A Throne of Swans

by Katharine

  ‘Yes. Full of ruts, without proper surfacing … They’re barely roads at all. Not compared to the roads in Frianland. But nothing is done to fix them, because nobles so rarely travel by road. And the flightless don’t count.’

  For couple of minutes neither of us speaks. Half of me wants to shut the conversation down, to order him into another coach. But I just can’t help myself. ‘You’re a noble too.’ I drag the family tree nearer. ‘And we’re related: your name is here, just like mine. You’re part of this … rotten edifice you seem to despise. And I actually know someone who is flightless. Letya and I spend most of our time together. I rely on her –’

  ‘She tells you what to do?’

  ‘Of course not. But I like having her near me.’

  ‘Like a pet?’

  I feel the anger flaming into my face. ‘I won’t have you speak of her like that. She’s my best friend.’

  ‘Really? So did you ask Letya whether she wanted to leave Merl and come with you to court? Do you ever ask what she wants, instead of issuing an order and just expecting it to be obeyed?’

  ‘Do you ask Turik?’

  ‘He is my servant, and I don’t pretend otherwise. It seems to me that Letya is neither one thing nor another. I pity her.’

  Is it anger, or guilt, that makes me itch to slap his handsome face? ‘At least I know better than to touch Letya or any other flightless without asking permission.’ My mention of his behaviour at the beach makes him blush. I push on. ‘Why are you here, Lucien? You obviously despise me. Why not let me go to court alone, let me make some mistake that will get me killed? You seem to regret not killing me when you had the chance.’

  ‘Stop being so dramatic. I don’t despise you; I hate what you stand for. What we stand for. But I –’ He breaks off, begins to put away the family tree. ‘There are plenty of people who might do a worse job than you. For the sake of everyone who lives in our dominion, I’m going to try to keep you alive.’

  Until when? Until he decides I’m no longer useful?

  He’s staring at me, his dark eyes full of shadow in the dim light, as if he’s trying to see inside my head. Or perhaps he just expects me to be grateful for his forbearance.

  I close my eyes and try to sleep.

  At least we’re lucky with the weather. Most of the next week is sunny, and we travel quickly over the dry ground. I spend some more time studying the family tree, trying to memorise names and relationships, though Lucien won’t tell me much about the people I’m shortly to meet. He says I’ll remember the details better after I’ve seen them in the flesh. His silence makes me nervous, and I wonder what he is trying to conceal. Occasionally I ask him about family history, probing for information that might help me find out who killed my mother, but he either doesn’t have the answers I’m looking for, or doesn’t want to tell me. The rest of the time – as much time as I can stand – he teaches me about the intricate conventions governing behaviour at court. For instance, as a lower-ranking noble, Lucien should not address me without express permission. I don’t trouble to conceal my pleasure at that particular rule.

  When we’re not studying, Lucien and I contrive to ignore each other by reading. Lucien, I discover, prefers novels, while I work my way through a book on astronomy. Trying to understand some of the mathematical concepts is a welcome distraction, though one which proves less and less effective as we get nearer to the court. I find I cannot concentrate. The Citadel and its inhabitants cast an ever longer shadow across my mind, feeding my doubts about the wisdom of my decision, eating away at my confidence. But we’ve entered the Crown Estates; I can’t turn back now even if I want to. I don’t mention my worries to Lucien. Instead I spend some of my time just watching him read; he smiles more, forgets to glower. Observing him passes the time quite pleasantly, until one morning when he catches me staring and I force myself to stop.

  I’ve brought a travelling Battle set with me. We play twice – both times I win, capturing Lucien’s eagle – before my companion tells me he doesn’t particularly care for the game.

  So we go on, peacefully, if not comfortably, until our luck runs out. The weather changes. Sunshine is replaced by rain, coming down in sheets, slowing our progress to a crawl as the carriage wheels and the horses become mired in mud. Eventually we stop, stuck fast.

  Lucien puts aside his book and glares out of the window, cursing under his breath. He’s craning his neck round from his backwards-facing seat, trying to see the road ahead, but I’m not about to invite him to my side of the coach. Instead, I keep my eyes fixed on the pages of my book, trying to concentrate on a description of the elliptical motion of the planets, until the muttering reaches such a pitch that I can no longer pretend to ignore it.

