Thorvald town names were devilish hard on the tongue, and mine certainly wasn’t going to win any praise from the inquisitor.
“It’s pronounced Kaupstefeyr,” Iordan informed me for the second time.
I pointed to the town on the map. “That’s what I said. Cup-stay-fear.”
“No, no, Kaup-ste-feyr. Say it slowly.”
One night of sleep hadn’t erased the weariness of a week on the road and I was flagging. “Kaup-stay-fear.”
Iordan buried his face in his hands. “Perhaps it’s time we moved on to something else.”
What with my worries over Jon and Lamia Folque now fighting for space with cities of western Thorvald, if I had to remember anything else, it was all going to come spilling out my ears. “Master, could we . . .”
But the rest of the sentence never made it out of my mouth as the inquisitor unrolled a second map before me.
A week before, Orstral had been the deep valley of the orchard, the rough road to Lochery, and the bustle of Roundmarket. Then, on the road it became the mountains, the timberlands, and the great pines of the Wood. But on the piece of paper was the whole of it, sat in the middle of a jewel-blue ocean with its name in gold script above. The whole of Orstral, a shape I could carry in my two hands. It was beautiful.
“Is this . . . ?” I choked out. “Is this what it looks like?”
“Orstral? Just so,” confirmed Iordan.
I moved beside him, greedily following the tracks of rivers and roads and drinking in the names of towns I never heard of. “Where’s Presston?”
The inquisitor pulled a pair of spectacles out of his robes and balanced them on the end of his beaky nose. Leaning over, he traced the kingsroad down the length of the country until he tapped the middle of dark green smudge near a bright blue squiggle. “Here, I believe, just to the right of Lochery.”
I put my finger over the smudge as if somehow touching it could open up a window and let me look down on it from above just like the Mother. I could skim the treetops in the orchard like a tern, dipping low over the river for a swallow of water. I could swoop over the roof and watch the smoke curling from the chimney. I could glide over the pressing barns and watch the men stamp against the cold while brewing the winter cider.
“There’s great value in knowing where you are in relation to the rest of the world,” said the inquisitor, tracing the coastline with a long finger. “But it’s hard to judge how far you’ve come unless you know where you started.”
I dared a sideways glance at Iordan and found the look in his eyes not unkind. I gave a little nod, not wanting to speak further.
There was a knock at the chamber door. The hinges creaked, and a familiar freckled face appeared.
“Gareth!” I cried.
“Decorum, if you please, Mayquin,” Iordan said with a sigh. “We do not greet stewards and other domestics in such a familiar fashion.” He swung round. “What is it?”
Gareth, now in palace livery rather than traveling clothes, stood straighter, his hair freshly washed and tamed. He looked every inch the king’s man. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“Master, the Mayquin’s presence has been expressly requested by His Majesty.”
The inquisitor slid the glass weights off the map, and Orstral disappeared into a neat curl once more. “His Majesty’s wish is my command.” He waved me off. “Tomorrow I expect you to have retained a good deal of the knowledge imparted to you today—from the capital at Eyrfell to the southern coast at Skipver.”
As if I’ve not got more important things to worry over! “Yes, master,” I parroted. I wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to be presented to the king, but I was eager to speak to Gareth.
“Very well. You’re dismissed.”
* * *
IT’S FUNNY WHEN you meet someone you know and suddenly feel like you don’t know them at all.
We walked together in silence with only our own footsteps for company. Did two new sets of clothes really mean we weren’t still Gareth and Only? I plucked at his sleeve.
“You clean up all right.”
A little of his stiffness fell away. “And I hardly recognized you, as you weren’t climbing out of a privy.”
I poked him hard in the arm. “Cheeky.”
He grinned sideways at me. “Pain in the backside.”
My heart lightened a little, but I noticed the dark circles cut under his eyes. “You look a little beneath the weather.”
