Winterkeep

by Kristin Cashore

  “Thank you, Froggatt,” said Bitterblue. “Will you please tell everyone to stop for the night and go have their dinners?”

  “Of course, Lady Queen.”

  “That means you too.”

  “And you, Lady Queen?”

  Froggatt wasn’t a particularly tall man, but everyone was taller than Bitterblue. Nor was he old, but there was something fatherly in the tone he always took with the queen, folding his hands and tucking his chin against his chest, peering down at her and patiently waiting.

  “I’m quite hungry,” said Giddon, who wasn’t really.

  “Yes, all right, you’ve both made your points,” said Bitterblue, pretending to be annoyed. “Go away, Froggatt.”

  “Have a lovely night, Lady Queen,” said Froggatt, giving Giddon one last, pointed glance of disapproval.

  “Did you see that look?” Giddon said after Froggatt had gone. “When I took his side about dinner!”

  “They’re being so grouchy,” said Bitterblue, “ever since I refused to spend more time with a horrible Sunderan earl.”

  “They want you to marry an Estillan revolutionary and a Sunderan earl?”

  “He kept talking over me,” said Bitterblue. “Then, when I finally told him to stop interrupting, he said, ‘I like a woman with a temper,’ in this creepy way that made it clear he was talking about sex.” She was flipping through the papers Froggatt had given her while she talked, her eyes scanning them quickly. “Here it is,” she said, stopping at a certain page and reading. “‘Zilfium deposits occur naturally all across the Torlan continent. Winterkeep’s environmental laws prohibit the use of zilfium in Winterkeep, but it’s mined there and sold to Kamassar and the other Torlan nations, where it’s used to power trains, ships, plows, machinery in factories.’”

  “Winterkeep has airships,” said Giddon. “Don’t the airships use zilfium?”

  “No,” said Bitterblue. “Airships are powered by the wind, and held aloft by some gas that doesn’t pollute the air. Airships are uniquely Keepish, and a zilfium-free technology.”

  She dropped the papers onto the desk, then raised her eyes to his, steady, calm. “There,” she said. “I’ve looked into zilfium. Do you suppose that’s what Mikka wanted?” Then she smiled, her tired face opening with humor, and Giddon was no longer worried, and suddenly happy, hungry for dinner.

  “Most certainly,” he said.

  “I guess we should write to Raffin and ask him if he can be any less obscure,” she said, taking his arm. “Let’s go eat.”

  * * *

  —

  Bitterblue’s Graced spy and half sister, Hava, was at dinner. So was Bitterblue’s cousin Prince Skye, who hugged Giddon just as if they hadn’t had dinner together in this same room a week ago. Like many from Lienid, Skye was demonstrative. Giddon had always welcomed it; it made him feel like he had a brother.

  Bitterblue was cutting herself a second piece of sweet vinegar pie when a letter fell out of her pocket.

  Skye reached down and grabbed it. “This is Saf’s handwriting!”

  “Oh, yes,” said Bitterblue. “I forgot I had that.”

  “Did you read it yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why is he writing to you?”

  “How can I know that if I haven’t read it yet?”

  “Well, when are you going to read it?”

  “I’ll read it now,” said Bitterblue, giving Skye a look, “if it’ll make you stop behaving like a fretful puppy.” She used her knife to break the seal, then pulled out a single sheet of paper written in the most illegible scrawl Giddon had ever seen. No one wrote as badly as Saf, who was Bitterblue’s . . . friend? Giddon wasn’t sure of Saf’s status at the moment, beyond that he and Bitterblue had been lovers once and that he was a reckless, purple-eyed ass who’d decided a few months back, for no good reason, to take work on a ship sailing to Winterkeep. Presumably, that was where he was writing from now. Saf and Skye were great friends, and had spent the last few years sailing together on Pikkian mapmaking missions in the northern Winter Sea. Giddon supposed Skye must miss him.

  “Well?” said Skye.

