Ashes Slowly Fall

by Katya Lebeque

  This one would look like a storm cloud, if the country had seen a storm cloud in the past few years. She held her head high as the duke had told her to, as if to snub the greyness by ignoring it.

  “You look good, very well done so far,” the duke whispered as he sidled up to her. “Are you ready?” Ash and Derrick glanced at each other and nodded. “The first matter of protocol is that you will be presented to the king at once,” the duke had told them. “The king will want to see you in the Throne Room, not his solar or anything like that. No. On his throne, with the Throne Room full, and the summons room too, with just about everyone left at court.”

  Sure enough, Ash felt a chill go down her spine as the vast oak doors groaned open, and they were ushered into the Throne Room. It seemed to fill her whole gaze, this enormous hardwood-floored thing, that stretched on and on until it ended in a throne. Rize went first, then the duke and then them. Ash held herself straight and tried not to look around. It was not nearly as finely wrought and cake-like as the palace ballroom had been, but this Throne Room was certainly impressive. What seemed to be half a hundred courtiers stood on exotic-looking carpets laid out, not on walls, but on the floor. Each courtier bowed and curtsied with studied nonchalance as Ash went past, artfully looking as though they just happened to be in the Throne Room this fine evening when by chance she had shown up. Now she was very grateful the duke had insisted on her changing out of her smock.

  At some invisible signal, Rize and the duke both stopped. Some sort of squire or pageboy or herald Ash had not noticed before came to stand some feet before the throne. He seemed to be announcing them to the king, although he was facing the opposite direction, toward the the room.

  “The Crown Prince Rizend proudly announces the arrival of the new Royal Munitions Experts of the Crown!”

  “You may approach.”

  A jewelled hand beckoning, ridiculous fluffy blonde hair, a pair of large shoulders slouched into a throne and keen, almost bird-like black eyes. These were Ash’s first impressions of the king, as though looking at him in snatches and fragments would help her relax. It did not.

  “Lord father.” Rize went right up to the throne and embraced the king, still sitting. It looked wrong in this room, it looked too human and too sincere. But Rize’s face was untroubled as he turned back and gestured for Ash and Derrick to come forward.

  “Do exactly as I do, watch the exact height and length of time, just bow instead of curtsey,” Ash said low so only Derrick could hear. Never before did she think she would be grateful for her upbringing, but oh she was. With a grace she didn’t feel, Ash swept up to the dais, swishing the sky blue skirts along the floor as though she owned them, and curtsied low and long with her head demurely bowed. After four seconds, she rose slowly. “Your Grace,” she said, only once fully standing again.

  “You are welcome here, woman” the King said. Ash dipped her head again to hide the angry blush that was surely on her cheeks. He had not called her lady, although who else could know how to properly address him but one born into nobility? Then again, no one probably spoke to him who wasn’t nobility. He probably thought she was the munitions expert’s wife, not the expert herself.

  “Your Grace.”

  Derrick had come forward, and too soon, striding up to stand beside Ash and bowing. In spite of his faux pas regarding timing, the bow was done well, and internally Ash relaxed a little. Court was always kinder to men, and he had not disgraced himself. They were fine. For now.

  “You are welcome here,” bellowed the king, seeming to address everyone in the vast room except the two of them. “Munitions expertise is increasingly rarer than gold and more valuable. You are our honoured guests!”

  Rize turned again and smiled at her as if to say “See, what a nice man my father is!” Ash resisted the urge to roll her eyes and dipped once again into a curtsey, gratified that Derrick immediately followed her lead.

  The king smiled beadily at them, and they smiled back. The court was in silence and for a moment Ash felt a wild pang of panic – what was it she was supposed to do next?

  Ah yes. Dipping to the most immediate courtiers present around the throne (including the duke, who nodded) they walked backward from the throne for ten paces, then turned to walk away.

  Derrick breathed out a hot exhale of relief as they went, and it was exactly how Ash felt.

  “Made it.”