  ‘Is there something you wish to say, Lord Rookwood?’

  He turns on me. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘The weather? It’s annoying, certainly, but hardly ridiculous, given the time of year. Crex is often a rainy month.’

  ‘You know very well what I mean. We should be flying.’

  I take a deep breath, gripping my book tightly. ‘I know your feelings on the subject. You made them quite clear that day you were talking to your father in the library.’

  He scowls at me. ‘I thought only children or the flightless eavesdropped on other people’s conversations.’

  ‘I wasn’t eavesdropping,’ I retort, unable to stop myself, ‘and if I was, it’s your fault for talking so loudly.’

  ‘You don’t have to justify your behaviour to me. You obviously don’t care what I think –’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘But you should care what others might think. Or what they might do. And in case my father didn’t make it clear enough: if it’s discovered that you can’t fly, you will be banished, and you will be killed. You’re risking the entire dominion because of this … this inability to let go of the past.’ He runs both hands through his hair in what I now recognise as a gesture of irritation. ‘For the Creator’s sake, Your Grace, it’s been six years since your mother died. Surely by now –’ He breaks off, staring at me.

  I don’t know what he sees, but what I feel is cold. Cold, as if a hoar-frost has settled on my skin, as if the air is freezing inside my lungs.

  ‘You weren’t there. You didn’t see what those monsters did to her. You don’t know about the nightmares, about –’ The coach lurches forward as the wheels are freed, and there’s a ripping sound. I glance down: I’ve been clutching my book so tightly I’ve torn the pages loose. A few float onto the rug at my feet. ‘You don’t –’ My voice cracks, so I try again. ‘You don’t know anything.’

  Lucien doesn’t reply. There’s an odd expression on his face, but I’m not going to waste my time trying to decipher it. Instead I pick up the loose pages and try to reassemble my book. It’s hard because my hands are shaking, and the paper is so thin and translucent – as light as down – that I’m scared of doing further damage. I’m still busy with my task when I hear Lucien’s voice.

  ‘Look: we’re nearly there. The Silver Citadel, and the city of Farne.’

  I look out of the window. In the distance is a pale grey castle, looming over a city that seems to plunge down the sides of a steep valley towards the sea. I’m about to ask why it’s called ‘Silver’, but then there’s a break in the clouds and the sun comes out and I understand. In the late afternoon light, the castle glitters. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  My companion leans back in his corner of the coach and shrugs. ‘On the outside. But I wouldn’t swap the entire place for a single stone of Hatchlands.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard him mention his home, and the intensity in his voice surprises me. But the next moment he smiles slightly. ‘Try not to look so worried, Your Grace. You have an excuse for arriving by coach. And the king has no reason to suspect any more permanent difficulties. After six weeks we can return to Merl, if you wish.’

  Six weeks. Too long for comfort, but maybe not long enough to find the answers I’m sea
rching for. The clouds have shut out the sun again. I watch the darkening castle draw closer.

  Three

  We have to drive around to the back of the castle, to the entrance used by servants and flightless visitors. I feel the curious stares burning into my back as soon as I leave the carriage, and I’m relieved I have my cane for support. I wish I could hold on to Lucien, but my clerk does not offer me his arm, and I am too proud to ask. We walk in silence up wide stone steps, following the guest master, an elderly man upon whose uniform the Cygnus coat of arms gleams in silver thread. The tap of my walking stick echoes in the dimly lit stairwell. Behind us are six heavily armed guards in black chainmail, their faces concealed behind visors; Dark Guards, they’re called, according to Lucien. I wonder whether all visitors are ‘honoured’ with such an escort. The staircase goes on and on; through doorways I glimpse kitchens and offices and grey-clad servants everywhere. But eventually we emerge into the dazzle of the entrance hall on the main floor; the glow of hundreds of candles, reflected in crystal, marble and glass, makes me squint. The Cygnus family motto is carved in gold inlaid letters a wing-span tall around the edge of the ceiling: FROM OUR SERVICE COMES OUR POWER. It’s a reference to Cygnus I’s origins – he was steward to the previous ruling dynasty – that neatly glosses over his ruthless seizure of the throne. I’m still twisting my head to look at it when Lucien stops suddenly.

