by Kesia Lupo
‘Rogues?’
‘The common word for mages uninitiated into a temple, like yourself.’
Lena shook her head, not understanding. ‘I’d’ve thought it was obvious that I’m already used to being looked at,’ she said tartly, facing him eye to eye from the relative height of the interior.
Emris raised an eyebrow. He fixed on her mark momentarily, but there was no judgement in his gaze. ‘Perhaps. But people outside Duke’s Forest aren’t looking at your birthmark – not in that way. Once they know you’re a Rogue, they’re looking at you, wondering whether you might kill them.’ He threw her a slight, unnerving smile, the scars on his face puckering with the motion. Unsettled, Lena took a seat inside the carriage.
The large, sturdy vehicle had clearly been designed for practicality rather than comfort. It was tall enough to stand up in, for a start, although Emris’s head almost grazed the ceiling. Inside, narrow benches bordered walls crammed with storage space: cupboards with slatted wooden doors fastened with rope, drawers of wicker that tied shut with string hoops. There were no windows, and Emris lit a lamp attached to the ceiling. In its steady light, Lena glimpsed rolls of blankets, a miniature iron stove and a box labelled ‘Panacea’ next to another labelled ‘Venomsbane’ – alongside other items of unidentifiable use (a bundle of finely carved twigs in the corner, a couple of bright medallions hanging from pegs, a knot of strange leathery leaves suspended from the ceiling). The smell of tough salted meat and old sweat assaulted her nose.
Emris knocked on the ceiling and the carriage lurched into motion. Steadying himself against the shelving, he plucked a couple of long white feathers from a drawer, a leaf from the bundle suspended from the ceiling and a few lengths of silky black string. Finally, with a glance at Lena, Emris unhooked a grey cloak from the carriage wall, identical to his own. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you’re shivering.’
It was true: her habit was soaked through with storm vapour and sweat – she was freezing. Lena wrapped the cloak around her body gratefully. It was spun of plain grey wool, finer and softer than the wool of her habit, and lined with black flannel. She pulled it close.
‘You called yourself a huntsman. What does that mean?’ she asked.
Emris sat opposite her, elbows on his knees.
‘I will tell you everything, but I’ll need quiet while I prepare this charm,’ he said, and he began to weave the strands together, the feathers and leaf slowly encased. ‘Rest if you can.’
‘But—’
‘Trust me.’ He shot her a quick smile. ‘You’ll get nothing out of me while I’m working – this is fiddly. You’ll just have to be patient.’
Lena relented, rested her head against the wooden boards of the carriage wall and shut her eyes, secretly glad of a few moments’ peace. The carriage jolted, rocked and trundled along the pitted dirt road leading from the forest. The sound of the road roared in her ears, and for a while her mind was empty. But then thoughts and memories slushed into her all at once, as if spilt clumsily from a bucket.
Suddenly she didn’t feel grateful for the quiet any more. She screwed her eyes closed, hoping to stop the threatening tears. Emris had said she was a mage. She’d never considered the possibility – even when they had convicted her – but she couldn’t deny how the strangeness of the past year slotted neatly and simply into the explanation like pieces of a child’s puzzle. And if it was true, she’d never be able to return home.
Home … What was that anyway without Vigo? Vigo had hated magic. If Lena was a mage, would he have hated her too? Pain washed over her as the events of the past day flashed through her mind. Vigo was dead. Vigo was dead. And it was her fault, after all. She had betrayed him.
The carriage was large and unsteady, the road ill-maintained, and Lena found herself rocking wildly from side to side at the slightest disturbance. Her mind fluttered through her memories of Vigo in dazed distress. She settled on the story about the day he had found her. He’d told her in his usual matter-of-fact tone as she lay tucked up on the mattress in the corner of the kitchen, near the warmth of the stove. Lena was nine years old. She had recently started to sleep out in the kitchen instead of the small child’s cot in the corner of Vigo’s room, and was trying very hard not to be afraid.
Ten years to the day after my little boy died, I found you at dawn in a wooden crate on the steps down to the cryptling cellars. You were perhaps a day old, wailing like a hungry chick and wrapped in fine linen cloth. I knew there and then that the Ancestors had sent you to me. I fed you cow’s milk from the kitchens first, and I dug out my son’s empty crib, hidden and dusty in a cupboard. As soon as I laid you down, you slept. I named you Lena after my wife, Elena.
