The Councillor

by E. J. Beaton

  “I don’t think it is your birthright she finds compelling.”

  Risking a glance above knee-height, Litany caught Chidney’s eye and blushed a memorable shade of pink.

  The road brought them out of the town, through hills and dales gentler than the Emeralds, dotted with fig and lemon trees. They trotted along slowly, heavy with food, and from time to time Lysande thought she caught a stir of movement on the periphery of her vision—though it was hard to say if it was a tangible presence. Had not Signore Montefizzi written in her Manual of Rhimese Science that the mind, once stimulated, could produce iterations of its own distress? That a fleeting fear, if left to grow, could turn into an agitation that consumed the whole brain? And besides that, no physician had ever specified, precisely, what chimera scale could do to one’s system . . . physical stimulus, mental calm, if the symptoms were to be believed . . . but that was her own deduction.

  She sent the range-riders and the guards to check around them once more. No sign of movement, but one guard reported seeing waterstones piled up in stacks, studding a patch of ground. Lysande followed the woman to find cairns covering most of a slope. The blue head of each pile of stones was bared to the sky, as if daring the sun to set it agleam.

  “Charice would like that,” Lysande murmured.

  “Councillor?”

  Some argue that the so-called “chimera cairn” represents the stealth and power of the elemental people. the historian Kephir had claimed. When the cairn is erected during a time of persecution, it appears to represent an act of protest.

  Sarelin would not have approved, of course.

  “Councillor, what did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Lysande turned away from the slope.

  The first time they had discussed the Old Signs, Charice had argued passionately that they were symbols of life, not death. It was the first time Lysande understood that some elementals did not support the White Queen. Funny, how subtly awareness could build—how week by week, day by day, she became conscious that references to ordinary elemental people were absent from the histories; that they appeared as tyrants or rebels to the throne, or not at all.

  Charice’s visage floated before her, conjured up like the ghosts at the Arena, and she found herself apologizing, telling Charice that she should have petitioned Sarelin for . . . something. A small change. An end to the executions, at least. She had taken the solace of Charice’s fingers and tongue, not to mention her time and conversation over the years, and had offered nothing substantial in return. Now, she had the uncomfortable realization that she could have tried to bring about a political shift. Living in Axium Palace had a way of making you feel insignificant, but Charice would have called it a blessed worthlessness, a higher rank than the populace . . .

  At the next turning they found a stone town preserved since the Classical Era; clusters of houses surrounded a little square in which a statue of a cobra reared up. Looking at it, Lysande thought of Tiberus shifting on Luca’s shoulder.

  “This must be Ferizia,” she said. “Might we walk through the town?” They would be less obvious targets among the buildings, surely, and with Lysande’s height and Chidney’s muscle standing out at the best of times, it could not hurt to dismount.

  “Certainly, my lady, if you wish it.” Derset looked dubiously at the cobra statue.

  Few people were strolling the streets of Ferizia in the afternoon sun, and from the square, the olive groves around the town could be glimpsed through an arch. The results of the farmers’ toil glistened in the windows along the next street, where jars of olive spread, butter, and greenish-yellow oil shone beside mounds of olives on platters. Leading her mare past, Lysande put a hand to her head. Just as she had been hoping the pain had disappeared . . . she winced.

  It was temporary. She would give up the scale, eventually.

  A flash of something, to the right. She stiffened.

  Only a falcon met her gaze, however; no cloak, but feathered wings, beating the air.

  Ferizia’s shops brimmed with books and puzzles, tactos-boards made of black marble, and medical guides as thick as small bricks. Lysande spotted a tapestry of an archer slaying a fire-breathing chimera. In the glass of the window she saw Derset staring at something further down the street. “Perhaps we should take another route, my lady.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing of note. We should make for the town’s edge.”

