by Unknown
My heart gave a great painful thump against my ribs. The fact that he was unknown to me made his motives unfathomable – and his reactions difficult to predict. Was this perhaps the slave-born general so favoured by Ilthea’s emperor? He didn’t have the look of Ilthea about him, but the empire took slaves from all the varied corners of the known world.
His gaze picked over my appearance, from the swan necklace Helena had given me to the garnets and diamonds threaded through my hair in deference to the colours of House Svanaten. The gleam in his eye made me wonder if he knew of me by more than symbols and repute. Had there been a turncoat in my court, supplying him with intelligence?
‘So,’ he said, with a speculative look. ‘You survived.’
His voice had the quick, murky accents of the northwest, and with a jolt that stole the air from my lungs the truth dawned on me. He wasn’t Ilthean – he was from the Marsachen, the first tribe. They had not attended the gadderen, nor responded to any emissaries, in living history. In my life there had been reports, from Oren’s agents and from the Somner drightens, of the Marsachen’s growing strength, and a new leader who had conquered the northern islands and even the fabled lands beyond.
Grandmother had always dismissed any potential threat from them as insignificant in light of Ilthea’s expansion.
The thought of standing mute before him, giving him the opportunity to mock and dismiss me, spurred me out of my shock and into speaking.
‘Are you surprised?’ I said.
‘A little,’ he replied, his face giving nothing away.
‘A woman with no resources would be of no value to you.’ I spoke as casually as if we’d had this conversation before, as if the whole of my part in this play had been planned.
He smiled, though it wasn’t reassuring. ‘No,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t.’
I sifted through what else I might proffer, but came up with precious little. If Oren lived, and was loyal, I could control access to his network of information – but that was a lot of maybes to hang my life upon. I could bring the Marsachen lord alliances with those tribes loyal to House Svanaten, perhaps – if those loyalties hadn’t already shifted in his favour.
Silence prowled the edges of the room as we waited – I for his decision, he for me to break. Damned if I’d beg. Survival was one thing, self-abasement another. So I set my teeth and offered a tiny shrug; let the man interpret it as indifference or submission or contempt as he may.
After what seemed an eternity he pushed up from the desk. ‘Right, then. Let’s make it official, shall we? After all, I could use a resourceful wife,’ he said, his smile taunting me.
I tried to keep my face expressionless, unsure of his sincerity but, trapped by my own ploy, unable to question him further. With an open hand and a tilt of his head he gestured for me to precede him out of the room, then signalled to someone behind me.
I turned, and for the first time realised we were not alone. A second man stood in the corner not far from me. His face was long and keen, too refined to belong to a bluff trade like soldiering. His slender fingers bore scars and calluses from his work, however, and a scar nicked his right eyebrow and ear. He wore the same garb as the soldiers now infesting the Turholm, except his tunic bore an emblem: a crouching weasel, white on black. The information didn’t help. I’d never encountered a white weasel before, thane or mercenary. Like his lord, he didn’t bother with an introduction and I glided past his blank stare and continued on my way.
My apparent betrothed walked beside me. He didn’t glance at me that I could catch, but I had no doubt he was observing me, keen for a reaction. Soon enough I reasoned why: he was leading us back to the sanctuary hall.
My step faltered as we emerged into the crisp pre-dawn air of the upper courtyard and I saw the austere line of the hall’s roof breaking the skyline.
He caught at my elbow, all false solicitousness. ‘Are you too tired, perhaps?’
‘A loose stone underfoot,’ I lied.
Pushing down the fear – which tasted like blood bubbling in my throat – I let him lead me onwards. Inside the sanctuary, the bodies of the fallen had been dragged into haphazard heaps along one wall. I gagged on the smell of it, fresh slaughter trapped in a place of worship, seething and stewing and clamouring for the sky.
Alone among the dead, Grandmother lay on her back on one of the pews near the altar, her eyes closed and arms crossed as if laid out on a bier. The arrows which had killed her had been snapped off so only small jagged stumps of wood protruded from her flesh. The apparent mark of respect surprised me, and I glanced at the man who’d triggered all this carnage.