  “Yes. So far.” Ash blushed. She was still using her “noble voice” as Derrick used to call it. But it was because of what she was thinking. For Derrick, that had been the great test, but as they had stood before that throne she had suddenly seen a vision of days and weeks stretching before them, of scores and scores of trials like these that looked like amusing little trifles. What to wear, who to address and what to say, how well to dance… All confections of moments, sugar-spun but with poison underneath. She shuddered.

  As they reached the last of the banners, three women sidled up to them. Derrick, not noticing the subtleties, had probably thought they were just walking. He carried on, toward the start of the summons room, without so much as a backward glance.

  The courtier women swished up to her expertly, despite the yards and yards of frothy dress cocooning each of them. Ash closed her eyes momentarily, trying not to think about how much

  Derrick had just offended them, then turned to the women and sank into a safe medium curtsey.

  “Well met.”

  “Well met, good ladies.”

  They were almost exactly alike in stature, all with the slim waists demanded of a lady at court and certainly unmarried, judging by their gowns. But that should automatically cast them as queen’s ladies-in-waiting, so what were they doing here alone? One was blonde, while the one in the middle was pertly pretty in a sharp-featured way, her rosebud mouth pink beneath glistening dark curls. The one on the left seemed to be a duller, fainter copy of this one and seemed to know it. She held her peace while the pretty middle one spoke.

  “Lady Cerentola, I believe, of Rhodopalais? Well met.” It was not really a question, and Ash raised her chin further.

  The dark-haired middle one gestured over her shoulder. At this, a boy near twelve came shambling forward, who looked as though he could not decide whether to be a page boy or squire, so had dressed for both. “Introducing Lady Bella Nargosi of House Méchanceté,” he droned, and she dipped in an insolently small bob, black eyes never leaving Ash’s face. “Also ladies Mary Fairewether of House Wether and Naomi Verraine of House Verraine.” Judging by her immediate reaction, the other dark-haired girl was Mary Fairewether, with a curtsey like an apple bobbing in a bucket. But the blonde, hers was a work of art – a lower full lady’s curtsey, but done with a informal flair and the smallest of smiles. As she straightened, she saw Ash watching her and her ice-blue eyes twinkled. “It is an honour to at last meet the mystery girl from the ball.”

  Bella Nargosi’s nostril flared and she scowled at the blonde, but her “Fairewether” copy was already bobbing up and down again.

  “Oh, and that dress! How exciting, to think you’re a lady of House Rhodopalais as well! That’s a good one, isn’t it?” she turned to Bella Nargosi, who stared back frostily.

  Ash was too tired for this. Facing that throne had taken all her energy and more, and she had no interest in calculating who this person was and how much to offend or praise them.

  “I was Lady Cerentola, yes. But I rescinded that title some years ago. I have no titles, no lands and,” she tried for a smile of gentility, “I am certainly no lady.”

  A hush fell among the silken skirts. The Bella one recovered first. “We had heard rumours but, well…” she left the sentence hanging there, in the midst of all the cloying finery. “And is it true that the prince found you himself and recommended you to the king, after the ball, for your… expertise?”

  “It was my idea to come to the king as a munitions expert, not the prince’s.”

  Ash had nothing in common with these creatures, and s
o she held herself up well. “A man when he meets an adversary takes in the size of his sword, the condition of it and his way with it,” Ash’s mother had said to her once long ago. “A woman, what does she have? A woman’s armour against other ladies is her bearing and poise, the way she holds herself in a fine gown can send a message better than any other clad in furs or pearls.” Ash would rather have had a sword. But still she stood tall.

  The blonde one moved subtly forward. She was House Verraine, the only house of the three old enough to stand toe to toe with Rhodopalais, and it showed. “Nevertheless, these nights there is a chill in the air, and we all know that court can be as lonely at first as it is overwhelming,” she said smoothly. “To stave off the chill we, well, women have taken to sewing in the nights in each other’s company. It would be our pleasure to host you at our little gathering.”

