by Kate Forsyth
‘Is your king not of starkin blood too?’ the girl demanded. ‘Is that not why he seeks to seize the throne?’
‘He is the rightful heir!’ Queen Liliana cried. ‘It is Vernisha who stole the throne’.
‘Of course,’ the girl said quickly. ‘That is what I meant. Forgive me my clumsy tongue, I have ridden a long way today and am very cold and tired’.
What a difference a mere word can make, Peregrine thought. To succeed to the throne. To seize the throne. To steal it. To win it. Each side had their own rhetoric and their own justifications for what they did. Peregrine’s father, Merrik, believed he was the rightful heir because he was the only descendant of the eldest child of King Zhigor the Sixth. When King Zhigor’s son, King Zabrak, had died twenty-five years ago his niece Vernisha had snatched the crown, even though she was the daughter of King Zhigor’s youngest child. Vernisha, however, was of pure starkin blood, while King Merrik had a wildkin grandfather and a hearthkin mother. The war was therefore not just about who wore the crown, but also about the rights and liberties of the hearthkin and the wildkin, kept in subjugation for so long by the ruling starkin.
‘You must know we have little cause to trust those of starkin blood,’ Queen Liliana replied coldly. ‘Come, sit by the fire, try to warm yourself a little, and then tell us why you have come to Stormlinn Castle. Stiga, I know it distresses you to be near those of starkin blood. Will you go to the kitchen and ask one of the cooks to bring us some tea?’
The old woman got up and shuffled away, casting suspicious looks over her shoulder at the girl, who removed her ring so she could strip off her crimson gauntlets, dropping them all on the bench. She unfastened her rich, fur-lined mantle to show a riding dress in fine blue wool, trimmed at hem and waist and cuff in red velvet, over a flouncy red silk petticoat. Her feet were shod in crimson boots of the softest lambskin. Peregrine had never seen clothes so fine.
‘See, no weapons,’ the girl said angrily, letting her fur-trimmed cloak fall across the bench and spreading her hands wide. Indeed, her riding dress was so closely tailored it would have been difficult to conceal a weapon anywhere, but Queen Liliana made a swift gesture to Palila, an old woman of the Crafty.
Palila deftly searched the girl, then shook her head and said, ‘Not even an eating knife, ma’am’.
‘I would not be so unwise as to hide a dagger in my boot,’ the starkin girl said, sinking down onto the bench near the fire and holding her hands to the blaze. Her ring lay with her gloves and she slipped it back on her finger, looking about her with undisguised scorn.
It was not a very grand room, the great hall of Stormlinn Castle. For years the castle had been a ruin, and had only been repaired when Peregrine was a baby. There was little time or money for major renovations, and so the tumbledown walls had been patched with whatever rock could be found, and hung with ancient tapestries to block the worst of the draughts. The few bits of furniture were old and shabby too, and grouped close about the fire, leaving a large stretch of empty floor where the men-at-arms slept at night. In an attempt to keep out the cold and the damp, the floor was strewn liberally with straw and dried rushes, mixed with rosemary and other winter herbs to mask the smell of the damp stone. Queen Liliana and her ladies had done what they could to patch and mend old cushions and rugs, and the men had built a tall screen for the fire which Peregrine himself had painted, with a picture of men and ladies riding out from the castle, hawks on their wrists.
Till now, Peregrine had always loved the old hall, with its massive oak rafters arching overhead, their ends carved with the faces of all kinds of birds and beasts, and its enormous fireplace with the secret door hidden to one side. Seeing the disdain on the girl’s face made him look at it with new eyes, and squirm with embarrassment at its shabbiness.
‘You must be half-frozen,’ his mother was saying. ‘What is your name, and what brings you here on such a bitterly cold night?’
‘I have no time to exchange pleasantries with servants,’ the girl replied. ‘Do you not understand the castle is in danger? Summon the king at once!’
Queen Liliana stared at the stranger in surprise. ‘My husband is presently occupied. Perhaps you could tell me what your business with him is?’
The girl stared at her. ‘You … you are Queen Liliana?’ Her incredulous gaze took in the queen’s shabby gown, her old shawl and her wild, wind-ruffled hair.
