“We would be destroyed.”
Chapter 15
The gods know us better than we know ourselves, and in doing so, they can force us to face even our most secret fears. Sometimes it is for our own good, though at the time of the fire I thought it was only so they could exercise their power over us. When I went to bed that night after seeing the flames in the distance, I hardly slept. I was anxious and chilly with fear of the blaze, unable to stop myself picturing Myrilla reduced to ashes and rubble. It seemed inevitable to me. The gods would allow the fire to sweep over us, simply because they could. I was certain I had displeased Kore somehow, whether in the Blooding or in my interactions with Adam or the way I had cut short a few of my temple visits lately. And now she would unleash her wrath.
That’s why I knew before I had even opened my eyes the next morning that the winds had changed. The smell of smoke poured into the chamber like an unwelcome perfume. It stung my nose and forced my eyes into slits as I fumbled my way to the window. True to Starten’s words, the fire itself was not visible, but the dense haze that had blown down from the mountains certainly was. I could hear the confused and fearful shouts of the people crowding the courtyard below, waiting for answers. I splashed cold water on my face and dressed quickly. I reached for the door handle, rehearsing words of comfort and reassurance in my head, but the door opened of its own accord.
Adam stood on the other side. “Over a thousand people have gathered at the front gates,” he told me, without preamble.
“There’s more in the courtyard,” I said, joining him.
“They’re terrified. We have to address them.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I said, as a wide-eyed servant turned from the window to give a halfhearted curtsy, then immediately resumed her post. “I just don’t know what to say.”
“Do you remember any other time that fire threatened Myrilla?”
I shook my head. “The rains usually prevent such a possibility. But it’s been so dry this spring…” I trailed off. “This has never happened before, not in my memory. Their whole livelihood is at stake; our words will be little comfort if we don’t accompany them with a plan of action.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re right, though the fire’s moving too fast to organize any kind of evacuation. With the number of children and the elderly it’ll be on us before we reach the far edge of the kingdom. We’ll have to open the castle and trust that the stone can withstand the flames.”
I nodded, not knowing any other suggestion to give. Once he had spoken to Turius and a few other lords about his plan, Adam stood on the upper terrace of the castle and addressed the thousands crowded at the gates. I stayed by his side, trying so hard to smooth the anxiety from my face in order to look queenly and dignified that I barely grasped a single word that he said. I caught snatches of phrases, here and there:
“…great hall open to anyone desiring shelter…”
“…leave your things; possessions can be replaced…”
“…we have no room for panic, everyone must remain ordered and calm…”
He paused, and I thought he had reached the end of his speech, when he suddenly said, “The river is our only hope of defeating this fire. From what I understand there is a pump system, and while it hasn’t been used for many years, I believe we can engage it to produce enough water to at least slow the blaze, if not snuff it out completely. Who among you will ride out to the river with me to try to save Myrilla?”
A surge of men and women pushed forward—two hundred, at least—pledging to remain by their king’s side until the fire was defeated or consumed them all. Adam nodded, solemn but pleased. “Thank you for your service to our kingdom. Help your families to the castle and ready your horses. We’ll ride out at once.”
With a wave, Adam turned from the crowd and led me down the corridors to our chamber. I watched him gather his armor and a large white bedsheet, which he started to tear into wide strips.
“What are you doing?” I asked him, bewildered.
“Dipping the cloth in water will help keep my armor cool,” he said over the sound of ripping fabric. “A little rust is a small price to pay to avoid a scorching.”
“No, Adam.” I picked up his helmet and turned it over in my hands. The black eye slit stared back at me, telling nothing. “The pumps at the river are ancient. If they fail, I don’t see how your plan will work.” Desperation crept into my voice. “What will you do instead? Charge the fire with water buckets?”
He ignored me and stuffed the fabric strips into a satchel. I watched, helpless, as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his boots onto his feet. When he was ready, he stood up and held out his hand. “My helmet, if you please, Alyce.”
I gripped it tighter and moved in front of the door. “It isn’t necessary for you to ride out. Let the others go.”
“And do what, stay behind and cower in the great hall with the infants?”
