by Katharine
I replace the doll on the table. I know it’s not a curse, but it is a threat. Someone wants to frighten me. Someone who, perhaps, has guessed or discovered that I’m searching for information about my mother’s death. Who wants to stop me before I dig any deeper.
But I will not be stopped.
Later that afternoon, Letya and I go to the guest master. He is shocked – distraught – while acknowledging that there is very little he can do. He offers to have a Dark Guard stationed at my door, but I decline. I don’t want to make it even easier for them to spy on me. Afterwards, we go back to my rooms and put the doll on the fire. As the flames catch, I notice that whoever made the thing didn’t trouble to give it any arms.
Curious. Still, the doll burns quickly. Soon only the silver nail is left among the ashes.
The weather changes. Rainstorms sweep down from the north and the Citadel is marooned on its high cliff, surrounded by mist and water. It’s too wet for riding. Too wet for flying, even for my cousin Odette. Instead she invites me to spend the second showery afternoon with her and Siegfried. She seems a little put out to discover that I’ve already met him, but she’s in high spirits, and her determination to love her chosen mate is obvious in every look and gesture. I’m not wholly convinced that Siegfried is as taken with Odette as she is with him. But he is respectful towards her, attentive, and, since I have no experience myself of this kind of relationship, I doubt my judgement. Siegfried is easy to talk to, and the three of us pass a pleasant few hours together. We meet again for lunch the next day. For the first time since I arrived at the Citadel, I feel as if I have found some friends.
The rain continues into a fourth day. After a long morning of meetings, weary of confinement, I make my way to a large cloistered garden near the sanctuary. I’m thinking about Odette and Siegfried, wondering what they are doing at that moment, wondering how I might contrive to speak to Siegfried alone, when he emerges onto the path just in front of me.
‘Your Grace.’ He smiles and bows. ‘What a pleasant surprise. We missed you at lunch today; I hope you’ve not been working too hard. May I join you?’
‘Of course.’ He falls into step beside me and I take his arm when he offers it. ‘I’ve spent the last few hours discussing trade agreements. Necessary, but tedious. I hope you and my cousin have been more enjoyably employed?’
‘We’ve been in the sanctuary, discussing wedding plans.’
‘Has a date been set?’
‘Not yet. It’s up to the king.’ He smiles slightly. ‘But I don’t think Her Highness is in any particular rush. I’m not.’
I’m surprised by his words. ‘Perhaps you underestimate my cousin’s affection for you.’ We walk in silence for a while, as the rain patters against the stone columns and splashes onto the edges of the marble tiles, switching places when Siegfried tells me he’s worried about my gown getting damp. ‘You don’t wish to be married?’
‘Everyone must wish to be married eventually. And to be selected by the heir to the throne, to be offered the crown … I don’t think there are many who would refuse.’
‘But you had a choice, surely?’
‘I had a choice. But I had to think about the good of my dominion.’ I realise he faced the same choice my mother faced, all those years ago. But he came to a different decision. ‘I feel sorry for the princess,’ he continues. ‘As heir to the throne, she must marry.’ He shrugs. ‘Her choice was also limited. If I was her, I would have probably picked me too.’ A sudden smile brightens his face. ‘Does that sound terribly vain?’
I grin. ‘Perhaps a little. Still, as handsome as you are’ – he bows in acknowledgement of my compliment – ‘I am sorry for her. To be forced to marry before you can rule the kingdom, to be forced, in those circumstances, to choose someone to whom you will be bound for the rest of your life … I don’t know why the Decrees insist on it.’
‘But they do. They Elders have spoken –’
‘And the Decrees are what they are. I know.’ My mind drifts back to my first conversation with Aron, and his description of Siegfried. ‘Some people think you’re nothing more than a handsome face, apparently.’
He laughs at this. ‘I’m sure they do. But perhaps I don’t mind.’ The amusement in his eyes fades as he adds, ‘We all do what we must to survive.’ He studies me, running his thumb along the edge of his jaw. ‘May I ask you something?’
