by E. J. Beaton
Now, there was little more to say. By the time they had drunk the last of their wine and he had thanked her for her help, Six was waiting with one hand on the back of the painting, and the frame swung forward soundlessly at her touch. Lysande gave Three one last look before she climbed through.
“If I were to ask you a question, but not the question . . .”
“One may always ask.”
“Three.” She drew a breath. “I have this lock of hair—this queer, silver lock.” She loosened her hair and pulled the strands on one side free of their pins. “You see it there? It was changed by the fire I survived as a child, during the war. I wish to know why I am the only one with this mark, so far as anyone knows.”
“On that matter, I am afraid, your guess is as good as mine.”
“There is no magic that might explain it? It could not have been created by a spell?”
“Spells do not exist. We only use our powers. And I do not know of any power that, when cast, simply gives the target’s hair a different color and consistency.”
Lysande thought she saw him smile faintly from under his hat. She nodded, and passed through the gap created by the picture frame. It was difficult to resist the urge to turn back again and ask him if he was being honest with her.
In the prayer-house she found the shattered pieces of the bust removed and her captain and attendant guarding the door. She stared up at the elegance of the chimera bathed in shining paint, and waited for her mind to stop whirling; looking up at the ceiling and fingering the chain around her neck, she wondered if there was any hope of avoiding a war. She pulled her gaze away from the adulation on one painted admirer’s face as Chidney and Litany came to her side. Despite the pair’s curious looks, they asked no questions.
Everything in its place, Lysande thought, thanking Axium upbringing. “Is the prayer-house secure, captain?”
Chidney nodded. “Your attendant did more than I could, Councillor.”
“It was like chasing an element.” Lysande could hear the forlorn note in Litany’s voice. “I can vouch that the flames that blocked us from them burned twice as long as they should have. In fact, I could swear that they were . . .”
She placed a hand on Litany’s shoulder and patted her gently. “Let us walk into the sunshine together before we say too much. One is bound to speak hastily, after a shock.”
Halfway through the doorway, she turned to look back at the triptych. The frame was back in its place, as if it had never moved.
* * *
• • •
The serpent of the Flavantine ran through a world where the bustle and sound of trade disappeared entirely, bordered on each side by a bounteous green bank. Lysande strolled northward with Chidney and Litany, watching rowers skim over the water in long boats and dip their oars, still thinking on her meeting with Three. She spotted players bent over tactos-boards in a pavilion by the water, staring intently as they slid the pieces back and forth. For a moment, she yearned to do the same; everything became much clearer when she was playing tactos, as if she was looking at a world of glass. She was about to turn away when she picked out a face among the spectators.
She moved toward the crowd, ignoring Chidney’s “Councillor?” and breaking into a run. By the time she arrived, the figure was gone.
“See something?” Litany said, softly, coming to hover beside her.
“Only a ghost.”
“If it’s a Rhimese ghost, it might charge you for the haunting.” Chidney grinned as she sidled up to Litany.
Lysande stared for a few seconds more, waiting for another glimpse, but only the Rhimese remained, talking among themselves. “Yes,” she said, “perhaps we had better avoid the fee.”
She had probably imagined the face. It would not be the first time she had hoped.
Chidney drew her sword while they walked up the steps toward the vast dome of the Academy at the northern end, but at Lysande’s prompting, she sheathed her blade again. The armed guards flanking the steps would not attack, she assured her captain, hoping that she had not overestimated Luca’s welcome.
So many Rhimese peopled the foyer of the research library that she paused for a moment, yet when Chidney explained to a smiling attendant that Councillor Prior wished to visit, the man scuttled off at once and disappeared into the bowels of the building, reemerging with the head librarian, Signore Marchettina, whose grip could make a wrestler wince.
Reading rooms with desks on which glasses of wine nestled beside books; halls dotted with people arguing over plans and bustling through with quills; laboratories where women juggled vials, bottles, and long-handled spoons . . . the Academy offered chambers upon chambers. An attendant in black livery emblazoned with the red cobra admitted them to the library, where waves of books stretched back to the walls. The section in the far-right corner, cordoned and guarded, drew Lysande’s eye. She caught a glimpse of a triangle embossed on one spine and slipped away toward the cordon rope. The guard barred the rope as she approached, and she was taken by the elbow while Signore Marchettina steered her firmly on.
The shelf of material on the White Queen turned up little of use. She had looked for something that might hint at a weakness, yet she found only jubilee verses condemning the “demon” who had ravaged the realm, and a copy of the law banning portraits of Mea Tacitus, cobbled onto the end of Queen Illora’s Precept by Sarelin. She resorted to borrowing the one book that predated them, a volume of military accounts from the White War, preserved with its spattering of blood, and tried to feel hopeful about it.
The Council was not to meet again until the evening, so she had the whole afternoon to read. The thought of returning to her chambers did not appeal, however. With the open mouths of Rhimese streets and the salons flowing with conversation and music before her, the practicality of finding a quiet place to peruse the book was dubious, anyway. She wound her way through the streets to the southern half of the city, keeping Litany and Chidney close—though the pair seemed to stick together naturally, now. Entering a courtyard fringed by tall villas, whose gardens overflowed onto the cobbles, she bumped hard into someone, and her apology caught in her mouth when she saw who it was.
