Ashes Slowly Fall

by Katya Lebeque

  Dearest Ash,

  When my mother was young at court, this was her room. I am told she came here out of fondness from time to time in secret, even after she became queen. I hope it is good to you, as you have been good enough to share your carrior-killing secrets with us.

  Welcome.

  Rize

  A warm feeling spread its fingers through Ash’s middle and she realised with some surprise that for the past few hours she’d been afraid. But now, thoughts were again simple. The letter, the lovely bed and its softness underneath her hand were all strangely comforting.

  How strange that life had twisted its turns so that she was about to sleep on a real bed again for the first time in nearly three years. If for nothing else, this castle and all of the worry would be worth it for the simple, primal pleasure of waking with a pillow beneath her head.

  A small smile crept up Ash’s face without her knowing it. The bed was miraculously soft and, in just a few minutes, she was fast asleep.

  “Miss? Miss!”

  There was a person peering down at her, and instinct threw Ash’s hands in front of her face as she lurched awake.

  “Miss?”

  The serving girl was looking down at her, concerned. Ash remembered where she was and put her hands down, blushing. How long had she been asleep?

  “I come ta” bathe and dress you for the feast tonight, Miss.”

  “Yes, thank you. Indeed… what time is it?”

  There was nothing Ash wanted more than to stay in this cherubic bed, feast be damned. The girl must have seen so on her face, because she didn’t give an hour of the day.

  “It’s but only twenty minutes to the feasting’s start, Miss.”

  “Right, yes, that isn’t long. Have they given you a dress for me and slippers?”

  “I was told it was all here, Miss, and that the Crown Prince personally saw to it that you’d have dresses but that you could choose for yourself.”

  “He did, did he?”

  The wardrobe looked to be cherry wood and was inlaid with vines that matched those painted on the walls. Ash opened it, to reveal more vibrantly coloured dresses than she had seen in years. Lustrous red silk, velvety blues and sharp greens all bursting ripely from where they’d been left, pressed, for who knew how many years. Without having to ask, Ash knew instantly that they were his mother’s, although they didn’t look like the relics of a dead woman. Instead, they looked like fanciful birds from faraway places, or laughing women who had just this second been spirited from the lively party they’d been enjoying and then stuffed into this cupboard.

  The colours almost made her mouth water, and Ash smiled. It was the answer to the question he must have known Ash would ask: “What was your mother like?” This was what.

  “Which one will ye be wanting then, Miss?”

  So many to choose from… what would Queen Mother Rize have done?

  “The king’s own family crest and colours, what are they?”

  “His what? The, uh, the badges that are in his chamber are red, Miss, sort of darker red, with a gold animal on – I think it’s a bear.”

  “Then I’ll wear the red silk, thank you, and can a gold hairnet be organised?”

  They were just finishing when there was a knock on the door.

  “Enter.”

  “Enter, is it? You used to say “come in” before we lived in a castle.”

  Derrick looked handsome in a buttercup yellow doublet, even more fine and embroidered than her father’s one which he’d worn to the ball. The memory of that night still… anyways, he looked handsome. Almost as ripe as the dresses in the wardrobe. But it would not do to say so aloud. “Derrick, you look like a marigold.”

  “I happen to know you like marigolds.”

  “Liked. There are none left.”

  “Well, now I’m depressed Shall we go down and eat a lot of rich people’s food, Miss Fancy Red Dress?”

  As they came out of Ash’s chambers, the duke was waiting with a ready glare for them for being late, but he broke into a laugh when he saw Ash.

  “Oh, very clever. Great choice in dress.”

  “I actually think it makes her look pale.”

  “Pale in comparison to the former queen, maybe, but still a great choice. Nevertheless, it may not be such a good idea for you to be seen in each other’s rooms though.”

  “We weren’t seen!”

  “So, there was no servant helping Ash dress? Because if there was, half the castle saw before she’s even got down the stairs. Now come on.”

