by Moira Katson
He nodded quietly and left before she could say more, passing Margery as she slipped into the room with a tray of breakfast. There was a commotion of some sort, and she pulled the door shut behind her. When she saw Alleyne craning to catch a glimpse of the other room, she shook her head warningly. “Not yet. Not with what’s happened. Plenty of time for it once you’re dressed.”
“What has happened?”
“Well, let’s just say that his lordship might not have been so suspicious if a letter hadn’t come for you this morning from the imperial apartments.”
Alleyne froze and Margery’s eyes flared. She had a hand over her mouth, and her lips were curved in a wondering smile.
“You didn’t say you saw him.”
She was caught out. Alleyne sat, with a warning glance, and took a cup of tea. “It wasn’t on purpose. I just turned around and there he was.”
“Oh, dear.” Margery’s eyes were wide. “That actually sounds like the truth. What’s he like?” She knelt by the side of the chair and drew in close to whisper, throwing one cautious glance back over her shoulder.
“He’s terrifying,” Alleyne said flatly.
There was a pause. Margery leaned back, the humor of the moment gone. Her eyes studied Alleyne’s expression. “Truly?” Her brow had furrowed. “He never seemed that sort to me. The maids never talking about him chasing ladies, they said he was kind …” Her voice trailed away at the sight of Alleyne’s face. “I’ll get your gown,” she said simply.
Alleyne bit her lip. She had to fight the urge to call Margery back and tell her of Darion’s artful bow, his laugh, the look of his eyes. She wished desperately that she could admit that Darion’s very kindness was what terrified her.
Only then did she remember last night’s plan. She looked to where Margery was smoothing out a gown on the bed and tried to commit to the lie. She’d thought about Margery’s advice the night before, and after a great deal of considering, she had decided that most of lying was really just choosing to lie in the first place.
And she had to do it. The future of two nations hinged on it.
She swallowed. “I can’t do this,” she said quietly.
Margery’s fingers paused at her work. She turned wordlessly to meet Alleyne’s eyes.
“D’you think you could get me to the imperial truthspeaker’s apartments?” Alleyne asked.
Margery had been ready to reassure her; now the woman’s eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms. “Why?”
It was not enough to choose to lie, of course. One had to keep choosing, over and over. “I’ve heard that the Regent wants the Truthspeaker to look into each of our hearts.”
Margery’s pale brows drew together.
Alleyne had no way to know if she was making headway. She bit her lip and plunged onwards. “If I can persuade him, he can tell the Emperor I’m not fit, don’t you see?” She expected protestations, or admonishments.
Instead, Margery began to laugh.
“What?” Alleyne scowled.
“It’s that—“ Margery broke off, doubling over and pressing her hand over her mouth. “You’re worried … oh, my. Oh. Oh, dear.” She drew herself together with a visible effort. “You think you’re the only one to hear that rumor? You’re not. But all the others’re worried about what that truthspeaker might find in their heads and they’re asking around for ways to fool him or bribe him—and here, you’re worried that he’d find ye fit for the throne!”
Alleyne felt her lips twitch with humor, but the next moment felt a stab of fear. It would be funny if it were true, but the fact was that it wasn’t, and she had to get to Jarin before he had a chance to look into her thoughts.
Why must it be the Truthspeaker, of all people, who was involved in the plot?
Margery, thankfully, could not hear the workings of Alleyne’s mind. “It’s a shame, too. You’d make a good consort.”
“I’d be a disaster,” Alleyne told her bluntly. “I can’t walk in these skirts, I can’t lie, and I know nothing about governance.”
“All things ye can learn,” Margery said philosophically. She took the measure of Alleyne’s determination and sighed. “Well enough, I’ll do it.”
“Will it be awful for Baradun?” Alleyne bit her lip. She knew she should ask, though the question would only seem cruel to Margery later, when Baradun and his household were under suspicion of aiding the Emperor’s assassin.
