The young men of the court were the most amenable to the King’s marriage. Their joy was untainted by jealousy, for with the King’s marriage treaty signed and sealed, there was no longer a mad rush to the throne. Boys of ancient families who had been overlooked and slighted for months, were now once again feted and sought-after. Marriage agreements that had been conveniently forgotten were once again pursued, and the young ladies of the court had eyes once more for the men who were not of House Warden.
Indeed, the court was a merry place, and only those who had been thwarted had any time to be displeased. I was grateful to the King for driving them out into the open, these malcontents, for in the childish flush of excitement that gripped the Court, it was easy to pick out those whose smiles were more like grimaces, whose eyes strayed coldly to Miriel or the Duke, and who slipped away to whisper in corners. They thought themselves unnoticed by the court, and indeed, few cared enough to watch.
I was one of those few. I stood in the shadows, and I marked who grudged Miriel’s rise, and I named each and every one as my enemy and my target.
Most of them did not surprise me. The Torstenssons were bitterly disappointed, and the whole of the Lapland faction with them. Linnea accepted her fate with barely-concealed relief, but her father and brothers sat quiet and unsmiling through each of the feasts celebrating the King’s betrothal. I had heard from one of the servants in my pay, a stable lad, that the men were deeply offended by the slight to their blood, to their land, to their spoken agreement with the King.
This alone would hardly have worried me, but their close-headed conferences with Piter Nilson and Arman Dulgurokov were far more dangerous. Together, these men and their factions controlled the whole of the southeast of Heddred, stretching from the base of the Daelvic mountains to the DeVere lands north of the Bone Wastes; together, they would make a force to be reckoned with. Each of them had a grudge to carry against the King: the Torstenssons believed the King to be forsworn, Arman Dulgurokov was watching his sister as she was she was inexorably pushed from the throne, and Piter Nilson had returned to the capital to plead once more for soldiers to keep the peace in his lands.
The King was aware of Nilson’s discontent; indeed, not one man in the court or Council could claim ignorance of the matter. Nilson was shameless in his indignation, willing to corner any man who might listen, and then whisper angrily that the King cared nothing for the security of the south. Why, he was leaving his own nobles to fend for themselves against an uprising that daily seemed both more nebulous, and more organized. He feared his tenants, he mistrusted his own servants. Why would the King not do as he must, and root out Jacces and crush the rebellion?
If the King were not careful, I thought, he would have a second uprising on his hands—for while he did not listen, others did. Arman Dulgurokov and Efan of Lapland, of course, whose lands were close enough to Nilson’s, could often be seen in close-headed conference together. But others listened to them, others repeated their words in low voices in the hallways, and worst of all, I saw Gerald Conradine watching them, noting their discontent, his eyes flicking this way and that to see the currents of unrest that ran through the Court. He never spoke against the King, not a word, but he was everywhere, it seemed, that discontent arose, with his sly smile and his sympathetic words. He did not plant the suggestion that the Warlords would never have stood for this rebellion; he was waiting, I knew—but for what? For someone else to come to him with a proposition? I watched him, and as always, I watched with fear.
Nilson’s demands for soldiers and force had me looking up to the royal dais often, watching the High Priest. I made sure that I noticed whom he watched and who he spoke to. I had known that the man must be a master of self-control; he had watched and waited for decades already, gathering power, sowing a whisper here, a seed of doubt there. He did not endanger himself by showing his hand now; he did not speak out against Nilson, nor did he preach sermons that might catch the man’s ear. The High Priest laid low, spoke little, and watched everyone, and continued to distribute the letters that I, for the life of me, could not trace.
The King, young and impulsive, had none of the High Priest’s self-control. His delight in his marriage would turn in an instant to petulance; he begrudged anyone who did not share his exuberance, he was quick to reproach them. But this, even he could not wish away. Day by day, as Nilson’s protests grew more widespread, as the man did not wait patiently for the business of the realm to resume, as he did not stay obediently silent, the King grew more and more furious.
