Luvian excused himself, and Harcel followed him, leaving her alone, and Sorrow took the opportunity to examine the room. The walls were bare, patched with moss, and the flagstone floor was peppered with shoots and leaves, as though nature was trying to claim the building for its own. It was as sparse inside as out, set up with rows of wooden benches, creating a wide aisle between them. She found she recognized a lot of the faces already seated, nodding and smiling at those she made eye contact with. At the front was a small altar, bare of anything except a silver or pewter jug, and a large stone bowl. Mael turned around, pulling her gaze to his. They exchanged smiles, and Sorrow remembered the break-in. She’d have to make sure he was told, it was only fair. She was certain if their positions were reversed, he’d tell her.
She searched then for the Rhannish vice chancellor, spying him near the back in a space that had been cleared for his chair; Irris was beside him, talking to a tall man in the stark costume of the Astrians. Charon stared rigidly ahead, and Sorrow got the impression he was deliberately avoiding her gaze. She frowned, trying to catch his eye. He was scaring her a little.
Movement to her side made her turn, but instead of Luvian she found that Harcel, the red-headed Rhyllian, had hastily taken his spot.
“It’s about to begin,” he said, by way of explanation, and no sooner had he said it than Vespus, again with Aphora by his side, followed by Rasmus and Eirlys, swept down the aisle and took their seats at the front. Sorrow looked away as Rasmus passed, annoyed at how her skin flamed with embarrassment.
Then, at some signal Sorrow missed, everyone turned to the doors as Melisia and Caspar entered the room. Both wore white, and the babe in Melisia’s arms wore gold. They made their way slowly up the makeshift aisle to where a priestess of some kind had appeared, clad in a blue shift, beside the altar. Melisia handed the baby to the priestess, who began to speak in rapid Rhyllian. Sorrow didn’t even try to follow the words, instead focusing on the feeling and the beauty of the ceremony.
She was surprised when envy gripped her as she saw how carefully they all handled the child; as though she was the most precious thing in the world. She wondered if her mother would have held her so tenderly if she’d survived. Perhaps she might have grown to love her daughter once the pain of childbirth faded, regretted naming her Sorrow.
The priestess anointed the child with clear water from the bowl, and then spoke one final time, before saying, “Aralie.”
Almost everyone in the room replied, “Arventis, Aralie.”
“Welcome, Aralie,” Harcel leant over and translated.
Sorrow didn’t tell him it was one of the few Rhyllian words she knew. “Beautiful name,” she murmured instead.
“It is. In Rhannish it would mean something like ‘she who flies the highest and sings the sweetest’.”
“Like a kind of bird?”
“Perhaps.” The red-haired baron shrugged.
They all rose as Melisia and Caspar returned down the aisle with their newly named daughter, followed by Eirlys, Vespus, Aphora and Rasmus. Sorrow kept her eyes fixed on the tiny hand waving from the blankets in Melisia’s arms, turning back to Harcel when Rasmus drew level with them.
“What happens now?” Sorrow asked the baron.
“Now baby Aralie will receive her blessings from those Her Majesty and the prince consort have chosen to bless her.”
“Blessings?” Sorrow had spoken to him to give her something to do while Rasmus passed, but her curiosity was piqued. She didn’t know what blessings were.
The room began to empty, those not invited to the private part of the ceremony eager to find the wine and toast Aralie’s health, and Harcel gestured for her to follow the crowd outside.
“Yes. You know that some Rhyllians have abilities?” he asked, steering her to where a table had been set up beneath a large tree and glasses were being filled. Sorrow picked up a glass and handed it to him, taking one for Luvian until she saw he’d been waylaid by Fain Darcia, so she kept it for herself and allowed Harcel to find a space for them, away from the main throng hovering near the door.
“I do, of course.”