Still grasping my elbow, he stepped us up to the altar, then said, ‘Surprised I haven’t put her head on a spike? This way is more practical. I look reasonable – and I give the people the chance to see she really is dead. Gerlach,’ he ordered, gesturing the weasel-liveried soldier forward. ‘If you’d do the honours?’
I struggled for calm. He was going to kill me after all. He was calling my bluff. I had nothing left to bargain and my first subterfuge had stripped me of the dignity of honesty. His face said he knew it all and hoped to see me grovelling in the blood of my own court and kin before he had his man, Gerlach, despatch me.
My knees collapsed and I fell to the floor with a thump. Gerlach reached out and put his hand on my brow. Though he must have felt the fear flushing heat through my skin and the slick of sweat beneath the pads of his dry fingers, his long face gave no indication of it.
I trembled, my lips parched as I waited for the final slice of steel across my throat. But Gerlach’s lord didn’t draw out his dirk. Instead he knelt beside me, and Gerlach touched him too, upon the forehead.
Done with any pretence at self-control now, I stared at the man who had killed my family, who was looking up at Gerlach. At his lord’s nod, Gerlach began to intone. They weren’t the words of any binding ceremony I knew, and I’d never heard of a soldier sanctifying a binding, but the import was clear enough. My bowels turned to water with the relief and the sick, sick hope of life rising in me.
Kneeling amid the carnage of my court and clad and tangled in their blood, I bound my life to the man who had engineered the slaughter.
SIX
FROM THE SANCTUARY hall we stepped out into the nascent glow of dawn. All over the upper courtyard, soldiers in unadorned garb were at work: sorting through bodies, stacking the dead, despatching the wounded. I didn’t see them saving any wounded for healing.
A half-dozen soldiers snapped to attention as we emerged, their gazes seeking out my husband for orders.
My stomach contracted, forcing a rank, burning knot up into my throat. No doubt they waited for me: bound now – wife and captive in one. I mustn’t quail when they surrounded me. I would insist on walking unassisted to my prison cell.
Instead, my husband clasped my hand and tucked it through the crook of his arm as Gerlach’s men formed into an escort behind us.
‘We need to find you clean clothes,’ he murmured, pulling me closer with nary a grimace.
Shaken and exhausted by the night, my ability to reason was limited. All I knew was that this man had won – the Turholm was his in its entirety. And now he had me in his power, the ultimate living token to cement his claim to my throne. He didn’t need me to look like an accomplice anymore, so why maintain the pretence I was part of his plan?
With a gentle squeeze of my forearm, he bent his head towards me as if sharing a confidence. ‘Smile,’ he whispered. ‘You’re a bride.’
A strange gurgle escaped me in place of a laugh. I choked it down, for it would surely turn to sobs. ‘A particularly bloody one.’
‘Appearance is everything,’ he said, his answering laugh genuine for all I could tell.
Which was my answer, of course. By maintaining the pretence of collusion, he cut me off from those still in the Turholm who might otherwise have aided me against him. If I hadn’t been numb and fog-headed and still in shock, perhaps I’d hav
e guessed it earlier.
His grip on my arm tightened as we neared the stairs. Surrounded by a cadre of soldiers, a huddle of thralls knelt on the filthy stone with hunched shoulders. Careful not to make eye contact, I scanned them, desperately hoping to find Sepp. I glimpsed Jonas, his arm wrapped around Sigi’s shoulder as she leant shivering against his side. There were other familiar faces – the stable thralls and the kitchen staff – but Sepp wasn’t with them.
I swallowed against a sudden, hard ache in my throat. Had he survived the slaughter? Or was he, too, lost?
It seemed the thralls all watched me pass with sullen glowers. One man, wizened with age and work in service to my family, spat in my path.
My husband was right: appearance is everything. Covered in blood and grime I might be, but I stood beside the invader, apparently free. Even those who reasoned I had little choice in the matter would reckon me a turncoat, or a coward. The pretence cost my husband little, but it isolated me from those not loyal to him, nullifying any threat I might otherwise pose.
I was in the thick of my enemy’s camp, and I was alone.
