by E. J. Beaton
“From the jungle beyond the mountains, where leopards prowl . . .”
“Here we go,” Raden whispered. “More titles than a Rhimese library.”
“I present the supreme leader of the west, tamer of leopards, and mistress of the purple hills . . . venerated from Suhai to Neiran, the breaker of bones and winner of fifty-eight tournaments in the Hungry Pit, where warriors fear to tread . . .”
Lysande put a hand gingerly to her temple. No pain sang through the skin.
“. . . the first lady of mist and steam, ordained by the goddesses themselves . . . the Irriqi of Pyrrha, Cassia Ahl-Hafir!”
The doors rattled. Guests sat up straight. The northerners and southerners stopped trading stares. The rattling came again.
Someone’s locked the Pyrrhans out, Lysande thought.
She could see Pelory smirking. A hot feeling crept through her cheeks. Everyone was waiting; they were probably all gloating over the clumsiness of the palace scholar.
Then the doors burst open with a crash, and a mass of people thundered through. There were so many of them that the procession seemed never-ending; walking five by five, they could barely fit across the walkway. The crowd leaned back to let them pass. Lysande forced herself not to stare at the lightly muscled arms and the billowing pants the color of ripe plums, though she could not help glancing across as a man with a curved sword walked past.
“Goddesses below,” Raden said. “If I could get my hands on a hook-sword . . .”
“Don’t think about trying to steal the Irriqi’s,” Pelory put in. “I hear she killed a man at fifty paces in the Pyrrhan court.”
“Why do we continue to parrot ‘Irriqi’?” Tuchester said, in a whisper that Lysande suspected to have reached all the nearest tables.
The envoy was looking at her. Would Tuchester have spoken so to one of her own rank? She suspected she knew the answer already.
“I believe Queen Sarelin reminded you on more than one occasion that the Pyrrhans keep those allies who recognize their traditional titles,” she said.
She was a little pleased with how sharply the words came out. The tone did not invite reply. Never quaver, never yield.
The woman at the front and center of the guards strode through the tables. Two long hilts protruded at her left hip and another three jutted up at her right. Her purple cape swept the floor as she walked, and her forehead shone with a silver band shaped in an upward V that bore an egg-like amethyst surrounded by many smaller purple stones. Lysande thought that the Pyrrhan leopard on her trousers, gleaming in white thread against the dark cloth, seemed a particularly apt emblem; she could not help remembering, too, that a great cat had attacked the queen. Pulling herself straighter, she squared her shoulders, trying to face the Irriqi like Sarelin would have—signaling respect, but no fear.
The Irriqi was not smiling as she approached. The women and men on either side of her wore equally unimpressed looks. Lysande suddenly felt very glad that she had covered her deathstruck lock of hair before entering the hall.
“So you are the Councillor,” Cassia said.
“I am, Irriqi. Welcome to our fine capital.” Lysande bowed.
“You were close to the queen. I did not see eye to eye with Sarelin Brey, as everyone knows, but I respected her.”
“Perhaps you will respect her Councillor, too.”
The words slipped out of her mouth before she could check herself. For a moment she was sure that she would be rebuked, yet the ruler of Pyrrha gave her a cursory glance.
“We shall all know each other better soon,” she said.
She led her guards onward, and the Pyrrhans settled themselves beside the Lyrians. Lysande felt the room simmering once more as the third party settled in. “Well done, my lady,” Derset said.
“I’m surprised I did not pay for my cheek.”
“A little vigor is what the Pyrrhans prefer.”
“Hard to tell the difference between vigor and a good deal of insolence, sometimes,” Raden said, grinning.
As she seated herself, Cassia Ahl-Hafir shot a contemptuous look at Jale Chamboise. He turned his back to her and began polishing his ring. Behind them, Lysande saw a group of kohl-eyed southerners pointing at one of the Valderrans, and one of them drew a smallsword from his sheath and began to finger the blade. She did not like the look of that, and she was about to command her guards to move closer when she was interrupted by the herald. “Excuse me, Councillor.” Lysande motioned her to speak on. “It’s the Rhimese party. They’re not here. They were meant to arrange themselves in the first chamber while the Pyrrhans made their entrance.”
