But this under-footman cringing before him presented the chamberlain with a novel and potentially bigger quandary.
“How was I to know who she was?” the man whined. “No one told us about a sister, and she’s dressed like a carter.”
“And you say you treated her roughly?”
“No! I didn’t touch her. Well, aye, I did grab her arm. But that wasn’t rough. I didn’t cuss her, not really. We was just being careful, as we was ordered to be. You know our orders about strange visitors.”
“Give me a straight answer: Will Lady Percia have cause to complain that you treated their nearest kin without due deference?”
The under-footman scrunched up his whole face. “Aye, chamberlain.”
Vilkit rose. “I will have to see what I can do to remedy this situation. Leave me and try not to commit any more blunders.”
Vilkit hurried to the Church of the Waters, where Duchette Lolethia breathlessly informed him of the melodramatic event—a lost sister’s return! The Wyndton family were currently sorting out their messy personal affairs in the coachmen’s vestibule (of all places); meanwhile, Lordling Marcot, Duke and Duchess Naven, a Brother of Sorrow, and two councilors were just waiting, kicking up their heels, on this, the busiest of all days.
Vilkit paused to run his hands down his uniform to smooth any creases and pat down his hair, lest his haste had caused any disarrangement. Then he approached the Brother of Sorrow.
“Brother Whitsury, you need to be done with your rehearsal by midday bells because of the midmeal. Lord Matwyck will be waiting. I am afraid we really must try to keep to the schedule.”
Just at that moment Lordling Marcot managed to extricate the bridal party from the vestibule. Marcot introduced the late arrival to him.
“Wren of Wyndton, may I introduce Chamberlain Vilkit?”
Vilkit immediately decided not to be harsh on the under-footman; really who could imagine this slops boy to be someone of importance?
“Oh, milady”—a title she didn’t deserve, but flattery usually oiled gummed works—“I regret that the staff has not shown you all due courtesy. If only we had known you were coming to join us on this special occasion! My heartfelt apologies! Please, milady, tell me how I may be of service to you?”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the young woman, offering her hand to shake, a strangely masculine gesture.
Vilkit took her hand, smoothly turned it over, bent and touched it with his lips as he made a deep bow.
“I take it your arrival in time for the wedding is just fortuitous?” he asked. “We must make you welcome! Where is your baggage? I shall have it fetched. Have you dined? Would you care to come this way?”
“No luggage,” answered the sister. “No, I have not dined.”
“Vilkit, please, will you see that my sister is made welcome and cared for?” said Marcot.
“Of course, Lordling. It will be my honor. Milady, if you will follow me?”
Where am I going to put this new guest? All the rooms in the palace are full of visiting gentry. I can’t insult her by putting her in a servant’s room. I dare not ship her out to an inn. Not after the way she’s been treated.
And now she needs clothing too! What a nuisance—these countryfolk! Showing up for a palace wedding without proper garments! This woman’s needs are going to occupy a servant’s whole afternoon. Who can I assign to her who isn’t essential elsewhere?
While pondering how to handle this increasingly messy complication, Vilkit also led the guest into the palace through the ornate “Church Entrance.”
“Your first time in Cascada? Your first time in the Nargis Palace, I presume?” he said to the young woman. He would flatter her with some of his time and a look at the palace’s grandeur. “Let me show you a sampling of our treasures.” He escorted her through a hallway and past a few lesser rooms.
“Here we are: this is the famous Gallery of the Queens and Consorts. This long hallway connects two wings of the palace. On the right you will see portraits of all the queens of Weirandale. Well, not all, because several queens ruled before Chista the Builder had the palace constructed.” He pointed to the first portrait. “You see, we start here with Chista herself.”
The country girl came to a dead stop in front of Chista, examining the painting closely.
“Ahem. Let me show you just the highlights. Now, if you will please come this way, milady, here is Cenika the Protector.”
“Her Nargis Ice is a shield pendant!”
“Yes, isn’t that stirring? And, here, everyone loves to look at Chyneza the Wise.”
“Because of her lovely crown?”