I nod.
‘Well, then … the discomfort you have in transforming; I believe I might be able to help you. Would you allow me to?’
I stiffen instinctively. Odette must have repeated what I said to her. I shouldn’t be surprised. But still, to have the subject brought up in such a way, so openly. To be reminded by this relative stranger, even though he doesn’t know the truth, of my continued failure …
‘I’m sorry.’ He lays a hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
‘I’m sure. And I thank you for your offer of help. But I don’t require any assistance.’
‘As you wish, of course.’ He smiles. ‘And now it’s your turn. Ask me anything you like.’
‘Anything?’ I smile back at him. ‘Very well. I’d like to know what my father talked to you about, when he visited you.’ The evidence I’ve discovered so far – the records in the library, the testimony of the red-headed man in Lower Farne – clearly links Flayfeather to Olorys. If anyone can help me find out more, it should be the man who is going to inherit that dominion.
My companion has screwed up his face in an effort of remembrance. ‘Well, we discussed trade, as you’ve been doing. My father was suffering from gout, as I recall, so I was playing host. And we talked about music, books … and a little about you. He was very fond of you.’
I decide to take a chance. ‘Did he happen to mention anything about survivors from the War of the Raptors? Members of the Accipta families, perhaps, still living secretly in Olorys?’
Siegfried looks taken aback for a moment, before he laughs.
‘You think it’s ridiculous?’
‘Not at all. I’d be amazed if some members of those families hadn’t survived somewhere. But your father didn’t bring the subject up. It’s hardly something that’s discussed in polite society.’
The obvious curiosity in his glance forces me to attempt an explanation.
‘My father was gathering material for a history of the kingdom. I thought I might attempt to finish the project, but his notes are incomplete.’
‘I see.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re very unusual, Aderyn of Atratys.’
His tone is warm, not critical, and the comment makes me smile again. ‘I’m honestly not trying to be. Is there anything else you can remember?’
Siegfried frowns again. ‘Um … he asked me about a book. Or about a writer, rather. An Oloryan by the name of Brant. Or Frant, I think it was. But I’d never heard of him. Which doesn’t necessarily mean much.’ Another quick smile. ‘My younger years were nothing if not misspent, and I can’t claim to be well read.’
A writer? I can see the library tower from where we are standing. Excitement stirs in the pit of my stomach. ‘Well read or not, you’ve been most helpful, my lord. Thank you.’
Siegfried bows. ‘I’m glad. I know it must give you pleasure to speak of your father with one who knew him, even slightly.’
We move on to other topics until we part at the entrance to the cloister. I make my way straight to the library.
It takes me a while to track down Gullwing Frant in the library catalogues: he was not from a particularly important family. But eventually I find him and the title of his book: Tales of the Flightless of Olorys. There’s even a bookcase number, so I don’t have to ask for help from the chronicler. The book is chained, like all the others, but it seems little read; it creaks as I open it, and although the spine is faded, the rest of the blue cloth cover is bright and unstained. I sit at the nearest desk, still in my cloak, and start reading.
As the title suggests, the
book is a collection of stories – folk tales, some from before the war, some more recent. Stories of the flightless collected by one who could fly. Some seem fantastical, describing such impossibilities as a tribe of flightless who are immune to our touch, in hiding until the day they are summoned to the kingdom’s aid. I skip over a tale about a flightless person travelling to the moon on the back of an eagle. But in almost every story, believable or not, we are the villains, the monsters, the stuff of nightmares. I read about hunts where the flightless are the quarry, famines where the flightless starve while the nobility hoard grain, servitude presented as expected and acceptable loyalty. The stories sicken me. But I keep turning the closely printed pages.
And towards the end of the book I find something intriguing. A more recent tale – from less than fifty years ago – of a noble hiding among the flightless, concealing his identity. It describes a man transforming into a hawk and hovering on the wind above a field of sheep. And it gives a location. I look around to make sure I am unobserved, then very carefully tear out the page.