Raden and Derset were both looking at her. “Go and search the grounds for them,” she told the herald. “Send a group of guards, if you must.”
The crowd began to stir. Many of them cast glances at the front of the Great Hall. Lysande glanced to her right and saw Pelory watching her, her gray eyes as cold as ever.
“I’m sure they’ll be here in a moment,” Derset said.
The seconds dragged on. In the cavernous hall, the walkway drew all stares, and the wait was threatening to transform the whispering to whipped-out blades; Pelory looked on the verge of making a remark when a chair scraped at the front of the room.
A Valderran woman rose, holding something up. “Take this back to the desert waste you came from!”
A man in blue and gold got to his feet beside her. “Stay your tongue, runt. Or I’ll cut it out for you,” he shouted, gripping his sword-hilt.
The Valderran woman let out a stream of curses. Lysande stiffened. The pot was boiling over, and she was about to see the mixture scald everything in its path. Her hand reached for a dagger before she remembered her position.
The pair of quarrellers moved closer to each other, their cheeks flushed. It was impossible to hear every word, but Lysande caught something about skinning ice-bears and an utterance about gutting southerners in their fancy frocks before the Valderran noble thrust out her hand, waving the object again at the southern man. The spot of bright purple at the end of a stalk told Lysande that it was a queensflower, freshly cut.
Dead royalty, she thought.
Five other Lyrians rose and drew their swords. “You dare leave the Old Signs at our table?” the Valderran shouted. “You dare support elementals? Delta scum!”
Lysande stepped forward, catching Raden’s eye, and pointed at the woman and man in turn. Her heart galloped.
The Axium Guards reached the Valderran woman just as she lunged. They gripped the sword-arms of other Valderrans and pushed the Lyrians back, leaving Raden and an officer to steer each participant back to their seat. The Valderran woman shoved the Axiumites back, then flung the queensflower at the Lyrians before taking her chair. At another gesture from Lysande, Raden rattled off orders, bringing more guards running.
The Lyrian man held forth for another minute, making a few gestures with his hands that required no translation. At last, however, his shouts subsided, and the barrier of boots, swords, and armor dissolved. An officer nodded to Lysande once it was over, her armor gleaming in the torchlight, and Lysande exhaled.
The crowd’s testiness had disappeared. For a few minutes, the hall hummed with a spirited exchange of views on whether there might be a brawl. It was all a game to them, Lysande thought. A pleasant diversion, if you had a castle to lock yourself up inside should things turn sour.
Raden returned to her side, wearing a tired smile. “Well, that livened up the occasion.” He held out the queensflower and Lysande turned it over in her hand, running a finger over the stem, the bulge that bristled with sharp green leaves, and the crown of needle-thin purple petals at the top. There was no hiding the symbolism of a cut queen.
She knew well what kind of people might have placed it there. From circlets of ivy placed on doorsteps to sprigs of heather nailed to pillars, and cairns of wate
rstone erected in the street, reports of the Old Signs abounded in the capital. Since Sarelin’s death, she had found herself taking out the banned copy of A History of Elementals and Their Habits, and returning to one part: the claim that the Old Signs represented the stealthy justice of the elemental people as well as their powers.
Perhaps it was as simple as that: gloating over the end of a reign.
Don’t let this be the first blood-spattered banquet in years, she pleaded to Sarelin, glancing at the portrait on the wall.
The boom of the doors rang out again. “Ladies, lords, and signore, I thank you for your patience. I present to you the crown prince of our eastern city, master of science and steel, and ruler of all Rhime . . . Prince Luca Fontaine!” the herald shouted.
The tables fell silent. Even the Valderran who had brandished her sword peered toward the doors. A surge of curiosity made Lysande lean forward. It was the same curiosity that had surged through her ever since she received a black rose wrapped in summersilk, and it had not been tempered by her sending a puzzle in reply. She had tried to imagine this moment, more often than she liked, while gazing at the rose in its vase.