“How very perceptive you are, milady; yes, the Nargis Ice tiara is stunning, is it not?”
“Where is Carmena?” the guest asked, gazing down the expanse of portraits.
“How odd that you ask for her; despite the famous lay we don’t often show her off.”
“Why not?”
“Well, her Royal Stone is very plain, you see; just this odd, misshapen rock around her neck.” In unconscious mimicry, Vilkit made a fist in front of his own throat as he led her several paces forward. “I wonder what Nargis was thinking of. And the queen, while estimable of course, is not, well, the most striking-looking of the queens.”
“Hmm.” The guest made a noise so neutral he didn’t know whether it signaled assent or disagreement. “Is that a dagger she wears around her waist?”
Vilkit looked closely. The portrait was dark; he wondered if one could clean oil paintings and if he should have done so before this fête. He could hardly see the detail that interested the country sister. “Many of the queens wear much nicer swords. Chaynilla the Warrior has a sword studded with diamonds. She’s down here a ways. Let me show you.”
“Just a moment.”
The girl seemed lost in reveries in front of Carmena, despite her strong jaw and wide forehead. But she barely flicked her eyes over Chaynilla’s beautiful sword or Clesindra the Kind’s perfect teardrop of Nargis Ice, which affixed to her cheekbone so magically and which never failed to impress other visitors. A couple of aristocratic visitors to the palace strolled through the gallery, and Vilkit bowed respectfully.
She asked to see Ciella the Patient, probably because of the sentimental song about a love affair that lasted after death, and then she thoughtfully walked across the gallery to look at her prince.
Vilkit worried about geese, wine casks, and whether the scullery maids were breaking dishes. He really had to get back to his office. Servants might be looking for him; all hell might be breaking loose in the stables between temperamental coachmen.
“Ahem,” he coughed discreetly. “We need to move on, milady; ’tis such a busy day in the palace.”
“Just two more, Chamberlain Vilkit,” she replied unhurriedly and without apology. “I’d like to see Queen Catreena the Strategist and Queen Cressa the Enchanter.”
Vilkit led her down to the far end of the row of portraits. He tried to point out the significant details in the paintings of the last two queens, such as the map in the background of Catreena’s picture, and the way the folds of Cressa’s gown hid her pregnancy. But this rustic lass shushed him, staring at the queens with deep concentration, as if she would drink them in. Then she walked across the gallery to gaze at King Nithanil of Lortherrod, consort to Queen Catreena. When she turned to Lord Ambrice’s portrait she gasped. It was a very nice portrait; Vilkit had heard that it caught the very essence of the man, standing with feet firmly planted and nautical instruments on the table beside him. The country lass reached out as if to touch the Lord of the Ships.
“Oh, I’m afraid no one is allowed to touch, milady! The oil paints are precious, as you can imagine, and we wouldn’t want the artists’ work besmirched by dirty hands.”
The visitor turned to look at Vilkit then, and her eyes had a spark in them. Vilkit had the uneasy feeling that she had registered his remark about “dirty hands.”
“Tell
me, Chamberlain,” she said, “were you employed in the palace during the reign of Cressa and Ambrice?”
“Alas, no. I have been here only three years.”
“Then you never knew them?”
“Alas, no. Only by reputation, in the way that everyone knows the rulers of Weirandale.”
“So you serve Lord Matwyck?” she asked, returning back to gaze at Lord Ambrice.
“I do serve Lord Matwyck,” he replied. But then, perhaps because they had spent all this time in this gallery, he added with more forthrightness than was his wont, “Because he is the present regent. But my title is ‘Chamberlain.’ I actually serve the palace. The palace includes”—he swept his arm in a grand gesture—“all these queens, all this history, going back forever and ever.”
Finally, the guest allowed him to escort her to the room where he had decided to lodge her.
“I will send a maid to wait on you momentarily,” he informed the last-minute arrival. “Normally, we do not allow visitors to stay in these chambers. But since you are kinswoman to the bride, I am happy to make this exception.”
He threw open the door, adding a touch of drama. “I am lodging you in the Princella’s Bedchamber!”