With an effort, I fought back the black tide of despair. I was alive, which had not been in my husband’s plan twenty-four hours ago. And I was useful – for now. The hope it offered me was too sickening to contemplate – and too sweet to ignore.
He swept me up the stairs and into the Turholm’s corridors. I hardly paid attention to our way – exhaustion had seeped into my marrow, leaving me heavy-lidded and limp. I badly needed sleep. I came awake, however, when we stepped into the suite he’d taken. Grandmother’s rooms.
Dropping my arm, he turned and closed the door, cutting off any sight of the soldiers arraying themselves in silent guard outside. He stood still a moment, his back to me, his shoulders slumped and his head bent forward. Then, turning around, he sought out a couch and sank onto its soft cushions. Whatever reprieve he’d allowed himself at the door, all trace of it had vanished. Arms behind his head and ankles crossed, he watched me.
Freed of the bluff which had bought my life, at least temporarily, I could finally afford bluntness.
‘I don’t know your name,’ I said.
‘Did you not pay attention during the binding?’
‘I had … other concerns,’ I replied with a blush, which made him laugh.
‘I suppose a woman should know her husband’s name,’ he relented, propping the heel of one boot on the toe of his other and watching me keenly for a reaction. ‘Dieter, of House Raban, drighten of the Marsachen tribe. You and I are cousins, of a sort. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘not close enough to make our binding immoral.’
I didn’t respond to the jibe. ‘I’ve never heard of the line,’ I said instead, baiting him to elicit information. ‘The Marsachen haven’t elected a drighten in decades.’
‘Your education is lacking. We simply chose not to participate in your endless squabbles and to rule our own from Grabanstein, and Beata chose to continue House Svanaten’s fine tradition of ignoring us. Which worked out well for me – if not for you.’ He stood and flicked his hand at me in dismissal. ‘Clean yourself up, Matilde.’
Fear twisted my guts again, and my knees shook too much to stand.
The glint of his eye said he guessed at my state. ‘Stow your eagerness, my dear – that must wait until after the official ceremony. After all, I don’t want anyone claiming my coronation is a sham.’
Tears pricked at my eyes, hot and shameful.
‘In the meantime, you’ve a long day ahead as a trophy,’ he added, his humour replaced by sharp scrutiny, no hint of solicitousness in his words. ‘I hope you’re up to it.’
I stood and met his gaze square. ‘I lived, didn’t I?’
It was foolish, perhaps, to point it out again and reveal how I clung to the fact. But it had won me a chance to one day avenge my Grandmother and House Svanaten. Or the opportunity, a shameful voice inside me whispered, to flee, disappear into obscurity, live quietly – anonymous and untroubled …
‘Burdens on society generally do live on. It’s part of their … charm,’ he said. ‘Now go and clean up.’
The cold water served to calm my temper. It was too soon to play at power games. Dieter held it all – for now, at least.
I dug soapy fingers into my hair and scrubbed every last trace of blood from the tangles. Only when the water ran clear did I emerge.
Outside, clothes had been laid out for me. They must have been fetched from my own rooms, for I recognised them instantly. A simple cream robe for beneath and a wrap of summer-sky blue, the hems at ankle, wrist and throat worked with silver thread. Grand enough to establish my position, demure enough not to eclipse his.
Had Dieter chosen them? I wondered, the thought of such efficiency chasing a shiver down my spine. I didn’t quibble, though. Clean clothes were a luxury, and in truth I was lucky he didn’t want me in sackcloth.
When I emerged, Dieter was talking to Gerlach about horses and provisions for the Aestival progression, and what holdings they might reasonably reach in a condensed excursion. The effects of the night were taking their toll on me, and I couldn’t fight back the yawns and blinks of weariness.
Dieter smiled. ‘None of that now, Matte. We’ve a long day ahead.’
Gerlach, still wearing his weasel-emblazoned tunic, kept his face as blank as ever.
‘Now,’ continued Dieter. ‘First, this hidden corridor of yours. If you’d oblige us by showing the way?’
It wasn’t a request. I showed him the catch-stone in the wall, which clicked beneath the weight of my hand. Dieter peered into the corridor, unlit now. The lamps had burnt out.
