“Are you alright?” she murmured to the guard, but suddenly a guttural roar, followed by a high, keening wail, pierced the air.
Had some of the men strayed from the field into the fleeing carrior’s path? It was possible, she didn’t know them all, and Rize wasn’t here to check. She held up a hand to the guards, gesturing for them to stay put as she ran towards the noise, which was still wailing thinly.
It wasn’t a guard or one of Rize’s men. It wasn’t a man at all. A bone-thin woman with sallow skin was crumpled on the ground, cradling the lifeless body of a boy no older than ten in her arms. The enormous, bright red splash across his chest made it obvious what had just killed him – the silhouette of the bird was still visible in the air.
Ash felt her heart stop in her chest as she looked at the little boy. Their shouting and joking, their shooting crossbow bolts had doubtless attracted the birds” interest, but he had clearly been an easier target than a large group of fully grown men. She hung her head, heavy.
“Who did this?”
She had not realised that the woman was even aware of her, but now the sallow, haggard face was turned up to Ash’s. “Who? Who did this?”
Just a year ago, Ash would have knelt in the dirt and said how sorry she was, how sorry she felt, to this poor woman. But this time was only for the hard, only for the strong.
“I did,” she said, lifting her chin. “It was my idea to bring the guards out here to practise with weapons, no one else’s.”
But the woman swept aside her words with an angry lash of her thin arm. “You think I care about your stupid royal games? Who made the birds big? This project thing… who did this?”
“I… I don’t know. No one knows,” said Ash, realising as the words came out that they were true.
“Well, when you find them, have them use their witchcraft “science” to bring back my son.”
There was nothing more to say. Ash turned and walked away, leaving the woman holding the body of her son on the ground. No doubt they would attract more carriors soon.
***
“Think about it,” Ash said to the war council some hours later. The glistening red ceiling was bearing down on her again, but she didn’t care. The rightness of this idea thrummed in her.
“The people want justice. And they don’t know who started the Expansion Project, only what it’s cost them. It seems to the outsider that the royals and nobility have got off free and clear while the rest of the country is paying in blood – that I can tell you for certain. Is this a thing for people outside of the court, that no one knows who exactly is responsible for bringing about the Project?”
“Well, the team of people who supervise –” began Walters.
“Yes, yes, but whose idea was this? Who first started the talks and experimentation on the first… pumpkin, or whatever it was?”
The men shifted in their seats. They really don’t know, she thought incredulously. The Head Pathfinder sat perfectly still.
Ash tried another tack. “Your Grace, you said that some form of birthday celebration for Prince Rizend would boost the morale of the people – but, respectfully, it will only boost the spirits of those inside these walls. I remember how incredulous I was when I first received my invitation to the ball at which I met some of you. And I can tell you – out there, people are dying. They don’t care for parties. Anger and a demand for vengeance burns in their stomachs at night instead of food. News that someone responsible was being punished by the king would go a long way.”
The king was nodding. “It’s an intriguing idea, I have to say. We have not had a public execution in a year and that, too, boosts the commoners” spirits. It could be two birds with one stone,” he chuckled hoarsely at his own joke, and looked around at Rize and the other men for support.
“No.” The Head Pathfinder’s voice echoed a little too loudly across the room. The red ceiling seemed to bear down further.
With some effort, the older woman smoothed her features into a diplomatic smile as she tried another tack. “Your Highness, would that not be a bad idea? If we stir the people toward vengeance, who might they come for next? Get them into a righteous fury, and they will storm the castle walls.”
“They are already furious, and rightly so! What have we given them, apart from castle entrances barred in their faces?”
Rize stood, his glance flicking between the Pathfinder and Ash repeatedly. “Does it really matter who first did it? Who first came up with the idea? The intentions were good…”
“Oh, please, Rize! There are consequences. As we can all see, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Actions have consequences. It is not about what someone intended to do but what they did do.”
“Well then, God and Path help us all,” said the prince quietly. “There is not a person in this room who did not think that the Expansion Project was a good idea. Will you have us all executed?”
It seemed to be one step too for some people. Without a word, the Head Pathfinder got up from her seat and walked out. Ash snuck a glance at the king. He was watching the emptied doorway she had gone through with narrowed eyes.
***
When Ash got back to her rooms, there were two pieces of parchment waiting for her. How ironic – all she wanted was to send one scrap of paper to one person out there all alone, and instead paper came to her, and from everyone except the one person she desperately wanted to hear from.
“Just a little longer Vanita,” she said to the vine-painted room, and sat down to read:
Ash,
Well done today. You are doing excellently and have learned much since you and Derrick arrived here.
Much as you may not want to hear it, I do still think you should attend the ladies” nightly sewing. It is a sad fact of the world, but in castles like these women are underestimated all the time. Did you see how unsurprised they were about Mary Faireweather? Lords and other noblemen peak carelessly in front of them because they are women, and because they are women they speak too freely at times. You must be there, paying close attention, when those times come. So, try to attend and embroider peacefully, keeping your ears open for veiled gossip and other news.
