by E. J. Beaton
This was not irregular. This was a necessity under the circumstances.
She was a Councillor, now, and responsible. The burden of emotion was weighted with cause. She could pretend that it was not grief, that insurmountable pain you were meant to climb over like a few pebbles. She had public, political problems now; the kind of problems that everyone treated as real; problems that could justify a scholar mixing something special, something she had labored to learn the production of.
She packed the drug away and closed the drawer. When a knock came at the door, she opened it to find Litany holding a stack of clothing and jewelry.
“The steward says I’m to dress you for the banquet. And I’m to wait on you at all times while you’re Councillor—to be your personal attendant.”
The girl stepped in, depositing her bundle on the bed and laying out each garment and ornament on top of the cover. Lysande eyed the green velvet doublet, the shirt and trousers, and the gleaming pins. Tiny emeralds had been studded onto the neck and shoulders of the doublet. It could have been worse, she told herself. Sarelin could have seen me trussed up in this.
“I will see to it that you are paid well. But if you would rather serve a silverblood, you should not feel bound to this duty,” she said, hearing the stiffness in her voice.
“I’ve never had the chance to serve a woman of the crown before.”
A woman of the crown. She almost chuckled. What would Charice have said about that? “You must know that I am new to this station, Litany, and my position is temporary. I should not like you to miss an opportunity elsewhere.”
“If you please, Councillor, that makes two of us.” Litany gazed at the floor. “I’ve been working as a page and training in the skills of wardrobe. The steward saw fit to offer me this promotion after you were given the orbed staff. So you see, Councillor, I am new to my station too. I should be honored to dress you.”
Lysande moved to stand against the bed. She tried to let go of thoughts of city-rulers, poison, and the White Queen, and let her mind be still. It was a very curious feeling, having another person strip her clothes off and dress her again. She knew that this was what ladies and lords did every morning, standing like statues so that others could lace their boots, but it was all an uncomfortable fuss. The girl insisted on plaiting her hair and fixing it with little crown pins, weaving and pinning the deathstruck strands among the others, as if the queer, glittering silver were no different from any of her red locks; she held a small mirror up for Lysande’s benefit. Only when Lysande asked for her hair to be rearranged did Litany agree to tuck the silver strands beneath others. Finally, Litany guided her into a stiff posture, and Lysande realized that she had been slouching.
“You must think me ridiculous,” she said, as her new attendant took a green ribbon and fixed a bow in Lysande’s hair, which now, thankfully, showed only red. “A Councillor who doesn’t know how to stand formally.”
“I think you’ve got better things to do than stand about. From what I hear, you translated the Silver Songs in full when you were twelve—did you not?”
Lysande stared at her. Litany dropped her gaze.
“Someone else’s words,” Lysande said, at last. “I merely moved them from an old language to a new one. I did not write them.”
“But before you did, I had never heard of work by a low-born—by a girl of little means, that is—being taken on by a monarch and distributed.”
If her voice had not been so soft, the remark could have been deemed impertinent. After a moment of silence, Litany returned to powdering Lysande’s hands. In doing so, she ran a fingernail under Lysande’s sleeve, and Lysande noticed the detail, filing away in her mind that it seemed a strange way of sizing up fabric. Despite Litany’s compliment, she felt the distance between them, the gulf that even a childhood among the populace could not bridge.
The Great Hall was buzzing when they arrived, and her stomach prickled, a resurgence of the nerves that had been dulled by loss and scale. She had never seen the room so packed. The four long tables surrounded a walkway: captains, senior guards, priests, merchants, and artists of note chatted to each other on the left, while on the right side of the hall, the members of the royal court murmured. Beyond the long tables, four smaller tables awaited. Silver tablecloths bore the emblems of the horned ice-bear, the snarling leopard, the reared-up cobra, and the slender yet fatally swift spearfish.