He blinked at me as though even just being upright was a chore. “I’m not used to fighting like a soldier, but I’m even less used to drinking like one.”
I thought back to the first time Jonquin and his mates nicked some Scrump from the cellar and how the next day, seeing his red eyes and pounding head, Mama declared that his crime had been his punishment. “No good comes from overindulging. That’s what my folks say.”
“I didn’t want to,” protested Gareth, “but they kind of insisted. Luckily, I managed to move over by the window so when my tankard was refilled, I could just dump it out. I don’t think anyone noticed.” He pinched the bridge of his freckled nose. “Didn’t really seem to be something to be celebrating anyway.”
I didn’t envy him the memory of his deed. “No, but you know I ain’t half grateful, right?”
“Mind you, I’d do it again,” he said quickly. “The saving-you part, though. Not the drinking.”
We came to a halt in front of a set of enormous doors where two decorated guards stood, eyes straight ahead, gloved hands on pikes.
“The Mayquin, to see His Majesty,” Gareth announced, with a ring of command in his voice.
The guards snapped to attention and moved to part the great entryway. Fear made a sudden, unwelcome nest in my belly. Behind those doors was the man who’d had the power to take me from my home. To rip countless Ordish children from their homes. The man who might soon lay down a judgment on the head of my brother. I’d known from the beginning of my journey that it would end here. But I still wasn’t ready.
“The first day I came to work at the palace,” Gareth whispered in my ear, “I’d never been so scared in my life. My mother said something that helped a little, though.”
“What was that?”
“‘What you do, Gareth,’ she said to me, ‘is when you’re before the king, remember that he puts his underthings on one leg at a time, just like everyone else.’”
My mouth fell open. “Are you saying . . . I should try to imagine the king in his underthings?” The idea alone sounded like something that might get me thrown in a dungeon.
“No. Well, if it helps, I suppose you could, but just remember, he’s not the Mother. He’s just a man. Just like any other man.”
The doors reached the end of their swing, the way before us clear.
“What d’you reckon a king wears beneath his clothes?” I whispered back, grasping at anything that might give me some comfort.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “But just remember, whatever it is, he puts it on one leg at a time.”
24
Come not before Her like a child before a throne.
Run to Her arms with joy and gladness,
And be lifted in your Mother’s strong embrace.
—Second Lesson of Lucia, the Prophet
When Hatter Leyward’s sister, Hettie, married the son of a merchant from near Sandborn, her hand-fasting band had boasted a Renart sapphire about the size of a pinhead. It cost her intended half a shipment of goods from Achery to get hold of and was the talk of Presston for weeks.
As I stood in the high, narrow antechamber, waiting for Gareth to announce my coming to the king, I ran my fingers over the pin at my throat. In the middle of the great golden eye sat a sapphire larger than my thumbnail and no doubt worth more than the whole of the orchard.
If only Hettie could see
this, I thought, bitter as bark. I’d hand it over to her in a second if it meant I don’t have to go through those doors.
The thunderous boom of those very doors cracking open made me leap right out of my boots. After the darkness of the antechamber, I had to squint against the white light that poured in from the room beyond. A dark figure approached from the heart of it, resolving into a face that gave me a helping of comfort.
“How are you, Only?” asked Saphritte.
Weariness dogged her eyes, but the princess stood upright and proud, her hand upon the pommel of her sword. Washed clean from the dirt of the road, her black hair and blue-and-silver surcoat gleamed in the sunlight. Surely none of the Mother’s hosts ever looked so fine or noble as the princess did to me that moment.
“Good met, Highness,” I said, trying not to let my voice wobble like a babe’s. “I’m well, thank you. I’m glad to see you looking more healthful.”
She gave me a light smile and cocked her head to the side. “It’ll be some little time before I’m able to take on another army of brigands, but the healers did good work.” Her steady hand lit upon my shoulder, and she lowered her voice. “I know you’re afraid now. Just answer the questions the king puts to you and all will be well.”
