Ally of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  And Haizea was as beautiful as she remembered. Veribold had little source, and what Devices they had were imported—they dealt more extensively in what they called mechanics—but one thing Veriboldans had enthusiastically embraced were the light Devices that kept most Tremontanan cities aglow all night long.

  The stairway curved, following the rounded shape of the Irantzen Temple, and as she ascended Fiona saw the Jaixante laid out below her, and beyond that, the city proper. One of the bridges between the two was a streak of silver light that glimmered on the river running beneath it. The stairwell grew darker, and Fiona realized she’d stopped to gape and had to hurry to catch up to her guide.

  They climbed, and climbed, not fast enough to exhaust Fiona or leave her short of breath, but steadily, until they must surely have reached the top spire and gone beyond. Finally, the stairs ended at a smoothly paved passage whose ceiling arched to a sharp crease. Plain white doors lined it on one side. The woman in green went to one about halfway down the corridor and opened it.

  “Your cell, while you are with us,” she said. “Change your clothes into the garments provided for you, set your own clothes outside your door, and someone will take them to your attendants. All you will need is within. You will be called at dawn.”

  “Thank you,” Fiona said. “What’s your name?”

  The woman blinked at her. Fiona had the feeling she hadn’t expected Fiona to speak. “Sela,” she said.

  “Thank you, Sela.”

  Sela nodded. “Restful sleep to you.” She walked away in the direction of the stairs.

  The first thing Fiona did was establish that the door of her cell couldn’t be locked from the outside. It couldn’t be locked at all, which annoyed her. She shut the door and examined her cell. It was much nicer than the name implied, with its white stone walls gleaming blue in the moonlight from the single window. There was a pallet on the floor, which she remembered was typical of Veriboldan bedroom furniture. This one was a couple of inches thick, with no pillow, also typically Veriboldan, and was made up neatly with a linen sheet and thin cotton blanket. Against the wall, beneath the window, stood a flat-topped wooden chest bound in leather and brass, also without a lock.

  Next to her, on a squat round table near the door, was a brass lamp that reminded her of a ship’s lantern, with a matchlighter that looked like mechanics rather than Devisery next to it. She lit the lamp with a touch of her finger and turned it up until its glow filled the whole small room.

  She opened the chest and peered inside. A pile of dark fabric turned out to be a pair of those wide-legged trousers, woven expertly of black linen, and a black wraparound shirt of the same material. She laid them on the pallet. Linen, good for warm climates, but it wrinkled if you so much as breathed on it. Well, it was either sleep naked or look rumpled.

  Beneath those were a loose cotton robe in a rich gold that looked even more golden by lamplight and three pairs of undershorts. So they wanted all her normal clothes gone. That would be interesting.

  There was a wooden hairbrush with bristles of some natural material Fiona couldn’t identify, a bag that rustled when she picked it up and proved to be full of thumbnail-sized white crackers, and a heavy pendant the size of her palm. It hung from a woven, knotted silk cord, creamy green jade carved with raised patterns Fiona recognized as meditation rituals.

  Finally, there was an unnaturally thick copy of the Book of Haran. Fiona leafed through it; it was actually three copies bound in one volume, in Eskandelic, Veriboldan, and Tremontanese. Fiona had never been particularly religious, but Roderick had owned a copy he referred to sometimes. It contained the revelations Haran had received about ungoverned heaven, as well as commentaries by later clerics, and Fiona hadn’t read it in years. Apparently she’d now have the opportunity.

  She shucked off all her clothes, put on the undershorts and the linen, folded her own clothes neatly with her undergarments in the center—oh, lovely, they were going to take her things to Sebastian and he’d see her underwear. The thought was unexpectedly embarrassing. It wasn’t as if he was seeing her in her underwear, and she couldn’t imagine why the notion of him handling her clothes unsettled her so. She set the pile outside her door and pinched out the lamp, then settled in to sleep.

  The pallet was thick by Veriboldan standards, but uncomfortable by her own, and she turned restlessly, trying to find a good position for sleeping. Sebastian’s face again came to mind, lit by that amused, sardonic grin. It occurred to her that he might not be allowed to roam outside the Irantzen Temple, if he was intended to be her attendant. She hoped his plan had provisions for that. It was unthinkable that he’d come all this way only to be denied the chance at saving his family.