Come and fill your goblet in the Hall, tonight, Sarelin had said, once, when the city-rulers arrived for a ball. Lysande had caught glimpses of silk and fur in the corridors, carried by chattering attendants, and when she had imagined the stares fixed on her, she had felt something inside her cringe and curl itself up. She had sent her apology.
She could feel those eyes upon her now. Just a day ago, she had managed to give orders to the royal advisors, she reminded herself; she was aware, even as she did so, that this was something bigger than a meeting in the Oval, and that she stood out here, exposed not by her clothes but by the unpolished surface of her name. It was not the Axiumite way to encourage those without silver blood to rise through the court, she had long observed—it did not need to be decreed for everyone to know it. There was a reason that grocers and goldsmiths taught their children the Axium motto, just as noble children were required to copy it out for their tutors on thick paper, tracing those four words that she had seen on hangings all over the capital. Everything in its place.
Do you call that a philosophy, she had once asked Sarelin, or do you call that a threat? Sarelin had become very busy with cleaning her hunting-knife and had said nothing.
Another step, and then she was staring at the table looming at the end of the hall, a thick, oak structure with high-backed chairs, furnished with plates and goblets of solid silver and cutlery embellished with little diamonds. On the upraised platform, six seats stood.
“Oh!” Litany said, her eyes shining. Lysande followed the girl’s gaze.
In cages on either side of the high table, green and silver birds twittered, their fluty song weaving through the hum of talk, a shower of glittering dust falling occasionally from their wings. Gilding-doves, Lysande recognized, from another of Haxley’s entries. Should she really be surprised that the steward had chosen the most expensive birds in the capital to display to their guests? The Axium flag fluttered at the back of the room, and a great portrait of Sarelin in her armor hung on the right wall, dwarfing the other portraits. Lysande stared at the painting as she walked. From each angle, Sarelin’s gaze seemed to fall on her.
I never asked for this, she told the picture. She had to address Sarelin; it was the only way to manage their separation, talking to the departed instead of about her. I hope I don’t make a complete ass of myself, trying to stand and talk like you, she added.
Making her way down between the benches, she noticed the five brocaded shapes dangling from the back of every chair, the crown-shaped decorations stuffed much larger than the cities’ emblems. A familiar group waited at the end of the aisle. “We are your guard of honor, it seems,” Lady Pelory said, her eyes following Lysande.
“I have scarcely met such honorable ladies and lords.”
“What a fine party we shall make.” Pelory gave a knife-like smile.
Raden and Derset walked up to her. The spotless surface of Raden’s breastplate told her that he had cleaned it since he finished securing the capital, and burnished it this morning. The sight of Derset’s sober attire reassured Lysande, somehow, and she noticed he had parted his hair to the side, revealing streaks of deep silver that lent him a handsome maturity. Natural silver, Lysande thought: not hard and glittering silver. Respectable hair.
“Are you nervous, my lady?” he said, taking his place on her right.
“Of course not.”
“If you were not nervous, I might think something amiss.”
She shifted on the spot and dared to glance across at him. Once her sm
ile broke out, his did too, and they both looked quickly away.
A single trumpet note sounded. Hundreds of eyes turned upon her. It was impossible not to be aware that the great oak doors at the end of the hall would open at any minute and reveal the city-rulers, yet with Raden on her left and Derset on her right, she faced the crowd with her best blank countenance. She stole a glance at the painting of Sarelin again.
This was not only about diamonds, gilding-doves, and silver tablecloths. She knew the opposing opinions of the north and the south—their divergences on the punishment of magic, and the reasons for their bloody history, fueled by the rivalry of leaders past—and thanks to a study of court opinion over the years, she knew that the silverbloods worried a meeting of their delegations could be a spark to the kindling. What a way to be remembered, if she made a misstep today: she would be the Councillor who set the realm ablaze.
A fanfare of trumpets drowned out the chatter and the doors opened at last, pushed by two heralds who sported emerald jackets embroidered with the silver crown.
What if I can’t think of anything to say? she asked herself. Imperative. Be imperative. Say I shall, not I might.