When I get back to my apartment, Lucien is standing by the window, glaring at the fjord.
‘Lord Rookwood. You’ve returned.’
He bows. ‘As I said I would, Your Grace.’ He runs a finger around the inside of the high collar of his tunic. ‘I wish to apologise for my behaviour the day before I left. It was …’ he clears his throat, ‘unmannerly.’
‘Very well. I accept your apology.’
‘Thank you. Please, allow me …’ Lucien walks over and reaches around my shoulders to unclasp my cloak and I breathe in the scent of him; he smells like the outdoors, and wide-open spaces, and the sea. His closeness as he stands behind me makes the skin between my shoulder blades tingle; I realise, to my annoyance, that I’ve missed him. ‘How was your visit? Is all well at Hatchlands?’
There is just a wing-beat of hesitation before he answers, ‘Yes, thank you. My visit was useful but uneventful.’
He places my cloak over the back of one of the sofas. The movement reveals a deep, red gash on the back of his neck, only partly concealed by his tunic. ‘What happened to your neck?’ I reach out in concern – the injury looks painfully sore – but Lucien steps back.
‘Nothing. An accident, that’s all. I was … clumsy.’
His expression is blank. But we’re hardly on good enough terms for me to press for more information. ‘Well, perhaps you are able to tell me about the ball this evening. I know how to dance, but I don’t know the etiquette.’
‘As with most things at court, rules of conduct at a ball are based on rank. You may invite anyone of equal or lower rank to dance with you. If someone asks you to dance, you may of course refuse, but it would then be considered ill-mannered to subsequently dance with another.’
‘So, if I say no, I can’t dance again for the rest of the evening?’
‘That is correct.’
I think about this.
‘Do you like dancing, Lucien?’
He shrugs, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Not particularly. I can think of several ways I would prefer to spend this evening. But I will, of course, be in attendance.’
I’m supposed to be resting for the remainder of the afternoon, but sleep evades me. When Letya arrives I’m impatient to get dressed.
‘I thought I would wear the grey watered silk this evening, with –’
‘No.’ Letya shakes her head, taking the grey silk firmly out of my hands. ‘The blue taffeta will be better.’
I can’t help rolling my eyes, but I trust Letya’s judgement. She hands me a flowing dress of gradated blue: the deep blue of a magpie’s wing at the neck, shading into the brilliant blue of a kingfisher. The skirts are embroidered with tiny down-daisies – the white flowers that bloom all summer long in the hills around Merl – picked out in silver thread. While I dress, Letya polishes a pair of sapphire earrings and a dozen silver clips set with diamonds. She twists my curls up into elaborate spirals, which she fastens with the clips; they sparkle like tiny stars against my dark hair.
It’s only when she brings out a pair of shoes that I assert myself.
‘I’m not wearing those.’
‘But they’re beautiful.’ She’s not wrong: the shoes are ice-blue silk embellished with sea-crystals. But the heels are taller than the length of my hand.
‘Please, Letya, let me at least enjoy the dancing.’
She mutters under her breath, but she puts the shoes away and brings out a pair of flat, soft-soled satin slippers instead. ‘You’d be taller in the other shoes.’
‘I know.’ Once I’ve fastened the ribbons of the slippers around my ankles, I stand to survey myself in the mirror. ‘You’re right about the dress, Letya. This is lovely.’ Raising an eyebrow, I turn to her. ‘Shall we?’ She laughs, but comes to stand opposite me, the correct position ingrained from all the dancing lessons we had together. We start rehearsing the steps to a passepied, bringing our hands close (but never close enough to touch), threading around each other as I mark time out loud. A knock at the door interrupts us: Lucien, in dark green velvet, waiting to escort me to the great hall.
