by Sam Farren
Katja's jaw tensed and disappointment became her. It wasn't until then that I appreciated how much taller she was than me; she stepped forward, grip tightening, tears threatening to spill over.
“When you came to me, Rowan, it was such a great comfort. I had thought that—well, that there was some connection between us, and that you might...” Katja said in a whisper, and my vision clouded and flashed with how unwell I felt. It was as though her fingers were irons bound around my wrists, but I couldn't bring myself to move, to pull away; it was her nature as a healer that was making me feel like this, something beyond her control, beyond her awareness. If I reacted, I'd be giving myself away. She'd know. I couldn't allow that. “You were going to say something, the other day. I couldn't fathom what, at the time, but now that I think about it, I—”
“Alright!” I yelped, prying my hands free the moment her grip relaxed. “I'll come with you, alright? Come on. Let's go.”
I was at the door when Katja coughed to reclaim my attention. Fingers on the handle, I turned, desperately hoping that she'd changed her mind.
But she only arched her brow and said, “Your clothes, Rowan. You can't very well turn up in something so colourful. Ah—I suppose you couldn't read the note I left on these for you, could you? Not that it stopped you from putting them to use, I see.”
Simultaneously revealing herself as my benefactor and digging through the clothes I'd left spread out across one of the armchairs, Katja managed to produce something that was suitable enough, she supposed. She handed me a white shirt and told me to change into it, back to me. I hesitated, clutching the shirt between unsteady fingers, but didn't ask her to leave the room. Instead, I changed as quickly as I could, not about to demand anything of her. Not today. She wasn't herself; she was as shaken as I was.
Katja insisted on brushing my hair before we left, and was particularly ruthless, when it came to any tangles. Deeming me moderately presentable, Katja took my arm, and I put any lingering discomfort down to my reluctance to attend the wake.
The wake itself took place in one of the first parts of the castle I'd spent any real amount of time within, but I scarcely recognised the place. The banquet hall was awash in candlelight, revealing the room to be bigger than I'd imagined, and though the table still resided in the middle, dozens of armchairs had been brought out for the dozens of guests. Some of them huddled together, while others wished to mourn or eat in private, all of them draped in white finery.
Katja tilted her head at Queen Kidira, who sat in the far corner. She scowled at Katja, but I imagined it was only because she had been worried. If an assassin could strike down a King, then her daughter could hardly be considered safe, either. The look she shot me, however, was what it was. Akela stood behind the Queen, back straight, spear in hand, and I half-expected Queen Kidira to send her my way and have me escorted out of the hall.
“Let's take a seat, shall we?” Katja asked, tugging me towards a cluster of chairs. Some of them were placed back-to-back, and I took the lead so that I could seat myself in the chair that Kouris' horns jutted over the top of. “There—much better. Now I do not feel as though I ought to be seeking people out.”
I was glad that Katja didn't feel compelled to make rounds of the hall. No one looked at me as I came in, and no one cared who I was; they certainly hadn't whispered necromancer behind my back. Still, I felt safer for sitting, hidden from half of the hall.
There was no shortage of food and drink spread out across the table, and I wondered if a glass of wine would calm me further. Ultimately, I decided there were too many people to weave my way around, too many people to stop me and ask how I knew King Jonas, and so I decided to forgo drink, unless Katja felt compelled to fetch them for us.
A portrait of King Jonas hung in the centre of the room. People gathered around it, gesturing to it as they sipped on their wine, all of them nodding solemnly. A murmur of conversation filled the hall, and at once it was too little and too much. It didn't rise above the deep, sorrowful sounds the band drew out of stringed instruments on the balcony above, nor was it drowned out by the music.
“That's Sir Ightham, is it?” Katja asked, leaning towards me.
My eyes darted across the room, following her gaze. I'd failed to pick Claire out of the crowd, and for good reason. She stood with her back to the wall, mirroring Akela in all ways, down to the spear in her hand and the Kastelirian armour she wore.
“That's her,” I replied, convinced that I shouldn't have been seeing Claire like that. Her reward for coming this far, for giving up all she had, was to be dressed in another nation's armour; I did not imagine she felt any pride in the colours she wore.