The Rhimese party flowed into the hall in black doublets, a stream of ink. As the Rhimese guards and nobles approached, Lysande noticed that some of the captains carried long, curved bows and quivers of silver arrows, while others gripped sword-hilts emblazoned with cobras. They did not pause to show their weapons to advantage but walked on to their seats, and despite the ease of their entrance, intuition warned Lysande that this was the party most likely to make her draw her dagger.
The first group of Rhimese cast disdainful glances at the twittering birds as they filed past. Lysande saw one of the captains shoot her a stare, and she felt the woman’s attention keenly.
“Which one of them is Prince Fontaine?” she said to Derset.
“None of them, my lady.”
“I’m sorry?”
“He is not marching in the first group.” Derset’s eyes scanned the faces. “I do not see him in the second, either.”
The third group did not yield the prince of Rhime. Nor did the fourth cluster. Lysande felt unease stir in her stomach. By the time the seventh group of Rhimese had entered the hall, the crowd was talking over the band and pointing at each party as they passed, and Lysande was beginning to suspect that the flower she had sent—wrapped in cloth, tied with a quadruple knot, and weighted with a particular meaning—might really have offended the prince.
“This is his plan, isn’t it?” Raden scowled as another wave of black flowed by them. “He’s going to turn up late so that everyone’ll be in a frenzy.”
The sound rose to almost a roar, and as the doors opened again, it scarcely diminished. Lysande tried to stop her breathing from speeding up.
“Finally,” Bowbray remarked, with a sideways glance at Lysande.
She barely noticed the jibe. Her attention was fixed on the figure coming through the great doors, moving slowly down the walkway.
Luca Fontaine wore only a simple black cloak over a black tunic and trousers, his collar fastened with a single ruby that glittered as he walked. Aside from the stone, there was no other adornment upon him, and his attire allowed all the attention to fall on his face. Fine-boned, with luxuriant black hair and skin that bore no traces of battle-scars, he reminded Lysande of a plant that had grown away from the sun; and there was something very discomfiting about his dark eyes, which seemed to sift through her thoughts. He did not spare a glance for the nobles seated along the aisle, fixing his gaze ahead.
Something moved on his left shoulder, a rippling, like a banner stirring in the wind. Lysande stared but could not discern it.
This was the man who had taken his commoner mother’s last name and cast aside that of his silverblood father, Prince Marcio Sovrano. This was also the man who had sent four bunches of untrimmed nectar roses to Sarelin after her injury, and later, an inkflower for the palace scholar. He moved with easy strides down the length of the hall. On either side of the walkway, the crowd seemed torn between shying away from their new guest and staring openly.
Luca did not acknowledge the attention. A half-smile played on his lips.
“You will forgive me my tardiness,” he said, as he drew to a stop. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Councillor.”
The words rang out in Old Rhimese.
Lysande stared at him, identifying the language and trying to comprehend that she was hearing it in the Great Hall. While she formulated a response, he gazed back at her.
After a pause, she replied in the same tongue: “It is a pleasure to welcome you to the capital, Your Highness.”
Luca’s left eyebrow lifted. “So you do speak Old Rhimese. I had heard you were fluent in all the old tongues . . . there’s nothing like seeing for oneself, though.” This time, he spoke in Ancient Pyrrhan, his voice lilting. Something on his shoulder seemed to move again.
Another challenge, Lysande thought.
“Clearly, you are a scholar of languages yourself, Your Highness.” Lysande shifted into Ancient Lyrian. “And clearly, you take an exceptional interest in a mere commoner, to research her background.”
She noted the way he carried himself, without the hint of a slouch. Yet there was no tension in his posture, either. One corner of his mouth curled up, and her body betrayed her, leaning toward him before she realized it.
“I wouldn’t say it was common to translate the Silver Songs at the age of twelve, would you?” He pronounced the Lyrian e with a flawless accent; short and soft. “I take it you liked my gift?”
“It was certainly . . . complicated.”