  She heard the concern in his voice and led her mare to the end of the street. From a distance, it looked as if a small crowd had formed around a display of some kind, where three dolls dangled from an arch, but as she came nearer, the dolls turned into people and the thick ropes of the nooses became clear. A crusting of red covered the sides of the bodies. Her stomach flipped as she caught the stench of the wounds.

  Were they hung first, or stabbed to death? The blood had gushed out onto silk shirts and velvet doublets. Judging by the bare fingers of the victims, they had already been stripped of their gold. The symbol of a deer could be made out on each breast, embroidered.

  “You’ve got to be mad to pilfer from Riscetti’s shop,” she heard a woman say.

  “Are there rocks in that sweet head of yours?” Her companion, a woman in a tunic riddled with holes, chuckled as Lysande dismounted. “Look at their hands.”

  Lysande squinted over the heads and spotted the red mark on the back of each hand: a curved line carved into the flesh. It looked like a C.

  “You’d think we’d be running out of conspirators,” the first woman said. She clasped her wife, their matching rings visible for a moment, each shaped decorated with the Rhimese commitment-symbol of interwoven thorns.

  Somewhere in Lysande’s mind, a comment Sarelin had made resounded: that there had been more poisonings, stabbings, and attempts at usurpation in Rhime than in all the other four cities combined. Luca Fontaine’s father, Prince Marcio Sovrano, had hanged eight nobles for trying to sneak nightroot into the palace kitchens, according to one of Sarelin’s stories. The Rhimese grew conspiracies as well as they grew olives, Sarelin had said. Looking at the grizzled woman and the two tall men swinging in the breeze, she formed a slightly better idea of how and why Luca could face the city-rulers with such a cool façade.

  “I think the prince’s caught himself three Canduccis this time.” The second speaker pronounced the words with relish. “I see deer on those doublets, under the blood.”

  As the crowd edged forward to examine Luca’s punishment up close, Lysande found herself jostled and elbowed to the side. Before she knew it, she was out of reach of Derset, with hands pushing her and fingernails grazing her, and someone pressing up behind her, a stubbled cheek brushing against her neck.

  “I will arrive at night, Councillor Prior,” a rough voice muttered. “Be ready.”

  She whipped around. The bystanders were all looking ahead, eyes fixed on the bodies.

  “My lady,” Derset cried, grabbing her wrist, “you must not go off alone.”

  Suddenly Chidney was upon her too, a wealth of muscle blocking her from the crowd, yet without touching her. She had not appreciated until now how gentle Chidney chose to be.

  “Someone spoke into my ear.”

  “Did you see them?”

  Lysande looked around sharply. “They knew my—”

  One of the bodies swung in a gust of wind, sending a bag of silver mettles tumbling out of a hidden pocket that even the looters had not found. The crowd surged forward, one beast with many legs, scrambling under the arch and dropping to their knees.

  Lysande accepted Derset’s arm and hurried out of the throng just in time to avoid being knocked to the ground, pulling her mare behind her. As she ran from the street, the last thing she saw was some four dozen women and men scrabbling with their hands, all shoving each other as they searched for silver that had been pocketed, knees rubbing until they were s
oiled by muddy stone.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Scarlet Road was not scarlet in hue, nor was it really wide enough to be a road. A pale brown ribbon ran from the end of Ferizia into the eastern country, following the river down to Rhime by way of Ardua and Castelaggio. With room for just five riders abreast, the city-rulers’ parties stretched out in a rainbow of banners, coloring the land as they moved, their guards making a shield around them. Despite the peacefulness of the ride, Lysande barely noticed the countryside around her, decorated with the estates of the noble families of Rhime, brown-and-white manors with family banners flying from balconies and Conquest-era blackfoot trees growing in copses. Her mind dwelled on the rough voice in the crowd.