Thoughts of Lamia Folque galloped to the front of my mind. “Highness, I hoped to talk to you. Last night—”
The princess cut me off. “After this is done, you and I will speak privately, but my father is impatient to meet you.”
“But, Highness—”
“Stop trifling, daughter! I would see what you’ve brought me.”
The voice was as loud and thunderous as the doors, and it shook my bones to hear it. Saphritte turned into the dazzling light. “As you wish, Majesty,” she answered, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “Come, Only.”
The throne room was truly wondrous—narrow and high, like the antechamber. The same pillars I saw in the entryway, cut to resemble the Orstralian pines, rose to the ceiling, their branches forming the vaults overhead. Dozens of intricate silver lanterns, decked with shimmering blue gems, hung on long chains, white candles guttering within them. But the most coldly beautiful thing of all was the dais where the king himself sat. The throne was in the middle of a great apse with long, pointed windows that showered light down upon the thousands of silvery tiles running up the walls. It looked like the work of some notable magician—as if winter itself had been brought indoors in all its frozen finery.
The king’s fingers danced, restless upon the horns of the two silver-winged bulls that made up the sides of the seat of Orstral. I clutched Saphritte’s hand more tightly. The king himself looked like he’d been touched by snow—from his long white hair and close-clipped beard to the glittering silver plate on his chest beneath his furs. The council was gathered on the petitioner’s stand and their eyes followed us up the long cornflower carpet—Constance Mollier, Everard Dorvan, and Arfrid Sandkin took us in with relaxed ease—but the stare of Lamia Folque went right to my marrow.
As we mounted the steps into the glittering apse, I noticed Gareth, standing dutifully a ways behind the throne. I was glad I knew the boy beneath the mask, who’d not twelve hours since dispatched a villain to save my life, because the serious statue by the king’s side gave me a cartful of disquiet.
At the king’s left hand stood a solid fellow, an enormous gray fur slung across his shoulders, looking like a wolf he’d yanked straight out of its den. The pelt’s head, now flat, empty and staring with blank, jeweled eyes, gripped the tail between its jaws to fasten it. The man was handsome enough, though his full beard put me in mind of a garden hedge. A braid ran down its center, fastened with bronze beads—a fashion I’d never seen before. With a jolt, I realized this must be the Thorvald walrus, Hauk Eydisson.
Though the prince cut a fierce figure, none looked so fierce as the portly rector standing just behind the king’s right shoulder. He looked nothing like mild, old Rector Wither—this fellow was dressed in rich gold-and-white vestments with jewels glittering upon his thick fingers. He had downturned jowls like a hunting hound and bushy gray brows that near covered his eyes. But no amount of extra eyebrow could cover the barely concealed hate that glittered there. There was no other man it could be other than Theodorus Heyman, the First Curate.
As we came to the gathered council, Saphritte let go of my hand, making a light bow to them and a deeper one to the king. “Your Majesty, my lords and ladies, it pleases me to present the Mayquin, Only Fallow.”
My curtsy was less manners and more my knees turning to water. “Your Majesty,” I managed to squeak.
The princess made her way up the steps to stand at the right of the throne. “Only’s journey’s been difficult. I don’t think more than a gentle test will be needed, Father.”
“We’ll come to that in a moment,” the king replied gruffly, waving a hand at her. “First, I should like to know about the attack upon my daughter’s person last night by members of our palace guard recently come from the Motte, Lady Folque.”
The woman bowed her dark head. “Majesty, as these two men came from my family’s house, I myself will take responsibility for their actions. They were taken on by my captain and arms master at the Motte and only recently brought into the city to bolster your own forces.” Regret was heavy in her voice. “Obviously, the threat to your rule runs deeper than we’d feared.”
Saphritte’s eyes rolled round in her head. “Lady Folque, I don’t believe—”
The king held up his hand. “Pray be still, daughter. I would hear what the head of my council has to say.”