With regard,
Duke Novrecourte Esq.
P.S. – I have heard from Vanita again. She is alive, but I am concerned. Some thugs visited her and her mother at Rhodopalais, leaving them unharmed but having stolen their food. Know that I am trying to expedite a way to get back to her.
Ash stood, then sat again, her stomach pitching and rolling like a ship. Vanita… she was alive, but starving. And “unharmed” – well, she knew the real world and her own sister better than the duke did. Not to mention life for a woman after the Expansion Project. There was no way she had got out of that without at least a black eye – the thought of Vanita’s eye sent another spike of pain through Ash. Even if she were more seriously and psychologically hurt, Vanita would not tell anyone. She would not want to cause a fuss. Oh, Vanita…
With effort, she tried to take her mind off her sister, and read the second piece of parchment, which was just a little scrap of paper, neatly cut to a square and tinted an extravagant bright orange at the corners:
Her Excellency Sapphira de Mans Aquilla, Lady of the Path and Protector of Germania, requests the pleasure of your company in her solar tomorrow morning at eleven.
Signed faithfully,
Edrick Walters
‘Her Excellency’, was it? “Protector of Germania”? But the old woman was no fool – she even had her own son deliver her summons. Much less risk that way for prying eyes to discover more than it was their place to know.
Rize had said the carriages were Pathfinder operated, made to move only on a certain unknown day to a certain destination. If Ash could somehow force the Pathfinder to reveal how - or have some power over the woman so that she would do Ash’s bidding - then she could go and fetch Vanita tomorrow. It was a tempting thought.
But what did the “protector of Germania” want
with her anyway? It was her first missive requesting a private meeting since Ash had arrived at the castle – presumably she had simply not been important enough until today. Had the old Pathfinder seen what she could do with a carrior and decided Ash might make a good ally? It was a little late for that. Ash had not seen Pathfinders at all in the little clump of nobles who had attended her and Derrick’s demonstration, but that did not mean she hadn’t been there. Ash had heard tales of Pathfinders being able to disguise themselves with their mysterious arts – and the Head Pathfinder, with her unnaturally smooth, supple skin, could pass for anyone.
It gave her an idea. The duke wanted her to attend embroidery meets because women overheard gossip by being underestimated. It was a good idea, but he thought like a noble. Ash smiled to herself, and at the two invitations lying idly opposite each other in front of her.
Quiet as any servant, she changed into her plain smock and headed out the door.
***
Small steps, small mind, Old Merta had always said. Ash almost tripped herself up by changing to a small, mousy step mid-stride and scuffled in a rather un-servile way before finding her footing. Luckily, there would be no servants just yet on the corridor – she had watched it closely and noticed the point at which servants seemed to appear out of thin air. She was almost on top of it when she saw it, an inconspicuous tiny doorway without a door, hidden partially by a low table with a rather ugly bust of the king. She made a mental note to accidentally bump that table later, then started down the unfamiliar passage with her head down, looking at her feet.
Around her, servants were popping out of other doorways onto the same passage like mice from their burrows, all scurrying in the same direction. She followed the tide. In a small staff like this, they would notice a newcomer immediately, with their worries about the mouths to feed. But she had seen a girl with her colouring among the servants and, with an apron obscuring her smock and some dust run through her hair and on her cheeks, it should pass even in the daylight. If castles were anything like mansions, she was just in time for the afternoon role call.
Sure enough, there was her note-writer, Walters the steward, standing looking much more pompous down here surrounded by the little people. He shouted at the lowlier kitchen maids, and other women at the bottom of the ranking first, sending them scurrying off to their posts for the afternoon, with his voice becoming progressively more deferential as the list and crowd grew smaller and he got to the more important and discreet tasks. She shrank into the shadows, watching. She hadn’t thought this far ahead, and they were about to get to the really specialised tasks, like organising women for the noblemen, and Walters would definitely know all those servants personally.
“Scarpie, Beth and Iphigenia to replenish the Head Pathfinder’s solar. LaMotte and Greyer, you two replenish the king’s solar.”
It was as good an idea as any. As unobtrusively as she could, she slunk out behind three girls who were hopefully Scarpie, Beth and Iphigenia and walked towards her meeting, eighteen hours early.
“Who’re you then?”
This she had thought of. “Little Nan’s sister. That man, uh, Greyer, got me in for m’lord Novrecourte. Y’know… don’t tell no one.”
The three nodded sharply. Telling no one was their job. They carried on walking.
Eventually they got to the solar, and Ash had to keep her head down even further to avoid the others seeing the expression on her face. She counted two handsome if threadbare burgundy rugs on the floor and another on the wall, a couch and chaise-lounge both upholstered in spring green and a small dining table and a set of brightly polished oak chairs, guarded by a couple of floor to ceiling shelves bursting with books. Real books. This was hardly the room of a servant. It must have been the solar of the now-dead queen. Convenient, that there would be this vacancy for her newly appointed “protector of the realm her excellency -”
“Hey, Little Nan’s “un, help us with these figs.”
