Heartseeker

by Melinda Beatty

  “Your Highness? Shall I send for a healer?” asked the big man worriedly. “Are you hurt?”

  “An injury taken yesterday,” she admitted, swaying on her feet. “It should probably be seen.”

  “I’d say so, Highness,” declared Dorvan. “Do you need me to carry you, ma’am?”

  “Do I look like I need carrying?” the princess said, her voice no louder than a light breeze.

  “Begging your pardon, Highness, but you most certainly do.”

  Her pale face twisted in embarrassment. “If you ever mention this to anyone else in court, I’ll have your guts, Dorvan.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am,” he answered, the hint of a smile on his face. White lights twinkled round his head, and I cleared my throat. He looked guiltily in my direction, but his smile grew as he scooped Saphritte into his arms and whisked her out into the corridor, the hound trotting along behind.

  “Adria,” Lady Mollier called out the open door, before turning back into the chamber. “This council is adjourned. All business is carried forth until the morrow.” Lamia looked as if she had something to say, but Constance cut her off sternly. “All business. The Mayquin has had a trying journey.” The young woman who met us in the entrance hall entered, still looking fresh and calm, despite the late hour. “Adria,” Lady Mollier instructed, “please show Miss Fallow to her chamber with all haste. She’s dreadfully weary.”

  She took my hand between hers. “I’m sorry for the way you arrived, my dear. Rest yourself now. And when you’re prepared, we will show you that Bellskeep has much more to offer than woe.”

  As we were bustled through the heavy door by the page, I caught the eye of Lamia Folque. The expression I saw there made me think that there was probably more woe ahead than Lady Mollier could possibly imagine.

  * * *

  MY CHAMBER COULD have been a horsebox in the royal stables for all I cared. My body was heavy with sleep, but my brain wasn’t quite ready to let go of my meeting with Lady Folque. What if her cunning could hinder mine? What if she wasn’t behind the fellow who sent the Ordish and Tarique? What if I can’t get Saphritte to believe me when I tell her . . .

  But I was simply too tired for any more what-ifs. I hardly noticed as unfamiliar hands peeled the layers of my journey from Presston from my body, reeking of sweat, fear, and the long road. They guided me into the washroom, where a huge cauldron of steaming water had been prepared. I sank into it like a pebble, letting it warm all the places in me that I didn’t even know were frozen. Sleep would have taken me then and there, but rough fingers began to scrub me all over, just like when I was a babe and washed in the water pail. The rich soap smelt strongly of rose and gardenia, and soon the cauldron was awash with perfumed bubbles that popped round my ears. It drifted my fears away, along with all the what-ifs. I would have drifted away, too, like a fish, but the hands lifted me back up into the air, where I remembered that I had to breathe again.

  A thick white bath sheet was wrapped round me, and a night shift was pulled over my body. Then there was the delicious warmth of a mattress with a coal pan at its foot, and I knew my fight was done. I sank right away into a deep, fragrant, and dreamless sleep.

  22

  I was certain the coach had stopped. It was still dark and I couldn’t feel the rumble of the wheels. Had we come under attack again? Were there more villains waiting outside in the night? I reached for the comforting shape of the Jack in the darkness, but found only the soft form of another pillow. I stretched my hand farther, exploring with my fingers. Gone was the familiar, rough wall of the coach at my back—in its place, an acre of mattress. And then it all came back to me.

  The room was pitch-black. The fire in the grate had long since burned itself out—not even a glowing ember remained to light my way. I lay back on the pillow and stared up into the dark. All the what-ifs I hoped had been tossed into the gutter with my bathwater came creeping back, sneaky like. I tried to put them in a neat line, but they all crowed loudly for equal attention.

  Jon’s a prisoner. I’d been so weary the night before, I’d barely remembered my own name, but my heart gave an urgent thump at the memory of my brother bound in the clearing. If the Ordish from the Wood were carted from where we were attacked, they might arrive come noon that day. I hadn’t the first idea how I’d free him, but I needed to do it before he faced whatever kind of justice the king had in mind to visit on him. There was also the problem of the mysterious fella who’d set them on the path toward the caravan in the first place. Was he here in Bellskeep? Did he hire them for himself or was he working for someone else?