“What does he think?” he snarled at Miriel, where she sat on one of the ornamental couches in his chambers. “That I welcome this rebellion? That I show it the slightest lenience? I will end it, can he not wait?”
I saw from the slight pause before Miriel spoke that she was choosing her words carefully. I felt the familiar curiosity to see what she would say, and the similarly familiar rush of dread that she would betray herself to the King’s anger. In the corner sat two of the Dowager Queen’s ladies in waiting, hand-picked to chaperone the young couple; Miriel’s words would be repeated exactly to Isra later, I knew. So far, they had made no comment on my presence; as with other nobles, their eyes seemed to slide past anyone in livery.
When she was the most frightened, when everything hung in the balance—then, Miriel went as still as the summer sky before a storm. She barely stirred now. She stayed exactly where she was, leaning against one arm of the couch to watch the King as he prowled about his chambers, and she smiled at him soothingly.
“He is making trouble, only. Have you not sent declarations affirming the order of the world? Have you not refused to take up arms against your own citizens? That is the mark of a wise man, who does not reach at once for swords and spears like a savage.”
He warmed to her praise, but was still sulky. “He says that I care more about peace with Ismir than I care about my own people.”
“Foolish of him,” Miriel said sharply. “How can he be so blind? The man must see that without the threat from Ismir, we are stronger. With peace, we are not losing our wealth and our young men to battles in the West.”
“Yes!” The King swung around, staring at her intently. “That is it exactly, my Lady. The alliance with Dusan makes Heddred stronger. And do you know why?”
Miriel might well have retorted that she had just told him why, but she had learned that he liked to hear himself talk. Only when his thoughts were let loose could she have his attention and begin to change his mind. She smiled sweetly and waited. He, too, was smiling, but savagely.
“Because with Dusan’s help, I can crush this movement so that it shall no longer appear in any part of the world. Before, either one of us might have supported these men, to sow discord in the other’s kingdom—but now we are as one. We will act as one. I will write to him at once, he must aid me, as I will aid him, to keep this heresy from spreading to his kingdom as well.”
Miriel’s eyes flickered at the mention of heresy, and I saw her take a slow breath to calm herself. She kept quiet as the King spoke, and as we swept out of the room, I saw that she was already planning what she would say to him at their next meeting. The King’s will was like a live beast, twisting out of her control and only barely tamed by her words. Now, with his heart turned to her and the Queenship almost in her grasp, she had every reason to be cautious, and yet all her heart was turned to the rebellion. She could not afford to fail, and fear made her hesitant even as it stirred her temper.
Every day, she returned to her rooms from her meetings with the King, and composed letters to the High Priest, and I delivered them as inventively as I could: baked in loaves of bread, slipped between items of laundry. Once I even snuck into the rooms behind the Cathedral and laid the letter on his table, my heart in my throat the whole time, but full of the excitement that only sneaking and evading gave me. I retrieved the letters as well. Each of them was laid on one of the pews in the cathedral, and it was near impossible to obtain them withou
t being spotted by the High Priest or one of his minions. Each time, I brought the letters back and gave them to Miriel, still trembling with the feeling of matching wits with someone.
“Oh, no,” Miriel said one day. The latest letter crackled in her fingers.
“What is it?” I was at her side at once, peering over her shoulder at the words. It had been a particularly difficult letter to retrieve, this one, so closely guarded that I had resorted to dressing as a chorister and stealing it right before morning services. The High Priest was growing ever more desperate to learn whom the letter-writer might be, and despite my pleas to Miriel that she was in danger as long as she kept her identity a secret to him, she was determined to reveal the information only when it would do her the most good.
“Look.” Miriel pointed to one of the paragraphs. “He says that he is going to begin distributing letters again in the south.”
“Isn’t that good?” I asked cautiously. The rebellion had been dormant for so long that I could only imagine she would be pleased to have more adherents joining the cause, but she shook her head.