‘I am,’ Queen Liliana responded, ‘but I fear you have the advantage of me. Will you not give me your name and state your business, so I may judge whether or not I should disturb my husband?’
‘I … My apologies, your Royal Highness, I did not know,’ she said, flushing and stammering. ‘I am Lady Grizelda ziv Zadira. I have come to bring the king a warning’.
Peregrine gave a silent whistle. One of the ziv! The mysterious rider was able to trace her lineage back to the first king of Ziva, just as Peregrine himself could do. What on earth was she doing at Stormlinn Castle? On his shoulder Blitz cocked his head and regarded the girl with curious black eyes.
‘You can give the warning to me, my lady,’ Queen Liliana replied.
‘I was told to speak only to the king,’ Grizelda said hesitantly.
Queen Liliana frowned.
Peregrine said, ‘I sent Jack to get him, Mam. She says there’s an army coming to attack us’.
‘In winter?’ Queen Liliana groaned and sat down on the nearest bench, her shoulders slumping. ‘Couldn’t we even have the winter months to rest and recuperate? Do they plan to besiege us?’
‘It’ll be a long, cold wait for them then,’ Peregrine said. ‘I wonder if they realise how bitter it is here in winter? They’ll freeze their butts off camping out there’.
‘Robin, language!’ his mother said automatically. She raised both hands and pressed them against her eyes, and Peregrine knew she was thinking of the empty storerooms below. She dropped her hands and looked at Grizelda with calculating grey eyes. ‘How many men? What equipment do they have? Siege towers? Trebuchets? Mangonels?’
Grizelda’s eyes widened in surprise and new respect.
‘Yet how could they bring such machines through the forest?’ Queen Liliana demanded. ‘Unless … the river is frozen over. They could plan on bringing them, dismantled, on sleighs up the river and build them once they get here. Though I doubt they realise how high we are above the river, there’s no mangonel that could reach us …’
‘They have built a portable long-range fusillier,’ Grizelda said.
‘But what fuel do they have? We sabotaged their fuel storage depot seven years ago, and the marshes of Ardian are held by rebel hearthkins … unless … Has Ardian fallen back into the hands of the starkin?’
‘No,’ Grizelda said. ‘Though not from want of trying’. Her face broke into a rueful smile. ‘I don’t know how they got the fusillier fuel, ma’am. I am only a girl, they do not take me into their confidence. All I know is they have tanks of it, wrapped in straw and sacking, and packed on giant sleds pulled by dogs. And all sorts of strange contraptions too, and many men, thousands of them, all dressed in white …’
‘So they plan to take us by surprise,’ a quiet voice said from the doorway.
Peregrine smiled at his father, who stood in the doorway wrapped in a long dark robe. King Merrik was a thin, rather stooped man, with a weary face and dark hooded eyes. His grey-streaked hair was scraped back into a messy ponytail and his chin was bristled. The only sign of his office was a chain about his neck with a small seal hanging at the end of it, engraved, Peregrine knew, with the sign of a swan floating under a coronet of stars. An omen-imp perched on his shoulder, and his councillors stood behind him, all looking tired and anxious.
Grizelda seemed startled to see the king. She sat motionless for a moment, staring at him, then rose and curtsied right down to the ground at his feet.
‘Your Majesty,’ she whispered, her head bent so her face rested against the ground.
King Merrik regarded her thoughtf
ully. ‘You may rise’.
Gracefully she stood up, brushing straw from her skirt. ‘Your Majesty, may I speak?’
‘Please do,’ King Merrik responded humorously. ‘We are all most intrigued to have a starkin lady turn up on our doorstep in the midst of a snowstorm. What on earth are you doing here and where do you come from?’
She told him again the story of the starkin soldiers, coming up the river on sleds with tanks of fusillier fuel.
‘How do you know this, my lady?’ the king asked.
Grizelda hesitated. ‘My brother travels with them, sir. He is the Count of Zavaria, and so they came to him for advice on how to penetrate into the mountains in winter. He breeds sled-dogs, you see, we are famous for them’.
King Merrik nodded. Even Peregrine knew that, from his mind-numbingly boring geography lessons. Zavaria was the county next to Estelliana and, like it, was edged by forest and mountains all along its northern border. It was snow-bound in winter, unlike many of the lower-lying counties to the south.
