough the fine suit of clothes that had been commissioned for me had strained across my body, and in the past few weeks especially, I had noticed things happening that I wished would stop.

  I had been terrified that Miriel would notice, and so I went to the armorer who, fed up with trying to clothe my still-growing frame, had agreed to give me a tunic far too big for me. Miriel had teased me about it for weeks, alternately exclaiming delightedly about how provincial I looked, and hissing that I made her look like a minor noble, one who couldn’t afford to dress her servants properly. Once, fed up with her taunts, I had hissed back that she was really just a merchant girl, her father a poor noble and her mother a new one, and I had earned a ringing slap across the face for my trouble. But she had let the issue of the clothing go, at least until now.

  When she saw me hesitate, Miriel’s eyes narrowed.

  “What? What are you hiding, then?” In a flash, as fast as thought, she was across the room, her hands ripping at my tunic, pushing it aside from my stomach as I struggled to back away. The seamstresses were not even bothering to hide their interest. They watched, wide-eyes, as—unable to push Miriel off me, not permitted to grab her wrists or throw her as I would another attacker—I was pushed up against the wall, her shoulder jabbed up to press against my chest, her hands holding the tunic away from me. She stared at the bared flesh of my stomach, then back at me, her eyes narrowed. I was so wrapped up in my own embarrassment that it took me a moment to realize what she was looking for. When I did, I laughed in her face, I was so incredulous.

  “You think I’m pregnant?”

  “What else would you hide so?” she challenged me. “I expect it—you’re disgraceful! Flaunting yourself in britches and boots like a man, showing your legs! You’re out in the yards, wrestling with Temar, practicing with the men!” My face flamed, but I said nothing; I had heard the sharp note of jealousy in her voice, and she knew it. My freedom terrified Miriel, offended her, intrigued her. Her face colored, too, and she looked away, stepping back as I pulled the tunic straight.

  “Well? Get down to your linen. Let the seamstress measure you.”

  There was no gainsaying her. After a silent moment, I pulled the tunic over my head, and heard her indrawn breath as she saw what I had been hiding. I felt a flash of spite; of course she had not seen beyond the tunic, of course she had not thought to ask why I was wearing it. Miriel never asked why, not where I was concerned. This was the basis of our relationship these days, more so than my britches or her beautiful face: Miriel did not trouble herself to watch the servants, and I did not trouble myself to tell her that she missed much useful information that way.

  Now, she stared at the linen bindings I had wrapped, as tightly as I could, over my chest. “You’re turning into a woman, then.” Her voice
was flat, and I heard the match to my own disappointment, which was so sharp that I could not even bring myself to respond.

  I was not a fool. I knew that these things happened to other girls, that they grew bosoms and that their hips widened and their waists narrowed. That was a good figure, good for childbearing, good for catching a man’s eye. But it was useless to me, who needed a clear draw on my bow, who needed a sword belt to lie flat at my waist, who needed not to catch any man’s eye, but instead slip unseen through the palace.

  So when I looked down one morning and saw the fabric straining against my chest, I had not felt the glow of satisfaction that I was turning into a woman. I had felt horror. I had felt betrayal. This could not be happening, I told myself. It happened to other women—but not to me. Not to me. I was not really a woman, after all, as Miriel was so fond of pointing out, but some strange thing, half girl and half boy. I did not want to be a woman. I had run to Roine and begged for linen to bind my breasts. Her lips had tightened, as they did when I asked for something that would help me continue in the Duke’s service, but she had acquiesced.

  Every morning since, I had risen early, snuck out of the bedroom, and wrapped the bandages as tightly as I could around my chest, one thought always in my mind: Temar could not see me that way. At the very thought of it, even weeks later, panic gripped me. Temar could not see me this way.

  For some reason—and I hated this—my breath came short when I thought of that, and I knew it must be obvious, plain as day on my face. Things had changed. When I had sparred with Temar two years ago, it had been true play-fighting. I had adored him, but it had been the strange, clear love of a child; I had been consumed with his vision of the Shadow he wanted me to be. When we had sparred, I imagined I was protecting Miriel, I dreamed of using the throws against assassins, of winning a fight and laying my knife to an attacker’s throat. Now, when we fought, I tried to focus on the necessity, remember the feeling of fighting for glory, and yet all I felt was a terrible self-consciousness.

  I would lie awake at night with my pulse racing and my face burning as I thought of the day’s lessons: Temar’s cool, impersonal hands at my waist and his impassive voice as he lectured me for a throw, or his satisfaction at beating me in sparring. I knew well enough what lay between us: mistrust and lies, danger and anger. But it was all muddled, everything was strange in ways I would have died rather than confide in Miriel. Miriel, who was so quick to remind me that Temar was an enemy—as if I did not know, as if these feelings were not the worst possible thing that could have happened. I hid behind the truce that he and I had built up, and prayed that this all went away soon.

  I tried to slow my breathing now, as Miriel looked me over. I knew that she did not see into my mind, that she could not see anything past the strange new shape of my body. I had hidden it not only because I was confused and ashamed, but because I had known instinctively that I should not let Miriel see these changes. Not Miriel, who was so stick-thin that she bought new gowns for vanity, and not necessity, who had to lace so tightly that she could barely breathe, just to try to get a hint of a waist, of a bosom.

  How could I tell Miriel that this strange new body of mine was something that disappointed me? I knew that Roine would tell me not to be ashamed of myself, and I felt guilty for my thoughts. I knew that it was ridiculous. Every girl turned into a woman. There was no hiding what I was. But somehow I had thought I might, that my britches and my fighting and my unladylike studies might fool even my own self, and I would stay as I had always been—just me, just Catwin.

