“What do you mean, ‘bring me to the feast’? Aren’t the guards taking me over?”
“Oh, no, my lady. Duke Brandon gave all but one of your guards the night off, and he is to remain here. His majesty, your husband, said that he doesn’t want you entering the hall like a prisoner.”
“How kind of him,” said Merewyn with a shudder. Dismissing the guards only made her more vulnerable. Of course Ethelred would be in on the plot. That stood to reason. “So what you’re saying is that whoever comes to get me is my enemy?”
“Yes, my lady. I’m sorry.”
Merewyn stared at Haley, agape, unable to produce an answer before someone knocked on the door. The moment she had longed for, then feared, and now dreaded, had arrived. “Stay with me tonight, Haley. If you are there as a witness, no one can take the risk of trying to hurt me.”
Haley kissed Merewyn’s hand. “We must go now, my lady.”
Merewyn nodded and rose as Haley raced ahead down the stairs to answer the door. Merewyn swept in front of the mirror one last time, forcing her hair into place again. “It doesn’t matter,” she said to herself. “They can’t stop me—not Daryna, not Vadik, not Ethelred. Tonight will be a triumph, the first night on the path back to my freedom.” But her hands were still shaking, and she barely got her hairpins back in place.
Who was coming to take her to the feast? Brandon would be the most logical choice; he was the host and an old friend. But there was no possible way he could be involved in a plot against her. Yes, if it was Brandon at the door, that meant Haley’s information was wrong.
Unless, of course, Merewyn had worn out her welcome. Maybe Brandon was finally tired of having her in his castle. Maybe he was trying to do a favor for Ethelred.
Sending Prince Vadik would not be entirely out of the realm of possibility, and she held no doubts he thirsted for her blood. Still, that would be a little odd, sending a boy she hadn’t been formally introduced to yet. It would raise eyebrows around the court.
“Just don’t let it be one of the hillichmagnars,” she prayed silently. Bundling herself into the gray silk shawl that matched her leggings, she went down the stairs to face her nemesis.
“Hello, mother. You look beautiful. Such a lovely dress. The color really suits you.”
Maxen! It was her son, and he was here to escort her over to the feast.
She almost burst out laughing from sheer relief. Her stomach unknotted itself, and her breath came more easily. Maxen was no threat to her. There could be no doubt the rumor was false. Haley was such a silly girl, always listening to the most sensational gossip and believing every word of it. If a trap lay in front of Merewyn tonight, it was not here.
“You always know exactly the right thing to say in order to flatter an old woman,” she said. They met at the foot of the stairs and exchanged kisses on the cheek. She then held him out at arm’s length to inspect—he wore tight wool pants and an elaborately embroidered charcoal gray shirt that ended at the waist. “So this cut has come back into fashion? It suits you.”
“Thank you. Shall we?” He offered his arm and she took it, sure the night would be a triumph after all.
“Are you coming, Haley?” Merewyn turned and asked.
The girl was cowering by the fireplace, staring at Maxen like she beheld a ghoul from the Void. Merewyn glanced at her son. He gave her a jovial smile and patted the hand he had clasped in his arm. Haley must be wrong. Not her boy. Surely not him. The very notion was absurd.
Chapter 22
SHE CLUTCHED MAXEN’S arm on every step down the tower while repeating to herself that Haley was mistaken, must be mistaken, about her escort being someone to fear. Wrong. Simply wrong. Looking back, she wished she had been able to push Haley about the exact wording and source of her information. Perhaps someone else had been intended to see her across the courtyard to the great hall, and Maxen had been a last-minute substitute.
At the base of the tower, before they took the final step through the door to the outside, she halted him. “It was so nice that you were permitted to come get me. I lived in dread the guards would be taking me over.”
He patted her hand. “I would never allow that. I spoke to father days ago and insisted I escort you.”