“Well, it’s tradition in Rhylla to ask those whose abilities you find particularly admirable, or worthy, to bless your child, in the hope it will foster a good ability in them.” He took a sip of his wine, and Sorrow did the same. “Of course, that’s not how it works. These days only one in seven Rhyllians has an ability, and it doesn’t follow a logic. Fathers without an ability can have children with one, a pair of twins might find one has an ability, one does not.” He turned and looked around the room. “There, see.”
Sorrow followed the gesture of his glass to where Aphora now stood with Vespus, and the man who’d been with them at the bridge all those months ago. Her brother, Melakis.
“Twins,” Harcel continued. “The girl has a gift, but her brother doesn’t. And yet they were both blessed by the same people, born to the same parents. We’re not a naturally discriminatory race, and yet the abilities do mark differences that sometimes have an impact. Melisia would tell you otherwise, but then who discriminates against a queen? No, she’s fine. But some of us are less valued, in some circles, for our lack of ability.”
He looked across the room to where Eirlys was standing with Rasmus, the pair doing their best to be subtle as they poured something from a flask subtly into their drinks. Starwater, she assumed. They toasted each other and drank, Eirlys sucking an ice cube into her mouth, grinning at her cousin, whose lips curved in response.
As Sorrow watched, Eirlys trailed a hand over the back of a chair, leaving a patina of ice crystals in its wake. So she could wield coldness, Sorrow deduced. Not really useful in a land that bordered the Svartan sea at the north, but probably in demand over high summer.
When Sorrow looked back at Harcel, there was a wistfulness on his face, and Sorrow wondered whether it was for the girl, or her ability – she noticed he had mentioned no ability of his own.
“I’m surprised Her Majesty didn’t choose Lord Corrigan and his son to bless Aralie, given that they’re family,” Sorrow said carefully.
Harcel frowned. “Well, healing isn’t one of the most sought-after gifts. There are pills and potions that can alleviate pain as well as what Rasmus can do.”
He was jealous, Sorrow realized. So it was the princess Eirlys he liked.
“No,” Harcel continued. “Her Majesty and the prince consort will have chosen carefully who gives the blessings, and it would never have been Rasmus or his father.”
Sorrow kept her voice light and level as she replied. “Really? I suppose because Lord Vespus is only Melisia’s half-brother? And so Rasmus is only a half-cousin?”
“It’s nothing to do with that,” Harcel was dismissive. “None of the blessers are related to Aralie. It’s political, Miss Ventaxis – something you must understand given your new situation. It’s all about appearance and meaning. Who they’ve chosen sends a message about who’s in favour, and also what qualities they have decided are to be celebrated. Rasmus resigned his role in your country and left without warning. The queen isn’t happy with him.”
Sorrow’s chest tightened guiltily. It was her fault Rasmus wasn’t in favour right now. But, she realized, Harcel had said Vespus wasn’t in favour either. Was this because of the Alvus farm, or something more? Did Melisia suspect what her brother was trying to accomplish with Mael in Rhannon?
“True,” she replied. “But what has Lord Vespus done?”
Harcel gave her a sharp look, though whatever response he’d been about to make was lost to the fanfare as Melisia, Caspar, the baby and three other Rhyllians left the ruins and joined them in the courtyard. The guests broke into applause, and Sorrow looked at the three Blessers: a Rhyllian woman with the white hair of old age, a younger woman who stood proudly, meeting the eye of anyone who looked at her, and a young man who looked both thrilled and terrified simultaneously, his pale skin alternately flushing pink and then blanching white as he gazed at t
he queen and then the clapping crowd.
When the cheering had died away, Melisia spoke, first in Rhyllian, then again in the languages of those gathered.
“We will now adjourn back to our rooms to rest, relax and celebrate in private before the ball tonight. We look forward to seeing you there,” Melisia finally said, working her way through the spectrum of languages her guests spoke.
When the royal party, including Eirlys, left, Harcel visibly slumped.
“I’ll see you at the ball,” he said, sloping off after them, joining a group of laughing Rhyllians.