“Signore Fox!”
“My dearest owl.”
“I thought you’d have run to the far-north mountains by now!”
“You’re the one running.” Charice’s eyes were following Litany and Chidney. “You know me. Never been one for crowds. Can we speak alone?”
Lysande waved the attendant and guard back until they were standing further away. Trying not to gawp, she faced Charice, book in hand, and examined her friend.
The merchant’s robe was gone and the supple gray leather boots had been replaced with a pair that were worn on the toes, and Charice’s demeanor was more harrowed than usual. But she was alive and in one piece: that was more than Lysande had dared hope for. You did not know the shatterings you had imagined until you saw the jewel intact.
“I’m going west,” Charice said. “Only a few more days in Rhime, then I’m out.”
“Why are you here at all?”
“Mostly because there’s not a mob at my heels in Rhime, and I value my life.”
Some pauses came like a thump, like a beat, like a word that was felt even though it was unspoken. The vibration of this pause carried through Lysande’s flesh. She should not be feeling guilty—it was not her fault that they had parted on shifting ground, the peat-layer of safety crumbling beneath Charice’s feet. Or was it?
“I deeply regret what happened in Axium. I deeply regret what happened to your premises.”
“Regrets are a bronze racket apiece. You can fill your pockets with them, but they do not add up. Apologies, though . . . I’d say an apology is worth a bag of gold cadres, at least,” Charice said.
“I’m sorry that fate has treated you harshly.” The words came stiffly from her
lips.
“Fate? I’ve never met fate. Fate never touched the skin of my neck. I know the culprit who has been running a knife-edge along my jaw, though—she’s indifference: sheer, human indifference. That’s the criminal.”
Lysande wished that she could rewrite the story of the last few weeks or find some thread of comfort to offer Charice. She was very aware of her own fault in the matter. Yet she was already being pricked by a different thought. A question waited on her tongue, one that she had long wanted to ask, and yet she could not bring herself to cast it into the world; how did you inquire politely whether your former lover had assisted in the queen’s murder?
“Regarding Sarelin . . .”
“Oh. I see.” Charice let out a short laugh. “My dear scholar has more pressing concerns.”
“Charice, I only wanted to know—”
“You always did wish to garner every detail, every fact. But I confess, I cannot see why you should doubt me at all.”
They understood each other too easily, Lysande thought. Guilt pierced her again.
“I recall the time you blasted back a sunsnake with a jet of air,” she said, facing Charice over the uneven cobblestones of the Rhimese courtyard. “You opened your palm and the air shot out, striking it right in the middle of the body. The magic. The fall. The thump. It was beautiful, and it was terrible.”
“And now you wonder if I have had a hand in other terrible things.”
Behind them, a chirrup issued from a branch. The sleek body of a starling flapped upward, taking flight over the garden of a villa, shaking another trill from its throat.
“If I were her murderer, would I have waited until the capital was in an uproar, raging citizens destroying shops, the mob hoping to snap me like a quill too? Would I have chosen the most dangerous moment to flee?” Charice said.
“You make a strong case,” Lysande admitted.
Charice folded her arms, as if no reply was needed.
“The capital’s calmed down,” Lysande said, not without a little guilt. “You could have your shop back.”
“And if I’m arrested and put in jail? Or worse—if I spend my days as an actor, playing out scenes for all to approve? I won’t live a lie, Lysande.”
Lysande realized that in all the moments she had worried about Charice since the uproar in the capital, she had not spent enough time considering how Charice would feel; she had focused too much on whether or not Charice would survive. The two were separate issues. She wondered if remorse showed on her face. “Perhaps memory of your power has guided me unfairly,” she said. “I can offer you my protection.”
“Have you forgotten what I told you? There are other people one can seek out. But leave that aside.” Charice had never sounded so breathy. “I’m the one who must give you charity—though I confess, I wonder why I do.”
“You’ll have to speak to the point.”
“There’s something I have to tell you. It concerns the queen you liked so much—I think you should know it before—well, just in case.”
“Then lay it bare.”
“Not here.” She could tell, from Charice’s face, that this was not open to negotiation. “I have something to show you, too. Meet me by the Flavantine, near the pavilion where the tactos players sit. A week from now, at midday.”
A noise came from the street behind them: a group shouting about something, some of the voices indignant, bickering. Charice stared at the crowd. “I must go.” She clasped Lysande’s hands, arms crossed, and bowed. And then Charice was striding away, her boots slapping the cobbles.
Lysande watched her leave. She recalled their last meeting: the vase empty of heather, the glass tinkling in the street outside.
Had she been wrong to raise a memory? Was it not natural, to think of the potency of the magic she had once seen? It might have been unjust, to cast doubt on the woman she had missed so often, and yet Charice had left her so quickly—had always been good at leaving her.
