by Kesia Lupo
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, drawing herself up straighter and wiping her face. ‘Maybe it was stupid, but I had to do it. I had to know.’
He shook his head slightly. ‘You know I forgive you,’ he murmured. And then he left.
SIXTEEN
Confirmation
Constance stepped into the great hall, the white and green ceremonial robes heavy upon her narrow shoulders, her pale hair fanned out across her back. The Rathbone tree emblem was emblazoned across the long train behind her, its leaves over her shoulders, roots trailing along the floor. A smatter of applause rang out through the hall as she approached the centre, swelled by a few half-hearted cheers. The Wise Men followed her inside, clothed in silk, velvet and jewels of their own, led by Winton in the silver robes of the second in line to the ducal throne.
After the night’s unrest, Constance could hardly feel the weight of her ceremonial clothing; her dread was heavier still. Captain Trudan had lost his life to the revolt – they’d untied him from the chair in the Hanged Thief only to find him cold as stone, bled out from the wound in his head. It felt like a bad omen, and Winton had been distraught. Bad news over bad news, she thought grimly. Time was slipping away, and here she was, walking as slowly as she’d ever walked.
One step. Another three steps. Slowly, slowly. Encrusted with gems, the old robes clinked gently, hastily adjusted for the female form; heavy embroidery stroked the newly swept floor with whispers.
Considering the short notice, the hall had been miraculously transformed – the floor cleaned, cobwebs captured and banished, wall hangings beaten of dust. The benches had been arranged in neat rows, creating a long aisle down the centre, the trapdoors to the realm of the Ancestors gleaming with beeswax. Traditionally, the walls and oak-beamed ceiling were bedecked with ivy for grand occasions, but the ivy had long perished and the servants had to manage with swathes of green cloth woven with gold. An abundance of candles supplemented the weak midday light filtering through the freshly cleaned windows.
Constance couldn’t help remembering how bright the hall had been – bathed in golden sunlight – when her stepmother had been crowned Duke’s Consort.
Weapons forbidden, the city guards stood again around the hall’s periphery, their belts empty. Constance felt unsettled by the sight. She’d have liked to make an exception to the rule but hadn’t dared: she knew it would cost her politically. Most seemed prepared to accept she was a mage – or at least offered no outward protest – but no one would welcome outright disrespect of the laws of Duke’s Forest by its own would-be ruler. Still, a sense of unease shivered in the back of her mind as she thought of Dr Thorn’s warnings. She’d doubled the guard on the Justice’s apartments as a precaution and had his rooms searched, but nothing magical or mechanical had been found. She’d even swept around the apartments herself, turning the dial on her mask – but no spells had glimmered except the storm cloud.
Lord Veredith – the newly appointed master of ceremonies (an honour that would usually fall to the Justice) – waited at the end of the aisle, dressed in his finest robes. The small book of ceremonies lay open in his hand, a red ribbon marking the place. The pages trembled slightly with the old man’s fatigue. Nearby, a green velvet cushion rested on a pedestal, bearing the crown – a plain silver circlet inset with emeralds twining around its length like vines. The traditional ducal crown had been too large and heavy for her, so she’d chosen the circlet once worn by her mother, and by Winton’s mother. The Wise Men sat in a broken semicircle of chairs directly below the dais. Constance continued at her stately pace towards the steps to the raised platform.
She felt the heel of her slipper catch slightly as she climbed the steps. She tripped, landing hard on her knee. Her heart lurched, and a few gasps sounded through the hall. Another bad omen. That’s what they’re all thinking. She stood up slowly, paying no heed to the screaming bruise on her knee, keeping her expression blank. She smoothed her robes and continued up to the dais. For all her apparent composure, she felt a bead of sweat trickle down her brow as she knelt at Lord Veredith’s feet.
The old man took a rattling breath and embarked on the long-winded preamble to the ceremony of confirmation. She tried to relax. You have no enemies here, she told herself. Dr Thorn was locked in the dungeons, the Justice confined to his apartments. She was safe. And she was nearly Duchess.
