by Katharine
The dark-haired raven boy unsettles my dreams.
By the fourth day, the thought of remaining in my apartment for one moment longer makes me want to scream. After breakfast I get dressed, bully my doctor into giving me a crutch and limp off towards the library. Not to read – it’s a cold, hard-edged room, furnished more for display than comfort – but to consult the chronicler, who is usually at work there. I want to find out if there have been any other reports of rock dragons in the dominion, and I need a more reliable source than my maid’s cousin’s friend. But as I reach the library entrance I hear voices through the half-open door. Not the chronicler: Lord Lancelin, and someone else. Someone angry.
‘You had no right. Without consulting me, without even considering what I might wish, to make such a promise on my behalf –’
‘And why should I not?’ Lord Lancelin’s tone, in contrast, is calm and measured. ‘Do you not owe Her Grace your allegiance? To say nothing of your duty to me.’
‘But it’s not fair! You may have been content to waste your life in the shadow of the late Protector’s wing, but I have other plans. I want to see more of the world – the world outside of Solanum. And there are so many improvements we could make to our own estate, if you ever spent any time there.’
My heart sinks – I know that voice. Even from here, I can tell that he is gritting his teeth. And pacing: footsteps ring on the marble floor. I force myself to lean forward, to peep through the crack between the door and the frame, and have to bite my lip to stop myself from swearing.
It’s him. The young noble from the beach. The raven boy. Properly dressed now of course, in a red velvet tunic, dark leather trousers and knee-length boots. His hair is sticking up in tufts as if he’s been dragging his fingers through it. And he’s scowling. ‘And what shall I say to Mother? After you’ve neglected her for so many years, that I am to be sent away again? To serve a Protector who is barely worthy of the name? And now you tell me that the idiot girl won’t even travel as a swan, that we have to go by coach like a couple of flightless commoners –’
‘Nevertheless –’ Lancelin begins to reply.
But I’m too angry to wait to hear what he says. I push the door open and hobble forward.
‘Nevertheless, you will do me the courtesy of accompanying me to court and remaining there until such time as I release you from my service. I do not imagine that will be far distant.’
The boy’s mouth has fallen open, and his black eyes are wide with disbelief. There is such shock and dismay on his face that the urge to laugh bubbles up through my fury.
My steward moves forward and bows. ‘Your Grace, may I present my son: Lucien, Lord Rookwood.’
I nod infinitesimally, drawing myself up as much as I can. ‘Lord Rookwood.’
Lucien shuts his mouth and bows. ‘Your Grace, I … Of course. I will endeavour to be of service.’
There’s not really much else he can say. But I want to make him suffer for a bit longer, so I limp around him slowly, as if inspecting him, thinking about whether I should tell his father how we met the other day, how he disbelieved me and then abandoned me on the beach. It’s very tempting. But better to have him in my debt, perhaps. I look him up and down one last time, enjoying my power. ‘Very well. You may leave us, Lord Rookwood.’
Lucien bows again, nods at his father and makes his escape. My shoulders sag.
‘Nicely done, Your Grace.’ Lancelin’s smile gives way to a sigh. ‘My son’s service abroad appears to have taught him many things, but perhaps not when to hold his tongue.’
‘He’s correct though, isn’t he?’ I look my steward in the eyes. ‘If the people could choose a Protector, they wouldn’t choose me. Despite all the books I’ve read, all the papers I’ve studied, I’m still … unprepared. To put it mildly.’
‘You’re young, my dear. But you are your mother’s daughter; the people would hold you in affection for her sake, if nothing more. Besides, you have plenty of time ahead of you to learn.’
I hope he is right.
