Shadowforged (Light & Shadow) (13 page)

For some reason—and I hated this—my breath came short when I thought of that, and I knew it must be obvious, plain as day on my face. Things had changed. When I had sparred with Temar two years ago, it had been true play-fighting. I had adored him, but it had been the strange, clear love of a child; I had been consumed with his vision of the Shadow he wanted me to be. When we had sparred, I imagined I was protecting Miriel, I dreamed of using the throws against assassins, of winning a fight and laying my knife to an attacker’s throat. Now, when we fought, I tried to focus on the necessity, remember the feeling of fighting for glory, and yet all I felt was a terrible self-consciousness.

I would lie awake at night with my pulse racing and my face burning as I thought of the day’s lessons: Temar’s cool, impersonal hands at my waist and his impassive voice as he lectured me for a throw, or his satisfaction at beating me in sparring. I knew well enough what lay between us: mistrust and lies, danger and anger. But it was all muddled, everything was strange in ways I would have died rather than confide in Miriel. Miriel, who was so quick to remind me that Temar was an enemy—as if I did not know, as if these feelings were not the worst possible thing that could have happened.  I hid behind the truce that he and I had built up, and prayed that this all went away soon.

I tried to slow my breathing now, as Miriel looked me over. I knew that she did not see into my mind, that she could not see anything past the strange new shape of my body. I had hidden it not only because I was confused and ashamed, but because I had known instinctively that I should not let Miriel see these changes. Not Miriel, who was so stick-thin that she bought new gowns for vanity, and not necessity, who had to lace so tightly that she could barely breathe, just to try to get a hint of a waist, of a bosom.

How could I tell Miriel that this strange new body of mine was something that disappointed me?  I knew that Roine would tell me not to be ashamed of myself, and I felt guilty for my thoughts. I knew that it was ridiculous. Every girl turned into a woman. There was no hiding what I was. But somehow I had thought I might, that my britches and my fighting and my unladylike studies might fool even my own self, and I would stay as I had always been—just me, just Catwin.

So I stood in complete silence while Miriel took one look at my burning face and then pretended to ignore me, and the seamstress moved about me with a measuring cord, remarking once on the smallness of my waist and then lapsing into awkward silence herself. I allowed myself a small inward smile at the fact that she did not know what to say. How did one compliment the Lady Miriel’s strange half-girl servant? No one knew. No one ever knew how to treat me. It was one of the few amusing things about my life.

I looked over once and saw Miriel staring into the fire, her arms folded over her chest, her face the very picture of scorn and spite. Miriel could care less that I wanted none of the odd shapes that seemed to be a part of my body now. She was the one who needed them, who was supposed to have the bosom and the womanly charms to go with her stunning face. She was the one who was supposed to enchant men, and there was she with her lack of figure—hard enough to bear—and here was I with all of the things her seamstresses sighed about.

When I was done, I dressed, silently, and left. She still would not look at me. She did not speak to me for the next week, in fact, through the fittings of my fine new tunics and britches, my new, soft, black leather boots. One morning, however, I found a package on my cot, wrapped in linen: Miriel had ordered me a tabard with the Celys crest, to drape over the tunic itself. Whether she had done it to ease my embarrassment or to avoid begging the comparison between our figures, I did not know—Miriel sometimes surprised me with her strange moments of kindness—but I knew better than to mention it.

So it was in polite silence that we set out from Penekket, sitting quietly together in the Duke’s covered carriage as he and Temar rode outside in the sunshine. Miriel, desperate that this event should not mean the end of her influence over the King, forgot her sulkiness entirely and spent the entire journey murmuring pretty phrases to herself, practicing a clever toss of her head, or a witty jest. I, stuck in the jolting carriage, envied her the preoccupation.

Where I had first been awed by the procession of the nobles, marveling at the beautifully painted carriages, and fine horses, the jewels and the capes, the novelty had worn off quickly. The citizens of Penekket had turned out alongside the road to cheer our passage, throwing flowers and calling blessings, agape at the splendor, but they had seen it all only for a moment.
Trapped in the slow-moving procession, watching the nobles as the days wore on and they drew closer to their Ismiri enemies, I knew that beneath all the finery, this procession radiated desperation and fear.