42
Nana was bone-tired. Vilkit had been working them all at a furious pace for the last moon, ever since the public announcement of the wedding. These final days he had placed her as supervisor of the china closet, instructing the footmen and maids as to which plate and glassware to lay for which meal, and checking that each dish came back from the scullery spotless and unmarred. She’d been at it for the last two days since dawn. With luck she could snatch a few hours of break now to put her feet up, because the pre-wedding supper table had been set, though later tonight she would have to see the dishes returned in proper order and every piece of silver counted twice.
All in all, she thought that Vilkit had managed everything quite well. The staff worked with a will, though whether out of fear of the Lord Regent, or affection for Lordling Marcot, she couldn’t tell. It could be that the palace workers shared the anticipation of the city folk; all Cascada flapped about in an excited hubbub about the gentry’s luxurious gowns and the rare feasts and the fireworks. Nana reflected that someday the inhabitants would rue the taxes levied to pay for these festivities.
But just now a sheepish under-footman came to tell her some long-winded tale about how he’d been rude to a late-arriving guest and Vilkit had put her in the Princella’s Bedchamber, and he hoped Nana would not be wroth but would help placate this country lass by attending to her as only Nana could.
Nana was not happy to hear her domain had been invaded in this manner. The Princella’s Bedchamber should never be used for guests; it should be kept inviolate. Furthermore, by lodging someone there Vilkit had also ensured that Nana would have to wait upon this guest day and night and she’d get no free time. And Nana’s feet hurt and her eyes felt gritty.
She knocked sharply on the door of the Princella’s Bedchamber.
“Enter!” called a female voice.
Nana opened the door, walked in, and closed it quietly. Standing in the middle of the room, gazing out the window toward Nargis Mountain, stood Queen Cressa. Nana automatically made her curtsey, asking, “How may I serve Yer Majesty?”
The queen started and turned in her direction. Only—it wasn’t—it couldn’t—be the queen. Her darling, her Cressa, had been dead these ten years, leaving Nana with a hole in her heart.
This was the country girl Vilkit wanted her to care for. Her brown hair was fixed in a foreign-looking plait, and she was wearing rough breeches splashed with ink.
“Oh, beg pardon! My eyes are playing tricks on me and I’m an addled old fool,” Nana said.
The girl stood frozen, perhaps in awe of her surroundings or in shock at Nana’s odd slipup.
Why did I think this stranger was the queen? There’s something about the way she stands, the shape of her face—everything is the same, but different too.
Oh Nargis!
“Chickadee!” Nana whispered, sinking to her knees. “At last! I’ve been waiting so long! Where have you been?”
“Nana! Could it be?” The young woman stood transfixed for another moment; then she rushed over to her and got down on her own knees to embrace her. “I’d hardly dared hope that you would still be in the palace! And in my chamber!”
“And where else, pray tell, would I be?” Nana replied with asperity. “I told you that I’d be waiting right here. Well, here I be, practically in the exact same spot, on my knees in yer room.”
“Oh, Nana! I’ve missed you so! I’ve felt so forsaken, down to my toes.”
“Tush! You’ve never been forsaken, not for one instant.” Nana patted her cheeks. “Nargis has always been watching over you. Didn’t you know that, girl? And I’ve been waiting for you. Took yer time, didn’t you, getting back here!
“Come now; let’s get up. Hurts my knees, and it won’t do for a Nargis Queen to crawl about on the floor!”
The young woman helped Nana to her feet. Nana took her by the arm and tugged her into the light from the window. With her soft, wrinkled fingers she traced her former charge’s features: her velvet eyebrows (so well remembered), her cheekbones and jawline (which exactly repeated her mother’s), her chin (which used to jut so stubbornly), and her lips (which used to be so saucy). Her eyes were brown whereas Cressa’s had been stormy gray, and her lashes showed recent weeping. Her hair was a surprise, but it took more than hair color to fool her nursemaid.