  Fiona rolled over again. He’d think of something. He was smart, and clever, and stubborn, and he wouldn’t let any setbacks stop him accomplishing his goal. And she liked him. How strange, that a friendship could begin under such odd circumstances. He’s handsome, too, her inner voice chuckled, and she rolled her eyes at its persistence on that subject. True, but irrelevant, because they’d be friends no matter what he looked like. And yet…

  She groaned and rolled onto her side. There was no “and yet.” It was an idiotic notion that probably came from her empty stomach. She’d only been single for a few months and she was still getting used to the idea that she didn’t have to worry about anyone but herself. She didn’t need another romantic relationship, not now, possibly not ever. Certainly not one with a man she barely knew.

  It was only hunger, and the hardness of the pallet, that kept her from sleeping soundly all night. Of course it was.

  9

  Fiona came awake instantly at a knock on her door, momentarily disoriented by how close the walls and ceiling were. What inn had they stopped at the previous night? Then she remembered. This was the Irantzen Temple. Pale rosy light illuminated the room without warming it. Fiona ran her fingers over the cold stone of the floor and shivered. Thank heaven the pallet was thick.

  She stood, stretching out her aches, and went to the door. A tiny tray bearing a steaming teapot and a porcelain cup without a handle, no bigger than her own cupped hand, lay there. A woman wearing a teal robe over white clothes pushed a trolley whose wheels rolled silently across the stone hall. She bent to set another tray at the next door before knocking.

  Fiona picked up the tray and retreated to her pallet. The faint light of dawn shone through the window, four panes of well-polished glass that weren’t made to open. She looked out to see the Kepa River flowing out to the distant sea, glimmering silver in the early morning light. More spires of the Jaixante’s many buildings rose below her, dull copper or flat pale blue without the sun to turn them brilliant gold and white. A flock of birds winged past on their way to the river, close enough almost to touch. Fiona laid her hand flat against the glass, which felt cold and damp. Were those Tremontanan birds, or Veriboldan?

  She sat on the pallet to drink her tea, which smelled of roses and honeysuckle. Its hot astringency soothed her empty stomach. When was breakfast? She’d never felt so hungry in her life. Hopefully it was just an oversight that had sent her to bed with no supper the previous night.

  Her clothes weren’t as wrinkled as she’d feared, and when she finished her cup of tea, she did some more stretching to get the rest of the kinks out and found that despite her restless night, she felt well-rested and ready to begin this first day. Whatever that day might bring. All Sebastian had known about the festival was that it lasted seven days, that there were times of meditation and times of instruction, and that there was a grand feast at the end to celebrate Haran’s return to the world. Well, if she didn’t ask, she’d never find out.

  She drained the teapot, wishing it were a more substantial meal, and left her room. There were no windows in the hall, so the place was dark and silent, lit only by secondhand sunlight filtering up from the stairwell. Maybe bringing the lamp would be a good idea. Fiona had turned around to return to her room when someone s
aid, in Veriboldan, “What are you doing? It’s unsafe to walk the halls now.”

  Fiona made the lightning-fast decision to pretend ignorance of the language and turned to face the speaker, an innocent expression solidly in place. “What?”

  “You should be in your room,” said the woman, who wore trousers and shirt in ivory white like the women from the previous night. Her Tremontanese was only faintly accented. “It is the day of the fast. You should be cautious.”

  Fiona’s stomach rumbled at this unwelcome news. “I was looking for the facilities,” she said quickly. “That is permitted, yes?”

  “Here,” said the woman, touching a spot on the facing wall that sprang open, revealing a hidden door behind which was an old-fashioned chamber pot. “You were not shown?”

  “I arrived late. Thank you for your help. Is there anything else I should know?”

  The woman peered at her. “What is your name?”

  “Fiona Cooper.”

  “The very latecomer.” The woman nodded slowly, as if something had begun to make sense. “You do not know about the festival, but you come anyway?”