Chapter 13

“This is ridiculous,” Miriel muttered. I shook my head and smiled brightly at her, a reminder to keep her own face pleasant.

“He wanted to show Dusan—and Kasimir— that Heddred is rich and powerful,” I said. Miriel shot me a glare as her horse jibed at the crowd. She spread one hand along its neck, clucking at it a little to soothe it. We had spent most of the past two weeks in a carriage, and by rights should be glad to be out in the open air, but in truth, we were both overwhelmed. Garad had been determined that we should make a proper procession into the town, displaying our wealth to the Ismiri, and so we were wearing our best clothes in the summer heat, waving and smiling until our faces hurt. Thus it was that the crowd pressed around us, hoisting tankards of ale and throwing rose petals, and we struggled to control the horses that we plainly terrified at the noise.

“Could he not do it without taking all of us from the palace?” Miriel’s irritation was clear despite the sweetness of her tone and the dazzling smile she was now keeping fixed firmly on her face. The servants and minor nobles of Ismir had turned out to see the King’s procession ride into town, and we were all on show. On the other side of the city, the Heddrian servants would be crowding the road to see the procession of Ismiri nobles. I had heard endless speculation of what the Ismiri might look like, and some of the predictions were dire, indeed—I had even heard one or two whispers that they might have cloven hoofs, like devils.

Miriel was still muttering, but I barely heard her, I was so busy scanning the crowd for threats. The thought of this ride into town had given me nightmares; I had woken the night before drenched in sweat and terrified. The crowd pressed close, as it had done in my dream, and I could not help but scan it for the sight of a face I might recognize, any detail that would show me that the dream had been prescient, that a poison-edged blade waited here for the woman I was bound to protect.

I had made the mistake of asking Miriel if she was scared as well. She had been short with me when we left Penekket, but had grown increasingly withdrawn and silent as we progressed across the plains. When I had been in the throes of the nightmare the night before, it had been Miriel who woke me, shaking my shoulder and calling my name softly. When I had calmed myself and changed my clothes, I had taken notice of her white face, and how she lay sleepless on her little bed. I had asked her if she was well, or if she was afraid, too.

“Why, what have I to fear?” she asked sharply.

“I just thought—so many nobles. Tension.” My voice trailed off. I could not say out loud that I feared another assassination attempt, but logic dictated that it was a very real danger. If our would-be murderer stood to benefit from tension between Ismir and Heddred, it would be easy enough to kill Miriel and fix the blame on some Ismiri noble or another—and be rid of her, for whatever reason they had chosen.

From Miriel’s white face, I knew that she had been thinking the same thing. But these days were full of fear for her. It was very nearly worse to live in constant fear of the King’s favor fading away. What was there for her if he dropped her? Favorites of the Kings could sometimes catch good marriages at court, but it was not likely. And it was equally likely that her uncle would simply kill her for her failure, and pass it off as an illness, a fall from her horse...

And, fearing this, she must hold her head high every day and ignore the whispers that she had lost him, knowing that a few thought less of her, others reveled in her apparent downfall, and the rest pitied her. Worse, she must watch the King laugh and dance with others, fearing that his subterfuge would become truth, and his heart would fix on one or another of them.

Worst
of all, Miriel’s prediction had come true: she was no longer his advisor in every little matter. They sent letters through Wilhelm, but such communications were limited, and so Miriel must hear of the King’s decisions, knowing that he had undertaken them alone, and praying that he might not realize that her advice was unnecessary after all. Fear was with her always, and it wore on her.

“Well?” she challenged me, daring me to speak these thoughts aloud.

“I just thought—“

“Well, don’t. Don’t
pity
me.” Her face was screwed up. “And don’t you let anyone kill me.” She had fairly thrown herself over on her side, facing away from me, the covers pulled up over her shoulders.

