by Claire Merle
“Why would he do this?” I say. “My father would have sent Tug and Brin or as many men as he wished for his escort. Why trick me like this? Am I a distraction? Something to amuse himself with before returning to the Ruby Court? And where is his bride-to-be?”
Elise frowns and twists the stem of her goblet between thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps I am wrong.” She takes a sip of her wine. “A year can change a young man. Perhaps to delay giving you up he has come here instead of returning directly to the Red City. He has never spoken of the Princess of Rudeash?”
“No.”
“But your father, Lord Tersil, must know the pressures on the Prince to make a formidable alliance that will strengthen the kingdom.”
“In Delladea we marry for love.”
A sudden memory overpowers my inner eye.
Sweet perfume assaults my senses. Water flows through a narrow waterway.
“He is the King's brother! The King will not permit him to marry you,” Tug snarls.
“You are wrong. He loves me. It is as good as done.”
“The heir to the throne shoulders a great responsibility,” the Duchess says, her voice snapping my attention back to the room. “The King could never allow your match, even if the Prince wished it.”
I press a finger to my tingling forehead. I have spent too long in the mind-world today. How will I manage the banquet with all those memories swamping my thoughts?
“What good is it being a prince if you cannot marry whom you wish? No wonder he is careless in matters of the heart.”
The Duchess’s eyes soften. “I have seen the way he looks at you. He is enchanted, and you are an unusual girl. Perhaps we can help one another. Find out what happened when he went to the tundra. Perhaps the King of Rudeash changed his mind and refused to send his daughter. Whatever occurred, it may be linked to the attack on the Prince's escort. Your feelings for him now are confused, but I am sure you do not wish to see him hurt again.”
“I do not.”
The Duchess floats to her feet and sets her goblet on the windowsill. My body is shaky, but I rise as politeness dictates. “Let us go to dinner together,” she says, taking my arm and linking it through her own. “We are already late.”
“I will join you in a few minutes,” I say.
The Duchess brushes her palm to my cheek like a mother would to her sick child. Her cool hand feels waxy and lifeless. “Our conversation has upset you more than you would like to admit.”
A breath shudders through my chest. “Perhaps I should take dinner in my room,” I say.
“You cannot run away from this. Better to tackle it straight on. Speak to the Prince tonight.”
“But I will be speechless before him.”
“You will tell him I came to see you were settled in. I asked about the Princess Aliylah. I was afraid some terrible fate met his future bride when his escort was attacked.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I am grateful you trouble yourself to help me. Prince Jakut has deceived me as far as my own favour is concerned, but I still care for his wellbeing. I do not doubt his decision in coming here. You are honest, good people. Until his father returns from the Etean war, you are the only ones he can trust.”
“Is this why he has come? To wait until there is news of his father's return from the Etean front?”
“I believe so, Your Grace.”
She entwines her arm around mine again and leads me to the bedroom door. “Elise,” she says. “You must call me Elise. I am agreeably surprised to discover the young Prince's affection for you, even if it cannot come to anything. Perhaps all the rumours about him are unfounded, or he has finally grown up.”
I cannot imagine what these rumours of the Prince's conquests and lovers entail. Nor do I possess the energy or will to try. Let the Duchess ponder Jakut's uncharacteristic interest in an unsophisticated maiden from the north. He is right. Attempts to dissect our romantic relationship will distract the Lyndonian court for days.
Twenty-Three
High-ranking officers and royal guards display their finest uniforms. A lively fiddler's jig carries under the rowdy banter and laughter. A cluster of elegant women, silk skirts merging like petals of an exotic flower, sip from stemmed glasses. Servers deck the long tables with gravy-dripped meats, caramelised vegetables, steaming ceramic pots of beans and root plants.
The Duchess draws my halting body forward. I am in the banquet hall of the King's only brother! A pulse of energy quickens my heartbeat and a smile flutters across my lips.
My cheeks are flushed from drinking, and from the men's glances at my bare neck and tight bodice. But another surge of heat flares in my chest when I catch sight of the Prince.