Whenever he’d spoken of Elena, his eyes had grown watery and he’d pretended to be busy or cross and would change the subject. But this time he had smiled.
Elena was beautiful, you know.
But wasn’t she Marked? Lena had asked curiously.
She was. A fire had left one side of her body a mass of scars, and at first, she raged at the Ancestors for sending her to the crypts at ten years old. But she was strong, determined and fearless, and her eyes … He shook his head at the memory, as if it had overwhelmed his senses. Her beauty shone through, no matter what. As soon as I saw you, Lena, your face screwed up and your fists balled in anger, I knew you were the same. Like her, you were a fighter.
FOUR
The Feast
After Lord Irvine had gone, Constance set the mask, pendant and cane carefully on the dressing table. She shrugged off her cloak and turned the lock in the sturdy wooden door – trying the handle for good measure. Shut tight.
She walked towards the window seat and removed a velvet blue cushion. Beneath, a small compartment was hidden in the wooden seat. She slipped her finger into the gap and lifted, smiling as she found the small pile of illicit books her mother had left behind. She ran her hands over the worn leather spines. The atlas of the world. The books of magic. The stories of the puppet theatres in the southern islands where her mother had been brought up. When Constance was a child, these books had been the closest thing she’d had to her mother’s voice.
She shut the seat and replaced the cushion, her eyes stinging slightly.
Unbuttoning her muddy dress, she let the silken material pool on the floor and lowered herself into the steaming bathwater. She’d taken her right glove off, but not her left. She kept her left arm raised, resting it on the copper lip of the bath. The trembling in it had quietened to a mild, unnatural vibration worrying at her fingers.
The black velvet glove reached three quarters up her arm, but white scar tissue still peeked from the top. She shut her eyes. Every time she saw the scars, she remembered the cold blue flash of pain. Felt it almost. The intensity of the memory was nearly unbearable.
She tried to clear her mind as the water warmed her to the core. She had to focus on the task ahead, not on the past. Constance felt the storm cloud churning outside, stuttering with electricity.
Flickers of light fell through the window as she allowed her body to relax – but no thunder sounded, the air filled instead with steam and quiet. After a time, she stepped out of the bath, wrapped herself in bath sheets and lay on her mother’s bed. How long since Constance had rested here, her hair spilling across the pillows? Her childhood felt further away than ever. She conjured the memory of her mother’s arms around her and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
By the time Constance woke, it was dusk. She felt like she could sleep for hours longer, but instead she pulled on one of the finest gowns in the chest – red velvet with a fur-lined collar and gold-leaf embroidery on the sleeves. Over the top, she rested her round pendant on its long chain, glinting in the firelight. After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the catch and peered at the bright mirror inside: nothing but her own dark blue eye gazing back at her curiously. She breathed on the glass until it misted, her finger hovering over it. She wanted to see him, wanted to speak to him. But what co
uld she say? The breath-cloud faded and she snapped the mirror shut.
She was running late. She slipped the mask in its secret pocket in her purple cloak, and threw the cloak around her shoulders. She took the cane and left her room – her mother’s room – locking the door behind her. Across the courtyard, her cane tapped loudly through the gloom, strange distorted echoes reflecting back at her, as if others were walking, invisible, at her side. She’d nearly forgotten how it felt in Duke’s Forest, the constant awareness of the Ancestors beneath, watching, judging. She followed different gods now, but still the sensation was as potent as ever.
They had never wanted her here.
Voices roared from the great hall, the oldest building in the castle, predating even the ancient east tower by hundreds of years. The hall had been swallowed up by the rest of the buildings, and stretched across nearly an entire wing between the south and west towers. Now, light spilt from its windows, watching the storm cloud like an ancient, many-eyed beast protecting its mountain hoard from a rival predator.
Constance climbed the steps to the entrance and pushed the door open. She slid inside, fixing a smile on her face at the sight within. But behind her eyes, she crumbled. When she’d left six years ago, the hall could have been filled twice over by the inhabitants of the castle. Now it was barely half full.