We had gone to sleep in an angry silence that barely concealed our fear, and now that fear rose higher as we rode into town, until I thought I might gag on it. The people threw rose petals, as they had been bid, and the nobles threw back gold from their purses, as was customary. The air was fragrant with blossom and loud with cheers and laughter, and yet behind it all was a dreadful curiosity, a hunger to know what might happen at such an unprecedented event.

With trepidation, I noticed the jaded expressions of the servants in the crowd. They did not expect a lasting peace from this. They were waiting for it all to go horribly wrong, and I felt so similarly that I nearly jumped in front of Miriel every time I saw a look, or a whisper, or a pointed finger. Her face was known, and not only by the servants of Heddrian courtiers. She was the niece of the man who had captured Voltur, she had been raised in what had once been Ismir’s royal seat. They would have no love for her in Ismir.

We were too far back to hear the grand welcome from Garad to Dusan. Miriel sat at my side in the stopped procession, hardly minding that she did not have to smile prettily through the ridiculous speeches the two men were making, but grinding her teeth that it was Marie de la Marque who sat in the King’s train, royal in her own right, daughter to the King’s guardian, and once more a favored candidate for the King’s bride.

We were told of the formal greeting later, while Roine braided my newly washed hair. She was traveling with us at the Duke’s insistence, and I was hardly comforted at the thought that even he wondered if we would need the attentions of a healer. In true motherly fashion, she had insisted that I take a bath, even though I was glad enough to do so. On the road, there had been no such extravagances for a servant, but in this village we all had hot water, scented soaps, fine bath sheets. Newly clean, I felt like a noble myself, dressed in one of my new tunics, a black tabard with hidden pockets, and new britches and boots.

Temar was not inclined to let me relax. He prowled around as I bathed, hidden by a carved screen,
and as soon as I was decent, he came and sat between me and my view of Miriel, who was the hub of frantic activity; she was being dressed by five maidservants, stitched into a gown ordered by the Master of the Revels. She was to represent the bountiful harvests of peacetime, and was accordingly dressed in gold and orange silks, hung with ribbons of reds and browns, and with long, draping sleeves cleverly-cut to resemble falling leaves. Another maidservant was winding ribbons and jewels into her hair.

Temar snapped his fingers in front of my face to get my attention. He was impatient, even more worried than I was for the safety of those he guarded. The Duke was one of the most widely-hated men in Ismir, and there had already been an altercation: after the formal meeting, in the bustle, some guardsmen of Kasimir’s household shouted at Temar and the Duke’s servants that their master would see ours dead, and soon, and stick his head on a spike over the gate at Voltur castle. It had been hushed up, but we were all on our guard now.

“How did the greeting go?” I asked. The Duke’s household had been far back, but the Duke himself had ridden with the Council, directly behind the royal family. Temar had been able to witness the event first-hand, and I was envious. “How were the Ismiri? What was Dusan like? And Kasimir.” Temar held up a hand to stem the flow of questions, but he was smiling. He had chosen me for my inquisitive nature, and he was closest to forgiving me when he saw it demonstrated.

“Nothing of importance happened,” he assured me. “Really. All like a play, very flowery speeches. No surprises. Kasimir wore mourning black for his father, but no one expected subtlety from him.” He snorted. It was against his own rules to be so blatant, and it offended him to see others break that rule—even if it made his own job easier.

“And the Queen?”

“Jovana? Yes, she was there. In state. All in cloth of gold.” I was impressed. Dusan must be taking this seriously, to bring his wife. I knew that Jovana was rarely seen in public now, she was a queen beloved of her husband, but tormented by grief and guilt. Vaclav had been her only son, born the last of eight children, and he had been her favorite, the golden child. Now he was dead, and Jovana’s failure to produce more sons for Dusan meant that the throne would pass out of his direct line.

“Tonight, there will be more to see,” Temar predicted. “Anyone can keep their face straight for a half an hour, but give them wine and dark corners, and—“ He snapped his fingers and I nodded. He held up a little map of the village that he had made for me. “Now. We will watch the masque here, on the plaza. After that, we will withdraw here to eat. You paced everything out like I told you?”