He stands with the Duke. His hair has been trimmed, lending him a military air. A moss-green doublet lightens his eyes and accentuates his muscled shoulders. For the first time, I truly understand I am looking at a warrior prince, trained from the age of eight in the King's gruelling military program. Quick enough to disarm Tug. Strong and swift enough to kill five soldiers.
My footsteps grind to a halt but the Duchess whispers encouragement and urges me forward. At least awkwardness and distrust are not something I will need to fake. As I dip a curtsey, a servant blows a horn to hush the crowd.
“Let us celebrate Prince Jakut's arrival among us and his good health!” the Duke announces.
An approving cheer fills the hall. The Duchess watches sympathetically as I am forced to sit beside my lying suitor. At the far end of our table, Brin and Tug mingle with a group of officers. Brin slaps one on the back, chuckling loudly. Ale slops from his tankard. Tug's disapproving gaze slides to our end of the table. In response, Duchess Elise moves closer to her husband, rests her hand on his.
A server fills our glasses.
“Your beauty rivals the Duchess’s,” the Prince murmurs in my ear. I snort and accept the offer of wine. “You don't drink, Mirra.” The light warning in his tone is clear. Better we keep our wits about us.
A voice in the back of my mind agrees, but tonight I want him to fear my recklessness. I have no idea what he is capable of, and I want him to feel a little of the spine-prickling uncertainty in return.
“You are not my husband, Your Royal Highness,” I say raising my glass and tilting it to his health.
He smiles unnaturally. “So, you have been talking with the Duchess.” He enunciates his words for his aunt and uncle on the opposite side of the table to hear. “It always amazes me what two women who are not acquainted and share nothing in common find to discuss.”
I lean closer, so only a warm breath separates my lips from his smooth neck. “Perhaps you lack imagination,” I say. His composure slips in the slight pursing of his lips. Satisfaction worms through me. Two can play at his game. My crooked smile widens. The Duke throws an askance glance at his wife. She whispers a quick word in his ear.
“What are you doing?” Jakut says. I tilt my face close enough to detect the peppermint on his breath. His full wine glass goes untouched. He is not drinking.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“Did you take wine with the Duchess?”
“Indeed,” I say.
“Then perhaps you should slow down. A lady does not get drunk.” The Prince stabs his fork into a meat platter, takes a large slice and slaps it on my plate.
“And where is Deadran?” the Duke enquires. “Does he not join us tonight?”
“Our journey here was not easy for him. I hope you will not be offended, but I gave him permission to take supper in his room. It is difficult for him to be around so many.”
“How considerate,” I mutter.
“It is well advised,” the Duke says. I cut my meat the way Deadran has taught me using a knife and fork.
As conversation turns to the Etean war, the wine sours on my palate. I roll my tongue over strange new flavours, chew slowly to appreciate the foreign textures and forms. But the alcohol fuzz in my head is dulling my senses. The loud table conve
rsation and memories slipping and sliding from my inner-eye, are a constant irritation.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” I say once the Duchess has finished asking me about the court of Delladea, “I must get some air.” I rise from my chair. The Duke, Prince and nearest royal officers get to their feet.
“Would you like me to ask—” Jakut's voice fades as I cross the banquet hall. More than one set of eyes follow me to the open double doors. In the night's darkness, I pull at the strings of my bodice. A damp, brackish odour drifts on the breeze. It is the only hint water lies beyond the fort's endless walls. I am standing on a long veranda, which stretches the length of the building. I lay my hands on the railing and close my eyes, welcoming the slap of cold.
Footsteps clip over the wooden veranda slats. The Prince, or Tug or a guard. I do not care much whom.
“That was quite something.”
So it is the Prince.
“You were supposed to bring your betrothed Princess of Rudeash back from the north. And according to the Duchess you have a mistress.”