  “Give me a minute. It’s ciphered,” said Bitterblue, whose eyes were racing back and forth across the page. Bitterblue had a mind for ciphers; she was the only person Giddon knew who could decipher a letter quickly in her head. And the key she was using to decipher Saf’s letter was certainly “Sparks,” Saf’s nickname for Bitterblue back when they’d loved each other. So maybe they still loved each other. Which was fine.

  “He’s in Ledra,” said Bitterblue, naming the capital of Winterkeep. “He’s basing himself there for a bit, while he decides what to do. The first paragraph is about zilfium. Isn’t that a funny coincidence, Giddon?”

  “What’s zilfium?” said Skye.

  “Fuel,” said Hava in a bored voice from the sofa, where she was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, pretending not to listen.

  “He says the Keepish Parliament is going to vote about whether to legalize zilfium use in Winterkeep, and they want to know where the Royal Continent stands.”

  “The Royal Continent” was the Torlans’ name for Giddon’s continent; they’d thought it was quaint that most of the nations upon it were monarchies. It was a name that had always had an air of condescension to it, in Giddon’s opinion, much like the official name for Giddon’s language, Gracelingian, which had also been assigned by outsiders. But that hardly mattered now. What mattered was that as Bitterblue began deciphering the letter’s second paragraph, her eyes widened.

  “Giddon!” she said. “He says he’s made friends with Katu, and Katu thinks there’s something suspicious about the ship that went down with my men!”

  “Suspicious!” said Giddon, sitting straighter. “On what evidence?”

  “Saf doesn’t know,” said Bitterblue. “And—wait—he says Katu has disappeared!”

  “Disappeared!” said Giddon. “What does that mean?”

  “Everyone in Ledra says Katu’s gone traveling,” Bitterblue said, her eyes still flying back and forth across the page. “That he’s taken his boat north. But Saf had a date with Katu to go sailing, and Katu never canceled the date or said goodbye. Katu had been searching for Mikka and Brek’s sunken ship, the Seashell. They were going to go out together. Katu was going to show Saf where he was searching for it, since Saf’s such a strong diver too. But now Katu’s gone, and Saf has a funny feeling. He says he’s going to look into it.”

  “What!” cried Skye, reaching for the letter. “Look into it how?”

  “He doesn’t say,” said Bitterblue, handing him the letter, which was pointless, since it was ciphered. “But he says he wrote to you separately, Skye.”

  Skye studied the letter with an expression of rising aggravation. “Then where’s my letter?”

  “Giddon?” said Bitterblue. “What do you think? Does any of this make sense? Saf might be the type to look for trouble where it doesn’t exist—but is Katu?”

  Something about Bitterblue when she focused on him always made him want to rise above his lower instincts, for fear of hurting her, or disappointing her. He could never tell if it was the pucker of worry she let him see between her brows, or the appeal in her eyes, or the way her voice changed, as if she was ready to believe whatever he said. He wanted to be worthy of the trust she’d bestowed—arbitrarily, it seemed—upon him.

  So he thought carefully about the disappearance of one of Bitterblue’s lovers, reported by another of Bitterblue’s lovers.

  “I don’t think Katu makes things up or drops appointments,” he said. “And I don’t think Saf would repeat Katu’s suspicions if he didn’t trust Katu.”

  “That’s what I think too,” said Bitterblue.

  “If there’s something suspicious about that ship going down,” said Giddon, “then I’m more curious than
ever about what Mikka wanted to tell you about zilfium.”

  “Yes,” said Bitterblue. “And I’m worried about Katu. He hasn’t written in forever.”

  “Balls to Katu,” said Skye contemptuously. “What about Saf? What does he mean, he’s looking into it?”

  “Skye,” said Bitterblue gently. Reaching out, she touched her cousin’s dark hair, touched his worried face. The Lienid wore gold in their ears and on their fingers. Skye was a handsome man, glowing with gold, his eyes gray and his skin sun-brown. Bitterblue, who was half-Lienid, shared his coloring and wore Lienid rings. The two of them gleamed together.

  “There’s no cause for you to fret,” Bitterblue told him. “You know how Saf is.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m fretting!” said Skye. “What’s he doing? Diving into the Brumal Sea in random locations, drowning himself?”