  It was the closeness that unsettled her. If the speaker had been further away, calling over the throng, she might have felt more secure—but he had maneuvered himself close enough for his stubble to scrape her neck, and he had warned her to be ready. Why do that, if he meant her harm? Well, she had given Chidney very firm instructions about shadowing her. There was no point dwelling on a danger she could do no more to prepare for, so she forced herself to glance around at the countryside and her fellow riders. She let her eyes linger on Luca’s figure occasionally; for observational purposes, she told herself.

  As they neared Ardua, a Pyrrhan guard approached Lysande. She permitted the Axium soldiers to part.

  “The princes are making camp ahead, Councillor. Night is near.” The Pyrrhan woman looked Lysande over. “The Irriqi invites you and Lord Derset to dine with the rest of the Council in the comfort of her tent.” She glanced at Chidney’s thickset form. “Guards are forbidden.”

  A dinner surrounded by city-rulers, without a sword to defend me. Still, she did not wish to refuse Cassia’s hospitality, now that she was a “friend.” She had not known, until she heard the word from the Irriqi’s own lips, what it felt like to have a friendship formally declared, the glow expanding in her chest, yet accompanied by an ever-present sliver of cold doubt.

  “I accept,” she said. “On the condition that I may bring my attendant.”

  As the guard galloped away, Litany smiled at her with a new warmth. A lifetime of Axiumite decorum told her to turn away or even issue an order, but she thought of the two of them racing each other up the hill, shredding proverbs on the way, and she returned the smile.

  Walking through the tents that evening, she felt a foreigner among the many hues of livery and armor. It was one thing to study and memorize the crests of the cities at your desk. It was another thing to walk among them, and to realize that you did not belong under any banner—not even the one with the Axium crown sewn on emerald cloth—for she possessed no Axium birthright, not even one parent’s name from which to fabricate a tie to a great family. What rights she had, she had received from adoption. And without Sarelin, the crown was just a diadem, anyway; a piece of silver hollowed out, bereft of life.

  At any rate, she should not be contemplating colors and symbols. A dark shape was her real concern. Groups of soldiers yielded no hooded figure, though she stared into every cluster, trying to make sure. As she checked her surroundings, she listened to some of the Lyrians playing lutes and summerharps, a few raising their voices to sing.

  “D’you hear that racket?” The Valderran voice that spoke was not cheerful. Lysande located its owner, a big soldier who was fingering her sword-hilt.

  Her companions paused their conversation for a moment, and as the Lyrian song drifted through the tents, Lysande recognized the melody.

  Come all you desert daughters

  And sons of the scorching sand

  We’ll run them through their frozen hearts

  Where the southern star-trees stand

  For the land of gold and blue—hey!

  For the land of gold and blue!

  As the voices rose to a raucous pitch, Lysande stiffened, remembering one of the girls in the orphanage humming the song. What she had learned from books—that Jale’s mother, Ariane Chamboise, had nearly come to blows with Dante’s mother, Raina Dalgëreth—did not matter. The fray that broke out between the orphans of northern and southern heritage had taught her the significance of “The Land of Gold and Blue” much more vividly.

  “I’ve a good mind to show them what gold and blue look like when they’re mixed with red,” another Valderran growled, near to her.

  “Better you stay your hand.” The warning tone in the first woman’s voice came through clearly. “The First Sword’ll rampage if we gut the fish.”

  A string of Old Valderran curses followed, along with several remarks about Jale’s sapphires and golden raiment, one suggesting a parallel between the negligible thickness of the prince’s banquet outfit in Axium and his ability as a leader. A second remark, about Jale spreading banners for his enemies, seemed obscure to Lysande, at first, but once she mentally removed the word banners, she began to understand. The speaker received a warm response, and Lysande did not like that at all.

  Her shoulders prickled as she moved through the camp; every robe could have been a hooded cloak, until she looked again. Cassia’s tent towered, festooned with ribbons of purple and white cloth, easily twice the size of Dante’s. A Pyrrhan guard looked Lysande over at the entrance, her bronze armor gleaming in the torchlight.