I nodded. As Miriel and the Duke would be sharing a suite of rooms here in the village, Temar had declared it safe enough for me to leave her with them and go inspect the public area. I had taken off my tabard before I went, and put on one of the homespun tunics I had brought with me, knowing that my fine black suit would attract attention. There were too many guards, and they watched too closely. Better if the Ismiri did not know that I guarded Miriel.

It was all very fine in the village, quite as beautiful as the King had written to Miriel that it would be. I had taken notice of the compass rose inlaid in the plaza, with the Warden crest at the east point, and Dusan’s crest at the west point. I strolled around and looked up at the buildings that bordered the plaza. A bowman could hide in any one of those windows while the dance went on, and yet—he would be trapped if the guards went in to find him. No, if death came for us, it would be subtler.

Still, I scoped out the hidden alcoves in the banquet hall, noted the way the shadows fell and the lights flickered. Even the chandeliers were shaped with the two crests; I could hardly look anywhere without seeing something gold-plated, jewel-encrusted. The servants must be making a fortune, knowing that no one would notice one less candlestick, one less bauble.

“Do you think we’re safe tonight?” I asked Temar.

“We’re never safe.”

“I know that,” I said, nettled. “But…from an assassin. Do you think one would come tonight?” After a pause, he shook his head.

“Not tonight. Not for her.” Worry made lines on his forehead, and I knew he was thinking of the Duke—of men so driven that they would not care that their death followed an assassination. “Just mark who watches her.”

And so I did. Miriel danced as if she were a tongue of flame, leaping and twirling so that her sleeves fluttered and her hair flew. She whirled down the aisle of the other dancers and then held her hands high above their heads as they danced beneath themselves. It was difficult not to watch her, and for all his pretended indifference, I saw that the King could not keep his eyes from her.

As she and her partner danced forward towards the two Kings, I saw the envoy lean slightly and murmur a few words in Dusan’s ear. The Ismiri King raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to watch, marking her as a beauty, as a player in the game for the throne. He murmured something back to his envoy, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was giving instructions. At the side of the dais, Kasimir watched, as well, his face impassive. What he thought of any of the dancers, I could not say; his face did not change for the whole of the performance. He looked as if he would see the whole village burned to the ground, and all of us with it—the Heddrians who had what he reckoned his, the Ismiri who did not share his intense hatred.

On the other side of the dais, I saw the High Priest, sitting in state beside his Ismiri counterpart. I laughed to see them together, for while both wore the jeweled robes and heavy gold rings that were the symbols of the Church, they looked out over the revelry as if the extravagance was distasteful to them. I found my eyes darting back to the High Priest as I watched the event; I wondered what it was that he was truly thinking.

With the thaw between us, Miriel had shown me the sheaf of letters passed between her and the High Priest, and I had been surprised, as she had been, at the man’s insistence on delaying the uprising itself. I could see from his response that Miriel urged action. She dreamed of a call to the people, a great show of support to show Garad that this was not a movement of violent rebels, but instead of reasoned, peaceful citizens. To her shock, the High Priest swore that it could not be done—not yet. The people had no power, he insisted. They could not organize such a movement. No, the King must be persuaded by his advisors that this was best for Heddred. When I watched him, looking out over the sea of gold and jewels, I wondered just which nobles he thought would be his allies.

Seated between the High Priest and Garad, the Dowager Queen kept a sharp watch on her son as Miriel danced, and she marked who else caught his attention. Cintia was also portraying autumn, her red-gold hair and green eyes well offset by her costume; I saw her smile boldly at the King, and he smiled, easily, back at her. Marie de la Marque wore the colors of spring, so well suited to her porcelain coloring, and she twirled with all the confidence of a beautiful girl who knows that the prize is within her grasp. Another girl with long, fine brown hair, wearing summery green and pink, danced along the aisle and cast a shy smile in Garad’s direction. She had a round face and a tip-tilted nose, and her eyes were grey like mine.