by E. J. Beaton
“I assume you want me to stop the advisors from restoring the castles,” Pelory added.
“On the contrary. We must allow Lady Bowbray and her colleagues to fit out their spare dwellings with every luxury. Do nothing to stop them. But see that every cadre, mettle, and racket comes from our restoration fund—that is my only condition. Perhaps Lady Bowbray was right to object,” Lysande said, straightening up. “I find it not compassionate to crowd all the prisoners into one jail, with no privacy. Four jails, on the other hand . . . that should ensure that elementals have all the space they need.” Not to mention a sanctuary from a mob ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. “They will be handsomely accommodated, don’t you think?”
She was pleased to see that Pelory could not hide her surprise. She had seen nobles shocked into silence before, when Sarelin threw out an order while smiling.
“And another thing.”
There were times when you connected your ideas slowly to an action, and there were times when your body made the link for you, shepherding you through the motions. The order had come neatly from her quill, that morning, just as it had appeared in her mind.
All persons in Axium found to be acting as vigilantes, against elementals, the poor, or any others they persecute without evidence, shall be jailed forthwith.
It would have been sweeter if Charice were the one unfolding the piece of paper now; if Charice were the one raising her eyebrows as she read the order and took in the signature at the bottom; if they could embrace, drain their cups, and lay out the cards for a new game.
“I ask you a favor. Alas, I have no noble blood, Lady Pelory. There are no family ties between us.” She waited for Pelory to lower the signed paper. “So I will offer you an exchange. I will give you something else to impress your husband, since you’ve already taken him to the perfumery.”
“You followed me?”
“Only with my nose. Your robe has a distinct scent of lavender oil. I detect dragoncherry oil, too: an expensive fragrance.” Lysande looked closely at her. “It might be hard to improve on a Rhimese perfumery, but if you do as I ask, I will give you something that you could not buy, even if you had all the gold in the realm.”
“And what is that?”
“An invitation to the Sapphire Ball in Lyria.” Lysande took care to enunciate each word. “And there will be another prize waiting for you if you seize the four castles once restoration is complete. Lord Derset tells me your villa lacks a title—that the Pelory family desires a castle with a hereditary line and a generous estate. One may be procured. Provided, of course, that the crown taxes the property, and all such income flows into a new fund which I am establishing for the living expenses of the poor. As of today, it will be known only to the two of us. We will call it the Leveling Fund.”
Pelory’s hesitation was just enough to constitute a pause. That’s right, Lysande thought, examine your circumstances; think on the perfume bottles and the chestnut pony that you have bought for your husband on this trip alone, think on the way his pretty face lit up when he received your latest gift, according to the perfume merchant, who was all too happy to talk after I parted with a few cadres; then consider your own style of living, for rainbow heartstone does not come cheap, and you are not a woman to parade about in motley.
Lysande extended a palm. Pelory unclasped her emerald gloves and smiled mirthlessly.
“To the future,” Lysande said.
Pelory gripped her hand and shook it. “To foundations.”
* * *
• • •
The eastern breeze blew more kindly than the Axium wind was wont to do when Lysande returned to the pavilion by the Flavantine. She was aware of every sound, every snatch of conversation as she combed the bank. Among the dallying Rhimese she spotted no familiar Axiumite. She sat down, plucked a weed from a clump of queensflowers and tossed it into the river. For a while, she watched the ripples on the water, yet there was a rippling within her, too, and she reached for the memory that was shifting in the corner of her mind.
That day in the forest . . . before she discovered scale, before Charice discovered black-market trade . . . it belonged to another time. Yet she had thought of it so often, it was as she had inked it onto paper. She could pick out every part of it. The warm breath of summer had hung upon Axium as they marched into the silver birches, chattering. When Lysande and Charice had broken away from the other students, Lysande had felt a rush of heat in her neck: the two most studious pupils caught up in a whispered pact, at last; an expedition for their own curiosity. They had found themselves in the heart of Axium Forest within an hour. She remembered entering a grove where the sound of birds retreated and looking at a ring of tree stumps streaked with white.
How well she recalled it, even now. The white substance that sent translucent beams over the soil, purer than starlight. She had smiled until her lips could curve no more.
“Chimera markings,” Charice had declared.
They must have debated the markings for an hour. Why did the white streaks feel so ancient? What could anyone really know about chimeras and other magical creatures and artifacts from before the Conquest? Lysande had not been used to talking so freely, but Charice had spurred her to new questions about the markings, their ideas running to the potential messages the beasts might have left. A deep breath; a deep pause. She remembered that moment of realization. It should have been easy to find the group again, she had told herself; surely, the singers and chatterers among their classmates would guide them back.
The silence ripened around her. The forest seemed to get denser and denser as she and Charice walked. Then a leaf crunched, and something dragged through the undergrowth.
Lysande saw it, again, like a picture repainted in sharper colors. She had drawn her tiny knife from her pocket, unsheathing the blade. A rainbow of scales flashed as the sunsnake slid forward; she stepped toward it, brandishing the knife; all she knew was that she had to fight to save both of them, to dart the point of her blade between those little eyes. Before she could attack, Charice thrust out her arm.