  In the center of the floor, a low table lay draped in a cloth with bronze-colored tassels, surrounded by cushions. The Irriqi sat at the head, resplendent in a deep plum tunic. The jagged white pieces on her choker, she informed Lysande, were leopard’s teeth from before the Conquest, though Lysande doubted the verity of that.

  She could not miss the way that the candlelight threw a sheen over Luca’s dark hair, turning it into streams of black silk. He twisted with ease to speak to the lord beside him, as if he did not know how the facets of the ruby at his neck set off his eyes, nor how the smooth movement of his body made others stare in his direction. A Lyrian noblewoman was studying him, and Lysande thought she saw the Pyrrhan advisor, a small man with a glabrous chin, sneak a glance at Luca over the top of his cup. Again, she observed that there was something effortlessly graceful about Luca, something that only showed itself in motion, always agile like the strokes of a rapier.

  “Good evening, Councillor,” Jale said, from her right.

  “Good evening, Your Highness. Though I find it uncommonly warm in this clime.”

  “Warm for you Axiumites, maybe. In Lyria, we call this winter.” Jale grinned. “When summer arrives in the south, it takes a layer of skin off your heel.”

  His back looked rod-straight and his hands were clasped in his lap, a little too tightly to be natural. His smile never faltered, Lysande noticed. This is what it means to lead, she thought. To be aware of the threat that permeates every inch of space, every pocket of air; and to keep smiling, regardless.

  She beckoned Litany and Derset to join her on the cushions. They took their places beside the noblewoman at Jale’s left, who had the same fine cheekbones and blue eyes as Jale but none of his natural cheer; after a brief glance at Lysande, she returned to the task of examining her nails. Further along, a Valderran noble ran her hand over a brocaded cushion.

  “Put that down,” Dante’s voice boomed. “It’s not for taking, you bear-witted clout.”

  Lysande wanted to laugh, yet her levity did not last. She could not shake the thought of the last time they had all sat down to eat, and the spinning of a small piece of metal on a table.

  On the other side of the low table, Luca straightened the basket nestled in front of him, engrossed in conversation with two Rhimese, a blond woman and a dark-haired lord. While his attention was elsewhere, she studied, deliberately this time, the line of his jaw and the soft expanse of throat. She pictured herself putting her hands, gently but firmly, against that throat. Again, she could not say why she desired it, only that there was something about the thought
of touching him—not to harm, but to exert a pressure—that beckoned her to his person.

  It was like wishing to hold an ice-bear cub, those northern creatures she had seen drawn in the natural history manual, so soft and beautiful and vulnerable in your hands. And yet she was certain that Luca’s soft looks would not stop him from lashing out with a bite if she came too near.

  A clatter of brass brought the table to attention as Pyrrhan attendants carried in plates. Lysande glanced quickly at Litany. There were times when you wished for a shared language of breath, a grammar of the eyes, a vocabulary of touches, so that nothing needed to be risked through sound.

  She leaned over to Litany. “Sarelin told me that when she was traveling in Rhimese territory, she had her food checked for —”

  “Venom of the blue adder, nightroot, and lover’s poison.”

  Lysande met the girl’s stare. “Quite right,” she said, slowly.

  Litany’s expression did not weaken. “If I pretend to be hungry, it’ll be less noticeable. In case you don’t want to offend.”

  She had looked at Litany so many times, but this was the first time she had really seen what was there.

  “We have not discussed payment for this,” Lysande said.

  “Not yet,” Litany said.

  Their gazes remained locked. Litany did not move a muscle.

  “I suppose you are trained in this field,” Lysande said, at last.

  Litany nodded, smiled demurely, and reached for the nearest plate. The girl tried each of the rice balls and little parcels of leaf-wrapped cheese before passing them over quietly. Her manner of eating conveyed the right amount of famishment, each morsel snatched up. Lysande felt a stab of guilt as she watched, but did not speak.

  “You may drink from any bottle,” Cassia announced. “Tonight, we make merry.”