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘My lord?’ The guest master pauses, head bowed slightly.

  ‘We’ve had a long journey, and Her Grace was recently injured. She will go straight to her apartment.’

  ‘But His Majesty wishes to greet Her Grace without further delay. Your servants have been sent to prepare your rooms for you, my lord.’ He turns away and continues walking, and we have no choice but to follow. Doors are thrown open ahead of us and suddenly we are in a room full of people. Lucien drops back so he is walking behind me; even though I can just see him out of the corner of my eye, the sense of being alone takes my breath away. But the guest master is still moving forward, so I have to keep moving too. The voice inside my head is getting louder and louder: You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here … More guards are stationed, watchful, in the gallery that runs around the top of the room. There are murmurs from the brightly coloured crowd around me, tones of surprise and scorn. Someone laughs. The sound is hastily smothered, and I try not to react, keeping my gaze fixed, focusing on what’s ahead of me: a huge stained-glass window depicting a swan with outstretched wings, and below that a dais, upon which is set a throne of dark wood, ornately carved with gold-edged feathers and the Cygnus coat of arms. But I can’t stop the blood flaming into my cheeks.

  Finally we reach the space in front of the dais. The guest master hits the marble floor with his staff.

  ‘Her Grace, Lady Aderyn, of the House of Cygnus Atratys, Protector of the Dominion of Atratys, and Lucien, Lord Rookwood.’ The throne is large enough to seat two easily – the Kings and Queens of Solanum have always ruled in mated pairs – but currently there is a man lounging there alone. I hand my cane to the guest master and bow, sinking low before stretching my arms backwards to imitate wings – the correct procedure upon first meeting a reigning monarch. I sense Lucien, still at my shoulder, performing the same gesture.

  For a few minutes the king stares at me, and I look back at him. I can see the resemblance to my father – the same blue eyes, the same stubborn mouth, the same long limbs and ash-blond hair. But the man in front of me is older, corpulent – for all he looks so small, compared to the enormous gilded throne – gaudily dressed in blue silks and velvets. His fingers are decked with heavy rings, and he wears an ornate gold and sapphire coronet on his head. It fits well with the opulence of his outfit, but it is not the Crown of Solanum. That – the ancient Crown of Talons, a plain iron band dark with age and set with talons carved from some polished black stone – sits on a worn plinth next to the throne.

  The king shifts on his seat, waves a hand and servants approach us both, bearing silver goblets. I take the drink and, as my uncle raises his cup in a toast and takes a sip, mimic his action. The liquid in the goblet – some sort of wine? – is rich and spicy; tears spring to my eyes and I have to suppress the urge to cough. The king smiles slightly, but it seems I am allowed to put the cup down; the servant holds out the platter.

  ‘So. My flightless niece has finally come to visit me.’

  Flightless? The word – the instant realisation that I have been betrayed – lands on me like a blow. Stuns me: every muscle in my body weakens. Behind me, Lucien gasps softly. But the king is still talking; I force myself to conceal my distress.

  ‘I am glad to see you again, Aderyn. It has been too many years since my poor brother shut himself away at Merl. I was much grieved to learn of his death.’

  Somehow, I do not believe him.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I thank Your Majesty. My father’s death was a misfortune for all of his people. The condolences we received from you and the queen were of great comfort.’ These are the words Lucien told me to say, the words we agreed upon. ‘But,’ I continue, ‘I am not flightless, uncle. I cannot imagine who would have told you such a lie.’

  A risk, to challenge the king the moment I arrive in court. But if I lose this game we are apparently playing, I will lose everything.

  ‘Really?’ He leans back, studying me. ‘And yet you arrived by coach …’ Another swell of laughter from the courtiers around us, slightly louder than before.

  ‘On the recommendation of my doctors, Your Majesty. I was injured recently. The coach journey allowed me to rest, and to see more of the kingdom. It is true that I have not cared much for flying since witnessing my mother’s murder,’ there is a ripple of whispered conversation behind me as I speak the word, ‘but I am not flightless.’