Heads turned across the hall as a troupe of musicians marched in, blowing trumpets, plucking strings, and beating drums. The sound billowed in a harmony that spoke of silver and gold and treasures from places Lysande had read about. Her fingers tingled.
I’m doing this for you, Sarelin, she thought. Don’t let me fall on my face.
She gripped the staff tightly, her hands wrapped around the orb. As the trumpets died away, a herald strode down the middle. “I now present, from our fair city on the delta,” the woman shouted, “the jewel of the south, and the true son of the desert . . .”
“Son of a rich philanderer, more like,” Raden whispered.
“. . . and most radiant Prince of all Lyria, Jale Chamboise!”
Lysande felt her breath speeding. For a moment, it felt like she was staring into the sun. Jewelry adorned every figure that entered the room: sapphire earrings and necklaces, rings of solid gold, pendants in the shape of fish, and headpieces set with a rainbow of jewels shone in the candlelight. The thin shirts, fine trousers, and transparent overlays looked like they might slip off their wearers and pool on the floor, so light was their gauze.
The party of Lyrians shimmered down the hall, drawing many disapproving glances and just as many thinly concealed stares of interest. One Lyrian woman stopped beside a chair and stared at the brocaded ice-bear dangling from the back. She picked up the decoration and drew her smallsword.
Lysande’s whole body tightened for a moment, readying to stop the insult, but before she could take more than a few steps forward, one of the other Lyrians snapped at the woman, and she put the ice-bear decoration down.
“They’re southerners, all right,” Raden muttered.
Southerners, Lysande thought. With a desire to poke holes in the north. It did not bode well for cordiality. Some of the Lyrians shivered, looking around with less than pleased expressions. As they drew nearer, Lysande saw that dark kohl lined the women’s eyes, while the eyelids of the men glimmered with a sheen to match their overlays; their gait reminded her of descriptions of the famous Lyrian dancers from the histories.
Yet none of them moved as gracefully as the boy who walked at their head, a long, gauzy cape trailing from his shoulders. His blond hair and blue eyes recalled a portrait of the warrior Abattre, but there the similarity ended, for where Abattre’s glare had been reputed to cut through legions like a bread knife, this prince looked more likely to butter them up.
He approached with soft steps, wisps of hair falling across his forehead. A sapphire ring shone on his hand in the candlelight, sending beams of blue across his features. He could not have been more than twenty, yet he carried himself upright, breaking into a smile as he neared the end of the walkway.
“Councillor, how charming to meet you.” Prince Jale Chamboise stopped, his guards halting behind him in perfect alignment. “The last time I was in Axium Palace, it was as gloomy as your Lady Bowbray.” Lysande guessed that Bowbray was grimacing somewhere behind her. “Still, there’s nothing like a dash of decoration to brighten a room up.”
From anyone less cheerful, such a remark might have seemed like arrogance, but the prince’s smile disarmed her. “We welcome you to the capital, Your Highness,” she said.
“Jale, please. And I daresay you’re the first person to welcome a Lyrian in fifty years. My mother had a habit of stealing people’s consorts.” He shook his head. “I always wondered why she didn’t get invited to more feasts, until I learned she had sampled more than just the fare. That’s all behind us, I hope.” He dropped his voice. “My envoy tells me that executions have halted in the capital. A prince of Lyria can have no opinion on the subject, but if he could, he should say: congratulations, Councillor.”
She bowed. “I am endeavoring to reconfigure the situation.”
“You have my condolences, too. Though I know that nothing must seem a balm, right now . . . it is not long since my mother died, and the more I remember her flaws, the keener I feel her absence.”
Bowing with a flourish, he walked on, leading his party to their table. A warm current of emotion surged through Lysande; she was aware that Jale had not been obligated to share something personal with her, and that he had done so deliberately—and quickly, too, as if he knew the awkwardness that Axiumites exhibited when they grieved. She watched him take his seat. After a moment, she noticed that others were watching him with expressions that suggested a less formal interest. Several noblewomen were leaning across their seats to look at Jale, and one young lord looked to be straining his neck for a better view of Jale’s profile.