  Lamia Folque is cunning. That fact worried and confused me most. For all my fear, I still didn’t have a good idea of what cunning really added up to. You know, medicines. Birthing. Seeing. Things like that, Rowan had said. Lady Folque didn’t strike me as the kind to dirty her hands with the mess of birthing or grinding compounds with a mortar in an herbery. I supposed I was a “seer”—my cunning made it impossible for anyone to tell me an untruth. What might Lamia Folque’s be?

  Saphritte believes I can help the kingdom. That idea troubled me more’n any other. What could I do against an Ordish plot? Against sneaky meddling from Thorvald? Against some other force that meant me ill, hiding somewhere out of sight? Now that was an uncomfortable thought.

  “Mistress?”

  A voice in the darkness near made me soil the nicest bed I’d ever slept in. “Y-yes?” I stammered, white knuckles gripping the edge of the quilt.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake.” There were sounds of a pail scraped near the hearth along with the thud of logs and kindling being placed in the grate. Then, a sharp strike of flint and the beginnings of flames outlined a figure, kneeling to gentle them higher with her breath. “Master Iordan wanted you straightaway, but Her Highness insisted you be allowed to take your ease.”

  The heavy drapes were thrown open, near blinding me with the early-morning light. I groaned and pulled the quilt over my head.

  Footsteps pattered across the floor to the bed. “I’m afraid hiding won’t do you no good, mistress,” she said, tugging the cover from me. “I’m meant to . . . Great Deep!”

  Blinking furiously into the light, I shot up from my pillow. “Lark?”

  Even though she was wearing a plain white shift and dull blue pinafore, with her lovely dark hair stripped of its beads and pulled back into a sleek pile atop her head, I would have recognized her anywhere. She gave a laugh that was nearly a sob and flew to me, our arms circling each other, tight as sailor’s knots.

  “Only Fallow!” She wept into my shoulder. “I shouldn’t be joyful to see you, but, tides, am I ever.”

  I almost couldn’t speak. “There ain’t been a day I haven’t thought of you since you were took.”

  She held me to arm’s length and looked me up and down like she was committing me to memory. “You, the Mayquin! How . . . ?”

  “I tried to tell you that night, honest I did! I could see Toly was up to no good, but he twigged me. Oh, Lark, you tried to save my skin and we both ended up here anyway,” I cried miserably. “Are you well? How about Rowan?”

  Her shoulders slumped, and she sank into the mattress. “Aye, well enough. Ro’s drawn a rougher lot down in the kitchens. He gets . . . hotheaded and ends up getting beatings from the porters.”

  I bristled to think of some great lunk raising his hand to my friend. “And you?”

  “Seamstress’s assistant. I’m good with a needle and thread.” She slid off the bed and went to open the wardrobe. “It’s why they sent me to you this morning—to help fit your new clothes.”

  “Will you be coming every day?” I asked excitedly.

  She shook her head. “You’ll get your own waiting girl, I imagine, to help you dress. These clothes ain’t exactly something you can just throw on before you walk out of doors.”

  I’d not given much
thought to what I’d be expected to wear, but I hardly had room in my brain for fripperies. “Come back and sit a spell. I’ve got loads to tell you.”

  But Lark had already begun pulling pieces from the closet. “We can jaw while I fit you.”

  “But we only just—”

  “I ain’t my own mistress anymore,” she said peevishly. “The seamstress might not raise her hand to me, but I’ll be buried in a pile of dirty washing a mile high if I don’t do what I’m told. We might both have got took but . . .” She pulled a fawn-colored gown out from the sea of shifting material. “It ain’t quite the same, is it?”

  Shame rolled through me, deep as a river. I picked at a loose thread on the quilt. “No, it ain’t.”

  Lark came back and laid her hand on my knee. “Come on, we’ve got three-quarters of an hour. Let’s use it well—tell me everything.”

