by A. C. Smyth
“I don’t mind,” Sylas said. The last thing he wanted was to cause any trouble.
“It’s for weapons, like. Easy done and on your way.” Sylas glanced at Ayriene and she raised an eyebrow, then nodded. Searching Chesammos for weapons would have been unnecessary a few months ago. He wondered if the rebellion had spread to attacks within Banunis itself, for King Deygan to offer an implied insult to Ayriene.
The guard was quick but thorough, making Sylas take off his cloak and boots, going through his bedroll and his pack. He offered his hunting sling, but the soldier passed it back with no comment. Sylas was glad his linandra bead was safely wrapped in its folds of linen and stashed in his pouch, away from the guard’s prying eyes. Satisfied that he posed no threat, the guard called to a servant passing inside the gates, and gave instructions for them to be escorted into the palace.
When the gates swung closed behind him, Sylas forgot his feelings of displacement and stared in awe. If on the outside Banunis Castle was an unprepossessing lump of a building, once inside it was every bit a royal palace. He stared around him, mouth agape. What was he doing in a place like this?
Ayriene chuckled. “Come on. We need to get washed and into clean clothes if we aren’t to look like we’ve been brought in to clean the chimneys. And for the Creator’s sake hold yourself like a changer. You look like you are expecting to be taken by the ear and thrown out at any minute.”
Which, it had to be said, was exactly how he felt. He squared his shoulders, set his face to what he hoped was a look of confident determination, and followed her.
The interior of Banunis Castle left Sylas more than a little confused. He had felt the same way in his first days at the Aerie—walking the flagstone corridors wondering if he would ever find his way out; late for lessons more than once because he had taken a wrong turn. The labyrinth of passages had been utterly bewildering for a boy who had grown up in houses which each had one large circular room. He had learned to find his way around the Aerie, he told himself. He would learn to navigate the castle too, if he didn’t stumble into the king’s apartments and find himself frogmarched to the dungeons in the meantime. He tried to memorise landmarks—a small window of coloured glass here, a cracked paving slab there—and gradually the place seemed less formidable, if never exactly familiar.
Lonely with no company, and Ayriene being closeted away with Deygan as often as not, he asked after Casian. Lord Casian was not expected at Banunis, the servants told him. His scheme to land a position here must have failed.
Left to his own devices, he found his way to the library. Banunis Castle proved to have an extensive selection of books, with an entire section of changer lore and history. This was a subject he had not covered in his lessons, and from the dust on the volumes no one here studied it, either. The writing was hard to decipher, and Sylas’s reading abilities were stretched to the limit, but he passed countless hours with the masters of the past. He worked his way through a learned analysis of talents, their variants and presumed origin; biographies of noted council members; a collection of letters and notes, frail almost to crumbling, on the removal of Lucranne from the position of high holder.
One afternoon he was reading as usual, the index finger of his left hand lightly following the words as he mouthed them. The door to the library opened, the top hinge creaking as it had every time Sylas had entered. Doors in Banunis Castle were huge, half again as tall as Sylas, and as wide as the ones on the great hall at the Aerie. It shut with a dull thump, and Sylas held his breath to listen for footsteps. The person made little sound. The library was carpeted—such luxury—and any footsteps were dulled by the woven wool. Sylas watched the aisle anxiously. He had been given the run of the library, but some instinct told him they had not intended him to go poking about in these old, and doubtless valuable, reference books.
Over the thumping of his heart he thought he heard feet moving on carpet, the shoes or boots occasionally finding a worn patch and making muffled footsteps on the floorboards below. Once he thought he smelled something, the scent of herbal soap briefly reaching his nostrils past the mustiness of old parchment wrapped in slowly decaying leather. Sylas froze. He felt hunted, like quarry driven to ground in a dead end, waiting for the hound to sniff him out. A clean and fragrant hound, who moved softly in Irenthi boots.
