Shadow's End (Light & Shadow) (11 page)

“Well, well,” the Duke said, his voice a reminder of deepest winter, and my attention was jerked back to him; my heart began to beat frantically, like a rabbit caught in a snare. “My niece has returned home at last.”

Chapter 11

Miriel gave a tremulous smile at her uncle, at Temar, at me—and then burst into tears. She hunched over, one hand cupped over her mouth, as Temar walked over to help her down from her horse. His courtly manners and blank face belied the flash of hatred I saw in his eyes; no, Temar had not believed for a single moment that Miriel and I had been rescued. He was watching her now as he always had, with the utmost suspicion. I saw a spasm cross his face as Miriel leaned into him, sobbing, and let him escort her to her uncle. There, he watched as Miriel held out her arms and, under the gaze of the Royal Guard, her uncle was forced to embrace her as if he was
, in any way, glad to see her. As if they were a happy family indeed, to be reunited.

Unwatched, forgotten, I swung down from my horse and stood to one side. I did not know what I should do.
I was miserable; the emotion, unexpected, had welled up and there was no denying it now. I looked over at Miriel and the Duke, studying each other with delighted expressions that concealed loathing and mistrust, and then to Temar, whose blank face concealed thoughts I was not sure I would ever know. The last thing I had expected, in this reunion of enemies, was to feel lonely—I knew this happiness was unfeigned—but still I felt out of place, with no one, not even an enemy, to greet me.

I looked to the guardsmen, who seemed pleased with this tableau of apparent happiness, and knew
at once that what I wanted more than anything was a hug from Roine, the chance to explain why I had gone, and the assurance that there was someplace in the world that I was valued. I had been so focused on surviving this first encounter with the Duke that I had not even considered when I might be able to slip away, but now I took my courage in my hands and approached Temar. He did not look over at me, but I knew he was aware that I was at his side.

“Is Roine in the fortress?” I asked him quietly.

“She is.” He did not look at me. “She is with the healers.”

“I would like to go see her,” I said. “Please.” The corner of his mouth twitched slightly; not a smile, for his eyes were cold.

“Do what you wish,” he said simply, and I stepped away from him, trying to make my face blank. He could have said nothing more hurtful. After all of this time away, in the midst of all the suspicion I knew he held for me, he dismissed me as if I was nothing—neither friend, nor even a worthy foe. I turned and left, blindly, slipping past him and the Duke alike, leaving Miriel and running into the cool dark of the Fortress itself.

For a w
hile, I entirely forgot the fact that I had always disliked this place. I forgot that in the pale light of mornings, the beautiful lines and carvings in the marble looked as if they were carved from bone, and I forgot the way that I had always shivered when I looked up and saw the shadow of the Fortress falling across the Palace grounds. This spire was a reminder to the people of Penekket that peace was fleeting; I, a child of the mountains, born to the blood-soaked ground of Voltur, had never seen war, but had never needed the reminder, and had resented it.

But the Fortress, inside, was no more than another great building, with flickering torches lighting surprisingly clean passageways. I slipped down corridors and made my way up flights of stairs, periodically stopping to ask directions, and pausing to peer out the arrow slits in the alcoves of outer hallways. Far below, I could see the pretty sprawl of the royal enclave, the golden dome of the Palace proper shining brightly in the afternoon light, and, as I rounded the Fortress, the stately buildings of the Academies and, beyond them, the riot of color from the market in the city.

I was beginning to pant somewhat by the time I reached the healers’ chambers. The doctors and midwives and surgeons—being very useful, but not very good with weapons—were housed on a floor very high up, so that they might not be first killed in the unlikely event that the Fortress was breached. There were two dozen or more in their large chamber, all wearing the plain white robes that marked them as healers, tending to a steady stream of injuries and maladies. Roine was bending down to look into they eyes of a small child, moving her fingers back and forth to see if he could follow them. When I saw her, I broke into a run.

“Roine!” She whirled to look at me, a bowl of ointment clattering out of her hand and onto the wooden floor, and for a moment she only gaped at me.