“Not exactly what I was expecting,” Katja remarked. “But I should like to speak to her regardless.”
A few feet away, a group of scholars far too young to sit on the throne were discussing the effect choosing a new ruler would have on the economy, while others were wondering out loud whether choosing a new Sovereign from what had once been the Old West was truly in the spirit of what Kastelir was supposed to stand for.
I listened to them idly, attention drawn away by the sound of King Atthis' voice. Without horns to give him away – or, indeed, antlers – I hadn't known he was there, and though I didn't mean to eavesdrop, it was hard not to overhear him.
“You have been silent for half an hour or more,” the King commented. “Something weighs upon your mind.”
“We have just laid Jonas to rest in the crypt,” Kouris replied gruffly. “Of course something weights upon my mind.”
People came and went, offering Katja their condolences, but to them, I was invisible. While Katja was subjected to tale after tale revolving around the more memorable parts of King Jonas' life and reign, I had nothing to distract myself from the conversation unfolding behind me.
“And for twenty-seven years, you too rested in an empty crypt,” King Atthis said.
“Then Jonas' life has been exchanged for my own. Is that it?”
“No, No. Do not give me that look, Kouris. This would've happened, were you here or otherwise.”
Kouris grunted, and a long pause followed. The lull in conversation was only interrupted by a third voice, one I didn't recognise. It was nothing of interest; a servant scurried over to ask if more wine ought to be brought up, and King Atthis dismissed him quickly, saying he wasn't to be bothered with such trivial matters for the rest of the day. The servant left, but minutes passed before either of them spoke another word.
“It's Kidira, isn't it?” Atthis asked. When Kouris gave no reply, he said, “You know that you may speak freely around me.”
“... it's Kidira. Of course it's Kidira—it's always been her, and yet she looks right through me. Won't speak a word to me. It's as though I'm not even here; like I'm still back in Canth. If she doesn't look at me soon, doesn't speak to me, then I will know I am a ghost, dead these last twenty-seven years after all.”
The woman who'd been speaking with Katja left her with the assurance that she was there for her, should she ever need someone to talk to, and without anyone vying for her attention, Katja caught the last of what Kouris said. She frowned, sympathetic, but gave the impression that she'd just as soon roll her eyes at her mother.
Kouris' words carried the ache she felt into my bones themselves. If only she'd tell Queen Kidira what had truly happened. It'd never excuse all that she'd done, the years she'd been absent, but it would at least start to make sense of what had happened. Surely that would mean something to Queen Kidira.
“What did you expect, Kouris? Did you expect to return, and for everything to be as it once was? Kidira is not the woman you left widowed. For twenty-seven years, she ensured that your memory was respected—she named her daughter after you. She felt nothing but pride when she spoke of you, believing you had faced your past and atoned for it; and then she discovers that you have merely run from Kastelir. From her. How is she supposed to begin processing all that?”
“I had no
choice. You know I didn't. I even asked her to go with me, but her duty was to Kastelir, and I understood that. I respected that. I had no choice,” she hissed, doing what she could to keep her voice down. “If I wasn't dead, Kastelir would've fallen apart in years. You think I haven't spent each and every day thinking of her? Praying at Canthian temples to those long gone gods of yours for a reason to come back here? I exiled myself from Kastelir, from Kidira. Thought it was better if I let her think me dead. Thought she might move on—find a way to be happy.”
“Come now. You know Kidira will never be happy until every violent thought in her Kingdom turns to ash and not a single Kastelirian goes hungry. Do not think she has been alone these twenty-seven years, either,” Atthis said sternly, and I dared to look across the room at Queen Kidira, certain she could feel my eyes on her. People drifted towards her, and she greeted them civilly, never intentionally seeking anyone out. All the while, Akela stood behind her, back straight, chin raised. “You expected too much of her, Kouris, and not enough of yourself. You swore vows and broke them the moment the past came knocking at your door; do not be surprised if it takes another twenty-seven years for her to set eyes on you again.”
The words smarted. Over the back of the chair, I saw Kouris' horns bow forward.