When the figure reached the end of the row, it uttered a stifled gasp, hand flying to a face of palest ivory. It was hard to say who was more startled, the newcomer or Sylas. The figure was slender, maybe a hand’s length shorter than Sylas, and carried a fire bowl covered with a glass mantle to light his way through the gloomy stacks. Its glow illuminated his face, showing a generous nose, finely shaped mouth, and eyes Irenthi-pale. His silver-blond hair appeared to glow in a nimbus around his head, caught by the flickering light.
The moon, Sylas thought; his hair shines like the moon. He knew he stared, but at that moment he thought the boy the most beautiful person he had ever seen.
The Irenthi boy licked his lips, holding the fire bowl out in front of him. In a voice intended to be confident but missing the mark by a fair margin, he said, “Who’s there? Show yourself.”
Sylas rose to his feet, being careful not to make any sudden movements. Most of the Irenthi went unarmed around the castle, but he knew many of the nobility, even their youngsters, often carried concealed daggers in case of attack.
“I beg pardon, my lord,” he said. “I was given leave to use the library. I did not know these shelves were forbidden.” But you had a good idea they might be. Fool!
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the young man said, approaching slowly, weighing Sylas up with his gaze. He was younger than Sylas had first thought. His voice had yet to change to the deeper tones of manhood and his skin was fair and soft-looking.
As he approached, Sylas’s first impressions were confirmed. The lad was Irenthi—as true-born as they came, from the looks of him. He had the high cheekbones and pointed nose Sylas associated with Casian. Green eyes like Casian’s too, he could see by the flickering gold light of the fire bowl. Now the first quaver had gone from his voice, it held a quiet authority and had the air of one used to being obeyed without question.
Prince Jaevan.
The thought shot through Sylas’s mind like a stone from a sling. How many errors of protocol had he committed? Should he kneel, as if to King Deygan, or was a bow sufficient? He had expected to meet the prince in a more formal environment, if at all, and for Ayriene to have briefed him beforehand. No room in these cramped aisles to kneel, he decided, and made a hurried and ungraceful bow, raising his head only slightly to make the sign of the Lady, thumbs and forefingers together to make the shape of the mountain peak.
“My humblest apologies, Highness. I did not expect to see you here. I will leave you to your studies.”
He gathered up such notes as he had made, in his haste forgetting that the ink bottle was uncorked and sloshing the black liquid over the tabletop. Biting back a curse in his own tongue he looked around for something with which to mop the spillage. In his desperation he considered tearing a strip from his shirt, knowing full well that would earn him trouble from Ayriene. The ink had missed the books, thank the Lady; he shuddered to think what the punishment might have been had he damaged some of these priceless parchments with his clumsiness.
The lad smiled, showing white, even teeth. He reached into his tunic and brought out a kerchief.
“Use this. Not that the desks in here haven’t seen their share of ink over the years.”
Sylas muttered thanks, sopping up the ink and then holding the kerchief awkwardly. Did he return it to the prince, wet and stained, or take it and attempt to get it laundered?
“Keep it,” Prince Jaevan said with another smile. “It is only a little thing.”
Sylas bowed again, preparing to make his excuses and run, bu
t Jaevan stared at the table, then at Sylas, realisation written across his features.
“I know you, I think,” he said. “A Chesammos scholar, writing with a brush instead of a quill. You are from the Aerie. You must be Ayriene’s apprentice. Tell me I am wrong.” His boyish face lit up with pleasure at having worked the puzzle out for himself.
Sylas mumbled something about not being much of a scholar, hoping Prince Jaevan would give him leave to go before he showed himself to be a fool, or broke something, or both, but the prince waved him to a seat with an eloquent gesture of his long, thin hand. The prince himself sat across the table from Sylas, the damp, black stain between them.
“Do you know what my father and Ayriene are talking about when they shut themselves away?” Jaevan said. “They discuss my symptoms. My aches. My cramps. Mistress Ayriene tries to convince my father of what we both know is true and he still fervently denies. She tests me for this and that, at his insistence, but all the signs point to one thing, and one thing only.”