My face grew hot. “It wouldn’t make you a coward. You’re the king—”
“Precisely,” he cut me off. “I am the king. If I don’t walk willingly into danger how can I ask others to do so in my stead? I was taught to lead by example, Alyce. The safety of Myrilla begins and ends with me. That’s what it meant when that crown was placed on my head. I have specific duties, different from yours, and one is to ensure Myrilla lives to see another day or else fall in the attempt.”
His face was so grave that I didn’t argue. I simply passed him his helmet and stood back from the door. He studied me for a moment, saying nothing, then tucked the helmet under his arm. I wanted to tell him to be careful, to not do anything foolish or heroic, but he was already gone. The door closed slowly behind him, quieting the men’s voices in the corridor. For a moment I stayed rooted to the carpet, but when I heard the gate opening I darted to the window. Far below I saw the column of volunteers passing through the courtyard on horseback. They were so few in number I had no idea how they would ever fight the blaze. I lifted my eyes against the thick smoke and just managed to make out the fiery line in the distance. It had reached the peaks of the mountains, draped across the ridge like a red-hot snake. The fire was now in full view from the castle no matter where you stood, sending up clouds of hazy smoke that turned the sky purple. They could never contain it. By nightfall it would reach the vineyards at the foot, and from there it would spread until it destroyed the whole kingdom.
I let the curtain fall back before any more smoke poured into the room. As much as I would have liked to hide in the chamber and wait for Adam’s return, I couldn’t. He was right when he said that we held different duties; as queen it was up to me to play hostess to the thousands of people filling the great hall. Not to dignitaries, either, but restless children and worried mothers. I had to smile and emulate unyielding grace while my people watched me through their tears, inspecting my façade for any cracks of knowledge that might give away their loved ones’ fates.
I slipped through the door and into the eerily silent corridor. There wasn’t a servant in sight; many, I suspected, had ridden out with Adam. As I made my way toward the great hall I tried very hard to keep my gaze from the windows. Hazy crimson light poured through the few windows that remained uncovered, though it did little to illuminate my path. None of the lamps were lit, I noticed in a burst of annoyance. Annoyance that quickly changed to shame. How dare I complain about unlit lamps when the whole castle might soon be engulfed in flames?
I was still silently scolding myself when I reached the great hall. Though, to be perfectly frank, I heard the chaos within before I saw it. Dozens of infants wailed in chorus, accompanied by the cries and whimpers of young children. I stood in the doorway, watching pale-faced mothers try to comfort their babes while the elderly kept their eyes fastened on the thick curtains covering the windows as though willing themselves to see through them.
It was a moment before anyone noticed me, but when they did a dreadful silence fell over the hall. Such was their distress that they
forgot to rise upon my entrance. Not that it mattered. Propriety was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to reassure them, to tell them I was just as fearful as they, but the words refused to come. Instead I searched their faces, each more anxious than the last, until I spotted a dark-haired youth seated on a bench and gripping a lyre with white fingers.
“What is your name, sir?” I asked him, painfully aware of how loud my voice sounded in the tense hall.
“It’s Dagmar, Lady Queen.” He tried to stand, but his legs trembled. “I was thrown from a horse last week. If my leg weren’t lame I’d be riding to the mountain with my father, I swear—”
“No one condemns you here, Dagmar,” I said quickly. “Myself least of all. We’re all called by the gods to serve in different ways at different times. Please, sit. I only wanted to ask if you know how to play that lyre, or if you’re keeping it safe for a friend.”
He eased himself back onto the bench. “I play, Lady Queen, though not with the skill you’re probably accustomed to hearing.”
“No music is sweeter than that which is heard in times of trial. Would you be so kind as to grace us with a tune?”
The youth swallowed, clearly terrified at the prospect of performing for such a large audience. Then, just as I thought he was about to refuse, he bent his head and tuned his strings. The act looked so familiar, the very same as I had seen from Adam so many times before, that it sent a torrent of pain through my chest. The thought of him on the mountain surrounded by flames nearly sent me to my knees.
