by E. J. Beaton
“Come on,” she said, patting the mare’s neck. “If Fontaine’s horse can do this, so can you.” The horse whinnied and pawed at the ground, its piebald coat accruing mud. “I’m not above bribing you with sugar,” she muttered, nudging it toward the hedge.
Further into the ramble, blissfully removed from all eyes, she veered west until she found a little lane of trees and halted under their interlaced branches; when she emerged from the shade, she caught a glimpse of blue and cantered into a clearing. An expanse of sky welcomed her, and beyond the grass, a sheer drop stretched to the foot of the hill.
“Sun and stars!” she cried, struggling to rein the mare in. “Stop! Stop, there!”
“Dramatic, isn’t it?” said a voice behind her. “Of course, it wouldn’t be half so beautiful if it was cordoned off. The thrill arises from the danger.”
She whirled around. Luca was sitting on his black horse, regarding her from the edge of the trees. Her eyes ran over the trousers tucked into black leather boots and the black cloak that rippled behind him, held together by the single ruby at his neck. A pair of black gloves finished his outfit. She was struck again by how the shade seemed to suit him, not only for his dark hair and fine complexion, but for some other reason she could not identify.
Not a tight jerkin, then, she thought, trying to steal another look at his waist. “What are you doing here?”
“It may have slipped your mind, Prior, but these are my grounds. I do ride through them from time to time.” He dismounted and tied up his horse. “A picturesque view, wouldn’t you say? That is the best part of Rhime—from across the Flavantine, there, you can see to Pescarra. Princess Abella Targia once executed her whole court at the top of that dale, wrapping wires around their unsuspecting necks. These days, the Pescarrans do all their cutting with flavor. Cheese-makers.” He waved a hand across to the western half of the countryside. “You ride well, by the way, but you should be bolder when you jump. A horse will never do as you bid if you ask it politely.”
She took in the little smirk around his mouth. Climbing down off her mare, she tied the animal up beside his.
“Boldness can lead to errors in judgment—even diplomatic mistakes,” she said.
The edge to his smile told her that he had understood her meaning very well, but he made no reply. They walked to the brink and stood side by side, looking down on the sprawl of buildings. A cart was meandering down one of the lanes, stopping at every house to drop off its goods; as she watched it, she was conscious of the proximity between them.
“I suppose you thought that diamond thread was clever,” Luca said.
“It wasn’t bad.”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that modesty is one of the Axium virtues, Prior?”
“I have heard that tact is one of the Rhimese talents, too. You didn’t exactly exude it in the Room of Accord.”
“First impressions can be misleading,” Luca said, turning back to the city. “So often, one welcomes those who sow discord, and conversely, one suspects the wrong person.”
“Yet suspicions can be removed.”
“They can.” He kicked a stone and watched it bounce down the cliffside. “Without your interruption—clumsy though it was—the White Queen’s stratagem would have succeeded. I have often thought two exceptional minds are better than one, though I have had no way to test the theory, growing up around my father and brother.”
“You and I? Working together, Fontaine?”
“The orphan and the bastard . . . it has a ring to it, don’t you think?”
She looked at the ruby under his chin; the absolute stillness of his jaw. “We’d trip each other up before we’d run a race together. How is an Axiumite to trust a Rhimese?”
He was quiet for a long while.
“You know, the first time I came to Axium, I saw a sea of Fortitudas. Statues, amulets, paintings, even the chamber pot in my suite had an image of Fortituda thrusting her dagger up, on the side.” His mouth curled up on one side. “Defender of the privy realm.”
“The priests do a good trade in her likeness.”
“Our Rhimese priests don’t sell much of the goddess of valor, did you know? Too heroic, for us. And while we approve of smiting, Vindictus’ methods are a bit like an iron bar, striking in the sun. We prefer a shadowed rapier, you see.”
“Cognita, I suppose.”
“She gets the most orders in smiths’ workshops. Although it’s not uncommon to have one statue of Cognita and another of Crudelis on the same shelf. The incarnations of wisdom and passion: a constant dialogue.”