  The feast was in the Great Hall, which Ash had not seen yet, two staircase and several confusing turns away from her new lovely room and that lovely, warm bed. Suddenly, a memory stirred that Ash did not know she had: her parents having gone to a party at another estate and, for some reason, her joining them. Perhaps they had been making a match for her. She remembered being four years old and asleep as they’d got out of a carriage. She remembered being shaken awake and climbing dutifully out, tripping sleepily along behind her parents without seeing where she was going, possibly still dreaming a dream. Walking through the castle suddenly felt like that – tripping through a dream.

  “Ash, what do you think about this war council thing, then?”

  The war council… At last she felt properly awake. “It’s good for a king to form a council like that. Others have done it before, in hard times,” she answered Derrick without taking her eyes from the duke in front of them.

  “No, Ash, I mean what do you think about us meeting this council tomorrow morning?” “Goodness, I’d forgotten all about that. It’s most likely a bunch of old men talking and not doing much else. It will probably be boring, but I’m sure it will work out.”

  “Do you not think we should prepare something? Rehearse what we will say? I’ve never been to something like this Ash. And I’m not like you.”

  “Derrick, I know but really, we were invited. We’re not just summoning ourselves. Why would the prince have called us here if we weren’t going to be useful?”

  “I mean, a lot of the men might say a war council is no fit place for a woman. Don’t you want to have something ready to say to them?”

  No fit place… it was exactly the kind of thing her mother would have said, in exactly those words. Come to think of it, Stepmother would have said a near identical thing. Ash hoped she was all right, but felt the fear squeeze in on her lungs and pushed the thought away.

  “Don’t you worry about me, Derrick. I already have plenty to say to that.”

  As they rounded the last corner and came into the hall, Ash found herself thinking about her mother, what she would have done at a time like this. Said prayers, most likely, embroidered to calm herself, or sewed things for the servants. Her mind cast itself back to that dreadful, helpless morning after Vanita had almost died. What had she done? She had sat there, watching her sister, doing embroidery. It was perhaps the sort of thing those slithering noblewomen from the Throne Room may have done.

  “Actually, you know what, Derrick? I’m rather looking forward to this war council.”

  But Derrick wasn’t looking at her.

  Silently, Ash turned; and her heart caught too at the sight of more people alive in one place than she’d seen in years. The Great Hall laid out before them was almost the size of a whole floor of Rhodopalais and was crowded, wooden floors to the rafters, with people. No, nobles. Every one of the most important people in the country were spread out before them eating, talking and laughing all at once.

  “This way you two,” the duke said.

  Their wooden table and benches had been polished to a gleam and was one of only two parallel to the slightly raised one that could only be the king’s table. A high place of honour – even Derrick seemed to have noticed. Candles aplenty were already lit and glowing, though many people were still standing, and there were several ceramic flagons of sweet wine. Quite a display. Ash supposed she should stand and speak to the noble maidens again, but instead she s
at down and let her eyes run free.

  Long lines of shining wood, wine, clatter and countless conversations. A hundred new pairs of eyes. These were Ash’s first real impressions of the castle. It was far noisier than the Throne Room and near as overwhelming, but seemed realer somehow.

  There was one finely dressed man already seated to her right, and she turned to him with what she hoped was a polite smile. The man bowed his head deferentially, took one hopeful look up and down her bodice, and then promptly stood to speak to everyone else at the table except her. She turned left to Derrick, who shrugged. He was also not getting spoken to. Her mother had always told her to keep up polite but undemanding conversation at tables, but clearly the rules had changed since then. Still, the food was hot and the drinks cool, at least.

  After a while, it was easy to slip into a kind of trance, sipping ale and just watching them, these nobles, these creatures. Eventually, she discerned a rhythm in the chaos. Turn to your right and make idle conversation, then to your left. Laugh at almost anything either person says. If the person to your right or left is noticeably more important than you are then you must show them that you are important too, by speaking to everyone except them. This explained then why she and Derrick were so short of conversation. Ash shook her head, then immediately stopped herself, and sipped more wine.