Margery, for her part, did not seem troubled. She shrugged. “Most of ‘em have something to hide, it seems. P’raps none of them will get through.” She gave a mischievous grin. “Wonder if he’d go back to Nerea. Wonder if she’d take him back.”
“You think she might not?” Alleyne blinked.
“She has pride to spare, that one.”
“But he’s the Emperor,” Alleyne pointed out.
“Ye don’t want him.”
“That’s different.” I’m trying to kill him to avenge my family. “I wasn’t presumed to be his future consort for years.”
“Mmm, which would surely make it all the more humiliating to be put aside for a woman he hadn’t met yet, aye?”
There was that. Alleyne nodded.
“Though I wonder …” Margery shook her head to dismiss the words. “Never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
“It’s nothin’ ye won’t have thought of on your own.” Margery chewed at her lip. “When I said ye’d make a good consort, I wonder if His Majesty thought the same. Not about ye—well, possibly, depending on what you talked about.” Her eyes gleamed at the sudden flush in Alleyne’s cheeks. “But more than that, if he wanted someone who knew the city and loved it.”
“Why would that help in an Empress Consort?”
“It was just a thought.” Margery shook her head. “Eat. If it’s the Truthspeaker ye’re pinning yer hopes on, ye’ll need to pretend for a while longer, yet. Tonight, I’ll help you. Now, you have to prepare for the Emperor, hisself.”
“What?”
“I told ye there was a letter.”
“What did it say?”
“That he’s coming to pay a call on you.”
Alleyne felt her misgivings grow. Margery was enjoying this far too much.
“Margery. When is he coming?”
But a fanfare and a laughing greeting from the main room told her all she needed to know, and Margery folded her arms with a grin.
“He’s here now,” she said simply. “So, eat, let me get this dress on ye, and prepare yourself to lie a bit more.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Make an excuse.” Alleyne had asked variations on this question a dozen times, and Margery had refused every single time, but surely this time would be different.
“One does not make excuses to the Emperor.”
Alleyne jumped. Margery’s voice sounded like a governess long gone and almost as long forgotten, now only a ghostly memory of being told to sit up straight and behave like a well-bred noble.
Had she been the woman killed when Alleyne and Almeric escaped? The hair on the back of Alleyne’s neck stood up. She hadn’t thought of it in years, and it troubled her that she could no longer recall the woman’s face, or her place in that shadowy night of running and running and climbing.
At least Margery hadn’t noticed. She adjusted the many lines of the belt and stepped back to admire the effect. Baradun’s seamstress had produced a dress in the old style, a loose robe that could be belted many times about the hips and again under the breasts, and Alleyne’s hair was loose and unadorned.
Baradun had, when he came back to check on their progress, fretted around Alleyne. Simple, he told Margery, making her pick the ribbons out of Alleyne’s hair. Anatolia rising from the sea foam. Simple. The perfume, a simple sandalwood oil, had met with his approval. Now he was back in the main room, talking and laughing with the Emperor’s party. Another storm of laughter rose and Alleyne cast an annoyed glance over her shoulder.
“His lordship’s only tryin’ to make
them feel welcome,” Margery offered. “And anyway, what’re ye afraid of, that he’ll kill ye?”
“No.” The word was sullen. How could she admit that Darion had managed to shatter her entirely the night before? He had smiled at her and the Alleyne she thought she was, the Alleyne made of resolve and stone, had broken into a thousand pieces at this first touch of doubt. Now she must rebuild herself, shard by shard, and she had no wish to try to charm him while she did so.
Margery cared little. “Well, then, don’t be a baby,” was all she said. She fussed with a strand of ribbon hanging from Alleyne’s belt and gave a decisive nod. “There. Ye’re ready.”
Her words were not a moment too soon, for a chime rang out to summon them.
Alleyne felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.
“Go.” Margery gave her a little shove towards the door. “Ye’ve got to do it, so you might as well get on with it.”