“It's funny. I really thought I was doing her a favour—or I convinced myself I did, to make leaving easier. Not that there was anything easy about it, trust me. But I always felt like there was some part of Kidira, buried away, that made her resent herself for loving me. Look at what I was, what I did. Kidira, she could bring nations to bow without sticking a blade through anyone.”
The words came out thickly, difficult for Kouris to form, and no easier for Katja and I to overhear. We looked away from each other, both hoping that the conversation wouldn't pick back up, and from the corner of my eye I saw Katja staring at her hands with the same sort of intensity that had turned her eyes dark days ago. She was stricken by some shade of guilt, having taken her mother's loss so lightly.
We were saved from wrapping ourselves up in the concept of twenty-seven years, in all that could be done, and the way people changed, but didn't change, by a balding man in a long, loose thawb. He swooped over, bowing down to take one of Katja's hands between both of his own.
“Lady Kouris! How it pains me to have to meet under such circumstances,” he said, tone a tad dramatic, in spite of the sincerity lacing his voice. “Would that I were able to congratulate you on the news of your recent engagement without such a tragedy overshadowing it.”
“Lord Adiur,” Katja said, smiling as much as seemed to be permitted at a wake. “I've had the pleasure of your friendship for long enough to feel the full effects of your well-wishes without you having to voice them. Please, don't trouble yourself. My spirits are eased to see you here. And your good wife, is she with you—?”
“It would've pained her to miss His Majesty's sending off,” Lord Adiur said, sweeping out an arm in the direction of a refined woman by the table, white-gold jewellery blending against the white of her suit. “She'll be over to see you in a moment, I've no doubt. But I'm afraid I don't know your companion, Lady—?”
Lord Adiur fixed his eyes on me, graciously attempting to draw me into the conversation, and I wondered how I was supposed to introduce myself without lying or demoting his estimation of me. The presence of a farmer with no ties to the capital at a King's wake was likely as undesirable in Isin as it was in Thule, but Katja took it upon herself to say, “This is Rowan. She's as new a friend as she is dear.”
“Well,” he said, standing straight and clasping his hands in front of him. “I shan't say it's a pleasure to meet you. Not on today, of all days. I'm certain you'll understand my wish to save such praise for the next time we meet, under thoroughly different circumstances. Although I would be remiss if I didn't tell you how glad I was to know Lady Kouris has a companion at such a time.”
I smiled at Lord Adiur, but didn't dare to speak. Thankfully, Katja reclaimed his attention, and their conversation turned from pleasantries to those of a more personal nature. They spoke in the sort of hushed whispered that implied a pretence of privacy in such a crowded hall, and Lord Adiur was convinced that Katja must know something about who was to take King Jonas' place. I did my best to seem lost in my own thoughts, lest Lord Adiur try enticing me to reminisce about King Jonas with him.
He left after some minutes with a bow, claiming that he'd taken up more than enough of Katja's time.
“I do wish I got to see him more often,” Katja said, sighing wistfully. “He's a cousin of Uncle Atthis, actually. The resemblance isn't striking, I know, but they have always been on good terms. Ah—Rowan, dear. I do apologise for presuming to speak for you just now, but it's better that you don't say anything. Your accent would give you away immediately, and there'd be no end to the questions we'd have to endure. It's for the best. Wouldn't you agree?”
I'd been doing all I could to keep my lips pursed together, but I found myself reluctant to agree with her. Sinking back into the seat, I listened for any more snippets of conversation between Kouris and King Atthis, but I made nothing out over the din, until the servant who'd interrupted them before returned once more.
“King Atthis, Lady Rán,” he said, short of breath. I turned in my seat to hear Kouris called Rán once again, and saw her horns rise over the backrest. “I apologise for interrupting you, but—”
“For the last time, it's just Rán. Or Representative Rán, if you must give her some title,” King Atthis said, clicking his tongue in irritation. “If you're here to update me on the wine situation, I strongly suggest that you turn on your heels and do all you can to avoid me for the rest of the week.”