Sylas stared. Ayriene had not told him why they had come, only that King Deygan had summoned her. For all he knew it was a regular occurrence. Was he understanding the prince correctly?
Jaevan scowled, a strange expression on such a flawless face. “It’s my life they are talking about. It’s not fair. They should listen to me.” He paused, pulling on his lower lip. “Tell me, changer. What did it feel like when you first changed? Did it hurt? What is it like to fly?”
When Ayriene found Sylas later, he was sitting in the courtyard with Jaevan. The pair were deep in conversation. Sylas had Jaevan sitting cross-legged on the ground in Chesammos fashion, despite there being a perfectly serviceable bench nearby, and the two talked animatedly, their chatter and laughter echoing around the courtyard. Ayriene could not remember the last time she had heard Sylas laugh. It was a shame the circumstances were so inappropriate.
They looked odd, dark head bent close to the fair, and they drew curious glances from passers-by. Chesammos were entirely absent from the castle—the servants were all Irmos—and a Chesammos would never be seen treating an Irenthi as a near-equal. The castle staff were unsure whether to be affectionately indulgent of their young prince, or utterly scandalised. Ayriene had no such doubts. All but dragging Sylas away, she told him in no uncertain terms that what he had done was not proper.
“But he asked me to sit and talk with him, Mistress. He says he will be king one day, maisaiea-yelai, and he wants to understand all his people, not just the Irenthi. He says his father thinks nothing of the Chesammos. He sees us as a tool by which the most unpleasant and most dangerous jobs get done. Jaevan—Prince Jaevan—wants to make things better for us.”
Sylas’s hopes were understandable, if unreasonable. If the Chesammos survived as a people until Jaevan took the throne, and if a changer was allowed to become king, Jaevan would find himself as hamstrung by tradition and politics as had his father.
“Idiot!” said Ayriene, giving him another cuff round his head for good measure. “Don’t you think that Deygan himself spoke that way once? When Prince Jaevan becomes king he will find that ruling does not mean pleasing himself, but juggling the needs and wishes of the king’s assembly, by whose right he holds the throne.”
Sylas looked hurt, and Ayriene regretted her harshness. During their travels she had become genuinely attached to Sylas, and was pleased that his eyes had lost the hunted look they had worn in the Aerie. But sometimes he had no more sense than an ash beetle. Sitting in broad daylight talking to the heir to the throne as his friend and equal, indeed. If Deygan were to hear of it he would likely order Sylas removed from the castle, or at least prohibited from speaking to the prince without proper supervision.
Sylas sat, subdued, drawing with chalk on a slate; parchment was too precious for him to practise on. His brows were furrowed and his deep brown eyes seemed even darker than usual. He drew with an intensity that Ayriene recognised. Her apprentice was troubled, and her reprimand was only a part of it.
“Sylas?” She raised an eyebrow at him, hoping he would share his thoughts. Stray fragments of chalk dust clung to his clothes and he brushed them off with a frown.
“I like him, Mistress, and I think he likes me.” The frown deepened to a scowl. His Chesammos features reminded her of a storm brewing, dark and foreboding. “He has no friends his own age. He has brothers, but they are younger. The one nearest his own age is more interested in horses and archery than books and knowledge, and the next one is just a child. His father is busy—too busy to spend much time with him—and his mother is dead, so he has no one but his tutors to talk to about his interests. He is lonely, I think. And…” he hesitated, as if reluctant to betray a confidence. “Mistress, do you and the king talk about whether Jaevan may be a changer?”
The bluntness of the question brought her up short.
“Prince Jaevan, Sylas. If you disrespect the prince it will be bad for you. Even with me, you must watch your tongue, in case you grow too used to bad habits. It is no concern of yours what the king and I talk about.” She willed herself to maintain the upper hand despite his sullenness. “Has the prince spoken to you about it?”
He nodded. “He thinks he is changing. He has the pains, and he said he heard a call at the Aerie. He is frightened, Mistress, and no one is telling him anything.”