  * * *

  “SWEET ALL, HOW many layers does one dress need?”

  “This would go a lot quicker if you’d stop wiggling!” Lark chided through the pins between her teeth.

  “It’s these stockings!” I complained, shifting back and forth. “They’re itchy as sin.”

  “You’ll be glad of ’em about the castle—it ain’t half drafty. Just hold still a second, I only got a couple more pins to place.” There was a tug to the waist of the gown. “All right, that should do it. Now, what did Jon tell you about the fellow at the Southmeet?”

  I’d tried to impart as much as I could to her over the last half hour in between slips and gowns and surcoats being tugged over my head. “Just that he was silver-tongued enough to persuade a handful of men to attack a royal caravan in the hopes of getting their whelps back.”

  “Arms up,” she said, slipping the blue gown off, carefully avoiding pricking me with the hidden pins. “Only, Papa wasn’t one of them . . . was he?”

  “No,” I answered quickly. “Jon said he didn’t give the fella the time of day.” The sound of pickaxes and shovels deep in the woods resounded in my ears, making me powerfully glad Bula had the sense to still be safely wintering in Farrier’s Bay.

  Her shoulders relaxed a little as she pulled out the last remaining pieces left in the wardrobe. “These should fit well enough for today.”

  On went an indigo woolen shift that warmed me from beneath, along with a pair of cotton stockings and soft leather boots with fur inside to keep out the cold. A brilliant salmon-colored coat stretched to the floor, with velvet cuffs and trim the same shade as the shift. A leather belt with intricate stitching went round my waist and, at my collar, a large gold coat pin. As I ran my fingers over its finely wrought edges, I realized that it was shaped like an eye. The Mayquin, looking into places I got no business looking into.

  “Come sit at the vanity, I’ll try to do something with your hair before Master Iordan arrives.”

  Obediently, I let her lead me to a low stool before a huge looking glass. The princess had made good on her promise—a fine silver boar’s-hair brush sat waiting.

  Lark’s reflection in the glass was somber as she brushed. “What are you going to do about Jon?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied helplessly. “I can’t just ask anyone about it neither. Not without giving him and me away.”

  Her clever fingers twisted and plaited, fastening strands of my unruly hair with gold pins from a dish on the vanity.

  “Do you think it’s daft to wish Papa had joined them?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course it ain’t daft!”

  “It ain’t good, though, is it? Hoping one of ’em might be . . .”

  “It ain’t daft to hope someone came for you!” I declared. “There’s not a second gone by since I left the orchard that I didn’t hope Mama and Papa would show up and take me home. They took you and forced you to serve ’em months gone now! Wishing someone might come for you just means they ain’t managed to kill your faith in folk you love.”

  I grabbed her hand and looked straight into her eyes in the glass. “You’re right. We both got took, and it ain’t the same. I don’t know if I got any kind of charge over anything, but if I do, I’ll change it if I can. I promise.”

  Both of us were startled by a sharp knock on the door. Lark straightened with a jerk. “That’ll be the inquisitor. Sounds like he was a hard traveling companion,” she whispered in my ear. “I think I would have throttled him in his sleep.”

  “Mistress Mayquin,” came the dry voice from the other side of the door. “May I enter?”

  “Of course, master, just a moment,” I called. Lark, with a mischief smile on her face, went to open the door.

  In place of his traveling clothes, the inquisitor now wore the robes of the lyceum—purple and deep burgundy, trimmed in gold. Around his neck, he wore his heavy inquisitor’s chain, leaving no soul in any doubt of his importance. He seemed bigger than he had the night we spoke in the Wood.

  Lark stood by the open door, casting sneaky glances at the inquisitor as he circled me, inspecting my new appearance. “Yes, this is much better.”

  I brushed my hands down the coat. “It’s a little fancy.”

  Iordan raised one of his enormous eyebrows. “You didn’t think you’d be allowed to run around the castle in stableman’s breeches, did you?”