Her brother and the Wise Men sat at the high table – at least she assumed they were the Wise Men, most of them old and decrepit and tucking into their food like ill-mannered children. She recognised a few: Lord Veredith, the law expert from the courtyard, and Lord Redding, who had dandled her on his knee as a toddler. Lord Farley had been a newly wed young man when she had left, but now he sat stoop-shouldered and alone over a bottle. Others had clearly risen through the power vacuum created by the Pestilence – most of them strangers. And her father was there too, the horrible physician in his brown coat standing over the Duke as he picked unhappily at the food on his plate, his eyes darting around in confusion. The only free chair stood next to her father’s, her brother on the other side, Lord Veredith opposite. Lord Irvine was a little way down the table.
As Constance walked down the aisle at the centre of the hall, people stopped talking, conversation thrumming into silence. She took her seat, forcing a wide, pleasant smile. But as she turned to face the room, she noticed a conspicuous absence: the Justice.
Well, I suppose I can’t force him to celebrate my return, she thought. Besides, it looks as if he’s sent his creature as a spy instead. She shot a sharp glance over her shoulder at Dr Thorn, who was now serving her father wine from a dull pewter jug, remembering how he’d hurried to fetch the Justice upon her arrival. The physician sank into the shadows as he noticed her gaze, cradling a goblet of his own, and nodded at her calmly. I’ll give him something to report, she thought, with a tiny smile.
She turned to face the rest of the hall, forcing her unease down into the bottom of her stomach. ‘I am so glad to be home,’ she said simply, her voice carrying easily in the quiet. ‘Thank you all for your warm welcome. You are probably wondering where I have been all this time. I expect there have been many rumours about my disappearance. And now you must be wondering why I have only just come back.’
Winton was gazing up at her especially intently.
‘I have been in the City of Kings, with my mother’s family,’ she said. ‘My father had the foresight to send me away – in secret – as the cloud first began to develop. He was trying to protect me. He did not know how terrible it would grow, but at the first sign of the storm he knew, as I was heir to the Duchy, that it was imperative I survive, flourish and learn the art of rule from the greatest in the land.’ She laid a hand on her father’s arm, part of her hoping he wasn’t sane enough to call out her half-truths, her lies. ‘But now it’s he who needs my protection. And all of you. I’ve come back to help you. My father has been alone at the helm, with no heir yet of age to offer a Protectorate.’ She smiled at Winton gently. ‘And especially alone since the sad decline and recent death of the Duchess.’ Pain flashed briefly across her brother’s face and Constance squeezed his shoulder. ‘But I am here now, and a Witenagemot is set for tomorrow at midday. As my father is ill, I intend to petition the Wise Men for permission to rule in his stead.’
A murmur filled the hall. She heard the words, ‘The Justice will not accept this,’ but could not tell who spoke. She ignored the warning.
‘I am only sorry I could not return sooner. But let us raise a glass: to homecomings, to new beginnings, to our future.’ And she lifted the full goblet high into the air, watching nervously as people rose hesitantly to their feet, each guest raising their glass in answer.
‘Homecomings. New beginnings. Our future,’ they murmured. She had never heard a toast spoken with less conviction.
Afterwards, Constance sat down and piled her plate high with food, hoping the relief wasn’t too plain on her face. She was a good liar – she’d never have reached her rank at the temple if she wasn’t – and yet lies still tasted sour in her mouth.
Lies are neighbours with the truth, she remembered the masked Priestess whisper. Release your secret truths one by one, carefully, and only to persuade. Treat them like gold.
Winton leaned closer, his voice low and worried as he spoke – although it was barely necessary under the rising clatter of plates and the roar of conversation. ‘You have my support, Sister, of course. But do you really think the Justice will lie down and take this?’
She chewed on a piece of rehydrated fish. Disgusting. The fare on the table was clearly drawn from the castle’s plentiful siege supplies – some of it preserved for decades. She forced herself to swallow: she needed the strength. ‘No, he won’t go without a fight,’ she said. ‘But I don’t intend to give him a choice.’