  “I’ve been feeling the need to reconnect with my religious roots,” Fiona said. “I know the Irantzen Temple is one of the holiest places, and I took the opportunity to come here when it was presented to me. I’m not as prepared as I could be, true, but I’d like to think I’m welcome anyway.”

  “Being prepared is part of the experience.”

  “But each moment is preparation for the next,” Fiona said, paraphrasing one of Haran’s revelations that Roderick had been fond of quoting. “Fasting today will prepare me for tomorrow’s activities, will it not?”

  The woman frowned. “Indeed.” Then she eyed Fiona more closely. “Always wear your robe when you are outside your cell,” she said. “It is respectful. I suggest you speak to someone for more information, so your experience is as…prepared…as you can make it.”

  Fiona nodded and ducked quickly into the tiny room, where she sat on the chamber pot and took a few shallow breaths; it didn’t stink, but there was still the faintest aroma of human waste she didn’t feel like inhaling. Then she realized she actually did need the facilities, so she used them and returned to her cell, where she put on the gold robe and sat cross-legged on the pallet. Was she supposed to stay in the cell all day, not eating anything? Fiona couldn’t think of anything more boring. She hoped Sebastian’s movements weren’t as strictly confined.

  She lay back and stared at the ceiling, not very high above her. It was smooth stone rather than the plaster she was accustomed to, with its many cracks and swirls that made pictures. No, there were pictures in the stone, too, patterns of light and dark where the stone’s imperfections caught the sun. That looked like a man smoking a pipe, and there was a dog’s front end complete with lolling tongue, and there was a flock of birds…

  …that swooped lazily across the ceiling, circled once, and disappeared.

  Fiona shot upright and had to catch herself as her head spun, sickening her. Her vision tunneled, then opened wide again, tilting slightly. Drugs. The tea had been drugged. She got to her hands and knees, then sagged again as the birds once more swept across her vision. Someone had drugged her, but why? Terror gripped her heart. If she lost control—

  She crawled to the wall and pulled herself upright so she could look out the window, leaning her face against the cool, damp glass. The spires of the Jaixante shivered, rainbow light clinging to them like dewdrops. Below, the Kepa glittered in broken crystal fragments that hurt her eyes and made her fall, head swimming, back to the pallet.

  She lay, sweating, with one arm flung over her eyes to block the dizzying images. Whatever this drug was, it wasn’t intended to kill, because what would be the point of that? This was meant to disorient her, confuse her, but for what purpose? They must want her out of the way temporarily, so they could investigate her, but that made no sense, because all her things were with Sebastian—

  Her heart lurched. What might they have done to Sebastian and Holt? She needed to find them. She tried to rise and found herself lying crosswise on the pallet instead. She wasn’t going anywhere until this drug worked its way through her system. If it wasn’t meant to kill her.

  Fiona pulled herself around until she lay straight on the pallet, then closed her eyes. Relax, she told herself, this isn’t the same as being drunk, you won’t lose control. She held her hand above her head and kindled a tiny flame, then closed her hand around it, extinguishing it. The bite of the dying flame steadied her. She repeated the ritual, spark, flame, out, breathing slowly. She was the master of her magic, not the other way around.

  The birds swooped in delicate patterns, like lace, trailing lines of pale smoke as imaginary as they were. When she recovered, she was going to find Sebastian and warn him, or rescue him, or whatever needed doing. Her head was starting to ache. Damn whoever had done this! And how ironic, that she was the one they thought needed watching when it was Sebastian who was a danger to them. Not a danger, really, but certainly a threat to the inviolability of the Jaixante. She giggled, and stopped herself. The drug was making her confused as well as light-headed. Well, if it hadn’t killed her outright, it was just a matter of waiting its effects out.

  She lay on her pallet for what felt like hours, watching the birds fly around her head, kindling fire, until the birds went misty and disappeared. Then she sat up and breathed in deeply, let it out slowly, and stood. When she didn’t fall over, she took a few steps to the window and looked out. The sun on the river no longer hurt her eyes, and judging by the angle of the light, it was well past noon.

