Shadowforged (Light & Shadow) (3 page)

“Watch where your loyalties lie,” she said sharply. “I’ll not tolerate you mooning after him.” I did not retort that this was not mooning, this was not infatuation. I had adored Temar from the first, it was true, but with the easy worship of a child. Temar might be handsome, but he was like a living, breathing work of art—better, he seemed half a legend, like a character from a storybook. When I watched him, it was not because I pursued him as a maid will, with her mind on marriage—the thought was laughable, we were Shadows. I watched him because he had been my friend once, and I did not know what he was to me now, or what I was to him.

What was the most jarring was the sense, in the evenness of his gaze, in the way he watched me, that I was his equal in a way I had not been before. Just as Temar had lifted me from orphan child to something more, something special, my deception had lifted me from student to adversary. Now, for the first time, I was not the lesser of the two of us. It was so strange a thought that it had not occurred to me until now, seeing him here.

And—my heart twisted—I did not think anything could make me forget the guilt that I had lied to him; after so many months wondering when fate and the Duke would set us against each other, I had been the one to move first. He might have tried to kill me, but I had expected nothing less—we were Shadows.

But I had no words to explain that to Miriel, any more than she could explain to me how it was that she glittered so brightly, enchanted the court so wholly. I only bowed my head in acquiescence.

“Yes, my Lady.”

Chapter 3

Whatever Miriel thought of her uncle’s instruction, she prepared that night as carefully as if she had been going to a private dinner with the Dowager Queen. She was a vision of purity: a dress of a rich cream silk trimmed with dark blue, pearls and sapphires embroidered onto the cuffs and sapphires set in silver for her ears. Her maid brushed her hair until it shone, and then Miriel sat for a long time in front of her looking glass, turning her head this way and that, biting her lips to bring color to them.

I watched her for a time, feeling the wonder I always felt when I watched Miriel spin her illusions out of nothing. I could feel my heart beginning to beat faster as I contemplated going once more into the glare of the Court. My mind was a jumble; this was a dark path, I knew, and something in me shrank from it. But Miriel was right—what other choice did we have? At Court, we must fight first for security, or we would not live to fight for the things we held dear.

I shook my head to clear it of foolish fancies, and craned to see myself in the looking glass. I was feeling well-dressed myself, wearing clean clothes for the first time in days. Miriel had had the maid braid my hair finely, and in the looking glass, I could see that it fell like honey, strands of different colors glinting in the light. I had taken a moment to study the wide cheekbones, the pointed little chin—

I could have been a pretty girl, even, and I would have faded next to Miriel. I did not want that to bother me, I felt as if it should not matter. Tonight, even as I wished with all my heart for her to be a success, I saw her at her most charming, her most well-dressed, and it did matter. I knew that half the murmurs that arose at her passing were rumor and intrigue. “She’s the one who…” And yet, I could hear the longing in their voices, all of them. A longing that no one had ever felt for my attention, my smile. No one ever would. I smiled at her as I held the door open for her to leave, and hoped that she could not see the envy in my eyes.

Miriel walked through the halls as if they were her own, as if she were already Queen, but with her usual gracious smiles to servants and lower gentry, even when they gawped at her; every person in the palace knew of her now. It seemed incredible that the world had continued on, as if nothing had happened, but such was the case. I felt truly alien, an outsider moving through the constant stream of people in the halls. Our lives had nearly been ended, and the world moved on without pause…

Miriel slowed her pace as we approached the maidens’ chambers, and gestured me forward to her side. I saw only the faintest glimmer of herself in her eyes—she had pushed her soul back, far away, and she wore her mask now.

“Watch Her for me,” was all she said to me, and I knew she meant Marie, and later, Isra. Marie might be nothing more than a puppet, but she was, just as Miriel was, well-trained. To watch her, one would think that perhaps Guy de la Marque had played as long a game as the Duke had. I knew that she would not easily be pushed into the background. Whatever advantage Miriel seemed to have now, Guy de la Marque would not let his daughter leave the field until the game was over and done with.

In the maidens’ chamber, all were assembled and waiting for their invitation to the hall. Each night, the King would arrive for dinner with the men of the Council, and the Dowager Queen would arrive with the highest of her ladies in waiting. Then, the King would send invitations to each of the chambers: the unmarried men, the boys, the unmarried women, the girls. Each would arrive, and pay their respects to the throne, and then be seated.