He is lonely, I think.
The tone of Sylas’s voice haunted her and she realised that Sylas might as well have been talking of himself. He had no one his own age, only his tutor to talk to and that tutor so busy of late that he had been left to his own devices. She had neglected him. Ayriene wondered if Jesely might be prevailed upon to make one of his visits to the castle. Sylas got on well with Jesely. But that was another tutor; what he needed was a friend closer to his own age. And at least she could encourage his friendship with Prince Jaevan. Sylas’s relationship with Casian troubled her. That could only end with Sylas hurt when Casian eventually cast him aside.
“I will speak to the king. It could be that he may let you meet with Prince Jaevan, although probably in more formal circumstances than today.” She smiled faintly at the recollection of the crown prince sitting in the dust in his fine clothes, throwing his head back to laugh at something Sylas had said. It could be that this unlikely friendship would be exactly what both of them needed.
Chapter 21
Banunis had been in a state of growing excitement about the upcoming feast day since before Sylas and Ayriene arrived. Officially the anniversary of Deygan’s coronation, it had also become a celebration of Chandris repelling the Lorandan invasion. The two events had happened within days of each other, the invaders thinking to strike at a young, untried ruler.
Sylas begged Ayriene to let him go and she had intended to accompany him, but had contracted a head cold from a patient and had taken to her bed with some of her own remedies. Sylas was nervous about going without her—the city would fill with visitors for the celebrations and the streets would be more crowded than usual—but he wanted to see the procession. Jaevan and his brothers would ride in the carriage with King Deygan, and would help him throw silver and smallcoin to the populace. Sylas’s main interest was seeing his new friend in his princely role, standing beside his father.
The crowds began to fill the streets early, people staking their claims to the best spots. Over the years, the places had been marked where it was easiest to catch one of the coins thrown by the royal party. Mostly the king and the princes threw coppers, but an occasional lucky person would be on the receiving end of a half-regal, or even a regal. The scrum for the silver coins often got dangerous, Ayriene warned Sylas before he set off. He intended to stay well clear.
He had no need to scrabble for smallcoins. The pouch at his belt, which he tucked carefully inside his tunic before he passed the castle gates, held a few more coins than when he arrived. On occasion, encouraged by Ayrie
ne, Sylas had set up in the courtyard of the castle, waiting for customers to come to him as they did in the villages. He had earned a little extra from that, enough to buy himself some ale and a pie or two at today’s festival. He had no personal expenses, as his food and lodging were provided by House Banunis. He might be sleeping on a pallet at the foot of Ayriene’s bed, a curtain pulled across the room to give a little privacy, but it was better than most nights on the road.
He exited the castle gateway and went out into the streets that led to the lower city. A storm had passed over the previous night and Sylas had sat at his window, unable to sleep as the thunder rumbled its way over the castle. Lightning had forked, slicing the air to crackle through the ash-brick towers, and the rain had lashed the streets and houses of Banunis City.
His feet slipped on the smooth, wet cobbles, the leather soles of his boots worn thin from travelling. One leaked, the cold damp seeping through to his feet; he examined the boot with annoyance. Then he chuckled. Desert Chesammos wore no boots. The soles of his feet had themselves once been as tough as leather.
The crowds grew denser as he made his way down the hill, the press of bodies jostling him, making him uncomfortable. He saw more Chesammos faces than usual—men, women, and children joining the crowd in the hopes of catching one of the regals to sustain them through the lean days of winter. Here and there a cry went up when someone discovered the cord of their belt pouch had been cut. Sylas tucked his purse deeper inside his tunic and considered returning to the castle. The smell of old sweat turned his stomach, and his pulse raced at the unfamiliar feeling of being carried along by the press of people, sometimes entirely against his will and into areas of the city he did not recognise. He had thought to stay in the main street, since that was the way the king’s procession would come, but for respite he took himself into a side road, leaning in a doorway to regain his composure.