Daryna supposed a snarling wolf illusion might not have been the most tactful way to introduce herself, but she had never done well at this sort of thing. In spite of her years in Myrcia and varied travels, the niceties of etiquette and the various levels of the nobility outside of Loshadnarod never made sense to her. Perhaps she had never given enough thought or effort to learning the rules, though. She sighed and walked through to the dining room beside Grigory, silently vowing to behave more kindly from now on.
The baroness bundled Nina and Anik off to the opposite end of the room after telling a servant to bring them cups of tea and bread. The son tried talking with Vadik, but the conversation sounded awkward and halting. The baron, finally remembering that he ought to be participating in this greeting of his guests, asked Grigory what his position was. Grigory answered politely, because he was incapable of behaving any other way, but his gaze constantly drifted over to Daryna and Mr. Kemp next to the tea table.
Daryna smiled and waved at him, trying to remind the boy not to stare quite so openly. “So,” she said, turning to Mr. Kemp, “Caedmon asked you to tell me something about Queen Merewyn?”
“Well, um, not about Queen Merewyn,” Mr. Kemp stammered as he poured tea. “No, Lord Aldred asked the Duke of Leornian to give you a message at his earliest convenience. Naturally, the duke tasked me with telling you the news.”
“News? What sort of news?”
“You will not be our only hillichmagnar guest at the Bocburg.”
There were hundreds of hillichmagnars alive and this other guest might be any one of them, yet Daryna’s stomach clenched. “Well, of course not,” she said nervously, “Caedmon will be there.”
“Naturally.” Mr. Kemp waved a slender hand. “But a third will be joining us as well—Servius Lepidus Faustinus.”
Even though she had expected the name, she nearly spilled her teacup over her lap. As it was, she sloshed quite a lot on the table when she set it down. A moment later, Grigory came to her side, the baron having wandered off to join his wife. She felt so foolish when she saw the concern in his eyes.
“Are you well, Daryna Matushka?”
“I am fine. Mr. Kemp has surprised me; that is all. An old acquaintance, it seems, will be joining us.”
“Who, may I ask?”
“Servius Lepidus Faustinus,” Mr. Kemp answered. “The famous Immani hillichmagnar. Or at least he is famous in Myrcia. Have you heard of him before?”
“If it is not impolitic to say so, every Loshadnarodski knows the names of the most powerful men in the Empire. They are...concerns for us. We watch them the way a man will watch a river in spring, knowing it could flood and carry away his whole family.”
“That’s a nice metaphor,” said Mr. Kemp.
“Thank you,” said Grigory, smiling.
Mr. Kemp nodded and smiled back.
Daryna might have found it all very charming if she were not still trying to come to terms with the fact that in a few days, she would see Faustinus.
“Well, there’s no worry now,” Mr. Kemp assured him. “All is safe within the Bocburg, I promise you. This event is about strengthening ties and building relationships.”
“Is that so? Then I am very glad I have come.”
“No one is safe with Faustinus around,” Daryna muttered to herself.
“My apologies, Lady Daryna, I did not hear what you said.”
Daryna ignored Mr. Kemp’s question. “Did Caedmon have no other word for me?”
“In fact, he did, my lady. He is hopeful that you and he, along with Servius Faustinus, can perform some magysk entertainment at the welcome feast. I must say, that trick with the snarling wolf was quite something. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”
“Daryna Matushka does not perform ‘tricks,’” said Grigory.
“Grigory, it is fine,” Daryna said.
“The word was ill-chosen,” said Mr. Kemp, bowing his head. “I beg your pardon.”
The two young men started an animated discussion about the nature of magy, but Daryna completely ignored them. She was trying desperately to gather her emotions. Not only was Faustinus coming, but Caedmon expected her to work with him, and for no better purpose than the amusement of nobles who could not fathom what hillichmagnars could do. She needed air and some time to gather her thoughts.