The door opened, letting in a blast of cold mountain air as they ventured out into the night. Days ago it had been decided, but Haley had heard something against him just tonight. How did that make sense? And why had she not known Maxen would escort her? Why had no one mentioned it? Merewyn shivered, the wind swirling. Maxen removed his black velvet half cape and flung it around her shoulders. She held it closed at her throat. Her boy loved her. Of course, he did. Haley, poor girl, was muddled.
She looked up at her handsome son and saw the stars above him. “What a beautiful sky,” she said, placing her hand on his arm to slow him down. In truth, there wasn’t anything noteworthy about this particular night sky other than that she was outside to see it. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been outside at night. Wait, she could—Brandon had taken her to the top of her tower after dark as a birthday present five years ago. Some quick math gave her 2,025 days. “Darling, you must consider me an old fool. I apologize.”
“You should be out under the stars whenever you want. Except now,” he chuckled. “Everyone is waiting for us inside.”
They were about halfway across the open lawn, which seemed to have shrunk during her years of captivity. The palace felt as though it actively moved toward them, they approached so swiftly. She tried to steady her thoughts, knowing the effect was only her warped perception. Even from here, the noise of the party—high, swirling music and the rumble of conversation—was almost deafening. “I don’t know that I can do this,” she whispered.
“Of course, you can,” answered Maxen, without slowing down. “You will handle it beautifully.” His confidence bolstered her enough that she glided the next dozen yards without hesitation through a line of carriages. A glow from the open door now before her, drew her in.
The palace at the Bocburg was as warm and inviting as in her memory. Light emanated from everywhere—chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, torches held in wall brackets, fires burning in open bowls. Tapestries dating to the time of the Leorniac kings hugged the walls, and weapons of war glittered on tables before them.
She had always loved the Bocburg. Of all the castles and palaces and fortresses that the court visited in the king’s long progress around the country, it was her second favorite, after only Wealdan Castle in Formacaster. Ethelred, on the other hand, had preferred the Prince’s Palace in Rawdon, ancient seat of the Sigor Dynasty. Of course, that had been Fransis’s home, too, and it was impossible not to associate him with it. Merewyn wondered if Ethelred enjoyed the place now quite as much as he used to. Maybe he saw the virtues of the Bocburg now, as she did.
The awful clamor of voices radiated from the great hall, which awaited them around the corner. How many voices? Dozens? Hundreds? It had been so long since she had been around a group over five people that she had no way of judging the noise she now heard. How many guests had already arrived? What constituted fashionably late these days?
She stopped two steps from the corner, just outside the blazing light that poured from the open door and glistened on the polished flagstones. Maxen removed his cape and whipped it back over his own shoulders. She waited for him and scanned the hallway. Servants and guards were keeping watch along the entire length, stationed between tapestries and suits of armor. Some of these people were staring dutifully at the far wall, pretending not to notice her. But many of them were gawping like country farm boys at their first tournament.
“How many people are here, do you think?” She cursed her trembling voice.
Maxen kissed her hand. “You are going to be spectacular.”
And then, there she was, standing full in the light from the great hall. A thousand candles burned in the high chandeliers, under the huge timbers of the hammerbeam roof, nearly black from th
e smoke of ten thousand feasts. The gray stone walls, ancient long before the founding of Myrcia, were nearly obscured behind bright cloth banners: the arms of the ten duchies along the sides, with the silver bird of the Sigors and the running horse of Loshadnarod’s Krupin dynasty rising behind the high table on either side of a large tapestry. Long trestle tables ran down either side, but nearly the entire rest of the room was packed with guests, all glittering in jewels and silk and gold. All talking at the top of their voices—laughing, joking, flirting. The heat of the room was intense, in spite of the high ceiling and the big leaded-glass windows, which had been cracked opened for the feast. The air seemed too thick to breathe, and Merewyn’s throat tightened.
Some burly young man she had never seen with brown skin and a bright orange tunic, probably some Sahasran emissary, was the first person to notice her. He nodded his head of heavily braided black hair, and then the people next to him saw her, and soon heads were turning everywhere. On and on the awareness of her spread, like a ripple across a pond, and a hush rolled over the room, ending in complete silence. She vaguely recalled a time when this was her natural element and felt rapt attention her due. How she could have ever been pleased by such total focus was a mystery to her now.