“But then, I received a most complicated gift from you. I must have walked around my suite for a good quarter-hour before it struck me: the meaning of it. Five names, for that flower: starchling, stiff-neck daisy, evenpetal, tall poppy, line-bloom. The latter is only used in Axium. Not even a novice in scholarship could miss that.” His smile twisted slightly. “And I did not miss the Axiumite cloth you used to wrap it.”
“I congratulate you.”
“Congratulations are usually offered when one finishes something, I believe.”
“My apologies. I had theorised that a prince would speak directly.” Why was it so easy to throw a rejoinder back at him, each time? She could not help herself. Surely, she should be nodding, smiling, or bowing . . . instead of returning his volley.
“I match my speech to the subject,” Luca said. “And some scholars are about as direct as a labyrinth, if the gift I received this afternoon is any indication. I recognized the quadruple knot on your package; difficult to tie, and even more difficult to learn about. I suppose you thought it clever to choose a style that was used in the Pre-Classical Era, when the old tongues were spoken. Shall I congratulate you, Councillor, for almost managing to hide a clue?” His smile twisted a little more. “If I had not been a reader myself, I might never have discerned the second part of your puzzle. In the Old Axium tongue, the name for a line-bloom is ‘the flower of manners.’ I should thank you for the compliment.”
“Not quite. I thought it was a flower you could use.”
The smile turned to a flinch, the prince’s jaw tightening, before settling into a pretense of polity. “Perhaps my gift will prove useful to you, too, in time.”
“It was a clever puzzle. Cleverness is often the prettiest ruse. Though I confess, I did not have a guest suite to stroll in as I picked it apart,” Lysande said.
“No; I see you are wanting for space in Axium Palace.”
Aware of the soaring ceiling above her, Lysande bit back a swift reply. She considered Luca Fontaine for a moment. It was hard to ignore the soft elegance of his skin where his neck was exposed above the top of his doublet, though she had a feeling that nothing beneath his exterior would prove soft. “Some would have dwelled on the politeness of choosing an inkf
lower,” she said, at last. “I found myself more interested in why you sent a gift to the palace scholar.”
“Word of your talent reaches even princes.”
“I should have thought that princes were more concerned with the queen’s health.” Why was she studying the lock of black hair that had fallen across his brow?
“You should be pleased, Councillor Prior. I recognized the flair in your manuscript of the Silver Songs when I first read it. Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours, Your Highness.”
She realized, a moment later, that such a remark might be horribly unwise to a bastard son. Derset had told her that the whole realm knew about the prince of Rhime having a palace attendant for a mother. She felt her insensitivity keenly. But there was no petty anger in Luca Fontaine’s expression, only a kind of intense interest as his eyes bored into her.
“Indeed,” he said, when the pause had stretched for some time, “one is far more resourceful as a second child. A first child is hauled up the ladder, step by step, but a second child finds their own way.” He glanced at the high table. “Now, Councillor, I hope you won’t mind if I bring a friend to dinner. He has been so looking forward to your banquet.”
“Perhaps he might take a seat at the Rhimese table,” Derset said.
“Oh, Tiberus needs no chair.”
The prince lifted the right side of his cloak back with one hand, and there on his shoulder, a pile of smooth, black muscle shifted and bunched. Lysande did not recognize it at first. It was not until the creature reared its head that she felt fear catch in her throat. Two eyes like drops of blood narrowed, watching her. A pink tongue flicked out and drew back in.
“Is something the matter, Councillor?” Luca inquired.
“Your friend is a cobra.” She spoke more calmly than she felt.
“I see your powers of observation are as sharp as the Iron Queen’s grindstone. You needn’t worry about Tiberus, though; he doesn’t eat much.”
The advisors edged back from the snake, leaving Lysande and Derset standing alone. The crowd erupted into a babble of competing voices as they realized what Luca was carrying. Some of the Pyrrhans drew their weapons from their sheaths, including several of the hooked swords, and her Axiumite guards moved closer. Lysande felt her nerves kicking violently and she wrestled with a rising panic.