  So I stood in complete silence while Miriel took one look at my burning face and then pretended to ignore me, and the seamstress moved about me with a measuring cord, remarking once on the smallness of my waist and then lapsing into awkward silence herself. I allowed myself a small inward smile at the fact that she did not know what to say. How did one compliment the Lady Miriel’s strange half-girl servant? No one knew. No one ever knew how to treat me. It was one of the few amusing things about my life.

  I looked over once and saw Miriel staring into the fire, her arms folded over her chest, her face the very picture of scorn and spite. Miriel could care less that I wanted none of the odd shapes that seemed to be a part of my body now. She was the one who needed them, who was supposed to have the bosom and the womanly charms to go with her stunning face. She was the one who was supposed to enchant men, and there was she with her lack of figure—hard enough to bear—and here was I with all of the things her seamstresses sighed about.

  When I was done, I dressed, silently, and left. She still would not look at me. She did not speak to me for the next week, in fact, through the fittings of my fine new tunics and britches, my new, soft, black leather boots. One morning, however, I found a package on my cot, wrapped in linen: Miriel had ordered me a tabard with the Celys crest, to drape over the tunic itself. Whether she had done it to ease my embarrassment or to avoid begging the comparison between our figures, I did not know—Miriel sometimes surprised me with her strange moments of kindness—but I knew better than to mention it.

  So it was in polite silence that we set out from Penekket, sitting quietly together in the Duke’s covered carriage as he and Temar rode outside in the sunshine. Miriel, desperate that this event should not mean the end of her influence over the King, forgot her sulkiness entirely and spent the entire journey murmuring pretty phrases to herself, practicing a clever toss of her head, or a witty jest. I, stuck in the jolting carriage, envied her the preoccupation.

  Where I had first been awed by the procession of the nobles, marveling at the beautifully painted carriages, and fine horses, the jewels and the capes, the novelty had worn off quickly. The citizens of Penekket had turned out alongside the road to cheer our passage, throwing flowers and calling blessings, agape at the splendor, but they had seen it all only for a moment. Trapped in the slow-moving procession, watching the nobles as the days wore on and they drew closer to their Ismiri enemies, I knew that beneath all the finery, this procession radiated desperation and fear.

  Chapter 13

  “This is ridiculous,” Miriel muttered. I shook my head and smiled brightly at her, a reminder to keep her own face pleasant.

  “He wanted to show Dusan—and Kasimir— that Heddred is rich and powerful,” I said. Miriel shot me a glare as her horse jibed at the crowd. She spread one hand along its neck, clucking at it a little to soothe it. We had spent most of the past two weeks in a carriage, and by rights should be glad to be out in the open air, but in truth, we were both overwhelmed. Garad had been determined that we should make a proper procession into the town, displaying our wealth to the Ismiri, and so we were wearing our best clothes in the summer heat, waving and smiling until our faces hurt. Thus it was that the crowd pressed around us, hoisting tankards of ale and throwing rose petals, and we struggled to control the horses that we plainly terrified at the noise.

  “Could he not do it without taking all of us from the palace?” Miriel’s irritation was clear despite the sweetness of her tone and the dazzling smile she was now keeping fixed firmly on her face. The servants and minor nobles of Ismir had turned out to see the King’s procession ride into town, and we were all on show. On the other side of the city, the Heddrian servants would be crowding the road to see the procession of Ismiri nobles. I had heard endless speculation of what the Ismiri might look like, and some of the predictions were dire, indeed—I had even heard one or two whispers that they might have cloven hoofs, like devils.

  Miriel was still muttering, but I barely heard her, I was so busy scanning the crowd for threats. The thought of this ride into town had given me nightmares; I had woken the night before drenched in sweat and terrified. The crowd pressed close, as it had done in my dream, and I could not help but scan it for the sight of a face I might recognize, any detail that would show me that the dream had been prescient, that a poison-edged blade waited here for the woman I was bound to protect.

  I had made the mistake of asking Miriel
if she was scared as well. She had been short with me when we left Penekket, but had grown increasingly withdrawn and silent as we progressed across the plains. When I had been in the throes of the nightmare the night before, it had been Miriel who woke me, shaking my shoulder and calling my name softly. When I had calmed myself and changed my clothes, I had taken notice of her white face, and how she lay sleepless on her little bed. I had asked her if she was well, or if she was afraid, too.

  “Why, what have I to fear?” she asked sharply.

  “I just thought—so many nobles. Tension.” My voice trailed off. I could not say out loud that I feared another assassination attempt, but logic dictated that it was a very real danger. If our would-be murderer stood to benefit from tension between Ismir and Heddred, it would be easy enough to kill Miriel and fix the blame on some Ismiri noble or another—and be rid of her, for whatever reason they had chosen.

  From Miriel’s white face, I knew that she had been thinking the same thing. But these days were full of fear for her. It was very nearly worse to live in constant fear of the King’s favor fading away. What was there for her if he dropped her? Favorites of the Kings could sometimes catch good marriages at court, but it was not likely. And it was equally likely that her uncle would simply kill her for her failure, and pass it off as an illness, a fall from her horse...

  And, fearing this, she must hold her head high every day and ignore the whispers that she had lost him, knowing that a few thought less of her, others reveled in her apparent downfall, and the rest pitied her. Worse, she must watch the King laugh and dance with others, fearing that his subterfuge would become truth, and his heart would fix on one or another of them.

  Worst of all, Miriel’s prediction had come true: she was no longer his advisor in every little matter. They sent letters through Wilhelm, but such communications were limited, and so Miriel must hear of the King’s decisions, knowing that he had undertaken them alone, and praying that he might not realize that her advice was unnecessary after all. Fear was with her always, and it wore on her.