Finally Dagmar plucked at the strings, filling the hall with music. Almost at once the atmosphere relaxed. I knew the tune well—it was an old Myrillan lullaby—and I was not surprised to hear several mothers murmuring the comforting lyrics to their babies. From the corner of my eye I saw the ladies of court sitting at the high table, waiting for me to join them. But I couldn’t force myself to climb the steps of the dais, not when I knew they’d fill my ears with endless questions and speculations on the volunteers’ progress.
Settling on the end of a bench, I watched a group of small girls sitting in a circle nearby, playing with their rag dolls. They seemed to be organizing some kind of feast or ball for the dolls to attend. I listened to their meticulous plans, taking care not to show I was eavesdropping, and took great pleasure in the distraction. I was so enveloped by their play that I started when a small hand came to rest on my knee.
“Lady Queen?”
I looked up and saw the familiar birthmarked face of Lamia, the child who’d presented me with flowers after the Blooding. Her brow was drawn over her worried eyes and her clothes smelled of smoke.
“My dear Lamia,” I said as gently as I could, “tell me what’s troubling you.”
She sniffed deeply and tears spilled down her cheeks. “M-My Papa’s gone to the m-m-mountain,” she gulped. “I’m s-so scared he w-won’t come back.”
I didn’t know how to comfort her, not when my fears so clearly matched hers. I brushed her hair back from her face; it was sprinkled through with flecks of ash that turned to powder on my fingertips. “Can I tell you a secret?” At her nod, I leaned close. “I’m frightened, too. All we can do is trust that the gods will take care of your Papa.”
She contemplated this in silence, then looked up at me. “But what if they don’t, Lady Queen?”
Again, I was stumped. Until that moment I hadn’t considered the idea. But I found myself wondering what my life would look like if Adam met his end in the mountains. The loneliness, the absence of his friendship and encouragement. I’d have to remarry, of course. Under Myrillian law I wasn’t permitted to rule in my own right. Chances were I’d not be so lucky a second time, and I’d find myself bound to a fool or a tyrant or worse. To my surprise, my skin felt cold and I had to focus all my strength on drawing breath.
Without responding to her question, I lifted Lamia into my lap and let her rest her head on my shoulder. Desperately I prayed for the gods to protect Adam. For his own sake and mine. I know it sounds terribly selfish, but I considered him a friend, a dear one at that, and I couldn’t bear the thought of rebuilding my life without him.
The afternoon passed slowly into evening, punctuated only by trays of cold meat and wine poured by the kitchen maids. No one ate very much; our eyes stayed fastened to the windows. Heavy canvas drapes covered every opening to block the smoke, so that when night fell no one noticed the change in light. More than once I found myself glancing around the hall for sight of Lillianne. I desperately wanted her counsel, but she wasn’t there. She would never abandon the temple, even under threat of fire.
I was watching a cluster of little boys work out the guidelines for a game of cards when a deafening roar filled the hall. It was so loud and terrible it could only be the fire descending on the castle. Several people screamed or dove under the tables for shelter. I clung to Lamia and looked at the ceiling, expecting the rafters to collapse at any second and engulf us all in flames. Dagmar’s music stopped, leaving terrible stillness in its wake.
The roar grew louder and an elderly man, hysterical and sobbing, threw himself at my feet. “Tell us what to do!” he shrieked. “We beg you, Lady Queen, save us!”
I have never been a heroic person, least of all in that moment. I wanted to tell him that no one was less capable of saving anyone than I. I wanted to tell him to pray for a painless death and ask the gods for mercy. I wanted to tell him that I was every bit as terrified as he, and beseech his comfort instead. But a small, quiet part of my mind remembered that I was the queen of Myrilla, and that even if the very castle where I was born happened to burn down around me, I could not let panic rule. Without a word, I placed Lamia on the bench beside me, and stood. I brushed the ash from my gown and stepped around the man. The hall, silent apart from the roar overhead, watched as I crossed to the far windows. I had to see the fire for myself; I couldn’t give orders without knowing the enemy’s whereabouts. I raised a trembling hand and, after the slightest hesitation, squeezed my eyes shut and drew back the curtain.