“I can’t,” Alleyne whispered. Now that they came to it, her palms were sweating. “I swear to you, I can’t.”
“He’s only a man,” Margery said practically.
That’s the problem. “Right.” She squared her shoulders, waited for Margery to open the door, and sank into a low curtsy as the main chamber was revealed.
Every voice went still. Head down, legs screaming, Alleyne held the curtsy for a long moment. The Emperor alone was worth a curtsy this deep, and who knew who he had with him? She tried to stand as Margery had coached her, simple and elegant. Anatolia rising from the sea foam. For certain, she felt like a statue in this dress, a vision of a bygone time and bygone empire. From the silence, she could only hope that her audience thought the same thing.
She tried to scan the room as she came up. There was a flash of green, and she wrenched her eyes away before she could meet the Truthspeaker’s gaze for more than a fleeting moment. It seemed unlikely that he could read secrets at a glance, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. He, like the many lords in the Emperor’s entourage, watched her curiously. There was a sense of something beginning, even she could feel it—the Emperor was beginning to pay court to the candidates. The lords were, even now, looking upon the woman who might be their Empress Consort one day.
She could not think of that, it was too much.
Beyond the noble members of the Emperor’s party, scattered across the couches in a profusion of elegant fabrics, there was a truly dizzying amount of metal—the Imperial Guard had taken up positions along the walls. The Regent, himself, sat lounging in one of the chairs, dark eyes fixed on Alleyne. What he thought of the gown, she could not say; almost she thought she caught the gleam of a smile, one competitor to another.
Almost, because there was no way to keep her gaze from Darion—and the way he was watching her. Either he had already seen his fill of the dress, or he didn’t care one whit about it. His eyes locked on hers, and there was a secret humor in his smile as he lounged at ease on one of the couches, resplendent in a red silk cape over a black tunic and pants.
“My lady.” His voice was just as she remembered it.
She shivered.
One of his lords snorted at the term of address, but Darion ignored that. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and studied Alleyne. “My uncle has mentioned you to me—he speaks highly of you.”
Does he? Alleyne felt the Regent’s gaze on her face, and it took all she had not to look over at him and stare him down. He was playing the part of supporting Darion’s plan, she had decided, publicly smiling over each of the commoners, and working in private to destroy their reputations.
Hang her reputation. She could care less about that.
Which was probably good, considering.
She cast a falsely shy smile at the Regent now, veiling her gaze under heavy lashes. “He is very kind to do so, Your Majesty.”
She should have kept staring at the Regent, for as soon as she looked back to Darion, her heart was racing once more. His eyes caught and held her, and she felt, with terrified clarity, the breeze through the latticework, stirring her hair.
“Tell me about yourself,” Darion suggested.
“I …” Why couldn’t she seem to remember any words? “My—Your Majesty—I was born outside the third wall, in the ward near the temple of Anatolia.” With the first lie gritted out, the next came more quickly. “My parents and my sister took ill in the winter some years ago. She survived, and went to the temple of Alogo.”
“Without seeing you settled first?” Darion leaned back, frowning.
He hadn’t meant it as a test, she was fairly sure of that—but to the rest of the people in the room, it was one. “I could survive, Your Majesty. Her path to the gods …” She swallowed. The others were watching her for form’s sake, but Darion’s attention had not wavered. “Alogo’s call does not arrange itself to the convenience of mortals,” she finished.
He smiled again, and she felt inordinately pleased to have caused it. “And you? Do you, too, hear Alogo’s call?”
“If I did, Your Majesty, I would not stand before you today.” It was the unvarnished truth. Alogo cared nothing for human time, or for the linear causality of something so simple as revenge.
“I see.” Darion’s gaze broke away from hers at last and he looked to his uncle. “Will you lecture me on propriety if I insist upon speaking alone with the lady?”
The Regent’s smile was wry. “Would my lecture make any difference? As I recall, you stopped heeding me well before your majority.”