As we entered the room, I saw that the maidens in the chamber were all circled around Marie. There was a new girl, with fair hair and eyes near as blue as Miriel’s, waiting hesitantly at the outer edge of the group; I resolved to ask one of the servants who she might be. As Miriel entered, the girls looked up and a hush fell over the room. She smiled, warmly, affecting not to notice, gliding over to speak to one of the minor nobles who had always been kind to her. Many of the girls wavered, but Marie de la Marque broke the silence without hesitation.

“So she deigns to join us once more.” Her voice was sweet. She was a vision in palest rose pink, her golden hair falling over her shoulders, her sky blue eyes dancing with malice. She smiled. “Perhaps the one who detained her all this time has grown tired of her presence?”

So she had been primed to make a scandal of this, then. I swallowed as I heard the murmur of surprise at her boldness, and a laugh from her friends. Miriel turned, as if surprised to find that Marie was speaking of her.

“Mistress de la Marque,” she said, and she curtsied. “I beg your pardon. I am afraid that I do not understand the jest. I have been away from court due to my illness.” It did her little good to appear dense, but it was the best she could have managed.

“Playing the innocent?” Elizabeth Cessor asked sharply. Her gaze was filled with spite; she had thought that only the other well-born girls could be true competition for the King, and she resented the fact that a common-born girl might take her place in the running. “You fool no one.”

There was no response to make. Miriel curtsied again, a confused half-smile on her face, and turned back to speak to the women who crowded around her. I could hear her explaining again that she had been ill, she had not seen anyone—no, no one save her uncle, of course. No, of course not the King. The King! Coming to her rooms! What an idea.

I knew that she gritted her teeth against such banalities. Tonight, she was surrounded by enemies and sycophants, and she hated both; death had come for her, and those who crowded around her would never know. She ached to curl her shoulders dismissively, she wanted to form witty retorts to the young women who had tried to shame her, to the girls who asked her for news of the King. But she was to be sweet. She was to be charming. She was to win as many as she could to her side, so that when the King moved to choose her for a bride, her way would be clear.

While Miriel laughed and talked with the women who gathered around her, introducing herself to the newest of the young women, and Marie held court a few yards away, the rest of the girls swirled awkwardly. The smooth yearning towards Marie had been disrupted by Miriel’s return, and I watched, wearily amused by the predictable uncertainty of the maidens. By now, the gossip had made it clear even to the least observant girl that the Dowager Queen did not approve of her son’s choice, and there was a divide: those who backed Miriel, either for love of her or in a calculated bet that the King would win out, and those who backed Marie, certain that the will of the regent and her chosen protector would triumph against an untried boy.

Not one of the girls was sure of her choice. In the absence of orders from their parents, the girls looked over their shoulders, even those at the center of each flock looked across the room. Those who had chosen Marie had been sure that she was the more suitable bride for a King, but now they were perhaps remembering that the King had surprised his mother with his preference for Miriel—what was to say that he would not surprise the Dowager Queen once more? Who could be sure that he would obey her orders? Those who had chosen Miriel, however, betting on her charm and her intelligence, were reminded that Marie was a fine choice for the wife of a King. The King must marry for advantage, everyone knew that—and Marie wore the crests of de la Marque and Warden, cleverly embroidered onto her gown. Miriel and Marie affected not to notice, but I knew that Miriel would see everything. She would be marking the loyalty of each girl.

When the crier had appeared, to summon the maidens to dinner, I found that the confusion at Miriel’s return was just as prevalent in the main hall. The maidens were silent as they approached the banquet, but their appearance caused a stir, and I could see all of them color, self consciously, under the scrutiny of the Court. Even the lowliest gentry and servants now knew Miriel’s face, by description if not by sight, and so as the maidens processed up the long aisle to their table, whispers arose in their wake like the stirring of wind through a forest. No one could help but notice the two girls, both beautiful, both proud, both attired as richly as queens, and no one could help but look up at the thrones, to see the faces of the royal family.

To be sure, those at the high table tried to remain impassive. But there was no mistaking the leap of joy on the King’s face when he caught sight of Miriel, and none could have missed the sharp glance his mother threw, and the frown at her son’s happiness. At the right hand of the Dowager Queen, Guy de la Marque watched the scene as if he were surveying a battlefield, and his wife gazed at Miriel with undisguised dislike.