“
Catwin
?” She was frozen for a moment, and then, slowly, she reached out to touch my face. She was shaking. I knew that look, it was the same confusion with which I had beheld Temar—a dream made flesh. But we were not Shadow and Shadow, and thus enemies, who would look at each other not only to marvel, but to measure weakness. We were mother and child. And so she cried; Roine held me close and cried. “I did not think I would ever see you again,” she whispered, and I felt sick with guilt.

“I could not send a messenger,” I pleaded, my voice barely a breath, thinking how flimsy an excuse it was. “We could not risk the Duke finding us.” And, as she wept, I thought that it would have been worth the risk. How had I been so unfeeling?

“But you came back,” Roine said, bewildered. She wiped her eyes. “Why did you come back?” I opened my mouth to tell her, and then hesitated. I did not know who here reported to the Duke, to Gerald Conradine, to the Dowager Queen and her cohort. The knowledge of the treaty, that all-important scroll hidden beneath Miriel’s cloak, was too explosive for me to tell anyone—even Roine.

“I can’t say,” I said wretchedly
, and I saw the flash of hurt in her eyes. Still, she drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded.

“So you are home,” she said, forcedly cheerful. “Miriel will be preparing for her wedding, then?” I froze. Miriel’s wedding. Of course. I had forgotten—we had both forgotten. In the aftermath of the assassination attempt, in the panic of the invasion, bearing the treaty that could change the world—we had forg
otten. Miriel was to be married.

“I have to go.” I headed for the door, as fast as I could, barely pausing at the door. “I’ll come back,” I called, and then I turned and ran, for the stairs, for the nobles’ chambers.

When I presented myself at the doors to the Duke’s rooms, I was met with skeptical stares from his guardsmen. I was no longer wearing finely-made livery, with my hair in a neat braid and Miriel at my side, but instead an awkward boy in homespun, my cropped hair brushing my cheekbones. They let me in only reluctantly, one opining that he had seen me before, and I found myself in the middle of an interrogation.

Miriel was standing in the center of the room, her cloak still around her shoulders, her fingers clenched in the
rough fabric. For the first time that I had seen, she looked out of place in the finery of the palace: her creamy skin, wide eyes, and gleaming hair would have matched the finery of the Duke’s rooms, but for the fact that she wore a rough gown and borrowed boots, that she had bruises under her eyes from fatigue. Her hands and face were dirty, and the days on the road had made her even smaller and thinner.

The Duke was leaning across his desk, intent on Miriel, his eyes wide and staring. He looked almost feverish, he looked unhinged. When I slipped into the room, he swung his head around to look at me, and I tried not to stop dead in my tracks. He did not look like the calculating, terrifying man I had faced, all these years
; he was all anger now, anger and ambition. I remembered his tirade when Garad had died, when he realized that his prized playing piece was now no longer the Queen-in-Waiting, when he saw power slipping out of his fingers. He broke off his low-voiced threats and watched me as I went to Miriel’s side. I wished that I had some guidance; all I had was Miriel’s fear, and the sense that I should continue the charade.

“Are you okay?” I whispered. “I can bring one of the healers to see you.” I looked over at the Duke. “Will you be able to find them, my Lord?”

“Find whom?” His voice was so cold that I flinched.

“The men who captured us. They weren’t far behind, if you were to ride out—“ I broke off when his hand slammed down against the table.

“There
were
no captors! There was no pursuit!”

“What do you mean?” I asked, and his eyes narrowed. On the side of the room, Temar shifted slightly, watching me intently now.
I tried to forget his regard, though I felt my heart beat faster.

“What do I
mean
?” the Duke asked dangerously. “I mean that this was all a lie. You thought you could run away, and then when you tired of it all you came back to me with some harebrained story of kidnapping. Why was there no ransom note, Catwin? Why?”

“We told them we could pay them,” I said desperately. “They said she was a bargaining chip—but that you’d come to get her back if you knew where she was.” I swallowed. “Please, my Lord—Miriel has been mistreated and roughly housed, and I tried to keep her well, but I am afraid she is ill. Please, can she see Roine?”

“My niece is perfectly fine,” he said flatly. “Save thinner, which is no use to anyone. How is she to bear a son for the Dulgurokovs when she looks like a child herself? A fine time I’ll have persuading them to take her now.”