Then the princella smiled her very own dazzling, joyous smile—the smile that used to cajole Nana out of being cross at her, the smile that was broader than her mother’s and had a touch of her father’s sunny confidence. She patted Nana’s shoulders, and Nana felt years of fearful waiting lift, like a mist rising off a wet flagstone, warmed dry by a daybreak long awaited.
“Are you well, Nana? No one has hurt you?”
“I’ve grown ancient, girl, and I’m tired. It’s been hard to bide my time, and I’ve had so many duties. I’ve been trying to get ready for yer return.”
Nana’s searching fingers found the burn scars on her neck. She stroked them tenderly. “My little one. What kind of trials have you gone through? And to return and be treated rudely by a footman! I’ll have his scalp. That man is gonna be gutted and boiled alive!”
“You leave him alone now, Nana, so he’s not suspicious.”
The princella captured Nana’s hands and squeezed both of them within her own. The roughness of the girl’s skin and the ridges of scars and calluses—speaking of a life of toil and want—scandalized her former nursemaid. But rather than scold any more, she bit her tongue.
Cerúlia kissed Nana on the brow, making tears spring into her eyes.
“Where have you been?” Nana asked.
“I grew up in Androvale, but for three years I’ve been traveling. Oh, it’s a long, long story—much too long to recount today.”
“Well then, girl, as to the present—how do we get you safely Dedicated and sitting on top of that throne?” Nana asked. “Matwyck would clap you in a dungeon if he knew you was here.”
“Aye, I’ve got to find a way into the Throne Room.”
“The usurper keeps it locked up tight and patrolled day and night,” Nana warned. “And once you’re inside, even if you claim yer name and yer own Nargis Ice from the Fountain, what’s to keep him from arresting you or something worse?”
The young woman waved away these warnings as if they were a minor inconvenience.
“Nana, revealing my identity and claiming the throne is only the beginning. All these years, I’ve had a lot of time to think. To think about how Matwyck got so strong in the first place and why the people didn’t rise up to defend my mother. Why our gentry live so rich and the rural folk so poor. Why Oromondo hates us so. How am I going to bring Matwyck and his confederates to justice without a civil war? My task is much larger than just getting my backside on the throne.”
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The princella collapsed down on the divan, as if the mere thought of the challenges ahead exhausted her.
“Nana, I’ve not been trained to be a queen, and all these years I’ve longed to know loads of things—oh, like how laws get enacted. But lately I’ve wondered: What if our veneration for the queens has hidden their faults? I was just looking at their portraits. What if Clesindra ‘the Kind’ was also Clesindra ‘the Stupid’? What if Cenika ‘the Protector’ was also Cenika ‘the Vain’? I know Catorie swam the Bay of Cinda, but was she good at managing the treasury?”
“Queens are women, girl. Though Nargis blesses them with Talents for their times, they have their faults and they make all kinds of errors. Queen Catreena, yer grandmother, wise as she was, had a cold heart—that I remember well.”
“I need to talk to Tutor Ryton and Chronicler Sewel. But right now, Nana, you must tell me.” She looked in Nana’s eyes as if this was the most pressing issue at this perilous moment. “Was my mother a good ruler?”
The nursemaid took the liberty of sitting down on the divan next to her former charge and patting her hand. “I might be the wrong one to ask, being as I raised her. I know she tried every day to do right. And she loved you with all her heart.” She paused a moment, considering. “But the whole country and the palace factions … Mayhap it was all too big for her, if you catch my drift.”
The princella sighed. “Yes, I understand. And what I wonder is … if I’m up to these challenges, not just getting Dedicated, but ruling.”
Nana didn’t know what to say that would give the princella confidence. In all her planning for the return of the Nargis heir, she had just assumed that once Cerúlia took the throne, all the realm’s problems would melt away.
“Well, yer certainly not up to the task looking like that!” Nana said, rousing herself. “Is that ink?”
“I think so,” said the princella, tugging at her spattered trousers. “Don’t scold. Ruining these clothes is the least of it. Nana, I’ve not eaten today; I crave a bath; and I must have a dress to wear tonight to the dinner and to the wedding.”
A Broken Queen Page 33
