(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (46 page)

Briony was still indoors, finishing up her day’s lessons with Sister Utta. Barrick could not quite understand what more there was to learn when you were already a regent of the land—it was not as though, like a chandler’s apprentice or a squire, you could aspire to bettering yourself, could you? Except for continued training in combat and tactics of war, he had finished his own formal education and couldn’t imagine why he might need more. He could read and write (if not quite as fluently as Briony). He could ride and hawk and hunt as well as his mangled arm allowed, and identify the heraldic emblems of at least a hundred different families—which, as old Steffans Nynor, the castellan, had once told him, was very important in a war so that one could decide who would be the best opponent to capture for ransom. He knew a great deal about his own family, starting with Anglin the Great, a reasonable amount of the history of the March Kingdoms, a few things about the rest of the nations of Eion, and enough of the tales of the Trigon and the other gods that he could make sense of the things Father Timoid said, when he bothered to pay attention.

He didn’t know everything, of course: watching Briony preside over the law courts, full of opinions and concerns about things that seemed to him to matter very little, made him feel almost an outsider. His sister sometimes stopped the day’s proceedings for as much as an hour to argue with the various clerks over a fine point of fairness that she deemed important, leaving dozens of petitioners pushed back to the next day’s docket and grumbling. “Better justice delayed than denied,” was her defense of this foolishness.

He wondered if half a year ago he would have been the same—not with law, of course, which he had always found boring in the extreme, but in ferreting out the truth behind the attack on the caravan, or even trying to make certain of Shaso’s guilt. In the early days of Kendrick’s regency Barrick had entertained ideas about what he would do if he were in his brother’s place, all the things he would do better. Now he was in his brother’s place, but most days, after another night of haunted sleep, he could scarcely find the resolve to walk out into the courtyard and sit in the sun.

It was the dreams, of course, and the weight of his awful secrets, that held him back—not to mention the fever that had nearly killed him. Surely anyone could understand that? He had almost died, but sometimes it seemed that no one would have minded much if he had.
Even Briony . . .

No,
he told himself.
That’s a wicked voice. That’s not true.
And that was another problem: somehow the fever had not entirely gone. He had walked in his sleep and suffered with bad dreams as long as he could remember, even before the night that had changed everything for the worse. Once or twice in his childhood he had even been found outside the residence in the morning, shivering and confused. But now almost every single night his ragged sleep was alive with creeping things, with shadowy hands and bright eyes, and even when he was awake, they didn’t entirely leave him. And the dreams seemed to get into his head and speak to him as well, telling him things that he usually did not believe, and certainly did not want to believe—that everyone around him was false, that they were whispering behind his back, that the castle was full of enemies in disguise who had slowly usurped those he knew and were only waiting until their numbers were so great as to be undefeatable before . . . before . . .

Before doing what?
He sat up, suddenly quivering in every muscle.
Perhaps it’s all real!
Despite the unbroken sunlight, the stone warming beneath his thighs so that he could feel its pleasant heat through his woolen hose, he had to fold his arms across his chest until the trembling passed. It was the residue of his illness, of course, nothing more, and so were the strange thoughts, the voices that plagued him. Briony was still Briony, his beloved, inseparable other half, and the people and things around him were unchanged. It was only the fever. He was certain of that. Nearly certain.

Distracted by such thoughts, he nevertheless recognized the young woman by her walk before anything else. Although her figure, displayed in a sea-green dress, was still desperately alluring, she seemed to have lost weight. Her face was thinner than he remembered, but the swaying of her hips was unchanged.

He stood as she reached the center of the courtyard where she noticed him for the first time, blinked, stopped for a moment. “Prince Barrick?” She put her hand to her mouth when she realized she had not made a curtsy and quickly remedied the omission.

“Hello, Selia.” His stepmother’s maid was an awkward distance away, several yards: too far for an ordinary conversation. He wished she would come toward him. Perhaps she was afraid to approach, to intrude on his private thoughts. “Please, come join me for a moment. The sun is lovely today, isn’t it?” There, he thought with some satisfaction. Surely the famous bard Gregor of Syan himself could not have spoken more delicately to a lady.

“If Your Highness is certain . . .” She approached slowly, like a deer ready to leap at any noise. The new thinness of her face made her eyes seem even larger, and he could see that under the powder they were shadowed. For the first time, Barrick remembered what Chaven said about her.

“You have been ill. You had what I had.”

She looked at him. “I had fever, yes? But certain that Your Highness was more ill than me.”

He waved his hand in the manner of true nobility: comparisons were unworthy. He was pleased with this gesture, too, and the girl also seemed impressed. “How are you feeling now?”

She glanced down at her hands. “Still a little . . . strange, I think. Like the world is not quite being as it should. Yes? Do you understand me?”

“I do.” Although the nearness of her had narrowed his attention very strongly—he felt that he could see every tiny hair against her neck where they spilled free from the headdress, that he could count each shining dark strand in an instant without even trying—he also felt a little strange, as though he had been too long in the sun. He looked up, suddenly certain that someone was watching from one of the rooftops, as improbable as that seemed, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Oh! Are you knowing you are well again, Prince Barrick?”

He nodded, took a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose so. Sometimes I feel like that, too. Like the world is not quite what it should be.”

Her face was solemn. “It is frightening to have this feeling, yes? For me, anyway. Your stepmother thinks I am not listening to her, but it is only that sometimes I am . . . made confused.”

“You will feel better,” he said, on absolutely no authority but the wish to say something reassuring to a pretty young woman. “How old are you, Selia?”

“Seventeen years, I have.”

Barrick frowned a little. He wished he were older—surely a girl who might be as much as two years his senior was only interested in him because he was the prince. On the other hand, she did seem content at the moment: anyone might come to the prince regent’s command, but she did not seem in a hurry to leave. Experimentally, he took her hand. She didn’t resist. The skin was surprisingly cool. “Are you sure you are well enough to be out of bed?” he asked. “You have a chill.”