“Passion? Or should that be love? A subtle difference, wouldn’t you say?” Lysande could not resist responding. “The same concept, for the same goddess, but different words . . . one for Axium and another for Rhime. I wonder how the Rhimese define their term.”
He did not reply for a long time again, only watched her.
“When I think back to the first time you ever spoke to me, through an inkflower and a note, I see that you dangled that puzzle in front of me as bait,” Lysande said. “Goading me to dance for clues and prove myself to you. At the same time, you sought a tactical advantage, trying to gain my interest.” She paused. “If we are to be allies, Fontaine, you must have my position clear. I have nothing to prove to you. I have nothing to give you, either, unless it is earned.”
“I believe you have already administered a check to my manners.” His half-smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Twice.”
“And yet I do not believe you have learned.”
“Will I mount some effort to gain your trust, you mean? Shall I kneel and kiss your boots?”
It was her turn to remain silent.
“We are colleagues, Prior. Trust is not a useful currency. We pay each other with more practical coins: deals, votes, information.” He sent another stone skipping over the edge and Lysande was reminded of the black stone he had toyed with. “I’m going to smooth things over with Merez as recompense for what I said.”
“And then we will walk off together, laughing and planning our reign?”
“We will see how we proceed from there.” She looked to see if he was joking, but there was no sign of levity on his face; indeed, he was looking at her with an expression that was impossible to read.
“Your hair, Prior.”
Her hand flew to her head. Of course. After she had loosened the deathstruck strands for Three to see, she had forgotten to re-pin them; but then, Luca had already gazed at her silver lock when she entered the Room of Accord. Why was he staring again?
“Don’t worry,” she said, lightly. “I will cover that bit and pin it, as soon as I reach the castle. There will be no risk of it standing out again.”
“You must be the judge of your own style. Not I. Yet I think you assume my opinion to be other than it is, so I must correct you.” He came slightly closer to her, without touching. “I like the way you stand out.”
They stared at each other, while the breeze stirred a few pebbles at their feet.
She placed a hand upon his shoulder. The touch was soft, a promise of collusion, and she thought of Three’s new evidence, of the risk of an attack, and of the flaming bust hurled at her guards. But it was not only an alliance she was thinking of now. Her eyes found his neck. Why was it that, again, she felt the urge to grip it? Would his flesh give way to her hands, like a foal to its trainer? It was not a coincidence that she felt this way, she knew, but a product of his stillness, that deliberate passivity which had an effect on her.
She became aware that he was still watching her. “If you fix things with Merez, we may talk further. I have a feeling you’d like to hear what I’ve learned,” she said.
“Curious. I was about to say the same to you.”
Lysande was prevented from speaking by a rustling and a flash of gold in the bushes; a second later, a woman emerged.
The attendant ran up to them, straining to catch her breath, the sleeves of her doublet flapping.
“Excuse me, Councillors,” she said, bowing. “It’s Prince Chamboise.”
“Don’t tell me the Lyrian beauty has come to some harm,” Luca said. “Has he collapsed under the weight of that ring at last?”
“No, Your Highness.”
“Or fallen onto Dante’s sword?”
Lysande guessed that he had chosen that phrase deliberately.
“No, Your Highness.” The woman heaved another breath. “The prince has gone missing.”
* * *
• • •
Jale had not arrived in his suite for a prayer ceremony that morning, nor had he turned up to bathe in the afternoon. The main floors of Castle Sapere had been scoured within the hour, but there was no sign of the youngest prince in any of the chambers; even the kitchens and cleaning cupboards were searched, their brooms pulled out and shoved back in. Lysande’s guards joined the Lyrians in combing the grounds.
The Valderrans gathered at the back steps of the castle to watch the search party. Lysande did not have a good feeling about the way they were standing in a knot, talking. “Maybe he’s plotting with the hidden people,” one of the Valderran guards said. A big woman, who Lysande recognized from the group that had cursed Jale in the camp, spat on the ground. The talk stopped abruptly when their leader rounded the corner; Dante cast a look at his guards and uttered a few sharp words, and they dispersed.