‘Constance Rathbone, daughter of Ethelbur Rathbone,’ Lord Veredith said finally, his voice quavering as he placed his palm flat on her head. ‘The living and the dead gather in his hall to witness your oath to the duchy. Do you swear to uphold the King’s laws and accept his overlordship?’
‘I do.’ But her reply was underlain by a flurry of noises: clicking and a distant tinkling like a bell – or a coin dropping to the floor. Lord Veredith’s eyes flickered across the crowd, but quickly returned to his text. Constance breathed deep, a leaden feeling in her stomach. Not now, she thought. Please not now.
‘Do you swear to protect the people—’
A moan, louder this time, interrupted the old man’s voice. His eyes drifted to the floor, his face abruptly pale. Constance followed the passage of his gaze, dread building in her ribs. Not again. Everyone was watching the trapdoors set in the middle of the aisle, holding their breath.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was unmistakeable now. A noise emanating from below. From the crypts. Where only the Ancestors existed.
Somebody in the crowd whimpered.
‘Bar the crypt doors,’ said Constance firmly. Nobody moved, frozen in shock. ‘For gods’ sake!’ she hissed. She stood up, grabbed the long wooden weight from the ceremonial banner behind Lord Veredith and thrust it through the trapdoor handles.
Barely in time. Another slow knock and the door shuddered, as if pushed. The room fell eerily silent, all eyes fixed on the space. A woman started weeping, murmuring filled the air. A few of the Wise Men stood as if to leave, but baulked under Constance’s glare.
‘Please be seated, everyone. I shall deal with this in due course,’ she said, her voice loud and firm.
‘The Ancestors are angry,’ someone protested.
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Constance, returning to her place, kneeling at the front of the hall. Luckily, the noise from below the floor had ceased, as if the Ancestors too had been cowed by her display of authority. ‘Lord Veredith, proceed.’
The murmuring fell to muffled whispers as the old man fumbled to find his place in the text.
‘Protect the people,’ she hissed to him. The crowd was restless, disturbed – barely quiet. In the corner of her eye, she saw a small child try to run for the door, quickly caught and scolded in whispers by a white-faced parent.
‘Do you swear … to protect the people … from harm, to the extent of your power and authority, from threats … martial and magical alike?’ Lord Veredith was struggling, his breath heaving in short gasps, his hands shaking.
‘I do.’ Her voice rang clear and true through the hall, determination bolstering her courage.
‘Do you swear to honour and worship … the Ancestors, observe … their ancient rites and fulfil … your obligations to their ancient religion?’
I cannot, she thought, but bowed her head in assent nonetheless. ‘I do.’
Veredith picked up the crown and held it over Constance’s head, where it shuddered like the old man’s lungs. ‘With this crown, I proclaim—’
And that’s when the doors of the great hall burst open, and a deafening ring of drawn steel reverberated around. Veredith dropped the crown with a clatter.
What now? asked a small, exasperated part of Constance’s mind as she turned to face the doors.
In his right hand, the Justice’s short sword was wet with blood – his left hand was covered by a large silver gauntlet. Behind him stood a dozen black-clad guards with naked blades – but no Dr Thorn, Constance noticed. The storm cloud poured inside, flickering and swirling until the doors swung shut with a bang. The Justice was
quickly flanked by those members of his personal guard who had escaped the cells, some of whom Constance realised had been scattered throughout the watching crowd, disguised out of their usual black livery. And – unlike Xander’s men or the city guard – they were all armed.
Her mind spun wildly, like the needle of a broken compass trying to find north. How did he get out? What happened to the guards at his door?
A few whimpers filled the air as the congregation cringed from the drawn blades, falling quickly into stunned silence as the Justice’s men took control, ordering everyone to their knees. Lord Veredith collapsed on to a chair, his face deathly pale.
But Constance stood up slowly, a curious calm taking hold of her underneath her confusion. Xander was immediately in front of her, his green eyes bright with determination. She felt her heart soar – and quickly sink as she realised what was about to happen. I can’t let him die for me. ‘Xander,’ she started, trying to pull him aside, but he shrugged off her touch.