“I always listened first,” Darion pointed out, amused.
His uncle did not deign to respond to that. “If you will consider a suggestion …”
“Always.”
“The gardens.” The Regent waved a hand to the view outside the windows.
Bushes laden with white flowers swayed gently in the day’s breeze. While the air was yet cool inside the palace itself, it would be beginning to heat outside. There, on the pathways of this informal garden, Alleyne and the Emperor would be visible, effectively chaperoned, and yet unheard.
“An excellent solution.” Darion stood easily, with all the grace of a warrior. He smiled at his uncle. “As you see, I listen.” When the Regent only nodded, his smile inscrutable, Darion held out his arm to Alleyne. “My lady.”
Step by step, she forced herself across the piled carpets and raised her hand. She looped it through his arm, her fingertips barely touching him, and looked up to see him smiling at her. She swallowed.
“Why are you afraid of me?” His voice was low, pitched for her ears only and far too intimate. She could read the rest of the words in his smile: it’s not as if I have a knife to your throat any longer.
She felt her lips curve even as her cheeks warmed, and she looked down, uncomfortably aware of the many sets of eyes on them. She could not think of them—nor could she rage at this baited trap that had been set before her. Were the gods taunting her with this outing, placing her alone with Darion and yet in view of the others, where she could not kill him and escape? Were they throwing her failure of the night before in her face?
She would not be dispirited. She would smile, and she would enchant Darion, and he would let slip the way to get him alone—truly alone. That, she promised herself.
Chapter Twenty
He led her out into the birdsong and the sunshine; there were jeweled glints in the trees as the birds fluttered to and fro. The grass was soft, the day fine. She tried to think of nothing at all and looked up only when he pulled his arm close to press her hand against his side.
“What are you thinking?” he asked her.
“That it is a lovely day, Your Majesty.”
“It is,” he agreed easily. “And the rest of it?”
“I was wondering if you can often be found in your pajamas, roaming the hallways with a sword.” What god or demon, what impish piece of her own soul, had possessed her to say that? Her eyes widened in horror, but to her relief he gave a shout of laughter.
“And can you often be found creepi
ng through the servants hallways?” he countered. “You are aware that the Empress Consort of Aiqasal is permitted to use the main hallways, yes?”
“Your Majesty, I am not the Empress Consort.” She met his gaze and held it.
His brows rose. “And would you like to be?”
She was determined to lie, but every thought went out of her head when he looked at her. She had not expected such a blunt question. She had expected that Darion, like everyone else in this palace, would assume all common-born women were vying for the throne without any other thought in their heads.
And, unexpectedly, she felt a wave of fear as she looked at her. Fear had been her constant companion for days, but she had known it as a starving wolf, kept only just at bay by a campfire and always waiting for a moment of inattention. This fear was new, and she had never felt its like: dizzying, the way she sometimes wanted to jump from the overlook. It was the sickening feeling of falling, with the exhilaration of the first day of spring, dawn over the river, hawks circling high above. It beat against her chest like a wild thing and she could not find any words to do it justice.
But he saw it. How could he not? “What do you fear?” he asked again, and it was no jest this time. “I have thought of nothing but you since we met—”
“That is not so very long, Your Majesty.” Again the impish voice, but the words came out from between numb lips.
He paid her jest no mind. “It is that look of fear I cannot help but remember.” He reached out for his fingers to brush her chin. “As if you were stepping off a cliff onto nothing.”
She was going to kill him. The thought flashed through her head and she jerked away without meaning to.
He drew back, but not far. It would be easier, she thought, if he took offense and stormed away, but apparently none of this was going to be that easy. He still held her hand trapped, and now he pulled her gently along the path. “Walk with me.”
Her fingers tightened, no matter how she tried to calm herself. She hardly felt the impact of her feet on the ground, she was so taken by the fear. It was gone now, and to her surprise, she found she wanted to taste it once more. It had been intoxicating.