Lysande hastened her journey to the Painter’s Suite. If she took Litany with her to search for Jale, she might have a far more effective hunt, she reasoned. The snake’s-head key rattled in the lock. Entering the bedchamber, she was halfway through calling out a greeting when she stopped.
Litany stood by the window, holding a jar of a familiar blue substance. A chest sat at her feet, now divested of its blanket, its lid hanging open. The girl met her gaze.
“Litany.” She closed the space between them.
“I didn’t mean to pry, this time. I thought it was the chest with your doublets.”
“I won’t ask you to excuse—”
“My mother was stable-hand to an apothecary before she joined the palace. She unloaded and unpacked the goods for the back room. Sometimes, there would be a special delivery. I know shredded chimera scale when I see it.” Litany cupped the jar in her hands. “And I might’ve had no right to unlock the chest, but I must say something, Signore—Lysande.”
Lysande waited. She felt as she might have done if the air had been sucked from the room. Litany stood on tiptoe, seeming to swell as she spoke.
“If you mean to poison whoever killed Queen Sarelin, I’ll help you.”
A laugh came out of Lysande, involuntarily. She clutched her stomach but could not stop another laugh, and another. By the time she stopped, the girl was blushing. “Oh, Litany.”
“I mean it; I’ll find the right substance for you. Better than slow-working scale. This, I enjoy doing.”
Hardly necessary to remind her, after the prayer-house. “I believe you. But this isn’t for poisoning.” She gestured to the jar. “Well, at least, not in the way you think. There are some scholars, Litany, who know the properties of chimera scale well enough to prepare it as a sort of . . . medicinal treatment.”
Litany’s eyes added the question: for what?
This time, the silence was hers to break, and she held out a hand and took the jar. She pressed her other hand to Litany’s own. “It dispels the cares of this world. Some people know how to unburden themselves of the particular effects of living in a place where you feel like a jeweler’s rag, always in contact with diamonds and emeralds, but only to show up their quality. Others require assistance in unburdening.” And without Sarelin, without her laugh to fill the corridors . . . without her smile to distract from the way they all stared at her . . . “There are some more pious citizens who might disapprove of the way I’ve been assisting myself.”
Litany stared at the jar for so long, she might have been studying to paint it. “No one can be very pious,” she said, at last, “if they judge a soul for enduring. Fortituda understands that there are different types of valor.”
The words caught Lysande in the chest. It was not the goddess that mattered, but the fact that Litany had invoked her. Scratch an Axiumite, and you found reverence for Fortituda; Luca might joke, but it was no small thing for a woman of the capital to call upon the divine embodiment of valor.
After a moment’s hesitation, Lysande wrapped her arms around Litany and held the girl close. The fountain burbled beside them. It flowed on and on, after they had finished embracing, and Lysande could feel gratitude still flowing through her. “Your work goes unappreciated by almost everyone,” she said, gently. “It won’t always be so. One day, I think, you will serve me in the light.”
Litany bowed her head. She did not look as pleased as Lysande had hoped.
“One more thing. Queen Sarelin died of her wound. That is what the realm believes, and what it must continue to believe,” Lysande said. “There are some truths we carry in our hearts. Others, we bear in our mouths. You are an intelligent woman; I know that you will understand this.”
Her attendant bowed again and stepped back.
“For now, let us return to our task. If Prince Chamboise cannot be found, we may all need to think creatively. Somehow, I think you will manage that.”
Litany smiled, and they parted, each silent.
* * *
• • •
Castle Sapere swarmed with staff in black and red livery. Lysande took the stairs to the second floor and searched the rooms one by one, Chidney and a group of Axium Guards trailing her. It occurred to her, as she walked, that there was one place the staff had not looked. She remembered from her studies that Lyrians sought out the sun in times of distress: Princess Gaincourt had retreated to a rooftop after a bad omen about her army. The uppermost floor had been pronounced empty, but Lysande had overheard two Lyrian attendants discussing how no one but Jale was supposed to enter “the sanctum of the sun.”