Sorrow looked around for Irris, but couldn’t see her. Then Luvian appeared by her side, an odd look on his face.
“Have you seen Irris?” Sorrow asked.
“She was talking to Rasmus earlier. Maybe she went to start getting ready for tonight.”
Sorrow blinked. Surely Irris wouldn’t have left without her? What was wrong with the Days today? “Oh. Well where have you been?” she asked. “More breaking and entering?”
“How dare you besmirch my good name?” Luvian replied. “And, no, actually I was getting told off by Charon Day. I had to go to the bathroom, and when I came back it had started, so I sat next to him and he collared me afterwards. He’s not happy with me. I’d go as far as to say he’s outright furious with me. Apparently I’m not being paid to waste your time on a wild-goose chase.”
Sorrow swore. She’d meant to warn him Charon planned to speak to him but had forgotten.
“Sorry,” she said.
Luvian looked at her. “He’s wrong, you know. I mean, not totally. Obviously finding out who Mael really is isn’t enough on its own, and we know that. But that, combined with finding Beliss and getting her to admit she raised a stolen child given to her by Vespus, will be enough. And it will give him somewhere to return to afterwards. If we can match him to a missing child, and have Beliss’s confession, that’s enough.”
“So you think we should continue looking through the reports?”
Luvian nodded. “But Lord Day doesn’t need to know,” he added. “He made it very clear we were to stop.”
Suspicion made her narrow her eyes.
Why? she asked herself. His reason, his insistence, didn’t make sense. So what if she whiled away a morning reading an old list? There was nothing else she could have been doing. Why did he want them to stop looking into it?
“I think Darcia and Skae plan to start the party early,” Luvian said as they made their way back to the carriage. “Shall we join them? Do a little more for diplomatic relations?”
“You go,” Sorrow said, a plan forming. “I have a headache.”
Luvian shrugged. “Are you sure?”
Sorrow nodded.
They parted, Luvian joining Lady Skae and Darcia in their carriage, and Sorrow taking her own, alone, back to her quarters. Dain, who had been dozing in the Rhannish party’s private parlour, looked up when she entered, but Sorrow repeated her lie about having a headache and retreated to her rooms, where she picked up the reports she’d left there earlier.
She never had been very good at following rules.
Succedaneum
She found it so fast it was as though it had been waiting for her. There, on the page after the one she’d been looking at that morning, two days after Mael had fallen from the Humpback Bridge, she found the missing child.
But not a son. And not a toddler.
A baby. A girl, taken from a hospital in the North Marches hours after her birth, while her mother was sleeping and the nurses were occupied with another, difficult birth in the very same building.
The hospital Sorrow had been born in. The night Sorrow had been born.
Her grandmother told her she’d been a miracle child, snatched from the jaws of death. She’d told her how she’d offered anything to the Graces if they’d bring her back. The story had warmed Sorrow as a child, this proof that someone had loved her enough to want her to stay. Her father couldn’t have made it clearer he didn’t love her, didn’t even like her. He never used her name, always “daughter”. An accusation. Or perhaps a question…
Sorrow stared down at the page, her vision swimming. It was a coincidence. It had to be.
But there was a chill in her bones, a deep, heavy pooling of dread in her stomach.
She had to find Charon.
She hurried from her room, ignoring Dain when she asked if Sorrow was all right as she passed. She left the small palace and began to run, the piece of paper gripped in her hand as she followed the covered walkways. She should have asked him where he was staying – wait, what had the woman, Deryn, told her? With Ambassador Mira. Charon was staying with her.
Sorrow saw two Rhyllian guards walking ahead of her and sped up, slowing when they turned at the sound of her feet pounding the gravel.
“Ambassador Mira’s quarters?” she panted. “I need to find them.”
The men looked between themselves, silently conferring, before one pointed towards a small palace, painted a soft green. “There.”
“Thank you,” Sorrow gasped, forgetting Rhyllians disliked the simple phrase and breaking into a run once more.