“Not now, it’s too delicate. I’m still working Garad around.” She pursed her lips. “I keep telling Jacces to wait, but he will not heed me. I can’t tell him I have the King’s ear without him figuring out it’s me, but I must convince him to keep quiet. I can persuade Garad eventually.” I considered; I could see her reasoning, but I doubted her. Miriel could convince a man of almost anything, but I did not think that even she could convince Garad of this. No matter how irritated the King was with Nilson, his irritation would not spread to Nilson’s cause—they were of a like mind on the matter of giving up their own power.
“You knew that this would come sooner or later,” I pointed out, trying to soothe her. “It’s just sooner, that’s all.” She looked up at me, and her eyes were filled with fear.
“I need more time,” she whispered. “He’s not as in love with me as he was. I need to turn him back to me, and then when I’m his Queen, when I’m carrying his child, then he’ll be in the first flush of the marriage—he’ll listen to anything I say. But even now, I have to make sure he doesn’t find another girl he likes better. He defied the Council to have me, he can defy the law again to have another girl if he wants. I can’t spare a single moment to do anything other than enchant him—I can’t afford to say something that would anger him. My hold isn’t strong enough.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I asked, worried by the bleak picture she painted, and she shook her head. Then she bit her lip.
“I could ask Wilhelm. He might have advice. The King might have spoken to him about what he likes, and what he doesn’t.” Alarm bells went off in my head, a great clamor like the tower bells at the Winter Castle, warning of a raid. I thought of trying to forbid Miriel outright to speak to Wilhelm, and knew that it would not work. Miriel was headstrong; she always had been.
“Be careful,” I said finally, and she looked at me sharply. I felt a great weariness come over me at this dance. “Don’t. You know why I’m telling you to be careful.”
“Say it,” she challenged softly, and I knew she needed to hear the words.
“You’re in love with him,” I whispered back. Her color rose, but she only stared at me steadily. “And he with you. You’re about to marry a man you hate.” I was at a loss for words. I did not know how to say that I feared Miriel, with her supreme self-control, would do something stupid now, at the worst time. I only said, helplessly, “Just be careful.” She swallowed, and then her shoulders slumped.
“It’s so hard,” she breathed. “Every day, he’s there. We think the same thoughts, I know just what he’d say to the King, what joke he’d make—“
“Stop it,” I said brutally, and her eyes went wide. “If you think like this, you’ll destroy it all—you know it can only come to ruin.” She stared at me, stricken, but she nodded. I took her by the shoulders, as Roine would me, and stared into her eyes. “You told me that above all, you wanted to lead this country. Well, you can—but you have to give something up. Like I did.”
Miriel met my eyes, and I saw that she understood the feelings I could hardly understand myself. She knew how much it hurt for me to hide things from Roine, from Temar, and she knew how it hurt to become the shadow I had hoped I would never be. She would never apologize for asking me to give up my innocence, give up those I loved—no, Miriel reckoned that worth the cost. But she understood the price I paid, and she was fair enough that she would not shrink from giving up something equally precious. At last, she nodded again, and I tried to smile at her.
“Do not think of him,” I advised her. “You have to give him up. You only have to bear it for another month, that is all—when you’re married, he will go. He will go off questing, or go run an estate. Let him go, then. And this will fade.”
“Will it?” She was not angry anymore. She looked lost. She wanted to believe me. I bit my lip and nodded, hoping beyond hope that I was right, and at last she whispered, “I understand. I will give him up.” I gave a sigh of relief, but it was too soon. She nodded to me, regally. “Go summon him, then. I will seek his advice.”
“But you said—“
“I said I would give him up. But we need this information.” Her voice sharpened. “Can you think of anyone else that has it? Anyone we can trust?” Finally, regretfully, I shook my head, and she nodded. “Then go. Summon him to me before I lose my resolve to be cold to him.”
I went.
Miriel was cold, indeed, when Wilhelm arrived. She bade him be seated, and then she paced, her voice clear but her face turned away. I alone knew that she could not bear to see his eyes when she asked him how she could better enchant the King. Wilhelm himself looked stricken—he doubted her love for him, and he yearned for it. Even as I would not wish him pain, I hoped that he might doubt for a little longer. If Miriel could only keep him here, caught between hope and doubt, she could use his knowledge, but if either doubt or hope won out…Wilhelm was as passionate as Miriel. Who could say what he might do?