The Prince remains silent for so long, I turn, curious to see what he is doing. He stares at the full, speckled yellow moon. I look left and right and see a stairway twisting to a second-floor balcony. “Perhaps we can see the lake from up there,” I say, lifting my skirt and heading for it. The steep steps wind around and around. I arrive at the top breathless from the chill in my chest and throat, the sudden exertion, and the wine.
A guard emerges below. He watches Jakut climb to join me. From here, beyond the main gates where the jetty draws a crooked line through ice-cracked water, a pale trail of moonlight shimmers on the crystallized surface.
“The Duchess wants me to discover why you did not return with the princess. She thinks it may be related to the attack on your escort.”
The Prince faces the view and leans his elbows on the balcony rail. “My destiny is bound to a girl I have never met,” he says wistfully.
“You were promised to her when you were fourteen.”
“Deadran is no longer tied to the Ruby Court but he would hear of this. He should have told me.” He turns, spine pressed to the rail. His expression alters. A minuscule frown creases the gap between his brows. “You think I knew?” he says, crossing his arms. “It is my lack of memories that makes it so hard for you to trust me, isn’t it?”
I do not answer. “I suppose Deadran may not know the reason for your trip to the north. Your betrothed is too young for marriage. Your father pressed the union because of your mistress.”
“So Duchess Elise has warned you my intentions are fleeting and insincere.”
“And tonight I have behaved accordingly.”
He nods. “Very well. We must speak with Deadran. Wait for me downstairs. I will excuse us to our host and hostess, say you are unwell and I am escorting you back to your chambers.”
Two guards walk us through the quiet fort. Four others follow at a distance. Once we enter the circular courtyard surrounding the royal guest tower the Prince instructs our official guards to wait for him outside.
Deadran's room lies past mine at the end of the corridor. The Prince knocks on the door, but after a third try it is clear we will not receive an answer.
“He sleeps soundly.”
“You should return to the banquet,” I say. “I will retire and we will speak with Deadran in the morning.” He nods and we return to my chamber door. I open it with a wrought silver key slipped into the miniature pocket at the waist of my dress.
“Mirra...”
“Good night, Your Royal Highness.” I start to close the door but he presses his palm to hold it.
“You think I am responsible for the disappearance of five men from my escort?”
I lower my head and nip the inner side of my cheek.
“You think I sanctioned those five men to attack my own escort, and then I personally murdered those who assisted my treachery? For what? A mistress? To avoid my duties as heir to the throne? In my bones and my blood I know I could not be such a man.”
“Why do you care what I think? I'm Uru Ana. Outlawed, captured, burned, murdered and enslaved by your grandfather. Your father, King Alixter has done nothing to change the hate and fear Carucans harbour towards my kind. Nothing to stop the mercenaries from hunting us down like wild beasts and selling us to lawless criminals for their own sadistic games. What would make you different? The only reason you insist on this misplaced notion of friendship is because I do not see inside your head. But your memories will return. With time the fog of the mist berry cleansing will rise and clear, and the truth will be shown to us both. You do not need me to tell you what sort of man you are.”
He pales. Our eyes catch like snarled hooks. A ball of saliva lodges in my throat. I have gone too far. Trembling begins as a low hum in my legs. I am unable to swallow, unable to break his gaze. He needs me. He won't do anything. He needs me too much. But I regret my words at once.
After a moment frozen in eternity, the Prince turns stiffly, and I find myself alone, blinking into darkness.
Twenty-Four
I rummage through the dresser where the maid has unpacked corsets, brassieres and underpants. Then I attack the wardrobe of embroidered silk dresses, but I do not find my deerskin trousers and cotton shirt.
I take the lantern into the bathing chamber and see them lying on the tub to dry. My fur parka smells of lilac soap. Gone is the trapped snow mould rooted in the matted hair, the winter-sleep oils, the campfires’ ashes and smoke. And though I've wished the parka clean a hundred times since waking from the long-sleep, Blackfoot Forest and my parents, have never felt so far away.