  “Yes,” put in Bella-Whoever, “though it’s no excitement after winning a ball.” Her laugh pierced the air, shiny and sharp as a needle.

  “How kind,” Ash smiled. It was again not a question and did not deserve a real answer. She looked around desperately for Derrick.

  “You must be tired from your journey, of course,” said the Fairewether girl with surprisingly sensitivity, and Ash smiled gratefully. “I am, yes. I thank you for your leave.” Her curtsey was a bit too low, now that she knew who they were, but she didn’t care. With more speed than decorum, she turned and walked out the Throne Room.

  Derrick was there waiting for her, despite the confusion it would cause to see someone who had already seen the king in the summons room.

  “Where did you go? I turned around and you were gone!”

  “I was talking to courtiers. The former queen’s handmaidens. They approached us, and you snubbed them. So I had to clean it up.”

  “I did?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Derrick groaned. “I’d rather they were all carriors. I’d know how to deal with those.”

  “Trust me, I feel the same way.”

  “At least you know what to do. You can deal with both courtiers and carriors, it seems.”

  There was never any point in talking to Derrick when he was like this, sulky as a child. In his new outfit, he looked like a page boy. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  The summons room was cold, she realised suddenly. She had been so caught up in the nerves she’d felt in the Throne Room that she hadn’t noticed the skin on her arms chilling into gooseflesh. She rubbed at herself beneath the brocade and thought of Vanita. Had it all just happened today? It was nearing the end of twilight now, night would be coming soon, to both the castle and Rhodopalais.

  How did Vanita feel about potentially seeing another owl carrior? Maybe even the same one that had taken her eye, come back for more? She had never asked her.

  Asking questions there were no answers to would make her go mad. She started off toward the courtyard they had passed on the way in, then turned the opposite way they had come, guessing that that was the way further in to the castle.

  “Did you see which way the duke went?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because I have no idea where to go, where any of the room are, and neither do you.”

  “Lord, I hadn’t thought of that. There must be four dozen rooms in this place or more!”

  Ash laughed in spite of the chill. “Try four hundred.”

  Derrick tutted at her side, deciding obviously that she was playing him for a fool. “Don’t be silly, Ash.

  There aren’t four hundred rooms in the whole world.”

  “Is that so? Well, I consider myself educated.”

  They were now in some sort of passageway, high domed ceilings of gloomy grey stone pressed into fine groin-vault arches. Here at least torches flickered orange light over the flagstones.

  “This way. When we start to see tapestries and carpets on the walls, we’re on the right track.”

  “How do you know?”

  Ash shrugged in the dancing light. “That’s what I would do - put decorations on the walls only where important people were likely to see them.”

  Abruptly, Derrick stopped midstride. Ash turned, and he was looking at her with a strange expression, his shadow was cast monstrous and wide on the grey walls.

  “What is it?”

  “I – well, thank you. I would never have thought of that. And I know I don’t know how to do this. I’m glad you’re here.”

  The look on his face was so sincere, it cut through the finery of the ridiculous doublet that made him look like a child in costume. Looking at it, Ash realised that without noticing she had slipped back into old habits. She was standing straighter and her mind was colder, more calculatedly formal. She was acting like a lady again, and a lady had no business being friends with Derrick.

  Beneath the torches and bare walls, she took his hand.

  “Miss? Sir?”

  A serving girl had come out of nowhere, carrying something that looked to be washed linens and servingware. Her hair was an astonishing red, almost the same fiery colour as the torches. But her face was open as she bobbed a curtsey.

  “The castle is glad to receive you.”

  “Ah yes, thank you… girl.” What station was she? It was impossible to tell. The girl appraised Ash and Derrick with no hint of self-consciousness on her freckled face. They must have looked as aimless as they felt.

  “If it please m’lady and sir, I was just taking bedding to the new rooms for the new munitions experts,” the girl said carefully. “They are this way.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind. We will follow.”