‘My brother has no great love for Queen Vernisha, I mean, for Vernisha sir,’ Grizelda continued carefully. ‘So far we have managed not to be drawn into the conflict, but he could not disobey her direct order, not without declaring himself rebel. So he sent me here, to warn you, while he does what he can to delay the soldiers’ advance’.
‘But it is midwinter!’ Queen Liliana protested. ‘It is against the code of chivalry to fight during the midwinter festivities. For twelve days, all must be at peace’.
‘I doubt Vernisha cares much for the code of chivalry,’ King Merrik said dryly.
‘They probably hope to catch us by surprise, all befuddled with midwinter ale,’ said his third cousin and best friend, Lord Zedrin. A tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed man, he walked with a pronounced limp, the result of a dreadful fall when he was a young man.
There was a murmur of agreement and comment from the other councillors.
‘I am still sadly puzzled,’ Queen Liliana said. ‘Why should the Count of Zavaria risk being branded a traitor in order to warn us? And more puzzling still, why send his sister as messenger? Why put her in such danger?’
‘Perhaps because he knows that King Merrik at least remembers the code of chivalry,’ Grizelda replied coolly. ‘He was sure his Majesty would not harm me’.
‘There are other dangers in the Perilous Forest,’ Queen Liliana flashed back.
‘I had to rely on my horse’s swift hooves and my dog’s sharp teeth to protect me,’ Grizelda said. She patted the hound’s white head and he thumped his tail on the floor.
‘Still, it was an odd thing to do,’ King Merrik said slowly. ‘He must have known we would act chivalrously to any messenger, not just his sister’.
Grizelda lifted her head. ‘Yet if my brother had sent a servant, no matter how trusted, you would have thought it some kind of trick. I am only a girl, I am unarmed, and I am of true value to my brother’.
‘He has sent you as a hostage!’ Peregrine cried, feeling a surge of anger at the Count of Zavaria for gambling with his sister’s safety.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I have come to warn you all to flee. There is no hope you can survive Vernisha’s long-range weapons. This castle shall fall, and you shall all die if you do not flee now!’
CHAPTER 2
The Yuletide Feast
ILL-LIT AND SMOKY, THE CAVERNOUS HALL WAS CROWDED with people and all sorts of strange creatures. Some were tiny, as small and noisy as bees. Others were enormous, with heads like boulders and limbs like tree trunks. Some had stubby horns, others were covered with green scales; yet more had eyes that glowed like orange coals from under heavy grey brows. Grizelda could only clutch her goblet of wine and stare.
She sat alone on her bench. The guests that shared her table were all huddled together at the far end, as far away from her as they could get. Grizelda could only be grateful. She had no desire to share her meal with a monster with scales and webbed fingers like a frog’s.
Sipping her wine and pretending to be cool and poised, Grizelda studied the throng. She was not very impressed with the court of King Merrik. Everyone had obviously made an effort to dress up for the feast, yet for most this was simply a matter of plaiting their hair with ribbons or making a wreath of green weeds.
Some of the women had changed their everyday sleeves for ones made of brocade or velvet; others had tied a pretty scarf around their waist or slung a vivid shawl about their shoulders. That was it. No jewels, no cloth-of-gold, no mantles of rare fur. Most of the men had done little more than lay aside their armour and weapons, though many wore holly pinned to their jackets.
The royal table had made a little more effort. King Merrik had changed into a robe of blue velvet, trimmed with gold embroidery and edged with fur. Queen Liliana sat beside him, wearing a sumptuous gown of blue brocade, sewn with jewels, with hanging sleeves of forest-green velvet lined with golden silk.
The same green velvet made up the dress worn by her cousin Rozalina, Erlqueen of the Stormlinn, who sat on the other side of King Merrik, wearing billowing sleeves of blue brocade sewn with jewels. By wearing each other’s sleeves, Grizelda thought, the two queens were making a public statement about their bonds of kinship and friendship. Clever, she thought, and wondered if it was done for her benefit.
On Queen Rozalina’s sleek black head was a garland of golden-green leaves. Grizelda stared at it in contempt. What kind of queen wore a crown of weeds?