  “No,” I admitted, fidgeting, “but I didn’t think I’d have to be dressed like I was going to sanctuary every day, neither.”

  “Either,” he corrected me, “not neither. We’ll have to work on that rural vocabulary of yours.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Lark trying not to smile. Iordan stared down his nose at me. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” I asked.

  “To learn about the kingdom,” he said, sweeping his long arm toward the door. “Let’s begin.”

  23

  Mother of all things,

  This day we live is Yours.

  Guide my hands to good work,

  Guide my heart to good deeds,

  Guide my mouth to good words,

  And guide my mind to good thoughts.

  So as You ask,

  So shall it be.

  —#260, Litanies for the Mother

  In halls back in Presston, Mistress Averil would begin our morning lessons with a beseechment, but Master Iordan wasn’t going to waste time on that kind of ceremony.

  The study was large and airy and filled to the brim with wonderful things to look at—none of which the inquisitor seemed disposed to show me. My eyes flitted over curious glass flasks filled with mysterious liquids, the golden spines of books, and even a small, moving model of the heavens made lovingly of brass, but Iordan was insistent on beginning with maps.

  From one of the small cubbies nearby, he pulled a tightly rolled scroll and, with a flourish, unspooled it across a worktable, trapping its curled edges under heavy glass weights. I gawped in wonder—it was a far cry from the crude outline in Mistress Averil’s study. Shades of green and brown melted into an ocean of white under an outline of finely drawn pine forests and tiny mountains, all set against the royal blue of the sea, where strange serpents breathed fire from toothy jaws. In the corner, a cluster of spidery writing declared it to be . . .

  “Is this Thorvald?”

  “Have you never seen a map, child?” Iordan asked, in the same tone of voice he used for the word provincial. But I was so amazed, I couldn’t summon an ounce of ire.

  “I have, but nothing like this,” I admitted.

  “As you observed, it is indeed a map of our neighbors to the north. In the weeks to come, it will be important for you to learn as much about the nation as you’re able.”

  “Oh!” The cross words between Papa and Master Anslo in the sanctuary yard seemed like another lifetime ago. “The wedding! The princess is going to marry a walrus called Eydisson.”

  A large vein popped out
on the inquisitor’s neck. “The princess is most certainly not marrying a walrus!” he bristled.

  “That’s not a fancy Thorvald word for ‘prince’?” I asked.

  “No, it isn’t! A walrus is a large, blubbery sea creature with flippers, whiskers, and tusks. The Thorvald hunt them for meat and ivory.” He sniffed. “I suggest that your source of information on Thorvald matters may be . . . unreliable.”

  Stupid old Anslo, I thought. Should have asked Gareth about walruses. “But we did have a war with them, right?”

  Iordan’s nose came down out of the air, just a bit. “Yes, though it was quite some years ago.” He folded his arms and looked at me suspiciously. “I’m surprised your hallsmistress would have felt that topic of value for your study.”

  The last thing I wanted was to get Gareth in hot water for running my mouth when I oughtn’t. “I must have heard it . . . somewhere else.”

  Lucky for me, the inquisitor was more than happy for a chance to give an unscheduled lecture. “The Quartern War only lasted five months, but it’s taken nearly one hundred years for Orstral and Thorvald to restore cordial diplomatic relations. The marriage between the princess and Hauk Eydisson will be one more step in erasing old grievances.”

  “How about the Folques?” I asked. “Will it erase grievances against them, too, for helping the Thorvald?”

  Iordan blanched, turning to look round the room, though he knew it was empty. “Were you not listening that night we spoke in the Wood?” he squeaked in a breathless whisper. “The den of vipers I mentioned? You are in it now. Such questions are not wise.”

  As quick as his calm had frayed, it knitted itself back up once again. “Now,” he said, laying a long finger on the map. “We’ll begin with the cities of the western coast.”

  * * *

  MISTRESS AVERIL OFTEN said a pair of attentive ears and a curious mind were all a body needed to learn, but after an hour with Master Iordan, I could see I’d also need the patience of a midwife and the wakefulness of an owl.