Interrupting Mr. Kemp, she said, “If Caedmon believes a magysk display will put people at their ease, I do not mind performing tricks. But I need time to plan what...tricks I will perform. If you will excuse me.”
“Of course, my lady.” Mr. Kemp bowed. “Let me find a servant to show you to the royal chambers.”
“No need. I must step outside for some air.” Without waiting to be guided or told which door might be best, she headed directly for the one at the back of the room. The baroness sat closest to the door, but Daryna swept around her without a word. However, when she pulled on the handle, it would not open.
“Oh, that door is never opened,” the baroness said. “It is always kept locked.”
Daryna whispered a spell she had known since she started at school over two hundred years before. The bolts all cracked and the door swung open. She did not look back, despite the baroness’s gasps of outrage. What did she care of baronesses and locks and pretty young men falling in lust with each other? Soon she would see Faustinus, and she had no idea if she possessed the strength to deal with him.
The yard outside was a great bustle of Myrcian servants and Loshadnarodski riders. Communication struggles continued as the Loshadnarodskis began putting up tents. As they saw her, they stopped to bow. Their Myrcian helpers were confused why work halted for anyone outside the ruling family. But Myrcian hillichmagnars had never reached the status of Mother of the Country, at least not since the days of the legendary Leofe. How fortunate for Caedmon and all the rest. How lucky to be spared the weight of all that adoration. It was exhausting, sometimes even on the best of days, and this was anything but. She walked quickly past the gawping Myrcians and reverent Loshadnarodskis with her hand raised in blessing, making no eye contact, on her way to the nearby tree line.
Once she tramped far enough inside the woods that the noise of the yard faded, she found a large white rock and took a seat. She must clear her mind and decide what to do when she saw Faustinus. It had been a century and a half since she had said goodbye to him. Except she hadn’t really said goodbye at all. She had crawled out of their bed in Terminium and left nothing behind her but a note.
It had been a terrible thing to do; she saw that now. After two decades of fleeting liaisons, they had finally decided to leave the judgmental eyes of Diernemynster behind them and live together. Diernemynster—a refuge and retreat for study open to all the hillichmagnars of the world, tucked away in the mountains of northern Myrcia. It was the center of hillichmagnar life. She had been studying there with her teacher, Shyama, under the kindly gaze of the Freagast, Harald, leader of Diernemynster, when Faustinus suggested they run away together.
There was no doubt in her mind; she had loved Faustinus when she agreed to leave with him. She had still loved him just as much when she crept off in the snow while he slept. But she also remembered why she had done so, the conflict in her soul that she still felt today. The Law of Diernemynster said hillichmagnars should have no sexual relations with each other or with ordinary men and women. Daryna found the notion absurd—barring people who lived two thousand years from ever having sex! But if she and Faustinus wished to be openly together, they had to leave Diernemynster, and as long as they stayed together, they would never be welcomed back. The idea of leaving, of never seeing Harald, or Earnwine the librarian, or her mentor Shyama, or even Caedmon ever again had frightened her. But she had loved Faustinus, could not envision her life without him, so when he asked her to leave the ancient home of the hillichmagnars, she had said yes.
On their way north through Cruedrua to the Empire, everything had been perfect. She forgot her fears. Nothing in the world mattered but her and
Faustinus, in the long nights together, curled up to stay warm. Then they reached Terminium, the first Immani city after the cold Cruedruan plateau, and her soul began to argue with her body and heart, until that fateful morning when she left. She had heard the voice of Earstien himself in the night, and she had known it was more than a dream. She had sinned, throwing away the gifts that Earstien had given her. Staying with Faustinus meant staying on a course straight to the Void.
So she had slipped out of bed and written him a goodbye letter. She couldn’t have stayed around until he woke up, though. He would have convinced her to stay.
Of course, the irony was that she had then wandered Loshadnarod looking for redemption, and had never seen Harald, Shyama, or Caedmon since. She was about to see Caedmon, at least. But, of course, she was also going to see Faustinus. Perhaps this was fated. Sometimes, it seemed, Earstien had a strange sense of humor.