  A young couple moves towards the dais. The girl, wearing a simple white dress, is beautiful enough to take my breath away. She has no crown – her mass of silver-blonde hair is stunning enough without adornment – but I know she must be the Princess Odette. Which means the boy next to her must be her brother, Aron. Both have the same hair colour, the same high cheekbones and sensuously moulded lips, though there is a stubborn arrogance to the set of Aron’s jaw that is missing from his sister’s face. He is dressed all in black – a striking contrast to his shock of hair – and it takes me a moment to see the empty sleeve pinned to the front of his tunic.

  ‘Well, niece, here are your cousins come to meet you. Odette –’ I bow, and the girl inclines her head and smiles at me, a little uncertainly – ‘and Aron.’ I bow to the prince, but he ignores my gesture, his expression contemptuous.

  He turns to his father. ‘My cousin claims she is not flightless. But Atratys is second only to the Crown Estates in importance. Our main ports are there, most of our iron mines, our forests … If she is indeed worthy to be Atratys’s Protector, and to stand second in line to the throne, let her prove herself. Let her transform, if she can.’

  Panic twists in my gut like a knife as a cold sweat springs up between my shoulder blades. If I am asked to disrobe here and now, to shift my shape –

  The king is shaking his head. ‘Now, my son? In front of the entire court? I would not hear of putting your cousin to such a test.’ My shoulders sag with relief, although I’m sure my uncle is more concerned with his own reputation than my modesty. ‘There is, however, another way in which Lady Aderyn may convince us of her status.’ He looks at me and then points to the servant still standing nearby with the goblet. ‘Burn him.’

  ‘Father!’ Aron steps forward. ‘That’s not what I –’

  ‘But you’re right, my son. There are rules. So you will oblige me, Aderyn, by touching this man’s skin.’

  Horror forces me to speak. ‘But, Your Majesty, custom forbids –’

  ‘Forbids?’ The king’s tone is soft, incredulous. ‘Am I not the king? Do I not make the customs?’

  I hesitate, just a fract
ion too long. ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’

  He raises one hand and twists it back and forth, looking at the play of light on the coloured gemstones of his rings instead of at me. ‘Rumour travels more swiftly than a coach. Shall I tell you what rumours I have heard in the last few weeks?’ Without waiting for a reply, he continues. ‘It is rumoured that you are not who you say you are. That my niece was killed in the incident that claimed her mother, and that a flightless imposter was set in her place. That my brother, in his grief, was somehow deceived.’

  ‘But you can’t possibly believe that.’ Despite myself there’s derision in my voice. ‘It’s not true.’

  The king lifts his eyes to mine. ‘Then prove it.’

  I turn to Lucien, looking for help, for a way out. But he shakes his head – a tiny movement – and lowers his gaze.

  ‘We are waiting,’ my uncle murmurs. One of the guards near the throne shifts, his fingers straying towards the handle of the throwing axe hanging by his side.

  The servant is staring at me. His eyes are full of fear – but what can I do? I take the tray he is carrying and pass it to Lucien. The man is wearing gloves and a tunic with long sleeves.

  ‘Roll up your sleeve. It will hurt less.’ The man obeys and holds his arm out towards me; he’s trembling. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur. Finally I place my hand against his bare skin, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. The man winces as the heat grows, his mouth clamped shut to keep from crying out, but the pain soon becomes too much. He begins to groan, fighting the urge to pull away from me, and I can smell the hair on his arm burning –

  ‘Enough.’

  I let go of the servant. He stumbles backwards, crying, clutching his arm to his chest, his flesh blistered and red. My stomach heaves.

  No one is laughing now.

  ‘Very good, niece. I, of course, had no doubt of your identity, so like your mother as you are. But it is as well you have settled the question, for the benefit of those more … suspicious than me.’ My uncle smiles as he lies; he can’t hide the trace of disappointment in his voice. ‘You see, Aron? Her Grace is clearly not flightless. As for the injury that kept her from making her journey here as a swan, it is, I assume –’ his smile twists – ‘very nearly healed.’