Later that night, alone in my rooms, I take off my clothes and look at myself in the full-length mirror. With my petite frame and my black hair I favour my mother. Though she could transform into a black swan, whereas I transform – or I used to be able to transform – into a white one, like my father. I have his blue eyes too, and the same stubborn-set jaw. Twisting round, I examine the scars on my back, running my fingers across them as far as I am able. It’s been five years – no, closer to six – since the attack that left my skin so disfigured. And nearly four years since I last tried to shift my shape. Given the danger I put myself in at the beach, perhaps it is time for me to try again. I take a deep breath, ignoring the bubble of panic beneath my ribcage, and close my eyes, recalling what my mother taught me. I focus on the current running underneath my skin, the power to transform that only nobles possess, that sets us apart from the flightless majority. I envisage the contours of my body, the glowing outline that would be left if you stripped away flesh and bone, concentrating on its flexibility, thinking my way into that state of pure energy that sits between each physical configuration. And I can feel that it’s working, that my form is beginning to alter, to melt from one shape to another, the bones lightening, lengthening, the skin morphing into feather –
Pain flares from the ragged nerve endings in my scarred skin. Terror follows, as bitter and violent as I remember. As swift as the hawks – two transformed nobles – who dropped out of the clouds and fell upon my mother and me, killing her and ripping my back apart.
Two hawks. There in the sky, above us. I know what I saw.
I was talking to my nurse, because my father’s grief had rendered him speechless.
You’re mistaken, my lady. It can’t have been hawks, because there are no hawk families, not any more. You saw some other noble in flight, and you’re confused, my poor pet …
But I’m not confused. I know what I saw –
My chest seizes up and, as I struggle to breathe, the glowing outline in my head disappears. My human body reasserts itself and snaps back into existence, solid and undeniable, leaving me gasping naked on the floor.
Lord Lancelin’s words come back to haunt me: You are, for all practical purposes, flightless … As I lie there, the carpet rough beneath me, I wonder for the first time whether I’m making a mistake. For years I’ve chafed against my father’s restrictions, against the physical walls of the castle and against the wall of silence he retreated behind. I’ve fantasised about leaving Merl and seeking justice for my mother. But to risk my dominion, my life, for what may be no more than a dream …
Will I be able to survive in the world that I’m about to enter, if I can’t even prove that I am truly one of them?
It’s late, and I’m tired. My injured ankle is throbbing. I crawl into bed with the question still unanswered.
After another two weeks of frenetic activity, the day of my departure finally arrives. Lucien and I are standing in Merl’s great hall, ignoring each other; we’ve not been alone together since that afternoon on the beach.
A servant approaches. ‘We’re ready, Your Grace.’ He bows and returns down the stairs towards the landward side of the castle, where the coaches are waiting. Three for our baggage and a fourth for Lucien’s servant, Turik. Despite my arguments, Letya is insisting on travelling in this coach too. There are armed outriders to accompany us, though they will have to turn back at the border with the Crown Estates: Protectors are not allowed to bring their own guards within the monarch’s personal domain. Lucien and I are travelling together in a fifth coach so that he can start my ‘lessons’ in court etiquette and so on. The journey could take as little as two weeks or as much as three, depending on the weather and the state of the roads, so I’m torn. Now it comes to it, I don’t particularly want to get to court any sooner than I have to. But the thought of an extra seven days shut in a small space with Lucien leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s a relief when Lord Lancelin appears.
‘Your walking stick, Your Grace.’ He hands me a – totally unnecessary – cane. ‘It will not do to overtax your strength until you are fully recovered from the rock dragon’s attack.’ Lancelin’s idea: to exaggerate the severity of the injury I suffered at the beach in order to provide me with an excuse for travelling to the Citadel by coach rather than flying. Humour glints in his dark eyes. ‘Send me word if there is anything you need, and try not to worry: the court has its pleasures as well as dangers. I’m sure you’ll be well prepared by the time you get there.’ He raises an eyebrow at his son. ‘Lucien. I trust you will conduct yourself appropriately. Be wary, take care of Her Grace and remember you are representing our house.’
‘Of course.’ Lucien kneels for a moment and receives Lancelin’s blessing, before standing and embracing his father. ‘I’ll wait for you outside, Your Grace.’