The Justice thundered up the aisle, his footsteps echoing on the flagstones, sword outstretched. Upon his left hand the silver gauntlet gleamed.
‘Step no further, traitor!’ Xander cried, holding up his fists as the Justice reached the semicircle of chairs. But six or seven of the Justice’s men had already surrounded him. Xander landed a few blows, quick and clean, but was swiftly overpowered and wrestled to the floor. Constance pressed a hand over her mouth to stop herself crying out – she knew it would not help him. She couldn’t move. She felt like she’d turned to stone.
‘Stop this! Stop!’ Winton was shouting, attempting to pull one of the men away from the Swordmaster. But he was pushed back, restrained. His cloak tore as somebody stepped on its hem.
The men kicked Xander viciously, the scarlet silken scarves falling around him, mingling with his blood. He curled up, and the kicks landed on his spine instead. Constance felt her insides twist painfully, as if she were the one receiving the blows. Winton continued to struggle against his restraints, to cry out against the violence, until the Justice raised his gauntleted fist and smacked him around the face, once, almost casually. And then everything was quiet except for the sound of boots crashing into flesh.
It was all over so quickly.
The Justice sheathed his sword and reached for Constance’s neck with his silver-gloved hand, but her instincts finally kicked in. Fight, godsdammit. She raised her hand and a flash of bright purple lit up the hall – without her cane, she was weaker, but not defenceless. The Justice was thrown back, landing on his side a few feet to her right.
She lifted up her heavy robes and ran from the dais, past the Justice and down the aisle towards the door. Nobody tried to stop her. She was hardly thinking. Her whole mind was filled with the euphoric impulse to escape, to live another day.
At the end of everything, what else was there but the will to survive?
But suddenly a huge bang echoed and Constance was flung to the floor. Red light flashed behind her eyes, pain wracked her body. At first, she was certain she’d find the head of an arrow sticking from her heart – but there was no wound. No blood. Except … she raised a hand to her face, feeling a warm trickle from her nose. It was as if an invisible door had been slammed in her face. She was dizzy. Confused. Her brain carried out an absurd dialogue with itself somewhere beneath the ringing in her ears. She had no doubt what had happened was magic – but how?
The gauntlet.
She started to think more clearly as she connected the pieces. She had told her men to search the Justice’s rooms for magical items, or even clockwork. They had found none – beyond a perfectly harmless grandfather clock. She too had searched the rooms in her mask for signs of magic as an extra precaution – and found nothing. But what if the clockwork had been disguised … say, in a ceremonial suit of armour? And what if it hadn’t yet been activated, and therefore wasn’t revealed by the spell-scape?
Stupid. Now everything is ruined.
‘We have a mage among us,’ the Justice bellowed at the congregation. ‘A snake at the very heart of Duke’s Forest. How could you allow this, you who claim to be faithful to the Ancestors?’
She turned her neck awkwardly from her position on the floor, her head spinning as she looked over her shoulder at the Justice, blood trickling down her chin. The spell had been disguised. To outsiders, it must have looked as if she’d simply tripped up. In his hand, the one without the gauntlet, the Justice was holding the ducal crown.
Dr Thorn had warned her about some trick, some magic belonging to the Justice himself … Her eyes caught on the metal gauntlet. Could she see a cog turning somewhere on its wrist?
The people closest to Constance had backed away, but now Winton rushed down the hall to his sister’s side. He knelt beside her, helping her sit up unsteadily. ‘Constance,’ he murmured, his face already bruising from the Justice’s blow. ‘Constance, are you all right?’ She struggled to focus on his eyes, dark like his mother’s – and his mother’s features echoed in his face. But he was not his mother. His eyes were swimming with angry tears.
‘I’m all right, Winton,’ she whispered, although she wasn’t.
She heard the Justice’s footsteps approaching down the aisle, the clack-clack-clack of his boots echoing in the stunned silence. But Winton refused to turn round, retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to Constance’s nose. She held it in place, winced as her entire face throbbed. The white cloth quickly bloomed red.