I expected a wave of heat to strike me or for a plume of smoke to fill my nostrils. So you can imagine my great surprise when I felt cool liquid splattering my face.
“It’s rain,” I whispered. My eyes flew open, drinking in the silver sheets pouring from the heavens. I put out my hand to receive it, letting the cool relief stream through my fingers and drip down my sleeve. “It’s rain!” I called, turning away from the window.
The windows immediately filled with people scrambling for a look. The same eyes that had studied the smoke in ghastly fascination since sunrise now widened in awe. Children climbed onto the sill and stuck out their tongues to taste the sweet downpour. Sorrowful weeping turned to tears of joy as men and women clutched each other in relief.
In the darkness we couldn’t see the mountains, so there was no way of knowing when the column of riders would return. Still, there was no rush to leave the hall. I sent to the kitchens for bottles of tart cherry wine and made sure each child was given a roll smeared with honey and jam. We toasted each other and raised our glasses to the gods, thanking Kore for sending the rain in our time of need.
The celebration had barely begun when the hall doors burst open. The volunteers filed slowly in, drenched from the downpour but grinning like schoolchildren. They ran to their families and soon the hall was filled with dozens of joyful reunions. When Lamia spotted her father she screamed “Papa!” at the top of her lungs and flung herself into his arms.
Minutes passed; the steady procession slowed to a trickle, and I had yet to see Adam. I circulated the room, offering wine to the returned heroes and thanking them for their bravery, all the while keeping my eyes trained to the doors. Surely he was well; if the king was wounded someone would have told me at once. I drained the last of my own celebratory wine and set the empty glass on the table. Still no sign of Adam. Even Turius had returned and was busy consoling his wife, who continued to weep with relief. The last man entered and the hall doors sh
ut with a heavy thud. A rock settled in my stomach. If something had happened to him—
“You don’t have to look so worried,” said a voice behind me.
I spun around and saw Adam beaming at me, his golden hair plastered to his forehead. He carried his helmet under his arm and dark streaks of soot covered his armor. Without a thought to my gown or my dignity or anyone watching, I ran three steps and suddenly his helmet clattered to the floor and I was in his arms, embracing him for the first time.
“If I’d known this kind of reception was waiting for me, I’d have returned much faster,” he said, laughing. His heart beat beneath my cheek and I pressed my face into his chest, hardly daring to believe he was real, he was still with me. Only when I was satisfied that he had truly returned, unharmed, did I relax my grip. As I stepped back he frowned at the lashings of wet, black soot smeared across my front. “I’m afraid your dress is ruined. Sorry about that.”
I didn’t even glance at it. “It doesn’t matter,” I said breathlessly. “I’m just glad you’re back and in health.”
He grinned. “You weren’t concerned, were you, Alyce?” he teased. “Because there’s nothing a man likes better than knowing there’s a woman somewhere wringing her hands over his wellbeing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I wasn’t concerned,” I replied, as haughtily as I could. “Not for you, at any rate. I mean, if Turius hadn’t returned, who else would criticize my every decision and spread nasty rumors about me behind my back?”
He laughed and accepted a glass of wine from a passing tray. Servants materialized to relieve him of his cloak and offer him bread and fruit. The celebration continued long into the night, and as every man, woman, and child praised Adam for his courage, he thanked them all and never once let go of my hand.
Chapter 16
In the weeks following the fire, spring descended upon Myrilla in a whirl of color. New buds filled the trees, nestling on their branches like a green mist. Bursts of pink and gold and purple broke out in new places every day, and I could scarcely keep up with the work in the garden. The flowers seemed to bloom before my very eyes, and the air was heavy with the scent of apple blossoms. Long, trailing vines of sun bells covered the castle walls, their yellow and red blooms offset by their striking black leaves. Brambling dragonlace grew wild along the roads and paths all through the kingdom, white and pink and giving off a sweet, peppery scent. Daffodils in yellow and blue covered the meadows, providing endless nectar for the fat, droning bees, and lilies of every hue spread wide their long, elegant petals. Tangled curtains of wild roses and honeysuckle tumbled over the low stone walls surrounding the fields. The kingdom had truly transformed.
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