“Be easy on him, Atthis,” Kouris grumbled. “Can't you see he's all out of sorts? What is it, lad?”
Curiosity getting the better of me, I leant towards Katja's seat, looking between our two chairs. King Atthis' elbow blocked much of my view, but I saw the servant clearly enough. It was the boy who'd brought me breakfast at Claire's behest.
“I beg your forgiveness, You Highness, but please—” He paused, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “Ianto Ires has come to seek an audience with you.”
The name meant as much to King Atthis as it did to me.
“And you have brought this to me now because... ?”
“Pardon, Majesty. Ianto Ires, he claims to speak for—for the rebels.”
There was a decided pause. In the balcony, a cellist drew his bow across the strings, sending a low, resounding note through the hall.
“Why today, of all days? Does he believe me so weakened by grief that I would tear my country apart and condemn the scattered pieces back to war?”
“I-I'm afraid not, Your Majesty. He wishes to claim responsibility for King Jonas' death.”
CHAPTER XX
A dozen people overheard the servant, and a murmur rippled throughout the room, catching Queen Kidira as it went. She rose to her feet, long white dress trailing behind her as she outpaced Akela across the hall. She didn't stop to question the servant, and the guards didn't have the chance to open the doors for her. She thrust them open herself, and Katja grabbed hold of my hand, pulling me along after her.
“Now, now. If everyone would remain where they are,” Lord Adiur said to the rumbling crowd, no doubt convinced that an assassin was within their midst. “Their Majesties will have this attended to in no time, I assure you.”
With his cousin handling the sudden discord, King Atthis slipped from the hall, and did what he could to keep up with Queen Kidira. Kouris and Claire followed, and I had as little desire as I did choice to go with them. Katja's fingers dug into my wrist, and she was too busy vying for her mother's attention to hear me say, “Katja, I don't think...”
We tore through a corridor and turned sharply, heading across a bridge connecting two parts of the castle. Katja's hand slipped from my wrist, and when she entwined her fingers with mine, I didn't pull away. I was caug
ht up in it, now. I followed along, glancing over my shoulder at Claire. She had less of an idea of what I was doing there than I did, and I shrugged my shoulders when she tilted her head to the side, questioning.
I thought that Queen Kidira was storming blindly through the castle, but it became apparent that there was only one place these sorts of visitors were taken; it was the same room Claire and I had been interrogated in by Akela, door swarmed by a dozen guards. The servants who weren't in the kitchens, busy cooking up course after course for the wake, flooded the corridor, sharing descriptions of the man within for those who'd missed his entrance.
Those who caught sight of Queen Kidira scattered, and the few who'd not been so lucky held their breath in her presence. The Queen, however, was not concerned with them. Akela dismissed all but two of the guards, and slowly, silently, the crowd around the door skulked back into the castle's winding corridors, not yet daring to whisper amongst themselves.
“I am having this man brought before Your Majesties in the throne room, yes?” Akela asked.
“We speak with him here. He wants a spectacle, and I will not give it to him,” Queen Kidira said, and King Atthis nodded in fierce agreement. Akela was about to unlock the door, but paused when Queen Kidira caught sight of Katja and said, “Why are you here? Return to the hall.”
“I will not,” Katja said defiantly, eyes brimming with tears once more. “This man, he... he's responsible for what happened to uncle, isn't he? I need to see him for myself.”
“Kouris,” Queen Kidira warned in a low voice.
“Mother,” Katja returned, not flinching under the Queen's gaze.
Frustrated, Queen Kidira shook her head to herself, and turned on her heels. Katja squeezed my hand, taking it to mean that she'd won the right to follow her mother in, and Akela twisted the key in the lock, unfastening the bolts.
Ianto Ires had been left alone in the room, wrist shackled to one of the bars in the window. He sat at the table regardless, arm held high, doing what he could to act as though it was of no discomfort to him. Regardless, he shifted in his seat more than he would've liked to. He was a neat looking man, well-dressed, dark hair meticulously combed into place, but more than that, he was unspeakably calm. Ianto didn't panic at the sight of the King and Queen, nor did he cower when Akela walked up to him, spear still in hand.