‘The others?’ he asked. ‘Where are they?’
‘There are only a couple.’ Too fogged with lack of sleep, I lied before I considered the consequences. ‘This one leads to the throne room as well as to the sanctuary. You can get most anywhere from the kitchen.’
I held my breath, sure he’d fathom precisely how many corridors I was omitting from the sketchy tally.
He did. ‘Thralls’ runs. Should be easy enough to map.’
Gerlach dipped his chin; even the man’s nods were laconic. ‘I’ve men questioning the surviving staff. Thus far, they’ve proved cooperative.’
My heart sank. Reap as you sow, child, Grandmother’s voice whispered in the back of my head. You spent most of the past few hours convincing everyone you were on Dieter’s side. That the thralls would follow suit was inevitable.
Somehow, it didn’t make me feel any better.
Dieter was thorough: nothing would do short of my traipsing the palace with Gerlach to show him every hidden corridor and how to access it. Defeated by my isolation, I didn’t attempt to conceal any.
When we returned, sometime around midmorning, Dieter was in conversation with a young woman. They stopped mid-sentence when they saw us, and Gerlach reported my cooperation with a half-smile and the taunting comment, ‘Only a couple of others.’
‘My blushing bride is quite the helpmate,’ said Dieter.
If he hoped to raise colour into my cheeks, he failed. I was too weary and heartsore to enjoy the victory, however.
He gestured to the woman at his side. ‘Matte, meet Amalia. She’ll be your companion.’ His inflection on the word ‘companion’ carried laughter. ‘I’m sure you’ll get along famously.’
If anything, Amalia looked less thrilled than I. She had a sheet of frosted blonde hair and eyes pale as the foxfire which flickered, eerie and distant, in the marshes at night. Despite their dissimilarities, I judged them kin, for she had the same shape to her eyes and arched brows as Dieter.
‘Your sister,’ I hazarded.
The girl could have been taking lessons from Gerlach for all the reaction she showed. Dieter flicked an eyelid as if my guess either surprised or pleased him. Perhaps both, perhaps neither.
‘Indeed. And your maid in today’s ceremony. It’s a pity there’s none of your own kin to stand at the binding, but shift as shift
can, I suppose. Speaking of which, you’d best prepare,’ he said, before turning his attention to Gerlach, dismissing Amalia and me.
Amalia’s haughty look as she waited for me to precede her didn’t hide her irritation at the dismissal. The girl had pride, then, and a temper easily inflamed. I tucked the knowledge away.
Once again garments had been laid out for me, this time the earthen-hued underdress and black wrap of the binding ceremony. The ribbon I was to fasten around Dieter’s throat lay coiled on the bed, slender as a serpent.
I had expected Amalia to stand guard and watch me dress, but instead she stepped forward to help me, as if she was in truth a thrall. Her brisk hands raised prickles on my flesh. It was strange, being ministered to by his sister in this way.
‘Do you always do as your brother bids?’ I asked, earning myself a sharp look, though nothing more. ‘I suppose he’s promised you something in return. Is it to sit by his side, as his equal?’ I voiced a false laugh. ‘Now you’re reduced to being his wife’s maid.’
‘My brother is no fool.’ Again the sharp look, this time with a cruel smile. ‘And neither am I.’
Her words could have meant many things, too many to reply to any one in particular. So I kept silent while she wound the black gown over my shoulders and secured it at my waist with a simple braided cloth belt.
‘This Gerlach,’ I said, when she’d finished. ‘He bound us last night.’
‘It was valid, if that’s what you’re angling at,’ she said. ‘The general was a prester before he took up the sword.’
‘He can’t be both.’
‘Spoken like a true Tamoran,’ said Amalia. ‘Don’t worry, today’s ceremony will be “real” enough to satisfy your people.’
‘If you don’t follow Tamor’s teachings –’
‘Tamor was an upstart prester,’ snapped Amalia, cutting me off. Giving a last tug at the belt, she stepped back. ‘He led the Turasi away from the true faith. It’s past time they found their way back.’