“Here you are, Daryna Matushka,” said Grigory, pushing through the low-hanging branches. He was beaming, happier than she had ever seen him. “Presley sent me to see if you would like to wash up before supper.”
“Is it ‘Presley’ already, and not Mr. Kemp?” She forced herself to smile. “The two of you surely have a great deal to talk about.”
“Oh, I do not know what to say to him half the time. He is quite brilliant. He’s the duke’s most trusted advisor and handles all his money. What do I have to talk about besides the antiquated mines I work in all day?”
“I’m sure the two of you will find some mutual topic of interest.”
She stood and brushed off her skirt, ready to face the baroness and the others again.
“Are you feeling better?”
She sighed and wondered what the truth was. Had Faustinus forgiven her? She didn’t forgive herself, so she wouldn’t blame him if he had not. Either way, she would be seeing him soon.
“I needed some time to gather my thoughts.”
“Thoughts about what? The entertainment you’ve been asked to give?”
“About the truth of things.”
Grigory stared at her, unspeaking.
Why had she given such an enigmatic answer? Did she hope he would ask, “What truth?” So she could then ask if he had never wondered why the Blessed Daryna Matushka was living as a hermit in a labyrinth for eight years when the court “rediscovered” her? And if he had asked, would she have answered, “I was doing penance for running away with the man I love, an act which hurt no one, but which broke the laws of Diernemynster”? Of course, she would have said none of this.
“Don’t listen to me,” she said, starting to walk back toward the house. “You must remember that no matter how young I look, I’m an eccentric old lady. You should ignore me when I speak nonsense.”
“The holy men say you are a mystic, and you often speak in parables.”
She laughed. “They say all sorts of things, Grigory. Trust me, sometimes when I talk, it’s just nonsense.”
Chapter 12
FIVE DAYS HAD PASSED since she spoke with Brandon, and yet she had received no indication that she would be allowed to meet with Queen Nina. In those five agonizing, interminable days, every possible combination of allies and enemies had presented itself to her. There was no telling whom she could trust. Anyone could be on her side; anyone could be trying to kill her. She composed letters begging for help, addressed to Queen Nina, Ethelred, Servius Lepidus Faustinus, and even Prince Vadik. She had found something amiss in each letter, so she had recomposed them all several times, carefully burning the drafts before hiding the finished letters in a book of Turetanian poetry.
Then there was the problem of getting the letters into the hands of their intended recipients. Brandon had always obliged her by passing along messages, but the guards always censored them. They would probably mar and mangle her words until her pleas for help were lost, and all that remained were vague greetings and best wishes.
There was another, more fundamental problem, though. Even if, by some miracle, the letters made it through unscathed, they might cause a scandal and disrupt the carefully-planned meeting between Ethelred and Nina. Brandon liked Merewyn, and sometimes she fancied his feelings went deeper than that. But she couldn’t forget that he was Ethelred’s best friend. He would never knowingly do something that could embarrass the king.
Haley could be trusted to deliver the letters, but the guards had the right to search her person and her room. They hadn’t bothered in years, but now, with all these visitors coming to the castle, the guards were probably expecting Merewyn to try sending an illicit message or two. They would be on the lookout for hidden notes under the breakfast tray or tucked into Haley’s pocket.
Maxen would never be subject to such a violation of his person. But she immediately dismissed the notion of using him as a courier. If her primary goal was to leave this tower and help Maxen, she could not jeopardize his freedom and good name in any way. He couldn’t be implicated in any sort of secret plot.
Then, of course, there was Broderick. Surely the guards would never try to search the captain general. But she still didn’t know if he would be able to visit her. Three days had passed since Haley brought up a rose from him. No doubt he was very busy, but she had hoped to see him already. Perhaps he was under specific orders not to see her. She wouldn’t put it past Ethelred to give such an order.