Wind blasted from her friend’s palm, and Lysande felt a hollowing inside herself—a strange and terrible rawness.
The sunsnake soared into the air, spun over and over, plummeted, and fell with a thud onto the soil. Snake and attacker stared at each other, waiting.
Lysande’s legs had frozen on the forest floor. A queasiness came over her: it was as if the wind had passed through her body, through flesh and bone and blood, and stirred up her emotions, leaving them tangled in her stomach. She saw the sunsnake give a hiss and then disappear into the undergrowth, and Charice drop her arm to her side. In the quiet that followed, a few leaves had crackled.
“I’ll confess,” Charice had said, quietly. “I expect you’ll want to tell the headmistress once we’re back. But there’ll be no need to. I’ll be blunt and quick. I’ve heard the queen looks you in the eye when they do it—right before the axe falls.”
The last hour of conversation had run through Lysande’s head, a haze of animated discussion, peppered with anecdotes from histories, stories and poems the two of them had read. She had grabbed Charice by the forearm. “No,” she had blurted. “Tell me you don’t feel the same, like we could talk for days?” Like Obera and Rousse, she thought: the moon-crossed friends, meeting in the secret library in the Silver Songs.
Charice had nodded slowly. “But,” she began, “the snake . . .”
“Didn’t harm anyone. I don’t think it should be punished.”
They looked at each other. A butterfly landed on one of the tree stumps and fluttered off again, its wings like garnets, gleaming in the dim grove.
They clasped hands and shook. Lysande refused to let go until Charice did.
They had lost the party for good. But they talked long into the night, and by the time they slept, the stars poked holes in the canopy of th
e sky. Lysande lay next to Charice, the mossy slope cushioning her head, and watched the gold points needling their constellations into black silk. The future seemed to expand above her, rolling out across the firmament. There was something warming which was not only the night air, and she fell asleep to the sound of an owl hooting, somewhere far away in the birches.
Now, she let the memory ripple across her mind, leaving traces.
She could have publicly declared that anyone targeting elementals would be punished. She could have protected the woman who guarded her own secret, the woman whose body had spoken of her care for Lysande as she had knelt on the floor and bent herself to a task with more concentration than a scholar, looking up every minute or so and meeting Lysande’s eyes. How warm Charice’s tongue had felt against her own skin. You’re always cold to the touch, Charice had told her once, and she had thought that her body only heated under the influence of scale, during those blissful moments when the world receded. Charice had proven her wrong. She had taken time in the disproving, too, drawing patterns of heat with her mouth, until Lysande’s skin transmuted under her touch.
They had journeyed a long way, from classmates to friends, friends to lovers, to . . . whatever this state of disequilibrium was, now.
Softly, she spoke Charice’s name into the wind, and thought she heard the ghost of a reply.
As she turned, her hand struck the toe of a worn boot. The breath rushed out of her. Charice managed a faint grin, and Lysande leaped to her feet and made the old gesture, wrists crossed. Litany had edged forward and Chidney drew her sword, and Lysande ordered them back, until both halves of her escort hovered by the water.
“You’re safe—you’re still—”
“Wish I had longer.” Charice pressed her lips to Lysande’s, then withdrew, watching her. It was as much a question as a kiss. Lysande leaned in, driven by the part of her mind that worked on instinct, and claimed Charice’s mouth for a moment, wrapping both hands around her waist and tightening her hold.
“I’d forgotten you liked to do that,” Charice said.
“Grip hard?”
“Mm.” A pause. Lysande let go. “As I said, I wish I had longer.” Charice pulled a tiny, gauzy bag from her pocket. “Perhaps we’ll see each other soon, though, one way or another.”
A silence rippled between them, sudden as a breeze flecked with snow.
“Which side of a sword will I see you on?” Lysande said.
“Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s impolite to refuse a gift?” Charice pushed the bag toward her before she could respond.
Lysande opened her hand and took the delicate gauze. There wasn’t much to examine; the silver locket tumbled out of the bag easily, and she found a finely detailed engraving of a bear inside it. The bear’s mouth hung open in a roar.
“If this belonged to who I think it did, then . . . words alone won’t do.”
“I thought you’d assume as much.” Charice wore an odd smile. “Sarelin Brey never owned this locket, though. With the Brey family emblem swimming around her on goblets and hangings, I don’t think she needed a keepsake. No, this belonged to a member of the Brey family who is rarely remembered as a Brey.”
A moment’s hesitation, timed exactly where the rhythm of the sentence tapered to an elegant close: the kind of timing that did not occur by chance. Lysande knew that Charice did not usually rehearse her remarks. She wondered why her friend was determined to do her this favor—if it was some ethical imperative or pangs of guilt that drove her. A voice in her head that she did not like raised the question of whether it could be something more insidious.
“Second cousins to the queen aren’t exactly celebrated. The royal family thought so little of this girl that they made her clean up after Queen Sarelin, darn her clothes, look after her daggers, practice foreign tongues, and go through books with her, all while both girls were scarce half-grown. The scholarly tasks hurt her the most, I think. Those were the times she could tell how close she was to the queen’s ability . . . so near the heir, and so far, like the rag that wipes a diamond clean.”