Walking under the stone cobras and into Castle Sapere’s eastern courtyard, she heard a shout and a clang. She nearly strode into a group of Cassia’s guards chasing each other with serrated swords. Her thoughts left Charice out of necessity.
“I doubt you’ve seen real western discipline before.” The Irriqi emerged from the shadows, taking Lysande by the arm. “Those who lose a finger while training are not fit to be part of the Pyrrhan Guards. You should stay and watch the wrestling.”
“I’m afraid, for all my years with the queen, I have no taste for combat.”
“Then you should develop one.” Cassia’s pat on her shoulder was light-spirited, but there was perspicacity in her glance. “I have a feeling this Council will face a war soon.”
There was nothing she would have liked more than to speak openly with the one city-ruler who called her a friend: a word she did not yet trust but which reverberated within her mind, leaving echoes in parts of her consciousness. Perhaps she should ask Cassia exactly how far a friend would go to protect elementals, if pressed.
Instead, she asked if Cassia had been to the Academy. It was easier to keep the concerns about Charice at bay if she could listen, rather than talk. The Irriqi launched into an appraisal of the archive on magical beasts. “They have the oldest descriptions of the striped fire shrike there, you know, the very first type of chimera to be observed. I found notes on the hazel-furred flier, too. And then there is that drawing of the Royamese white—still disputed—I could not find another opinion to verify it.” Cassia’s voice took on a hopeful note. “As a scholar, I suppose you have read that scroll about the thirteen reported varieties of the ancient creatures and how they differ.”
“Not recently.” Lysande had never guessed that Cassia studied chimeras with such passion. “You seem able to name every fact about them that has been transmitted to paper.” Was it that the encounter with Charice had left her prickling? She could not stop a question flying onto her tongue. “Strange, is it not, that a woman may know so much of ancient beasts and yet never recognize a Conquest-era weapon, even when it nearly lodges in her throat? I wonder at the curiosities of interest.”
Cassia made as if to speak, then stopped midway, staring at Lysande. “Ah.”
Lysande had expected her stomach to sink like this. She forced herself to keep her posture upright.
“I knew this day would come. I simply did not think it would be you, my friend. You know, I entertain all kinds of thoughts, myself: I wonder about the queen, too. People think I had no love for Queen Sarelin, because we disagreed at times, but I offered her my opinion in the palm of my hand, where all could see it. There were plenty who appeared to be close to her, in that palace full of statues and gleaming slabs, where even the bedposts are polished. One polishes to keep the guests focused on surfaces, rather than on the true nature of something.” A pause, just long enough to give her a chance to interrupt. “I wonder about her scholar, sometimes. But do you know what, Lysande? I prefer not to distrust. Because I see you and I think, here is a woman who could prove to be a friendly face. One lacks a friendly face when wolves are circling.”
“It is an honor you do me.” Lysande chose her words as if searching among plums on a tree, looking for the fruit that was not hard, nor overripe. “I hope you can forgive that I harbor some suspicions when I think on what befell the woman who was dearest to me.”
“And I say you must be aware that I feel the same.”
“The same?”
Cassia smiled tightly. “Perhaps I chose my words hastily. I mean that I feel something for Queen Sarelin. You might call it respect.”
“She lies yet unavenged, Cassia.”
The word had jumped out of her throat, unbidden. She had intended to use the proper title, but somehow, in the heat of argument, the Irriqi’s given name had slipped out; any moment now, Cassia was going to take her to task for it—to point out that it was a noblew
oman’s right to address others how she pleased, but not Lysande’s right.
Yet Cassia was looking at her with a smile that spread, slowly, upward.
“Now, revenge. That is something a Pyrrhan always understands.”
A poem sprang to mind, an ode on the subject of recompense by an unknown author. Lysande was aware that she did not have the leisure to explore this avenue further, nor exonerate herself, nor even assess how friendship might balance with suspicion to reach a workable state. Physical exigencies pressed upon her.
When a burst of pain tore through her throat, she winced and excused herself, pretending not to notice Cassia’s look of surprise. She retreated through the grounds. Having enough respite to forget the pain was worse than having a short relief, for the ache seemed doubly vicious upon returning. She was not desperate enough to try Luca’s orange medicine, and discussing the pain with Derset would mean confronting what had passed between them last night; on top of this encounter with Cassia, she did not think she could countenance it. Thanks to the aid of scale, she had long been accustomed to avoiding emotions that became complicated.
She headed to the castle stables and saddled her mare. At the back of the gardens lay a ramble that Luca had designed for his personal pleasure: the wild patch of land covered in bracken and conical trees stretched out to the very edge of the peak behind the maze garden. The pain could not be wished away. Perhaps she could ride it out. Since the expanse of green and yellow and blood-red bushes offered no clear path, she set off down the middle, and after half an hour she felt the agony began to melt away in the sun.
She began to picture Luca riding here, his body crouching atop his horse then descending again, the lines of his physique pressing against the leather of a tight jerkin. Her mare’s cantering sent larks and finches flying from the branches, and she raced past several little hedges. She could not resist approaching one, preparing for a jump.