  She was about to lean over and explain her new observation to Derrick, when the room hushed. The king had arrived, alone. Where was Rize?

  Everyone should be getting up to go and present themselves to him, bow, make some small talk. Ash knew that much, but everyone was staring. The realisation hit her like a slap: it was they who were the guests of honour, they should go first. She shoved Derrick as subtly and nobly as she could and stood.

  “Your Grace.” She curtsied as low as she dared in this dress and was gratified to see Derrick bowing low too.

  “Yes, yes. Well, let’s have a look at you then,” he said to Ash as though she were a juicy pig on a spit. In the candles” light he looked younger and he had changed into a gold ensemble accented with red nearly exactly the same shade as hers. A chain that look both important and heavy was slung around his shoulders.

  “You honour us, good king –” Derrick stammered. “The feast is… it’s good, sir. Your Grace.”

  “Yes, yes,” huffed the king, eyes on Ash’s skirts. “I hope we’ll be seeing more of you as our fine country rises with the help of your… munitions, girl.”

  It was almost too obvious to be believed, the way the king’s piggy eyes raked over her, and he waggled his eyebrows – so much less blonde than his hair – in a way that was so pointed it was comical. Yet Derrick did not seem to think it funny, and beneath the cover of her billowy skirt, Ash gripped Derrick’s wrist just as he tensed. This man was king and there was nothing they could do now.

  “Your Grace,” she simpered, and walked away.

  “That creep,” Derrick hissed as they sat down. “He’s old enough to be your father – I mean, sorry, I didn’t mean – but he’s old!”

  “Hush Derrick, you never know who might be listening,” said Ash, feeling as though the duke were speaking through her.

  Something was placed in front of her – roast sparrow, it looked like, although no birds so small nowadays. Dribbled to the side was plum sauce, a cloying sweetness that mixed with the meaty greased smell of the bird. And she had thought at the palace, just like everywhere else, people were starving… It was suddenly all too much for her. As quietly as she could, Ash rose from the bench and left.

  The Great Hall was suddenly too loud even as she was leaving it, and all once she couldn’t believe she’d been able to bear sitting in there. This castle was madness. It joked and laughed and worried about curtsies – she had for a few foolish hours worried about curtsies – while other people outside its walls lay dying. Hopefully those people did not include her sister tonight, or Stepmother, but who knew?

  The darker, cooler corridors were soothing, drawing Ash on. At some point she’d have to admit to herself that she was lost, but right now, she didn’t care, and walked on.

  The corridor opened without warning into a courtyard. The flagstones were something black and shiny in the moonlight, perhaps obsidian, and at the centre of the courtyard lay a small pond of clear, glimmering water. Next to it was the prince.

  Rize was kneeling, examining the water it seemed, but when he saw her he stood up quickly, wiping his hands on his thighs.

  “Ah, Ash. It’s nice, this, isn’t it? At the top it’s blocked off by a kind of glass so that carriors can’t get in. It’s enclosed. Pathfinders” idea.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Yes, I was checking to see if any of my water lilies had taken. I was going to come inside in just a bit. To tell you the truth I hate feasts.”

  “I can see why.”

  “They’re loud and force me to talk more than I want to. Is my Lord Father there?”

  “Yes, he is. Derrick and I presented ourselves to him. He - well. It’s a great honour to have such a feast. We’re very grateful.”

  Rize groaned in the moonlight. “No… don’t tell me he addressed you like some tavern wench… He did, didn’t he?”

  “Well he certainly didn’t address Derrick the same, let me put it that way.”

  “Look, I’m sorry on behalf of my father, but it’s not what it seems. Really. It’s just that he only knows one way to talk to women. It’s his generation. He’s not so bad, you’ll see tomorrow.”

  “At the war council? Yes, I’m sure he’s his cuddliest there.”