“Oh, yes, but sometimes I am warm, very warm,” she said with a little laugh. “Sometimes I cannot even keep the blankets on me even when the night is cold, and my clothes are too hot when I sleep and I must take them off.” This gave Barrick a picture to think about that promised to make concentration even more difficult. “Your stepmother, she scolds with me very much for badly sleeping.” She looked down and her wide eyes grew wider. “Prince Barrick, you are holding my hand.”

He let go, guiltily sure that she had put up with it only because of his high station. He had always loathed men who use their power to compel women’s surrender, had watched with disapproval as Gailon Tolly and other nobles, and even his own brother, took advantage of serving girls. He remembered now with some pain that only a few months earlier he had started a shouting argument with Kendrick about the treatment of one such, a pretty little lady’s maid named Grenna whom Barrick had admired in silence for months. Kendrick had honestly not been able to understand his younger brother’s anger, had pointed out that unlike some men, he never compelled any woman to do anything by force or threat, that the girl herself had been a willing partner and had accepted several expensive gifts before the dalliance played itself out. Kendrick had also suggested that his younger brother was becoming a prig before his time and that he would do better to concentrate on his own affairs rather than comment on those of his elders.

But you must treat them like birds,
had been Barrick’s only confused thought, then and now.
You must let them fly or they are not truly yours.
But no one had ever been his, so what right did he have to think he knew?

Meanwhile, even though he had let go of her hand, Selia had still not taken the opportunity to escape.

“I did not say that holding me was a bad thing . . .” A smile curled her lips, but she was interrupted by the appearance of someone else at the edge of the courtyard.

“Barrick? Are you out here?”

He had never been less happy to see his sister. Briony, however, was already walking along the cobbled path toward the place where he and Selia were sitting, shading her eyes with her hand. Something was odd about her garb, but he was so frustrated with the mere fact of her arrival that he did not at first understand what it was.

She hesitated as she neared them. “Oh, I’m sorry, Barrick. I didn’t know you were speaking to someone. Selia, isn’t it? Anissa’s maid?”

Selia stood and made a curtsy. “Yes, Highness.”

“And how is our stepmother? We were disappointed not to be able to dine with her.”

“She had disappointment, too, my lady. But she was not feeling well because of the baby that is coming.”

“Well, give her our best and say we look forward to another invitation, that we miss her.”

Barrick had finally realized what was odd: Briony was wearing a riding skirt, split down the middle and far too informal for court functions. “Why are you dressed like that?” he asked her. “Are you going out for a ride?” He devoutly hoped it was true and that she was going right this moment.

“No, but it’s too difficult to explain now. I need to speak with you.”

“I should leave,” said Selia quickly. She cast a shy glance toward Barrick. “I have already left my lady’s errand too long and she will be wondering where I am.”

Barrick wanted to say something but the rout had already been effected; he had been forced into surrender without a blow struck. Selia made another curtsy. “Thank you for your kindly conversation, Prince Barrick. I am happy to see that you are more well now, too.” She moved off, perhaps still not her former self, but with that fine and life-enhancing sway to her walk that Barrick could only watch with immense regret.

She wasn’t angry I held her hand,
he thought.
Or just putting up with it. At least I don’t think so . . .

“If you can drag your eyes away from her backside for a moment,” Briony said, “you and I have things to talk about.”

“Like what?” he almost shouted.

“Temper, lad.” Her grin flickered a little, then her face grew more serious. “Oh, Barrick, I’m sorry. I didn’t interrupt on purpose.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“See here, I may not approve of a little baggage like that, but I’ve said my piece once already. I love you, you’re my dear, dearest brother and friend, but I’m not going to follow you around trying to make certain you only do what I want.”

He snorted. “Strange, because that’s how it worked out.” For a moment he felt real anger. “And she’s not a little baggage! She’s not. You don’t even know her.”

Briony’s eyes widened. “Fair enough. But I know you and I know what a turtle you are.”

“Turtle?”

“Yes, with your hard shell on the outside. But the reason a turtle has a shell is because he is defenseless on the inside. I fear that someone will get inside your shell—someone I don’t trust to do right by you. That’s all.”

He was oddly touched by her concern but also infuriated. His twin sister thought he was helpless, that he had no defenses. It was as good as calling him simple—or worse, weak. “Just you keep out of my shell, too, Briony. It’s mine, after all.” It came out a bit more harshly than he intended, but he was angry enough to leave it that way.

She stared. It seemed she might say more about this, perhaps apologize again, but the moment passed. “In any case,” she said briskly, “we have other things to talk about. And I’ve come to you about one of them. Father’s letter.”

“We have another letter?” As always, it filled him with both happiness and fear.
What will I be like when he returns?
A chill passed through him.
And what if he doesn’t return? What then? All alone . . .

“No, not another letter—the last one.”

It took him a moment to understand. “You mean the one that came with that envoy from Hierosol, the Tuani fellow. Your . . . friend.”

She didn’t rise to the unpleasant tone. “Yes, that letter. Where is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where is it, Barrick? I haven’t read it—have you? I didn’t think so. Nor has Brone, or Nynor, or anyone else as far as I’ve heard. The only person who actually saw it was Kendrick. And now it’s gone.”

“It must be among some of the other things he had in his chamber. Or in his secretary, that one with the Erivor carvings on it. Or Nynor has it in with the accounts and doesn’t know it.” His mood darkened. “That, or someone is lying to us.”

“It’s not among Kendrick’s things. I’ve been looking. There are a lot of other matters we’ve got to deal with that are waiting there, but no letter from Father.”

“But what else could have happened to it?”