She shielded her eyes as she entered the Observatory, deflecting the sun streaming through the glass walls. At the far end of the room, a blond figure sat, gazing out at the grounds.
“Jale.”
He turned his face away from the glass, and she saw streaks shining on his face. “Oh dear . . . is the whole Council looking for me? I should’ve run to the cells.”
“There’s no shame in being low. It only means you’ll take a while to rise.” Lysande knew how it felt to hide several floors up above the rest of your peers, hugging your feelings to yourself. She signaled to her guards to wait in the doorway, and approached him.
“Dante wouldn’t cry, would he?” He wiped his cheek. “Luca wouldn’t shed a tear. I don’t expect Cassia even has tears. She’s probably forgotten what they look like.”
On the floor beside him, a prayer bowl was half-full of water, a few petals submerged beneath the surface. She knelt down and took care not to knock the bowl over, aware of the preeminence of water and sun in Lyrian rituals, so far removed from the clipped and ordered objects of worship she had seen laid out in Axium prayer-houses, always perfectly still, always lacking the ripple and glow of nature. This water shimmered, its surface quivering from the vibration of her body. She had learned from dealing with Sarelin that it was often better to wait than to speak, and she sat for a few moments, watching Jale.
“A dove arrived.” Jale drew a deep breath. “It’s Merez, you see . . . she’s been speaking with my uncle Vigarot.”
“The Bastillonian ambassador?” That made little sense after the scenes in the Room of Accord. She was glad that Merez had not sent python venom with her note.
“Apparently, King Ferago’s made a deal with Vigarot. Bastillón and Elira are to be friends again; the whole thing’s been carried out behi
nd our backs. Very neat. A few quick doves to Lyria and the deal was struck, without the Council having a say.” He gave a bitter laugh. “My uncle seems pleased with himself; more pleased than usual, that is.”
Her other concerns melted, ceding to the urgency of the news. It was not what she had expected, certainly, but with a neat bit of manipulation, Vigarot Chamboise had saved the Council from groveling to the east. That was something the Council would be grateful for, but it also made her neck prickle. She tried to recall what Sarelin had said of this man, who could control the south with a stroke of his quill.
“He says he’s letting King Ferago open a trade route to the delta,” Jale went on, “so the Bastillonians can buy spices and metals from Lyria. Everyone knows Ferago needs tempero and steel more than he needs gold. Oh, I’m sure it’ll shore up our countries’ ties for an age. The old ram’s dipping his snout in our pond—I don’t think dear uncle Vigarot realizes he might drink it dry.”
“I don’t see why a trade route should bother you.”
“It’s not just trade. Don’t you see, Lysande? The Bastillonians want proof: hard proof we won’t break our commitment.” He gazed out through the glass wall. “Might as well put my hands in golden cuffs and lock them in. As of today, my marriage to Princess Mariana will be brought forward and conducted within the month. They’ve signed it over in ink—there’s going to be a Sapphire Ball in honor of the occasion. I can’t get out of it, now.”
“Ah.” Lysande looked keenly at him.
“Princess Mariana—pride of the east—lady of wit and valor. There’s nothing wrong with her at all.” He turned his face away. “No, she’s every blessing.”
Whenever she had walked in on Sarelin in a bad mood, Lysande had opted to listen until the dust had settled from the queen’s tirade; yet as Jale continued to stare through the glass, she considered that he might prefer a change of subject. Her thoughts were drawn to Dante and Jale leaning over the banquet table in Axium Palace, joy rippling across Jale’s face like early morning sun across a clear lake; to Dante and Jale embracing in the Arena, Dante’s hand lingering on Jale’s shoulder for longer than necessary; and she thought about raising these memories in an attempt to cheer Jale up. It was possible, however, that Dante’s affection was very much linked to Jale’s current mood.