  “Oh, it’s mostly just boring men disagreeing for no good reason. Something to suffer through – but hopefully you’ll change that. I dare say having a pretty girl present may inspire them to actually act bravely for a change.”

  Before she could respond, he took a comical step forward and ostentatiously offered his arm. “Shall we retire inside, good lady?”

  Rize’s face was so vulnerable and open here, she almost didn’t want to subject him to the awfulness of that hall. Or herself, for that matter. But they were in the castle now.

  “We shall, my prince. No dark alcoves on the way, then?”

  “No dark alcoves. On my honour.”

  Chapter Four

  A woman in the cabinet

  The next morning was started, far too early, by a thunderous knocking that could have been on the door to her room or on the inside of her skull.

  Ash cracked an eye open and stared sourly at the painted vines on the walls. How much wine had she had last night? It hadn’t seemed that much, she’d wanted to keep her wits about her, but now it seemed her wits had deserted her sometime in the night as penance, just before the day they were needed most.

  “Ash? Are you up?”

  Derrick’s voice. Up for what? For running him through with a sword? Absolutely.

  “Ash the meeting with the king starts soon. That perfumed duke told me last night that it was soon

  after the second chiming of the bells, and I’ve just heard the first bells. Ash!” “I’m coming, I’m coming! Keep your corset on, good lord!”

  The sun wasn’t even properly up yet. If this king was trying to endear himself to her… but no, even she remembered something about the war council meeting at the same time each day or week or something at the exact same time. In the half-light, she scrabbled around for a decent dress and put her hair up, maliciously waiting until the last moment before she let Derrick in. He almost fell through the door he’d been leaning on it so hard.

  “Does it take all ladies so long to get ready?”

  “That was ten minutes!”

  “Which is long. Let’s go.”

  As they began descending the stairs, Ash almost tripping over her gown every other minute, a ghostly brass ringing sound began. It sounded so otherworldly, it took Ash a minute to even decipher what it was: several hand-held bells, rung in different parts of the castle, at exactly the same time.

  “They ring t
hem every morning twice, he says. One for Mass, for those of the old Christian faith, calling them to prayer. Another for those who are followers of the Pathfinders.”

  “Praying is much encouraged by anyone who has the stomach for it, I guess. Who else is going to fix this?”

  “We are,” said Derrick grimly, his face set in the direction of the king’s rooms.

  They had to go down a level and pass the servant’s quarters to reach the only staircase that led to the royal chambers. They were halfway across the floor when they heard a sound that made them stop cold, muffled yet unmistakable in the crisp air: a woman’s scream.

  Ash ran towards the sound, picking up her skirts to an indecent height. The screams were coming in regular intervals but too soft, as though gagged, but they got louder as she and Derrick ran towards them.

  A sharp, snapping sound was accompanying the screams now. As they rounded the corner, they almost fell into a dismal little courtyard, off what must have been the castle’s bailey. At it’s centre was a whipping post and tied to it was Tarah.

  Ash heard Derrick gasp next to her. The servant girl’s fierce red hair was unmistakable, even though it obscured her face. A liveried man who looked like a gate watchman was whipping her with a resigned, unhappy look on his face. The white hands trembled in their ropes as the whip came down again and another scream escaped, thick and muffled with cloth. She had stuffed her smock into her mouth to dull the sound.

  It seemed to have been the last lash because the man coiled up his whip and shook his head once, walking off. The other servants around were muttering and tutting, but none seemed to be helping the slumped form. In fact, Ash noticed they were starting to leave.

  “You, fetch this girl a glass of water,” she barked, grabbing the arm of a servant nearby.

  “Yes Miss.”

  “Why was this girl whipped?”

  To Ash’s amazement, the servant huffed and spat on the ground. “Who know why she do it? Every fortnight or so, some minor offense, then she gets whipped. If she don’t get caught, she do it again until she do get caught. She wants to get whipped. I’m blessed if I know why. But I’ll get that water, Miss, if y’think it’ll help.”