She planned to spend another morning working on her letters, trusting she would find some way to deliver them. But then one of the maids dusted around her books, going so far as to lift the spine of the volume of Turetanian poetry. If the girl had pulled the book out, or if her hand had slipped, all the messages would have fallen to the floor. Merewyn cursed her own stupidity. Writing anything down was always a mistake. The second the maid left the room, Merewyn grabbed the letters, hurried them over to the fireplace, and burned them.
She was still poking at the ashes, making sure that no traces of writing remained, when her door opened.
Who would enter without knocking? This was Brandon’s home, and he knocked. Maxen was her son, and he knocked. Were these the guards, coming to search her apartment? Coming to question her? Earstien! She almost bolted for the upstairs bedroom, but she managed to stop herself. Slowly, she turned to face the intruders. Chin up, back straight. Let them know she wasn’t scared.
“Hello, Merewyn.”
The years had turned his hair gray, expanded his waistline, and wrinkled his face. But she had no difficulty identifying the breathless man standing at her door: His Serene Majesty, Ethelred Sigor, King of Myrcia. Her husband.
When had he arrived in Leornian? It must have only been moments ago, because otherwise someone would surely have told her. There had been more chaos than usual outside this morning, but she had ignored it. If there had been a fanfare or cheering, then perhaps she might have known someone important had arrived. But Ethelred didn’t care for fanfares, and he was rarely greeted by cheering. Especially not here in Leornian, where many people still remembered the great riot seventeen years ago.
Even so, here he was. Right here in her room after all those years. Holy Finster! Thank Earstien she had burned all those letters.
“Merewyn? May I...may I come in?”
She recollected herself. “Of course, you may come in. You are the king and may do as it pleases you.”
He winced, like someone who had been kicked in the knee. “I would go if you didn’t want me here.”
She had no doubt he would; that was typical of his weakness. But she refused to let him. This was a sudden and unexpected gift. For weeks, she had been planning what she might say if she had a chance to talk to him. And now, here he was, entirely unbidden! She had no idea why he had come here, but she didn’t care. She would not let this chance slip away.
“Please, come in.” She smiled and gestured toward the table and chairs, like a proper hostess should. “I’ve been hoping I would see you while you were here. I’ll pour wine, assuming your palette still prefers Annenstruker Rodvins, since th
at’s all I have to offer.”
“I still enjoy them very much,” he said, closing the door. With an awkward burst, he started across the room toward her, gathering momentum as he went. Horrified that he might be about to embrace her, she moved away, hoping he had not been able to read the discomfort on her face. Looks of repulsion won few men over, and if she wanted to charm him again, she must stop behaving like a startled rabbit. The initial shock now past, she knew what to do—she had been planning this moment for years.
How fortunate that she had put on her most flattering burgundy gown that morning. She tugged gently on the bodice while she had her back to him getting the decanter and glasses. With only a slight smile, the one he had found “mysterious and erotic” in their youth, she approached the table with the wine. He had settled in on the opposite side from the fire; apparently he was still warm-blooded.
“Would you prefer the bench by the windows?”
He grinned wistfully, holding out a mottled hand for a glass. “No, this is fine. I’m tired after all those blasted steps.”
“When did you arrive?”
“No more than an hour ago.”
So he had come almost directly here. Her hopes rose. “Then you should be resting now. At least let me get you a footstool.”
She rose to grab the simple wooden block she kept under the desk where she drew, but Ethelred grabbed her hand. “I don’t need one.”
Her initial instinct was to recoil, but she forced herself to stay still, to let him run his thumb over her knuckles.
“Merewyn, it’s been a very long time. Sit down and let’s talk.”
After the minutest squeeze, he allowed her hand to fall, and she sat down to join him.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” she said in her politest hostess voice. “Especially when I know you are tired and busy.”
She almost asked about his digestion. Travel and large gatherings always gave him a stomachache. But she wasn’t sure what degree of intimacy was appropriate between them. Better to wait and let him take the lead. She could judge his temper and the depth of his lingering feelings before she decided how effusive she ought to be.
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