  “I think Saf is undrownable,” said Bitterblue, returning to her pie.

  “And where’s my letter?” said Skye. “And why is he endangering himself searching for one of your boyfriends?”

  “Skye,” said Bitterblue, whose fork was now frozen in the air between her plate and her mouth. “What’s this about?”

  “He promised me,” said Skye, suddenly standing, so fast that his chair tipped over. “He swore to me that if he went to Winterkeep without me, he wouldn’t do anything dangerous!”

  “Skye!” said Bitterblue, who was now staring at her cousin in amazement. “Are you in love with Saf?”

  Abruptly, Giddon stood. “Hava,” he said, his mouth full of pie. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “I don’t want to go for a walk,” Hava said. Then, at Giddon’s severe look, she added, “Fine. But bring pie.”

  After slapping more pie onto his plate, Giddon strode to the big doors and waited. With a great, impatient sigh, Hava grabbed a fork from the table and followed him. Giddon wanted to stay, so he could know how Bitterblue felt about her cousin being in love with Saf. But he would give them their privacy. It was what someone with more noble instincts than his would do.

  Chapter Three

  “Saw that coming,” Hava said as they walked away from the queen’s rooms.

  “You did?” said Giddon, truly surprised. “How? Have you been spying on Skye?”

  “Of course not,” she said scornfully. “How would that look?”

  “You could make it look however you wanted it to look,” said Giddon, for Hava was a Graceling who was Graced with a kind of hiding that allowed her to change what people thought they saw when they looked at her. If she wanted to, Hava could stand in a room with Saf and Skye pretending to be a curtain in the window while they said and did all sorts of things, never knowing she was there. Every Grace was different, and each was variably useful. Saf had the Grace of giving people wonderful dreams, which Giddon found irritatingly romantic. Hava’s Grace, on the other hand, made her an excellent spy.

  But of course she would never spy on Skye and Saf.

  “I don’t use my Grace without my sister’s permission,” Hava said in a scathing voice. “Can you see her asking me to spy on her own cousin? Especially on his love life?”

  “No, of course not.”

  When Giddon sank into silence, Hava took a few sidelong looks at him and seemed to thaw into a more sympathetic person. Taking charge, she led him around corners and up and down several flights of stairs. Eventually, she brought him to the art gallery that Giddon knew was her favorite place in the castle. Hava’s mother had been a sculptor. Her father had been Bitterblue’s father, King Leck, though this was a secret. Giddon was one of few people who knew. Hava’s mother was dead, for King Leck had killed her, many years ago. He’d killed Bitterblue’s mother too. Then he himself had been killed, turning Princess Bitterblue into a ten-year-old queen.

  In a room crowded with her mother’s sculptures, Hava sat on a raised section of floor and patted the place beside her.

  Sitting numbly, Giddon held the plate out between them. For a while, they did nothing but eat pie.

  “Anyway, Bitterblue doesn’t care about Skye and Saf,” said Hava, finally picking up the dropped conversation.

  “How can you say that? Didn’t you see the expression on her face just then?”

  “Because she was surprised, you blockhead. Not because she’s still hung up on Saf. That was over four years ago!”

  “Was it really?” Giddon said, scratching his head in confusion.

  “You’re hopeless,” Hava said, holding a forkful of pie out to him, even though he had his own fork. He opened his mouth, deciding to accept the pie as a shameful token of his hopelessness, which Hava had laid bare in that way Hava always had. Bitterblue’s half sister didn’t look like Bitterblue. She was tall, pale, and straw-haired. Hava also had one eye copper and the other bloodred, for Gracelings had two-colored eyes. Hava was only twenty years old, but often seemed older and cleverer than Giddon, who was thirty-one. Except when she was being a brat, which was often enough. Though even her brattiness left him feeling six years old sometimes.

  “All right,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Saf and Skye have been together for two years or so,” Hava said. “A little longer. Saf keeps breaking up with him and coming back. Saf’s a lot younger than Skye, you know. And he more or less hates that Skye is a prince.”

  “He could always stop falling in love with royalty.”