  Off the fiery head bobbed down the passage and up a nearby staircase like a beacon, Ash nearly tripping over her hateful skirts trying to keep up. Sure enough, here and there tapestries of hunting scenes and martyred saints blossomed on the walls and, eventually, stained glass windows and occasional tables with foreign-looking pottery were added to the scene. At last, the servant led them up a few stairs to a landing presided over by two large oak doors opposite one another.

  “Here they are Miss, Sir.”

  “Many thanks girl. What is your name?” “Tarah, Miss.” She turned to walk away.

  “Wait, Tarah, the cloths?”

  “Oh, these. These are for the Great Hall. There is to be an especial sup tonight for the new munitions experts as our honoured guests.”

  “But you said you were coming this way? To the new experts” rooms?” The girl looked her full in the face, a mischievous smile on her elfin face.

  “Indeed, Miss. As soon as I saw you two wandering around, I was. Now I am expected in the hall again.”

  Tarah spoke whatever came into her mind, it seemed. Beneath the startling hair, her face was almost impish. Ash’s father would’ve had her whipped. Stepmother would’ve whipped her herself. “Thank you for your kindness, Tarah. Goodnight.”

  “G’night, m’lady.” And off she went.

  Almost as soon as she had left, footsteps rounded the corner. Ash hadn’t yet forgotten how to be hunted and the habits that came with it. She found both she and Derrick had lowered slightly, bending to reach for where their crossbows no longer were.

  “There you are!”

  The duke. All Ash’s breath came out in a gust as she stood again and glared.

  “Where were you?” huffed Derrick before she could. “We were done with the king and you had left.

  Got lost, didn’t we?”

  “Ah, apologies. I should’ve thought of that. But you found it alright in the end?”

  “A servant helped us. So, where were you?”

  “Please, my lady. This is court now. You need to get out of the habit of expecting someone to provide you with honest information simply because you ask.”

  “I’m not a lady and you know it.”

  Instead of replying, the duke simply leaned back against a tapestry, putting his back squarely in some dying stag’s face. He pointedly looked her up and down, and Ash knew he what he was seei
ng: the dress, crease-free despite walking, hands folded just so, the angle of her chin. A hundred little habits, from a hundred lifetimes ago.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. It looks like you have enough ladies around here. Such useful creatures, don’t you think?”

  The duke snorted, but before she could respond, raised his voice to more formal tones and gave a rather flamboyant bow of greeting. “Well met, honoured guests!” he cried as if he had just now come around the corner. “It pleases me to pass on the news that our good king has requested your presence in his solar tomorrow morning, along with the rest of his war council. In the interim, there will be a feast this night in honour of your arrival.” Ash noticed behind him a gaggle of noblemen and women walking past. As soon as they were gone, he dropped the act and spoke low and clear again:

  “… And you may want to be careful, Ash. Everyone’s usefulness dries at some stage or another.

  Thanks to me, you may yet live to know what that’s like.” He flashed her his best nobleman’s smile. “Let me know how it feels, will you?”

  Earlier, Ash would have given him a piece of her mind for that comment, but she was suddenly very tired and just waved it away. “Whatever you say. I’m going to lie down for a bit and gird my loins before this hateful feast. No doubt some maidservant will come put me in another ugly dress soon. I’ll take this room, you take that one?”

  “Sure. See you later, Ash.”

  Once she was inside, Ash pressed her face to the oak door for some time, feeling the solid coolness beneath her face, tracing the lines in the wood’s grain. She wanted to look at something simple. She wanted to be home, with her sister. But it was much too late for that now.

  Whatever she had been expecting of her room, when she at last turned to look at it, she was surprised.

  It seemed she had chosen the right room. Polished wooden floors stretched over to a generous fireplace that was blazing merrily already. Tapers were lit – a luxury now anywhere - and a lulling, pleasant prettiness was everywhere. There were several books on a low table, and painted vines with flowers climbed the ochre walls. She smiled. On top of the bed was an embroidered covering and, on top of it, a piece of parchment.