Left alone with my steward, I look around the main hall of the castle, drawing out the moment of farewell, trying to ignore the voice in my head that is whispering to me that perhaps I will never return. In the bright morning sunlight, the stained-glass windows cast fractured rainbows across walls, carpets, furniture, every item almost as familiar as my own face. ‘Take care of everything while I’m gone.’
‘Of course, Protector. My only desire is to serve.’ A form of words, but I actually think Lancelin means it. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ He produces a small leather-wrapped packet from his pocket. ‘I suppose I should have given it to you yesterday, but –’
‘I understand.’ My birthday celebrations had been somewhat understated, overshadowed by packing and leave-taking. I unwrap the package. Inside is a slim rectangular box about the same size as my hand, made of some polished wood, with a small silver catch. I open it. ‘Oh …’ What I’d taken for a box is actually two frames, hinged together. A diptych. On one side, a painting of Merl castle. And on the other –
My family. My parents, and me as a small child, sitting between them. All three of us smiling and staring directly out of the portrait. As I study the image a memory darts to the surface of my mind: my feet dangling from the sofa on which the three of us were seated, my father’s leather-clad legs on one side of me, my mother’s green velvet skirt on the other. My hands held warm inside theirs. I swallow down the lump in my throat. ‘I’d forgotten about this.’
‘Your father gave it to me before he died. But I think it should be yours. I’ve had them reframed, as you see.’
‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’ I take a last look at my parents before closing the diptych and clutching it to my chest. ‘I suppose I should go.’
Lancelin bows and leads the way downstairs. The coaches are there, the horses wearing large blinkers to distract them from my and Lucien’s presence. The footman opens the door of the lead carriage and I get in. Lucien is waiting, sitting with his back towards the driver. Once the servant has put up the steps and shut the door, he leans forward.
‘May I speak frankly, Protector?’
I study his face; he looks tired, but the haughtiness I noticed the first time we met is still there. ‘I don’t suppose I can stop you, princess.’
His lips twist in what might be a smile. ‘Well, then. My father has asked me to help you, and I will, to the best of my ability. So here is the first lesson: not everyone in the kingdom is happy with the way things are. There are plenty of people who would seize your power if they could: you are a target. You will be in danger from the moment we leave Merl. So it would be best if you learn not to take unnecessary risks.’
‘Like riding without a guard?’
‘Exactly. You were alone on that beach. I could have killed you, if I’d been minded to. Letya could have killed you.’
‘Ridiculous. She’s my friend. We spend hours alone together every week.’
‘Then why did she leave you there?’
‘Because she is flightless, as you know very well. She had gone for assistance. She could not have helped me safely on her own. And she depends on me. Why would she kill me?’
‘Perhaps because someone persuades her to. Or pays her more money than she can earn from being your companion. Or applies some other sort of pressure. The only person you can truly trust is yourself, Your Grace. No one else.’
‘What about you, Lord Rookwood? Am I not to trust you either?’
The coach starts suddenly, throwing me forward, and Lucien catches me by my upper arms. Holds me there as his gaze roams my face.
‘Well, my lord?’
He releases me and shifts to sit further away. ‘I said no one, Your Grace, and I meant it.’
I turn to the window. This is no grand gateway. The causeway that links Merl Island to the mainland is used by the flightless: servants, people making deliveries and so on. The marble and gold are reserved for the castle, and especially the landing platform that stretches from the first floor out above the sea. But there is a statue here that I’ve always loved, of a swan and a cygnet. The limestone is worn and pitted by rain. I watch it as long as I can, until my vision is blurred by tears.