Winton shook his head slightly. ‘His personal retinue is the largest in the castle – he has three hundred men under his own command and, until you are confirmed as Protector in his stead, his ducal authority gives him command of the two hundred men of the city guard.’ He paused. ‘Five hundred men.’
Constance set down her fork. ‘Yes, I can manage basic arithmetic, Winton,’ she snapped. She instantly regretted it, his expression hardening. He is an ally, she reminded herself, not just your little brother. He may not be of age, but he’s not a child any more. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m tired from my journey, and it’s been a sad homecoming.’
Winton nodded, smiled. He always had been quick to forgive, even when he was a boy and Constance a bad-tempered teenager. ‘Don’t worry. I understand.’ He tore off a hunk of bread from a loaf in the centre of the table.
You really don’t understand, Constance thought. But she said, ‘What of the other personal retinues?’ She asked partly because she was genuinely interested, and partly to make him feel important.
‘Lord Irvine …’ Winton swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Lord Irvine has two hundred and fifty men, or thereabouts, due to his rank as Swordmaster – it’s fewer than the Justice but they’re better fighters.’ In the past, the Swordmaster’s guard had been the elite fighting force of Duke’s Forest, a thousand strong. Two hundred and fifty was … pitiful. ‘As for the rest of the noblemen – their retinues number in the tens. Once it would have been more, but …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘So very many have died. And now Mother …’
In spite of everything, Constance too felt a pang of sorrow in her chest – she hated to see her little brother so wounded. ‘Lord Irvine told me what happened at the Descent. I’m so sorry, Winton.’
He shook his head. Constance could tell he was holding back tears. ‘I just … can’t believe that she’s gone. She was ill for so long … and suddenly … but then, for a moment … I thought …’ She rested her right hand on his arm. Sleep had helped her, and food was strengthening her further, but her magic and emotions remained unsettled, burbling within her like an upset stomach. She steadied her breath in the way she’d been taught as a novice. She felt her heartbeat s
low. Winton, however, had clearly never been taught how to control his emotions.
‘It’s all right, Winton. I’m here now,’ she said softly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling away from her and standing quickly, struggling to suppress his tears. ‘I … have to go, just … just for a minute.’ And he slipped out of one of the servants’ doors towards the back of the hall, attracting a few stares and murmurs.
Part of her was tempted to follow him, comfort him – but she knew she had to stay. If she was to rule here, she had to be stronger, calmer and cleverer than anyone else. She sipped at her wine – an inferior vintage, sharp with tannins, but she was glad of the warm burn sliding down her throat.
On Constance’s other side, the Duke pushed his food around his plate as if he’d forgotten what it was for. The physician had disappeared.
‘Try to eat something, Father,’ she said gently, helping him cut a sliver of the pungent fish and raise it to his mouth. The Duke chewed with his mouth open, like a toddler.
Lord Veredith leaned closer across the table. ‘It is good to see you again, my dear,’ he warbled, patting the back of her hand. ‘You have grown into a beautiful young woman. How are the Santinis?’
The Santinis were her mother’s family. Their estates in the south-east of Valorian were a scattering of islands like a rash of freckles in the shallow turquoise sea, called the Wishes. Long ago, they’d been a royal house in their own right, and even now their territory was known for its unusual freedom and outlandish customs, the Santini Contessa for her independence. As the family rarely visited court, Constance had never met them – but she’d done her research. ‘They are well. My uncle Alberto sends his regards. I believe you met him once, when my mother’s match was first arranged?’
‘I did indeed. Splendid, splendid.’ Lord Veredith sipped his soup, a good deal of it smattering on to his long beard. ‘It was a magnificent day. The sun was shining. The horrid storm cloud was not yet imagined. A crowd gathered in the lower town to cheer on the new Duchess as she arrived in a carriage gilded with gold.’ His eyes had filled with mist. ‘She was beautiful, golden-skinned, blue-eyed and willowy tall. You have your mother’s figure, dear, and her eyes,’ he said, ‘but your colouring is your father’s.’ He continued, his voice warbling higher as his emotion grew: ‘I remember her stepping from the carriage. Your father was there, straight-backed and proud – his hair as fair as hers was dark. A young man then. Yes, they were a fine couple. And as they made their way into the castle, the whole city was alive with music. Never since that day have I felt—’