There was another guard outside, and he moved to block her path as she approached.
“I’m Sorrow Ventaxis,” she said as she drew up before him. “I understand the Rhannish vice chancellor is staying here. I need to see him, urgently.”
She wondered how she looked to him, still dressed in the pale blue gown she’d worn to the Naming ceremony. She could feel her hair had fallen loose from its knot atop her head as she’d run, knew her face would be flushed, her eyes wide and panicked.
The man gave her a once-over and, apparently deciding she wasn’t a threat, stood aside, and Sorrow entered the ambassador’s palace.
The layout of the ambassador’s palace seemed the same as the one she occupied, so she turned to the left and followed a short passageway down to where the rose parlour was in her own quarters. As she’d hoped, it was the same here, though instead of roses the walls were patterned with birds, vases of feathers instead of flowers, but the room was empty of the vice chancellor.
At the sound of her footsteps a butler appeared from a small door behind the bar area.
“Can I help?” he asked in Rhannish.
“Is Lord Day here?”
“Yes, miss. I believe he’s in his rooms. From the hallway, follow the corridor down; it’s the second door on the right.”
Sorrow nodded her thanks, turning back and heading to the room she’d been directed to, heart beating in time with her hurried footsteps.
She took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
“Yes?” Charon called.
Sorrow went in.
As in the small palace, the room was a library, now adapted into a bedroom for Charon, so he could come and go as he pleased without needing to be carried up and down stairs. There was a low bed, and a small sitting area, and a screened part that Sorrow assumed was for bathing or dressing. But at that moment she didn’t care about the setup of the room. She didn’t care about anything but getting an answer to the question that was bubbling through her like poison.
Charon was sitting up on the bed, the chair parked beside it, his legs under a light blanket, a book in his hands. The window was open, birdsong and the low buzzing of bees drifting in through it, and the room smelled of the roses that grew outside. Charon frowned when he saw Sorrow, opening his mouth to speak.
Then he saw the piece of paper in her hand, crumpled and ragged.
Without saying a word, he swung himself off the bed and into his chair, rolling to meet her in the middle of the room. He met her gaze steadily, though she could see the fluttering of his pulse at his throat.
“Tell me…” Sorrow began, but didn’t know how to finish. “On the day I was born, a baby girl vanished from the hospital—”
“Sorrow…”
“No.” Her voice was high, still breathless from running. “Let me finish. A baby girl vani
shed the night I was born. And I was born with the cord around my neck, wasn’t I?” she asked as Charon lowered his head. “That’s the story. Grandmama revived me when the midwife froze. Whisked me out of the room to save me. And she did. I lived.”
Charon said nothing.
“Or did I die?” Sorrow said. “Rather, did the real Sorrow die? And my grandmother took me instead, to take her place. Is that why you didn’t want me to look at the reports? Not because it was a waste of time, but because of this?”
Still he didn’t speak, his eyes locked on hers, his mouth pressed together. On the wheels of his chair, Charon’s knuckles were white.
“I’m an imposter,” Sorrow said.
“No.” Charon spoke then. “You’re not an imposter.”
“So I’m wrong? This is a coincidence?”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Sorrow, please. Sit. If you fall I can’t catch you.”
If it hadn’t been for the fact her bones felt as though they were made of spun sugar, she would have remained standing to defy him. But she didn’t trust them to hold her for much longer, so she sat, collapsing into a chair covered in gold silk, as Charon moved opposite her.
“I want to hear it all. The whole truth.”
Charon gave a single, deep nod.
“I didn’t know until afterwards – that’s not an excuse,” he said. “But I want you to know it wasn’t a scheme. None of it was planned, by anyone. And by the time I found out it was too late to do anything without destroying the country. I was in hospital myself when it happened.” He gestured down at his legs. He would have been bed-bound, the bones in his legs shattered beyond repair when he dived after Mael.
Sorrow said nothing, waiting with a face like stone for him to continue.
State of Sorrow Page 27