“That is the exact metaphor I should have chosen.”
“I know,” Charice said.
Another silence.
“I thought any rumors about Sarelin’s youth were never . . . substantiated.”
“We know each other, the hidden people in Axium. We’ve a community. And I found out that a woman who visited my shop every week had been a personal attendant in the household of Sarelin Brey, when she was a girl—before she was caught stealing a silver plate.” Charice smiled sadly. “When you’ve been cut loose from your work, you don’t have much to pay with, but truth be told, I felt sorry for her . . . enough to accept a locket thieved from her former family of employment as currency.”
“And you went from shop talk to discussing Sarelin’s slighted cousin?” Lysande said.
“She was a handsome woman. Of course we lingered a little, into the night.”
“Of course you did.” Lysande paced, glancing at the murky water of the Flavantine. “You must think this important, to risk finding me.”
“I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
Who else would she hear it from? The question was practically forming itself. But from all the hours she had passed with Charice, she could judge when more was coming.
Charice folded her arms. “You should have seen the way Perch came flying at me the next day, telling me that he’d found my visitor’s body in the gutter, her chest pierced through. Apparently, there’d been a half-dozen Axium Guards outside the night before. It turns out the queen didn’t like anyone hearing about her second cousin and the way she’d been treated.”
“Her second cousin,” Lysande said, “the White Queen.”
She had guessed, the moment Charice mentioned Axium Guards. Lysande had spent many years around Sarelin, enough to know what made the queen react.
She ran a fingernail over the tiny bear engraved on the locket. It shone so brightly, for nobles, the family crest; so brightly that even to tarnish it once was to reduce its light forever. In Axium, a cousin with magic would have been a stain indeed. She could guess why the Breys had made Mea Tacitus a servant to the heir. She saw the dual purpose, teaching Mea to grovel and enabling the family elders to keep an eye on her; it would have seemed a wise solution, enabling them to control the elemental girl. Researching for An Ideal Queen, she had seen the same thing, only in smaller manors instead of palaces. Silverblood families thought along remarkably similar lines.
But as so often happened, in a city whose nobles thrived on hierarchy, the Breys had overlooked that most crucial of factors: personality.
“I think a woman as ambitious as Mea Tacitus could not accept being a link near the bottom of a chain,” Lysande said. “I suppose she was just Mea Brey, then.”
Charice looked down. “Tacitus means silence in the old tongue. Perhaps that’s what I should have done. Kept silent.” The waver in her voice did not go unnoticed by Lysande.
Charice folded Lysande’s fingers over the locket.
“Grant me this,” she said. “When you see me next, do not be too angry.”
“Angry? Why should I be angry?”
Charice pressed her lips to the back of Lysande’s hand, and this time, it was not a fleeting kiss but a touch like a seal pushing into wax, as if to preserve a farewell: with this crest, I remain.
“Be proud,” Charice said.
Like the breeze, which passed in a fragrant whisper, she was bowing and then gone. Lysande knew her friend too well to attempt to chase after her. Everything that had been said would take time to sink in, anyway, and it was more sensible to focus on that, surely: on the knowledge, and not on the tightness in her chest that increased with every second that she thought on Charice’s harrowed face and tattered cloak.
Making sure that Chidney and Litany were sti
ll a fair distance behind her, she plucked a queensflower from the ground and began to roll it between her fingers.
Her fingers pulverized the flower, sharp leaves and thin petals both, and she stared ahead at the water, not seeing it. The wheels in her mind were spinning freely now. This revelation brought her a dance-step away from the White Queen, and she knew it; and yet she could not make that last step. She longed for a few more pieces of information—just a few shreds more.
Something tickled the back of her neck. The old instinct to call Sarelin’s name was there, but only the breeze came to her side, and she trudged back to her waiting mare.
That night, she brooded on Charice’s words. The goblet of scale she poured fizzed and hissed, with two spoonfuls mixed into the water. It was only a temporary increase, she told herself, in a time of stress. The tremor in her conscience refused to entirely disappear, but she did not reach for the night-quartz. Spreading the map-book and her compilations of notes before her, she drank while she read, feeling the writhing in her stomach, the burn of her forehead, and the angry pace of her heartbeat—physical stimulus and mental calm, a paradox she knew well. She concentrated on the gold sweeping through the room; the torrent of rich light.
* * *
• • •
Two vessels anchored by the side of the Grandfleuve; a ramp of wooden boards ran down to water that gushed and roared, carving a swathe through the land. The nearest ship boasted twenty-four sails, half with the image of the Pyrrhan flag and half with the Valderrans’, so that purple leopards billowed from the front and pale gray ice-bears fluttered at the back. A prow jutted out in the shape of a spearfish spike, dawn tinting the wood a faint ochre.
Gasps and cries escaped the crowd as they took in the cages that were positioned on either side of the main viewing deck. Lysande tried to accept that she was seeing a live leopard and a gray ice-bear, the latter sporting a pair of horns that were short but undeniably sharp, poking out from the roof of its cage. The animals growled and snapped.