He turned to the Justice. ‘How dare you,’ he said. ‘My sister is the Duchess. You cannot treat her this way!’
‘Your sister is not the Duchess,’ the Justice growled, jerking Winton from her side, his right hand tight and white-knuckled on her brother’s shoulder. ‘The coronation was never completed.’ He waved over a couple of his men, who hauled Constance clumsily to her feet. She dropped the handkerchief, which flopped sodden on to the floor. Her head pounded, but her mind was clear. Blood had spilt over the white and green robes, she noticed, ruining the embroidery worn by her Ancestors for generations. And her glove … her glove had slipped down her arm, revealing the sore place where the metal joined her flesh. She pushed it up, guessing nobody had noticed by the lack of reaction. She would keep what secrets she had left.
The Justice addressed the congregation a second time. ‘The pretender Constance Rathbone has deceived you all.’ His eyes found the Wise Men and narrowed. ‘And you have allowed it. Constance has already revealed herself to be a traitor – a mage, no less, and an imposter. Her brother has done nothing but support her wickedness,’ he added, his grip on Winton’s shoulder tightening. Constance watched as he tried to suppress a wince. ‘Now, by the King’s true authority, I claim a change of regime in Duke’s Forest. The reign of the Rathbones has ended. For years, I have been ruling the dukedom in all but name – and now …’ He pressed down on Winton’s shoulder, forcing him to his knees. ‘I will be the Duke.’ He lifted the crown, placed it on his own head.
Then he turned to Constance, a small smile twisting his lips as he flexed the fingers of his gauntlet, and nodded at his men. ‘Take her to the dungeons.’
As they half-dragged, half-carried her out, Constance felt as if she were floating.
It was all over. She’d never find the heart now.
* * *
Constance sat in her cell a few hours later, listening to the drip-drip-drip of damp into a puddle.
Drip.
I’ve failed.
Drip.
I’ll never find the heart.
Drip.
I’ll never fulfil my destiny.
The storm cloud seeped and sank into the damp cells through the high, glassless windows, creating low-lying patches, green-tinged and venomous, light flickering within them like a serpent’s tongue. Taunting her.
How did I miss the gauntlet? How did I get so complacent? How did I allow myself to be outwitted?
Constance let her magical senses open. She felt her own power under her skin
, the unruly force she had tamed over long years of enforced discipline and willing learning. She sensed the presence of Mythris too: a gossamer thread tethering her magic to her faith and holding it in place – binding her to a mutable god she’d never quite understood, but whose power appeared to be blissfully unconditional on her morality.
Her senses roamed further. She felt the spell cast over the bars of her cell, gleaming red, hot and rough – like sunlight on dry sandstone. A roughshod spell, cast by a man who did not know magic, but stole it anyway. The Justice. Beyond, her own purple spell – an intricate, strong-woven silk – kept Thorn imprisoned. She roamed further. The storm spell hung like a great net over the mountain. She brushed its strings like wire, at once damp and electric. A masterpiece of a spell. She clenched her fists so tightly a spark of magic flew from hand to hand unbidden.
Be calm. She took a deep, juddering breath.
Xander was out cold in the cell next to hers, his face oddly pale, his breathing shallow. Beneath his dirtied silks, Constance knew his body was a mess of red bruises. A wound on his head dribbled blood into the darkness of his hair. The Justice had exacted the full extent of his revenge on the Swordmaster and his men. Those that remained languished in the cells around a sharp corner, out of sight. Constance occasionally heard a cough or the groan of a man in pain.
Tension pressed behind her eyes, but she did not cry. Her mind drifted to the early years in the masked temple, how they’d taught her the price of tears. The cold faces in the mask room had watched as the High Priestess brought down her whip. The old scars stung on her back.
Your face is hidden. CRACK.
You are unreadable. CRACK.
You are without emotion. CRACK.
She shook her head, tried to forget. Right now she ought to harness the kernel of determination she’d always held close to her heart, and focus on how to solve this mess. But her mind was bubbling, unfocused, clouded by bitter disappointment.