Beside Queen Rozalina sat her husband, Lord Zedrin, dressed more simply in a dark brown velvet coat over black breeches, a red sash tied over his chest, a holly sprig in his buttonhole. Grizelda knew that he had put aside his own claim to the throne in favour of his third cousin and best friend, Merrik, and wondered at him. With his thick fair hair, laughing blue eyes and broad shoulders, he seemed a much better candidate for king.
Prince Peregrine sat beside his mother, dressed for the feast in dark green velvet. It made him look a little more princely than the skinny boy who had come bounding down the stairs to meet her in the courtyard. Grizelda felt his eyes on her and let herself droop sadly, her chin in her hand, her head tilted so the candlelight shone on her hair. She tried to look forlorn and neglected. It must have worked, because she saw the prince get up and walk down towards her. Grizelda bit back a smile.
‘Is everything all right?’ Peregrine asked, coming up beside the starkin girl. The white hound at her feet growled menacingly and she shushed it with a gesture of her hand, looking up at Peregrine with enormous blue eyes that looked as if they might brim over with tears at any moment.
‘Oh yes. I mean … well, you can’t blame them, can you?’ She gestured to the rest of the table, where everyone was laughing and talking and paying her no heed at all. ‘I mean, I am a starkin’.
‘It’s not very polite though. You are a guest in our house’. Peregrine stepped forward, ready to have a quick word with Lord Montgomery and the rest of the table, but Grizelda laid her slim hand on his sleeve.
‘Please don’t. I’m fine, really. Lucky not to have been thrown into a dungeon!’ She gave a wan smile.
‘My father would never throw anyone in a dungeon!’ Peregrine cried.
‘Really? Not even a starkin?’
‘He’s a starkin too,’ he reminded her. ‘Perhaps not full-blooded like you, but starkin nonetheless. His grandmother was Princess Druzilla, elder sister to King Zabrak’.
‘I know,’ she replied softly. ‘Do you think we are not aware that he is the rightful king? Why else do you think I am here?’
‘I’m really not sure,’ he answered. ‘It was either a very brave or a very foolhardy thing to do’.
‘I could not let you be taken unaware,’ she said, gazing up at him. ‘You are our only hope. Vernisha is a tyrant!’
Peregrine nodded. ‘We hear terrible things about her. She is even worse than King Zabrak was, and that’s saying something’.
‘Will you not sit awhile with me?’ Grizelda asked, shift
ing over on her bench invitingly. ‘I’d so like someone to explain everything to me’.
Peregrine hesitated, glanced at the high table on its dais, and then sat down on the bench. Jack at once came down to stand behind his shoulder, bringing Peregrine’s cup with him and a ewer of apple cider. Peregrine could feel his squire’s disapproving gaze but ignored him, saying, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘So that’s the wildkin queen?’ Grizelda demanded. ‘The one sitting next to your father?’
‘Yes. She’s my mother’s cousin, you know, and my father’s second cousin. Their grandparents were brother and sister’.
She nodded in understanding, and he grinned and leant a little closer. ‘It gets even more complicated than that. Lord Zedrin, Queen Rozalina’s husband, is also my father’s third cousin. That means …’
‘Yes, I know,’ she cut in impatiently. ‘Lord Zedrin’s great-grandmother was Princess Yelenza, sister to King Zhigor the Sixth who was King Merrik’s great-grandfather. Do you think you are the only one made to study genealogical tables?’
‘Sorry’. Peregrine brooded for a moment then said, ‘Do you know the genealogical tables of all the counts of Ziva, or only our family?’
‘All of the families, of course,’ she replied haughtily, but Peregrine did not think she was telling the truth. He wondered if she had studied up on his family before being sent here as hostage, and thought it would be no surprise if she had. He would have done the same.
‘Why does she wear a wreath of weeds? Doesn’t she have a proper crown?’
Peregrine was flabbergasted. ‘They’re not weeds! It’s mistletoe. Can’t you see the little white berries? Mistletoe is sacred to the wildkin. It’s the winter crown. In spring she will pick and weave herself a new crown of hawthorn, and the summer crown is made of elderflowers. In autumn she wears a crown of autumn leaves and berries’.
Grizelda shook her head in amazement. ‘So strange’.
‘Nicer than wearing a hard crown of metal and jewels,’ Peregrine said defiantly.