It took her a moment to remember that was her. Ash nodded, trying to look meek and shamefaced, and came toward the other three. “Be quick, mind, and quiet. Her bedchamber’s adjoining there, see, an” who knows if she’s in there or where.”
“The Path sees all,” agreed the one Ash assumed was Iphigenia, and without irony all three made the symbol of the Path and bowed their heads.
“What’s she like, this Pathfinder, then, hey?”
“She’s a saint, is that one. She teaches all that come t’her. There’s not a one of us knows how to think without her, bless.”
“Bless,” agreed Ash, trying to look at the titles on the closest books while at the same time have her face look to the others like their words were meaningless scribbles.
Eventually, they were done, and Ash made sure to be the last to the door. As the others ducked out of sight, she crept back in, and took a look around. Sure enough, there were plenty of books on plants and the growth of plants, even a few rudimentary sketches on the oak table of carrior skulls, clearly done by a talented hand. A square piece of parchment caught her eye, lying next to the sketch. This one was tinted red at the edges instead of orange. It was from the king. A king’s note summoning the Head Pathfinder. Ash smiled to herself.
“Ashlynne,” called a voice from somewhere on the other side of the room. She stopped cold.
“Ashlynne, come in here or I must come out there.”
Some seconds later, before she could move a muscle, the grey, almost ghostlike form of the Head Pathfinder wafted in.
“How –”
“Please, Ashlynne. Do not think for a moment that I did not know you’d be coming in here, that I didn’t know before you did. Much as you may not like it, the Path does see all.”
“Then why didn’t you stop me? I’ve seen these – sketches and books, now… Why did you not stop me if you knew I would uncover the truth?”
“The truth? My dear, the truth is quite a relative term, and one that I think you are nowhere near grasping, personally. No, I thought it best that we have a little chat, you and I.”
The old woman took a few unhurried steps towards Ash and, in spite of herself, she stepped further away. “I saw that the King has summoned you. Perhaps he suspects something.”
“I am ready to meet any scrutiny at the hands of the king,” the woman said silkily, still walking towards her.
“You do not fear the king’s rage?”
“I do not.”
“And even with all your little carrior skull pictures… Well, then you won’t mind me uncovering who started the Expansion Project. Uncovering you.”
At this, the serene face behind the grey hair darkened. The Pathfinder scowled at her almost like a child for an instant. Then. Her expression smoothed to cream again, and she sighed gently and held out her hand.
The effect was immediate. Ash’s body jolted as an invisible hand clasped tight around her throat. She put her hands up, scrabbling to get the invisible throttling off, but there was nothing there.
“I was easy on you the last time, child,” the Pathfinder said in a voice and warm and soft as wool, even as the air was being choked out of Ash’s throat. “I fear that perhaps you didn’t get the message. Will you now leave this fool’s crusade of unmasking whomever first thought up the Expansion Project?”
The pressure on her throat was tightening. “Y-you’re chocking me…”
“Sadly, yes. I am, a little. I really didn’t want to have to. You seem a nice enough girl. Will you or will you not leave this affair alone?”
There was no breath left. She could not breathe…
A gentle sigh. “Will you or will you not stop looking for whoever started the Project?”
The world was turning black. There was nothing more she could do. Slowly, infinitesimally, she nodded her head.
Immediately cold air rushed back into Ash’s lungs and she doubled over, coughing, as the Pathfinder looked on, smiling.
“Go with the Path, child.”
It was clearly
a dismissal. Woodenly, she turned without curtseying or saying another word and left, stumbling down the corridor with the only clear thought in her head to get away.
Ash was learning the ways of the castle, its windings corridors and unexpected stairs. She could not say she was lost, though she felt it, when she walked into the brightly lit large room on the ground floor.
It was not strategy, nor a part of her plan to learn secret gossip in the castle. It was her heart that had led her here. Ash’s eyes took in the details again as though for the first time – the gleaming white marble, the wooden floor to ceiling shelves and the heady fragrance of hanging dried herbs cheerfully swinging from the ceiling.
It must have been pastry day – the kitchens were a hive of activity and filled with the luminous white flesh of pies ready to be glazed for baking. It was as familiar to her as it was foreign, this world to her, and this life she could have had, and it ran an ache right through her like a sword.
“Miss?” asked one maid, but the fiery-haired Tarah appeared out of nowhere again and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, who turned away. Tarah looked at her without speaking.
“Do you… do you think I could help for just a while?” asked Ash in a small voice. She waited for the confused stare, or for the question as to why someone born a lady would try to relax by baking pies, why she wanted to be shouted at by head cooks and told what to do, why she longed for a tragedy in her life to be a pastry knocked to the floor.
But none of those things came. Tarah held her gaze with steady blue eyes and then, without a word, turned and handed her a pie.
Something invisible on Ash’s back lifted, a weight she had not known she’d been carrying, and eagerly she bent over her work.
The body wakes, only to find the mind waiting keenly for it, sharp as the truth.
Ashes Slowly Fall Page 11