“Smile, mother,” Maxen whispered in her ear. “You have a brilliant smile. These people have been waiting seventeen years to see it.”
She concentrated on her facial muscles, willing them to form the smile that had once won the heart of the best man at court as well as the king. It should be the sort of action one never forgets, and yet she could not make the gesture naturally. She found herself unexpectedly thrilled to spot Ethelred. Surely he would come greet her.
But, holy Finster, he was talking with two of the guests she had been least looking forward to seeing tonight—Hildred and Edgar. Hildred was unpleasant enough. But Merewyn could happily go another seventeen years without seeing the king’s idiot brother and never miss him. If Ethelred had spread, Edgar had positively swelled. It might have been the fact that he was also balding, but his face looked as round as a platter. In the unnatural silence, he searched the room, and when his glare fell on her, she knew he loved her no more now than he had seventeen years ago.
The room came back alive when Ethelred took his first decisive steps across the broad stone floor toward Merewyn. Luckily, Hildred turned the other direction, but less fortunately, Edgar followed his brother. “Merewyn.” Ethelred smiled politely with a nod when he reached her. “You look very lovely tonight.”
He wore new, but not particularly well-tailored wool pants and a simple white tunic, accented by a fur-trimmed vest of brown leather. Were it not for the enormous gold sparrow broach with ruby eyes attached to his lapel, he could pass for a peasant. A modest dairy farmer, perhaps, in his best clothes to attend the May Fair. Some things never did change. Ethelred had learned nothing about how to appear kingly even after it had almost cost him his throne. With such an example, how was Maxen to learn anything?
“Thank you. You look very handsome,” she lied. After a pause, she turned to his brother, not bothering to keep up the pretense of a smile. “Edgar.”
“In case you were wondering, and I know that you weren’t, I thought this was a terrible idea and I told Ethelred as much.”
“Edgar, stay your anger for this one night,” Ethelred said. “She is here and that is an end to it. Merewyn, I know Brandon is eager to see you. May I take you to him and then have a word alone with Maxen? I promise it will be brief.”
There was no way to answer in the negative, so she nodded. “Certainly.”
She held out her arm in a manner which practically obligated Ethelred to take it, and she heard more than one gasp from the watching crowd when they touched. Every head bowed to her as Ethelred led her to the windows overlooking the river where Brandon awaited her.
“Your majesty,” he said, bowing, but when he rose, his grin possessed too much real pleasure for formality. “Merewyn.” He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “You’re more beautiful than ever.”
Ethelred cleared his throat and Edgar groaned, and she couldn’t keep a triumphant smirk from her lips.
“Brandon, I leave her majesty in your capable hands. I must speak with my son and brother.”
Why hadn’t Ethelred mentioned before that Edgar was invited to this little talk? A moment ago, he had introduced it as a tête-à-tête: “a word alone with Maxen.” Edgar never had anything but bad intentions for her, and now he was being invited to speak with her son. She did not like it, but she could do nothing save note the men’s reactions—Brandon bowed stiffly, Edgar scowled, and Maxen kissed her cheek.
“You’re marvelous, mother,” he whispered in her ear before leaving with his father and uncle.
“It is so good to see you here,” Brandon said, gesturing to the thickly padded oak bench stuffed into a window nook. She couldn’t resist a flourish of her skirts when she wheeled around to take her seat and observe the guests. Brandon reclined next to her, and she waited, habit telling her that a queen did not go in search of conversation when it was meant to come to her. Yet, she sat beside her one remaining friend and watched everyone slowly return to what they had been engaged in before she entered. No one now looked at her, at least not directly.
The silence between her and Brandon only stretched a matter of seconds, though, before she found she could not tolerate the quiet. Somehow, quite annoyingly, she could only think to fill it with the truth. “It seems you’re the only one,” she said. When he raised an eyebrow in reply, she added, “Who thinks it’s good I’m here.”