The princess’s face became a picture of bottled temper. If eyes could murder, Lady Folque would have been stone dead.
A sly smile touched Lamia’s lips. “As I was about to say, Majesty, the remaining man was questioned extensively by the sergeant-at-arms, and what was discovered was alarming, to say the least.”
Lady Mollier frowned. “You didn’t mention this last night, Lamia.”
Lady Folque blinked at her from under heavy-lidded eyes. “The news only came to me this morning, Constance. Apparently, the man required some gentle persuasion in order to make his confession.” I thought of Lieutenant Dahl and her “persuasion” of Jon in the Wood. What kind of “persuading” had Marcel needed?
“And that confession was?” demanded the king.
“Majesty, much as it pains me to report, the men known to my captains as Marcel Vaine and Tarique Hoorwood are in fact Rhys and Flint Breakwater, members of a prominent Ordish clan on the Blue. Yet more evidence of a growing Ordish resistance against the crown.”
There was a hiss as the council all drew in sharp breaths. Disbelieving, Saphritte sought me out, silently willing me to say it wasn’t so. I could do nothing but shrug and wish I’d had just a few breaths to tell her what I’d ferreted out about Lamia Folque’s cunning before I’d been trapped not three paces from the woman. There were no signs the councilwoman was speaking anything other than the truth.
The princess’s disbelief didn’t go unnoticed. Lady Folque narrowed her eyes. “Her Royal Highness mistrusts this information?”
Standing next to her father with the council and His Majesty waiting on her answer, Saphritte cleared her throat, looking suddenly no more than a whelp like me. “It simply seems unlikely that the Ordish would be planning open rebellion against the crown. They would be outmanned and outarmed.”
“I find it hard to believe you would be so quick to dismiss evidence, Highness,” Lamia shot back. “Especially since you yourself came under attack during your journey from an entire band of river savages!”
Without thinking, I opened my mouth to protest, but a sharp look from Saphritte closed it again.
The king cut the disagreement in two. “We shall come back to this matter shortly, but first, the Mayquin.”
“I had thought to let her rest this afternoon,�
� interrupted Saphritte. “Perhaps, Majesty, we could dispense with the formality of a trial?”
“Of course we can’t!” snapped the king. “Would you have me climb on the back of a horse that hasn’t been tested? Taste a dish made by a stranger? Why would you ask me to put my faith in a child whose talents are unknown to me?”
“I wouldn’t, my lord father, if I hadn’t seen them for myself,” the princess replied stiffly. “After the attack upon us in the Wood, she assisted us in the questioning of the prisoners.”
The king grunted. “I would still see it with my own eyes. Call in the heads of house.”
The chamber doors opened to reveal three figures. One was a short, plump woman in a sober navy dress with an apron like one Mama wore when she baked. Another, a nervous man wearing carefully polished stable boots, holding his fur-trimmed hat like it might try to escape back to the forest where it came from. The third was a tall, upright woman in battle leathers, her graying hair close-cropped to her head. As the three approached the base of the steps, they all stopped and bowed. “Majesty,” they said as one.
Saphritte descended from the throne to stand by my side. “Mistress Abbot is the head of kitchen and stores, Master Piers is the steward of stable, and Mistress Coppervale is the keeper of the armory. Master and mistresses, your reports, please.”
Mistress Abbot stood forward. “Majesty, Highnesses, Mayquin, my lords and ladies,” she began, acknowledging all of us in turn, “it’s been a busy week below the stairs, I don’t mind saying. The bricksmith’s begun to build the new, larger ovens and the mess it’s created has been dreadful. We’ve had a shipment of Acherian orange, though, so the whole of the stores smells divine. I’ve got some of them drying for the Yule grog—the ones from down in Blessing aren’t as flavorful. The two new indentures need a bit more training, and if it pleases Your Majesty, I’d like to do a pheasant stew for your luncheon with the master of coin on Monday next.”
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