Whispers broke out everywhere amongst the Axiumites as the southerners took their seats, and Lysande noticed many of her guards place their hands on their hilts. It was not hard to see why the capital’s precision and the southerners’ looseness sat uneasily together, especially when the old rivalry between Lyria and Valderos might yet bring disorder to the hall. She should be alert. She certainly should not be distracted by the rush of gratitude that Jale’s approval had brought.
She leaned over to Derset. “Sarelin said that Prince Chamboise assumed his throne a short time ago.”
“Just three years ago, my lady. When he was seventeen.”
Lysande thought that if Jale Chamboise had held the biggest city in Elira securely since he was seventeen, he had already achieved a lot. Another fanfare of trumpets blared through the hall.
“From the snow of the north, I present the son of Raina, slayer of wolves and warriors, and First Sword of Valderos: Dante Dalgëreth!” the herald shouted.
She focused her attention on the aisle. The Valderrans moved with heavy steps, longswords hanging at their hips. With strong jaws and dark brown hair, the women and men stood a head taller than most Axiumites, and the fur trim on their coats only seemed to increase their size. Their expressions were so resolute that Lysande wondered if they ever smiled, or if they reserved that for one occasion per year: a private gift-day dinner, perhaps, when they might express their levity in total solitude.
Raden caught her eye and nodded toward the Lyrian table. Lysande was conscious of the swords in the Valderrans’ sheaths and felt a flicker of concern that she had not taken enough precaution. She turned back to the man coming down the aisle.
As Dante Dalgëreth entered the hall, she saw the nobles at the back lean away from the walkway, muttering. The First Sword of Valderos walked taller than any of his guards, his hand on the pommel of his longsword. His solemn stare swept the hall. Judging by the whispers, Axium’s nobility had not failed to notice the powerful figure encased in a brown doublet and trousers, exposed every so often by the flapping of his fur cloak, yet Dante Dalgëreth did not spare them another glance. His eyes fixed on something at the Lyrian table.
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nbsp; Two banner-bearers knelt before Lysande, carrying the gray ice-bear of Valderos on brown cloth, and Dante stopped behind them, shifting his attention to Lysande. “The north grieves with you, Councillor.”
“I thank you, Your Highness.”
“Valderos does not change its loyalties for profit, you will find.” As he said it, his eyes darted again to the Lyrian table. It was as if he wanted to look over there, Lysande thought, but was attempting restraint.
He bowed and marched on, and the pack of Valderrans followed. Lysande surveyed the hall. Half the room was talking loudly and pointing at the Valderrans, while the other half were craning their necks for a better view of the Lyrians. She watched some of the Valderrans settling themselves beside the slender southerners. The two princes’ parties glared at each other with an intensity that did not diminish. A wave of concern washed through her mind. Sarelin’s dying moments in the garden still hung over her, and she could feel her own shoulders on edge, her body taut, awake.
She was studying one of the Lyrians when she felt pain seize her head. The room blurred, and she gripped the orb of her staff.
“My lady?” Derset turned a solicitous gaze on her.
It was as if her skull was being pressed from both sides, threatening to cave in.
“It’s nothing.” She took a deep breath.
“I’ve never seen ‘nothing’ have such an impact,” Raden said.
“I could call for a physician,” Derset suggested.
She shook her head. There was some sense to what he said—headaches were normally splitting pains, not this strange crushing sensation, yet she was aware of Chackery and Tuchester watching her from one side and Pelory looking from the other.
“That will not be necessary,” she said, straightening up. “It is a passing pain.”
Once the words left her lips, they came curiously true. The crushing sensation at both temples ceased, and her head cleared. No time to contemplate her relief, for the herald reached the middle of the hall and began reading from a piece of parchment.