He waved dismissively at the room. “They simply do not know how to react to your presence. After all this time, you are permitted to attend a royal function, and they do not know if it will please or displease the king if they speak to you. So for now, they stay away, assuming they can always come over later, but they can’t take back a visit if it turns out to be the wrong choice.”
She nodded, seeing sense in his words, but she found little comfort in his logic. “You would think that I, of all people, would have the resources for solitude, but I must confess I find the idea of sitting here alone overwhelming.”
Brandon patted her hand, which lay in her lap. “Do not fear. I will not leave you alone.”
She made ready to thank him until a thought struck her. “You probably aren’t allowed to leave me alone, are you?”
His abashed posture proved her guess right. “I would not abandon you in any case.”
“You care for my wellbeing more than is necessary to fulfill your duty to the king. Why is that?”
He opened and closed his mouth a few times and made noises as if to speak, though he formed no words.
In spite of sitting by the window, she felt flushed, and she giggled. “I’ve wanted to ask you that question for years, but I’ve never dared. I think I’m emboldened by my nerves. I’m not sure what I’m saying, in fact.”
He almost smiled and peeked at her from the corner of his downcast eyes. “This is a night of unprecedented events, so why should you not ask and why should I not answer?” With a sigh, he sat straight, bracing himself with fists on knees, and turned to look at her. “I always loved you and Fransis. But I love Ethelred as well. The hurt the three of you inflicted on each other,” he paused to shake his head. “I’ve always thought all of you should be pitied, not punished.”
Merewyn couldn’t say what answer she had expected, what motive she had truly suspected, but it hadn’t been pity. That was unforeseen. And surprisingly touching. A tingle formed in her throat and behind her eyes, and she knew she must change the topic immediately. “The hall is lovely tonight. Your sister has done a remarkable job, but I suppose she has a great deal of experience in organizing royal entertainments.”
He ignored her slightly petty implication and said some niceties about his sister, as well as his housekeeper and Presley Kemp, but she paid him little heed, unable to forget the subject she was trying to change.
She remembered the last time she had been in this room for a feast. It was the last winter she was free, and the court had come to Leornian to celebrate Seefest and the Solstice. The holidays held no particular interest for her, but the feast had been extraordinary. Everyone had eaten goose until not a chin remained without a greasy sheen. She had laughed until her sides ached when Fransis had run his smeared fingers through Brandon’s hair. Brandon, whose thick, dark, curly locks were his one youthful vanity.
So much remained the same, while too many things had changed into something else unrecognizable. Brandon still hosted an excellent party, his hall overflowing with the magnificence of the royalty who once entertained here before there was a Myrcia. But the benches were different, made of cherry now instead of oak, and the lanterns surrounding the perimeter were new. Although the original Leorniac thrones still anchored the far end of the room behind the high table, wide and sturdy. Still, it felt so unlike, even where the changes were subtle. Perhaps the gray streaking Brandon’s hair was representative of the new. It was still the same host in the same hall, but not the same essence. Something was missing. Someone.
Chapter 23
“MEREWYN, I DON’T BELIEVE you’ve heard a word I’ve said.”
She presented him with a guilty smile, her miserable countenance sadly out of place at a feast. “It is the same, and yet not the same.”
Brandon felt a lump in his throat as he thought about Fransis, his careless smile and easy affection. “I miss him every day,” he whispered, afraid that his voice might not hold if he spoke any more loudly.
“Oh, my.” She let out a sharp, quick sigh. “I really must insist we speak on any other topic known to man.”
They both chuckled awkwardly, and he thought he heard her sniff.
“How is this for polite conversation?” she said. “I present you a conundrum: I’ve spent years and years alone, and only spoken regularly to about half a dozen people in that time, and now that I am out in company, the only person I’m talking to is one of that half dozen. Why do you suppose that is?”
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