“What?” Miriel had gone white. I reached out for her hand, but she did not notice. She was
staring at her uncle, whose mouth curved in his predatory smile.

“Ah, yes. I suppose I had not told you, had I?” His smile widened. “
Of course, you were not here. You are to be married, Miriel. To Arman Dulgurokov. The marriage will lift you high.” His face twisted. “Higher than you deserve, but it is…necessary.” I frowned at him, trying to understand this, but Miriel had stopped thinking entirely at the sound of the name.

“But…” she
whispered. “He’s….”

“
Old?” The Duke smiled. “Young enough to get a son on you, and that’s all we need. I’ve realized, you see—I can’t trust you to carry my interests by turning minds. But you don’t need to do that now. That’s the beauty of this. All you need to do is get with child. You were to be married to Toros, of course,” he added negligently, as if he had not seen Miriel’s horrified expression, or my own. “Arman’s son, Miriel, don’t tell me you forgot the Court so quickly? But
he
died in a border skirmish a month ago. Arman was still desirous of the alliance. Of course, he hasn’t seen you yet.”

There was
a pause, and I saw some of the fear lift from Miriel’s face. The Duke saw it, too, and smiled, and I realized he had wanted only to see Miriel’s hope, that he might crush it. “But he’ll take you,” he said, smiling cruelly. “He wants to rise as much as I do.” Miriel swallowed.

“I thought you wanted me to be the King’s mistress,” she said. She did not look at the Duke; her eyes were focused on the far wall. “Won’t this put rather a dent in your plans?” It was a quiet defiance, something that offered her little enough hope in any case,
and I saw the Duke’s face flash into anger.

“No,”
he said shortly. “Not this King. Gerald Conradine would not take kindly to the influence you would have, I think, and then I would have no heir and no alliances. That would do me no good.” He took a deep breath to steady himself, and his strange, mad smile returned. “But there is a plan, Miriel. So go bathe and do up your hair; I’ll send a servant for your clothes from the Palace. When you see Arman at dinner, you will be charming, and you will be grateful to be marrying such a man.” Miriel managed a trembling smile, and a curtsy, and he gave her a curious look. “What has gotten into you?” he asked her.

“Only a few days ago, I was in shackles in the cellar of some country house,” Miriel said, watching him with quiet dislike. “Now I come back to luxury, to an invasion, to find that I will be marrying a man old enough to be my grandfather. Forgive me, but all of this is a bit sudden.” The lie was beautifully executed, and his eyes narrowed.

“Then you had best practice your smiles,” he said. He leaned forward, his knuckles braced on the desk, and his eyes bored into Miriel’s. “I’ll not have this plan, as well, undone by your incompetence.”

There was no retort to make. Miriel swept him a curtsy and made for the door to the chambers that would be ours, her back straight but her head bowed. When the door clicked closed behind us, she rounded on me, her eyes blazing. I nodded, and put one finger to my lips. The Duke’s rooms were no place for unguarded words. Even now, I was sure that Temar was listening at the door. What we needed was to sow doubt—be angry enough, unbiddable enough, that he did not think we were lying, and yet make him wonder if our story was true. I hoped that Miriel would catch on.

“You
are
okay?” I asked her. “How is your ankle? I can ask Roine for something for it, if he’ll let me go.” I did not need to worry. Miriel understood at once.

“He doesn’t even believe us,” she whispered, as if incredulous. “We could have
died
, Catwin. They might have killed us, or caught us escaping, and he—“

“Don’t think of it.” I bit my lip against a smile, grinning at her and trying to keep my voice grave. “You can’t think of it. Tonight you have to be smiling and gay and beautiful.”

“I can’t marry that man!” Her uncle would hardly believe our story unless Miriel was herself: strong-willed and stubborn. Now she salted the lies with truth, and I reached out to clasp her hand. I hoped that she could see the sympathy in my eyes, for I could see the real panic in hers. I could feel the slow creep of uncertainty. The Duke’s smile, his assurances—we were in the middle of a plot, and I did not know the scope of it.