The room looks different, and I realise the tables have been removed; food will be served later in the long gallery. As usual, we wait for the royal family to arrive. Instead of the harpists, a small orchestra is assembled in the gallery above the main door. Siegfried and Odette are to open the ball – it is held in honour of their betrothal – but I’m not entirely surprised when Aron asks me to join him for the first dance, a slow and elegant pavane. For once, he’s not clothed in his customary black. He’s wearing blue instead: a blue-and-silver tunic that might almost have been designed to match my dress. The thought flits across my mind that Letya may be attempting some sartorial matchmaking. After Aron, I dance with Odette, who moves as elegantly as I expect, and then with Grayling Wren. He doesn’t say much – as usual – but he dances well, and I’m happy to promise him a country dance later in the evening. Unfortunately my promise means I also have to dance with Patrus. He steps on my feet, his hands are sweaty and he talks the entire time about the cost of his ballroom back in Brithys: the windows, the carpets, the mantlepieces. When our dance finally ends I notice Lucien leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. Glowering at the world, as usual.
‘Lucien, will you dance the next dance with me?’
His eyes widen. ‘I’d be honoured, Your Grace.’ He takes my hand – for the first time, I realise – and begins leading me back to the dance-floor.
‘You were supposed to say no,’ I whisper.
‘What?’ Irritation sharpens his voice. ‘If you don’t want to dance, why did you ask me?’
‘Because I was trying to be nice. You were supposed to say no. Then you wouldn’t have to dance with anyone for the rest of the evening.’
Understanding flits across Lucien’s face, followed by some other emotion I can’t read. He opens his mouth to reply – but is interrupted by Siegfried.
‘Do you mind if I cut in, Rookwood?’
A brief pause, then Lucien bows. ‘Of course not, my lord.’ He walks away before I can work out whether his tone is one or relief or regret.
Siegfried must read my vexation in my eyes. ‘I’m sorry; I hope you and Rookwood will both forgive me. But I couldn’t resist seizing the opportunity. I’m particularly fond of this dance.’
‘Why?’
In answer, he slips one arm about my waist, pulling me in close to him.
‘What are you doing? Why aren’t you standing opposite me?’
‘Don’t you like it?’ He raises an eyebrow, but his lips are quivering as if he’s trying not to laugh.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘I’ve asked the orchestra to play a new dance from Celonia: the lavolta. You dance just as a couple, not in a line.’
I scan the room. He’s telling the truth: all around me are other pairings, standing in the same position as us (including the king and queen, though Her Majesty looks
uncomfortable in my uncle’s embrace). And I don’t dislike the sensation of having Siegfried hold me.
‘But I don’t know the steps.’
‘It’s easy. I’ve been watching you – you dance well. And I have a feeling you’re a quick learner, Your Grace.’ He takes my right hand in his left and settles his other hand in the small of my back, smiling down at me. ‘You’ll pick it up.’
There’s no time for me to argue. The orchestra starts playing and Siegfried begins guiding me around the floor. Luckily the steps are straightforward enough, and I fall naturally into the rhythm of the music. Every so often Siegfried tightens both hands around my waist and lifts me high into the air, and I can’t help laughing. It’s the nearest I’ve come to flying for a long time.
The ball ends in the early hours of the morning, and I feel as if I’ve barely been asleep when the castle bell wakes me. It is tolling insistently, over and over: a deep, resonant chime that echoes among the towers and vibrates through the foundations of the building. Rubbing my eyes, I go to the nearest window and unlatch the long shutters. It’s early still – very early. The sun is only just above the horizon, gilding the clouds in the eastern sky. Someone knocks on my bedroom door.
‘Come in.’
It’s Letya, bleary-eyed and wearing her dressing gown and nightcap. Lucien is hard on her heels.
‘What’s happening?’
‘You need to get dressed.’ He drags his fingers through his hair. ‘We’ve been summoned.’
Seven
I wrap my arms across my stomach as it seizes up, but Lucien shakes his head. ‘Not just us – I mean, the whole court.’ Letya is going through my wardrobe. ‘Hurry – Her Grace just needs a robe, or something to go over her nightdress.’
Letya pulls out a grey satin overdress; I slip my arms into it and do up the buttons as she fastens a belt around my waist.