  “Oh, grow up, Giddon,” said Hava, which made Giddon snort. “Anyway, that’s pretty much all I know, beyond what Skye just said. They made an arrangement that Saf would go to Winterkeep without Skye, for six months at the most, because Saf needed some time.”

  “Time to do what?” said Giddon. “Sleep with everyone he met?”

  “Why would you care if he did? Time to think, you idiot.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m not stuck behind a fog of my own projections?”

  Giddon snorted again.

  “Haven’t you wondered why Skye is hanging around?” Hava said. “He never stays here this long. But a letter from Winterkeep gets to Bitterblue City five or six weeks faster than to Lienid, don’t you see?”

  Giddon supposed he was beginning to see.

  “Why are you hanging around this court?” Hava added significantly.

  “You know I can’t go home,” said Giddon. He’d been a lord once, with an estate in the kingdom of the Middluns. A beautiful estate, with forests and farms and horses, and hundreds of people in his care. King Randa had banished him, stripped him of his title, then razed his castle to the ground, to punish him for his Council work. The people who’d depended upon Giddon had had to accept Randa as a landlord, or else find new homes and work. “And I need to be near Estill,” he said. “You know we’re worried about their new government. I’m keeping an eye out.”

  “Wouldn’t you have a better view of Estill if you were actually in Estill?” Hava said. “Rather than sitting across from my sister every night at dinner?”

  “Brat,” said Giddon.

  “Bully,” said Hava. “I’m done with our walk now. I’m going back to see what happened.”

  After she left, Giddon sat alone for a while, finding his better self before he allowed himself to return to the queen.

  * * *

  —

  Usually, Giddon had easier access to his better self.

  Didn’t he?

  After all, he spent most of his time trying to figure out how to solve people’s problems without creating worse problems. Sometimes they were small problems, like what three kinds of batter should make the layers for the queen’s twenty-third birthday cake. This was not a Council matter, of course, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the man for the job.

  One morning, in the week after Bitterblue received Saf’s letter, Giddon overheard Helda, the elderly wom
an who took care of Bitterblue’s domestic needs, muttering indignantly to a member of her staff in the corridors.

  “She’s refusing a party,” Helda said. “She doesn’t want a big dinner, either. She wants her usual, quiet dinner here with her friends, and for us to act as if she isn’t the most important woman in the world. Well, I know she loves sweets. But she never admits a preference. She wants all her cooks to feel equally wonderful. She takes care of everyone, all the time! How am I to make her feel taken care of on her birthday?”

  “Um, excuse me, Helda,” Giddon said, glancing around conspiratorially to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “All three layers should be chocolate, with buttercream frosting. And encircle it with bite-sized vanilla cream puffs.”

  Helda narrowed eyes on Giddon that contained a certain spark of interest. She leaned back. “And how do you know that, Giddon?”

  “She gets very quiet and focused when we have those things at dinner,” Giddon said. “And she scrapes her plate clean. Haven’t you noticed?”

  The next look Helda gave him made him flush with heat and decide he was needed elsewhere urgently. But on the night of Bitterblue’s birthday, the chocolate cake and cream puffs made Bitterblue take Helda into her arms and kiss her cheek. Giddon couldn’t stay that night, because he had more people to shepherd out of Estill. But he was able to leave knowing that her long day had been punctuated by a small delight, because of him.

  Always, Giddon was careful not to look too closely at how those moments felt. He understood the pointlessness of it. Bitterblue was a queen, which meant she was expected to marry a man. Her advisers thrust men at her constantly, and he’d noticed that none of them were disinherited, banished lords. He knew she tried her best to like some of them. He even knew, because she made no secret of it with him, when she involved herself with any of them, or with anyone else.

  Sometimes, she came to him for advice. He was almost nine years older and she wanted the benefit of his experience. This made him feel ancient.

  “Have you ever been quite in love with someone,” she asked him once, a couple years back when she’d been seeing some lord from the southern coast, “then realized they’re not actually as kind or grown-up as you thought? And in fact, you were in love with an idea of who you thought they were, instead of who they actually are? And now you have to tell them so, but there’s no point in being hurtful?”