“My Lady, his Grace much admires the Lady Marie,” Wilhelm offered. “His mother, the Dowager Queen, Gods save her, has much remarked upon Lady Marie’s…pleasant… nature.”
“Pleasant,” Miriel repeated. She had not moved from where was she standing, staring out the window, but her shoulders were rigid. I could see her anger rising.
“Not that you are not pleasant,” Wilhelm hastened to assure her. He started to rise, to go to her, and then caught sight of my stare. I shook my head, and he sat down, slowly. “My Lady, everyone knows that the Lady Marie has no opinions on statecraft. She is well-taught, but she does not share her own thoughts. She speaks only of embroidery and—“ He broke off as Miriel turned to him at last. Her eyes were cold and hard.
“Indeed,” she said. “I see what I must do. Thank you for your advice.” She stared at him for a moment, then turned back to the window. “You can go,” she said, over her shoulder, and Wilhelm’s eyes widened. He had never seen her like this before—no yearning glances, no sweet smiles. He hesitated, but she did not turn back to him, and eventually he left, giving an awkward bow to her back, and a nod to me.
When the door closed behind him, Miriel turned to look at me. Her face was screwed up with determination.
“That was good, right?” Her hands were balled up.
“It was.” I nodded and stepped closer, and she swallowed. “It’s not for much longer,” I assured her, and she looked away.
“Yes,” she agreed, in a small voice.
Chapter 21
Miriel was pleasant. She was sweet, she was kind, she rarely raised her voice except to laugh at the King’s jests. She hung on his every word. Most importantly, she never debated him as she once had. She was still clever, citing old philosophers or court sages, but she never pitted herself against Garad—her lively conversation was always, always in agreement with him.
As he grew more and more irate at the letters from Jacces, a
nd convinced that he must send troops to restore order, Miriel never once wavered in her agreement with him. Even I, who knew her the best of anyone, never saw her eyes flash, and never heard the strain in her tone. She could not have been a more devoted ally—whatever he wished to hear, he heard it from her lips.
It was only barely enough for her to keep him, for the thing she feared had come to pass: Garad’s interest was wavering. Had the marriage treaty not been signed, he would have been slipping away from her; but then, had the marriage treaty not been signed, he would not have been so irritated with her. Having stood defiant against his guardians, his mother, and the Council to pick Miriel for love, Garad was now determined that each of them should see Miriel as the perfect match, and it was a futile effort. Queen, Guardian, and Council alike were determined to stop the folly of this ill-advised betrothal, and whenever Garad found that they did not yet love Miriel, the blame fell on her shoulders.
Once, I had thought Miriel foolish to worry so, but her detractors were always working to persuade Garad to break his word. I do not know what sly words Guy de la Marque poured into the King’s ear, or what impassioned pleas the Dowager Queen might have made. All I know is that, in those weeks before the marriage, the King was alert, as he had never been before, for imperfection and impropriety in his betrothed. Miriel could be charming and well-mannered, yes—even deferential. But she could not rival Marie de la Marque’s birth, or Linnea Torstensson’s, or Maeve of Orleans,’ and he punished her for it, snapping criticisms of everything she said and did. If he had been any other man, or perhaps if she had been a princess born, she could have shaken some sense into him; he was the King, no one could do such a thing. No one had ever said no to him, not even his mother—her bright, sickly child had outlived his childhood, and now no one knew how to control him.
So when the King commented critically on Miriel’s gown, or her jewels, she could only apologize. When he spoke of his grand alliance with Dusan, she could not disclaim that the tensions with Kasimir were as bad as they had ever been, his spies gathering evidence of assassination plots and warmongering raids on the Voltur mountains; she agreed that Garad had led the country to peace. When he spoke of the rebellion, of rooting out the insurgents and hanging them in the marketplaces, Miriel only nodded and concurred. If she wished to get herself on the throne, she could do no less.
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