I wrestle with three buttons on the back of my silk dress, finally slip it off, and put on my hunting clothes. Happy to be dressed again in my cotton shirt and fitted trousers, I tuck the Prince's stolen room key into my empty knife belt. Lifting it from his doublet while he was distracted with my drunken flirtations was easy. In fact, it was so easy I half-suspect he allowed me to take it. But I am not about to waste an opportunity.
I crack open my bedroom door and listen. Wind wheezes around unseen nooks and gusts in from the chilly exterior. Far off a man coughs, but I do not waste precious effort stretching my senses through the tower. The six guards who followed us to the royal guest quarters all left with the Prince. Which leaves two men watching Deadran and me. Apparently, we are not dangerous.
I lock my door and carry my boots down the flagstone corridor. My hand traces bumps in the cold bricks as I climb the stairs to Jakut's suite. At his door, I smooth one palm across the keyhole and guide the key in with my other hand. The latch turns with a dull thud. I puff out a breath of satisfaction, retrieve my boots, and slink into Jakut's chambers.
With a match from the supply I've found in my guest room, I light a lantern and enter the living area. The hearth smells of smouldering ashes. In the far corner, near doors to a balcony, stands a grand writing desk. Leaves of parchment lie scattered across the leather top. I flick through scraps of indiscernible sketches and Jakut's handwriting, then check the drawers.
Once the lantern is extinguished with a little hiss from my wet fingers, I return it to the hook by the suite door, and venture onto the balcony. Keeping to the shadows of an overhead buttress, I search for signs of the guards. This side of the royal guest tower butts up against the roof of a long building. There is no escape from the closed courtyard below so patrols around the back of the tower are unnecessary.
I pull on my boots, and climb over the balcony railing. In the distance, the frosted lake glistens like a mirror. Behind it, silver-tipped pines stretch as far as the eye can see. I extend my arms so I am suspended over the edge and study the wood beamed roof. It is a small leap, and a larger drop, but the slats and beams are closely spaced and evenly constructed so I should not fall through the thatching.
I breathe in, softening my muscles, imagining I'm as graceful and soft-footed as a deer. Then I leap. In the second I am falling, I bend my legs to b
reak the impact. My knees jar with the landing force, but the roof doesn't shake or crack beneath me, so I cannot complain. I creep to the end of the building and lower myself down a wooden door using a protruding metal knocker.
Once I am in a tunnel away from the guest chambers, I hurry towards the fort's northern quarter, hood pulled up, head lowered into the wind.
I am too exhausted to search the Duchess’s mind over a long distance so I will hide somewhere near the banquet hall while I scour her memories. A detail has come back, and I intend to discover its significance, along with my brother's whereabouts. When Duchess Elise advised her husband to relocate Kel to the old tower, she suggested they move the boys. But when they referred to getting rid of the shadow weaver, they spoke of only one child. Which other boy or boys was she talking about?
On the western face of the banquet hall lies a water gate bastion where the Prince sometimes played as a child. Isolated from the rest of the fort, only the royal family's kitchen staff and maids have reason to access the water channel. It is perfect for my task.
As I approach, I sense two other minds close by, one lingering in the second access tunnel, one alone by the water channel. I creep to the edge of the archway and peer into the moonlit quadrangle. A woman stands looking down at the dark, open waterway. Loose strands of auburn hair spill out from her intricately clipped chignon. She hugs a thick cloak over her evening dress, and clutches a silver medallion. Her lips move as though in prayer and the medallion is a lucky symbol of the Gods.
For once, something has gone my way. I will not have to struggle through the mind-world to find the Duchess. She is here. Relieved at this small turn of fortune, I scan the paved yard for somewhere to hide. I do not want to be disturbed while travelling through her memories. I'm about to slip out of the tunnel and into a near alcove when she looks up. Though I'm concealed by pitch-black darkness, her gaze aims straight at me.
“Hello?” Her voice is little more than a whisper. She does not wish to alert her guard in the other tunnel who is close enough to call if needed, far enough to allow her privacy.