For the next few days I don’t get any lessons; both Lucien and I are too busy trying not to vomit. Neither of us has ever travelled by coach before, and the motion of the vehicle makes my stomach heave. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was just me, but every time Lucien turns pale and retches I can imagine what’s going through his mind: All this, just because the stupid bitch refuses to fly …
Occasionally we’re allowed to get out of the coach, when the horses are changed or when we arrive at one of the infrequent inns along our route. At first no amount of rest helps with my travel sickness, but finally my body seems to adapt. The nausea passes, and I’m able to start eating again, to take some notice of the lands through which we are now travelling. Lucien rallies too, and on the seventh morning after leaving Merl he takes down a roll of paper from the luggage rack above his head.
‘What’s that?’
‘Your next lesson. I think you need to understand more about the family you’re part of; from what my father told me, the late Protector thought it best to keep you in ignorance in order to –’ he shrugs slightly – ‘protect you.’
‘And I’m sure my father was right.’ I don’t think he was right at all – I wish every day that he had taught me, not just about Atratys, but everything I needed to know, instead of leaving me to study mostly what I chose: how to read the night sky, how to fight, how to ride. But Lucien needs to learn his place. I wave a hand towards the paper that he’s starting to unroll. ‘You can show me that in a minute. First, I have a question. What did you mean, the day we left, when you said I was a target?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ The faint lift of his eyebrow mocks me.
‘Humour me.’
‘Very well … You are a target in two ways. First, you’re a target for those in your own family –’ he taps the paper roll with his forefinger – ‘who would prefer the considerable wealth of Atratys to belong to someone else. I think this will help you understand.’ There is a sort of folding table attached to one side of the carriage; Lucien pulls it down and spreads the roll of paper out, securing it with books at either end.
‘It’s a family tree.’
‘Quite. Here is the ancestor of the current royal family: Cygnus I. As you can see, his son, Cygnus II, had a lot of children. A lot of potential claimants to the throne.’
I peer at the names and dates written in cramped letters across the paper: countless births, marriages, deaths. My finger finds the current king, my uncle, and beneath him two names: my cousins Aron and Odette. Next to the king is his younger brother Rothbart (my father), and below him, me. Third in line to the throne. No – second. Aron has been disinherited. ‘So, if something happens to Odette, I would be offered the crown.’ My nausea threatens to return at the thought of such a choice, so much responsibility. ‘And what happens if I die?’
‘If you die now, the Dominion of Atratys will revert to the crown, to be resettled as the king sees fit.�
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‘I suppose I’d better hope my uncle doesn’t plan to kill me.’ I speak flippantly, hoping for reassurance. But Lucien does not oblige me.
‘Indeed. He may, of course, be planning to use you as a marriage prize, to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. One of your many cousins, perhaps.’
Which includes Lucien, if this family tree is correct. I suddenly wonder about Lancelin’s motives when he suggested that I should employ his son as my clerk; perhaps Lucien was being honest when he told me not to trust him.
My companion grins, as if he guesses my thoughts. ‘You’re extremely valuable, Your Grace. Dead or alive.’
Bastard. I push the roll of paper away and lean back against the cushions. ‘And what’s the other way? You said there were two ways in which I’m a target.’
‘Well, you may be a target for those who seek not a reallocation of power, but to tear down the whole rotten edifice entirely.’
‘There are such people?’
‘Yes. Among the flightless, and even a few among the nobility. Rebels, who would free the ruled by removing those who rule them.’
‘But that’s not fair! You know the changes my parents introduced in Atratys. Schools for the poorer flightless children, and the free infirmary at Hithe –’
‘All well and good. But if you lose control of the dominion, if you’re replaced by someone who wants only to exploit … You’ve seen the people of this area. There’s no hope left in them.’
We left Atratys behind more than a day ago and are now passing through the Dominion of Brithys; the rumours I’d heard did not prepare me for the wretched state of the villages along the road. I remember the blank gazes of a flightless family we passed this morning, standing outside a cottage with unglazed windows and half the thatch missing from the roof. The children didn’t even have any shoes.
Lucien shakes his head and looks out of the coach. ‘Why do you think these roads are so bad?’
I frown, following his gaze, wondering at the change of subject. ‘I don’t know. Are they especially bad?’