The two whose emotions I could not name were the Ismiri envoy and the Head Priest. To judge by their contemplative stares, Miriel was a puzzle to them, and a key. But what they, themselves, thought of her, I could not have said. The Head Priest, in particular, watched Miriel as if she were a particularly worthy opponent, but one for whom he held no enmity; he did not seem to share Isra’s furious dislike. And then, to my horror: his gaze swept about the edges of the room, and came to rest on me. Did I see him nod? To me? I shivered and moved away, so that he could not see me behind one of the columns. How did the Head Priest know to look for me? I must find out.

The maidens were nervous, their laughter too loud, their witticisms strained in the face of the court’s scrutiny. Every face in the hall was turned towards them, and then back to the throne; back and forth went the looks, and round and round went the whispers. Money changed hands, sometimes discreetly, and every once in a while a shout of laughter was hurriedly silenced. The hall descended into the awkward chatter of those who are straining to hear others speak.

Everyone spoke of Her. Some murmured under their breaths that she was a real beauty, a girl with wit and fire, a perfect match for a young man. Others muttered that she was no fit match for King—Gods, there had to be ten women with better connections than she had. As I listened in on the conversations, I noticed the lack of two things over all others: the hint of true scandal, and a preference for Marie. A very few of the courtiers, of the oldest and purest blood, objected openly to the rise of the merchants. These were the men of the council and their families, whose wealth stemmed from the royal coffers. The rest had, inevitably, fallen on hard times and married their sons and daughters to merchants: money for nobility. They could not object to the Duke’s leap upwards, they could not argue loudly for the right of blood to triumph.

Many of them, indeed, had no objection to the Duke at all. He was a hero of the war, and whatever his ruthlessness against the Ismiri, he was known to rule his lands fairly. He was the protector of the western front. His niece was known to be intelligent and kind, and she was a beauty, graceful on her feet and sure to sit well on a throne. And while Marie had been primed to drag Miriel’s name through the mud, no one in the hall was mentioning any scandal at all. I was intrigued; I filed it away for later thought.

But—I was forced to admit—however little the courtiers seemed to prefer Marie, there could be no serious objection to her at all. She was lovely, noble, well-educated, and prettily-behaved. Those who objected did so because they misliked Guy de la Marque—and no one would voice an objection of the King’s guardian too loudly.

“My money’s on the Marque girl,” one of the servants said indiscreetly, as a group lugged a large platter past me.

“He’s mad for t’other one,” a companion objected.

“So he’ll take her as a mistress,” the first said, his shrug tipping the tray dangerously; an apple rolled to the edge and was crushed underfoot in the rushes. “He’s no fool, this one. Why have one, when he can have both? You’ll see.”

My blood turned to ice. I had not thought of that. I turned back to look at the King. He was thoughtful now, withdrawn. After looking at Miriel when she arrived, he had not looked again. Were the servants correct? Would he do such a thing to secure peace? If Miriel’s draw faded before he were to marry her, we would be lost.

I gritted my teeth, and returned to my perusal of the room. “Worry after,” Temar had told me once. “When you observe, your mind must be clear. No expectations, no distractions.” And so I watched, carefully. I watched the young women, I watched the bitterness of their elder sisters, reckoned too old to be a good match for the King. I watched the young men, neglected and trying to hide their surliness. I watched Wilhelm, trying not to stare at Miriel and yet yearning for her. I saw how he closed his eyes when he heard her laughter.

After I had strayed a little ways down the hall to listen in on the nobles, I returned to my post, waiting to see what the Dowager Queen might do. If I had been Isra, I thought, I would have let the King show his colors. I would have forced him to make a decision before the whole court, to let him stumble diplomatically. A chance to see what he might do if left to his own devices, and an opportunity to come to his rescue. But then, I had been raised in the household of the Duke, and trained by an assassin—and the Dowager Queen was an aging noblewoman, trained in needlepoint and dancing, and clinging desperately to her fading power.

Towards the end of the dinner, she dismissed the musicians, and whispered to de la Marque, who smoothly announced that the Council must meet at once at the conclusion of the meal. With this move, there would be no entertainments after dinner, no chances to dance or converse. No one would have the chance to see what the King might do, with Miriel returned to court, and there was no chance for the King to visit the maidens’ rooms at the conclusion of the meal.