  She brushed her hair, then tossed the hairbrush onto the pallet and went to the door. Time for some exploring. No one was in the hall, and she heard no noises, so she went quietly to the stairs. She had no idea what she might find, but it was probably a good idea to look for Sebastian and Holt and tell them what had happened. She hoped they hadn’t been attacked. Did Sebastian have anything incriminating on him? At least whatever identity papers he was carrying didn’t have his real name on them. She assumed. Who knew what the priestesses of the Irantzen Temple might make of that if they did?

  A low moan startled her as she passed the last door before the stairs. It sounded like someone in pain. Another moan, louder, brought her to that door, listening. Silence. She was about to retreat when she heard a third moan, then indistinct words. Fiona put her hand to the knob and turned it, noting that this door, like hers, had no lock.

  The furnishings were exactly like her own, pallet, trunk, low table. A large, dark-skinned Veriboldan woman sat on the pallet with her knees hugged to her chest, staring at the wall. “Are you well?” Fiona asked. The woman didn’t answer, just moved her lips slowly as if shaping silent words. Fiona knelt beside her and waved a hand in front of her eyes. No response. “I can help you,” Fiona said, though she had no idea how. The woman moaned again.

  Fiona put her hands on the woman’s shoulders and tried to get her to lie down. The woman twitched away from her. “The tree is the temple,” she said in Veriboldan, “but the temple is not the tree. It’s all so simple when you stop thinking about it.”

  “You’ve been drugged,” Fiona said, then sat back on her heels. They’d both been drugged, both been given the same tea—the tray lay a short distance from the head of the pallet—and there had been many more of those trays on the trolley that morning. Suppose this was part of the festival experience? The woman seemed caught in the grip of some vision, and Fiona’s perceptions had definitely been altered, in which case it might have nothing to do with Sebastian at all.

  Fiona left the room and stood at the head of the stairs. What were they up to, that they didn’t want the women wandering around on this day? She probably ought to return to her room, pretend the drug still worked on her, but curiosity was a drug far stronger than any hallucinogen, and she wanted to find Sebastian and hear what he’d learned. She moved off silently down the stairs.

 
The stairwell was warm and sunny, and a breeze carried the scent of the Kepa to her, a rich, loamy scent. The river ran slowly at this time of year, carrying with it the heavy sediments that made the river country such fertile ground. It would also be cold, probably, not ideal for swimming in no matter how beautiful it was. Fiona peered out through the window slits at the river and the nearest bridge. Pedestrians were crossing it in both directions, and she could see a crowd at the island end of the bridge where the guards were deciding who was allowed to pass. Suppose a crowd like that had been present when they needed to cross? They’d been incredibly lucky in every respect.

  She came to a landing with a single white-painted wooden door, hesitated, then continued down. Finding Sebastian was her first priority. Exploring the Irantzen Temple came second.

  At the base of the stairs, she stopped to listen, but everything remained silent. The narrow, high-ceilinged hallway was no better lit than it had been the night before. Fiona tried not to think about how close the walls were. She looked up at the ceiling, which was tall and curved like a tunnel, which made her imagine herself a mouse tunneling through the stones. There was plenty of room for her, no reason at all to be unsettled by the walls close around her—she found herself breathing heavily and made herself relax, slow down—

  She turned a corner, then had to fling herself backward and press hard against the wall, because there were two women dressed in white wraparound shirts and trousers coming toward her. They spoke quietly, too quietly for Fiona to make out more than that they were speaking Veriboldan. When they were safely past, Fiona crept forward and ran down the corridor in the opposite direction.

  The new corridor was wider than the other, and soon Fiona found herself back in the door-lined corridor where they’d left Sebastian and Holt the night before. Fiona counted doors, then remembered she’d come in from the other side and counted again. Steeling herself, she opened what she thought was Sebastian’s door and stepped inside into total darkness. Cursing under her breath, she went back into the corridor and took a torch off the wall. It was heavy, its wooden surface almost slick, and it warmed the back of her hand as she held it high above her. The smell of heat and char wasn’t as unpleasant as before, though it wasn’t a smell she wanted to get used to.