by Zoe Marriott
25
The party from the Silingana was in high spirits the next morning. The snow had stopped, and after a hearty breakfast the day was dedicated to snowy, sporting pursuits.
For the sake of my campaign for Uldar’s affection, I forced myself to participate in the skating. I claimed the Prince’s attention early by asking for his help in tying the delicately carved bone-blades to the bottoms of my boots. And gritted my teeth in a rictus smile when Shell proved yet again that she was unearthly graceful at everything she did.
While she skimmed across the silver-white surface of the ice like some glorious red-black firebird, with Uldar’s friends and crowds from the castle ooohing and aaahing around her, I wobbled, slipped, and clung to Uldar’s arms in a way he apparently found highly gratifying. I was not called upon to exaggerate my clumsiness at all, and the mounting redness on the Prince’s cheeks and the increasing brightness of his eyes each time our bodies pressed together would have been evidence of unqualified success if only he had not stopped our lessons every five minutes to call out praise and encouragement to the spinning, leaping, castaway girl. Even Miramand, who moved around us in slow, sedate circles with her lady-in-waiting dogging her steps, was better at the sport than I.
By early afternoon I was thoroughly cold, mildly bruised, and quite ready to use the slender skating blades to commit bodily harm to anyone who got between me and a warm drink. When Yasha proposed a small shooting party – a few hours in the local woods, hunting winter birds for the table – I wavered. Shell’s hasty headshake showed she had no intention of going along, and Uldar was fizzing with excitement. I should accompany them, and press my advantage. But although I was accounted a fair shot, really I hated muskets. At home hunting was done on horseback, with trained dogs and hawks, not with the inelegant noise and brutality of firearms. To me, they were weapons, not to be used so frivolously. And so I gladly waved Uldar and his friends away, and committed myself instead to an afternoon with Katja, exploring her pride and joy, the so-called Glass Gardens, which turned out to be situated on the castle’s flat roof.
Where Shell disappeared to I did not know – and nor, I told myself firmly, did I care.
The Glass Gardens were pleasant under the afternoon’s bright sky, and their central conceit, of a garden designed to be enjoyed in the winter, was fascinating enough to distract me from worry and frustration. Katja, filled with cheer after having gained her father’s permission to accompany me back to the Silingana when we returned, was a delightful companion.
“We form the panels with linen soaked in water, or lace, to create the textures,” Katja explained, showing me an ice sculpture in the shape of a tree, with a trunk carved from a block of ice and branches and leaves that were clear and iridescent. The skills used to create it – and indeed, all the detailed ice-sculptures that covered the roof – without the help of an Ice Breaker, were indeed impressive, and I told her so.
“I’m so flattered you like them,” she said, patting a small potted fur, the dense needles of which had been trained into a triangle shape. “I know the gardens of Yamarr are famed the world over. I’ve always dreamed of seeing them.”
I, too, dreamed of seeing them again. All the time. The forest garden with its flocks of tame, brilliantly hued birds, the terraced garden with its lush flowers and fruit, the water garden with its green fountains and pools, and the miles of white stone avenues wavering in the mid-day heat... I swallowed hard, passing a mittened hand quickly across my eyes.
“Of course, some of these things will need to be broken down or moved aside for tonight,” she finished.
“Tonight?” I echoed, confused.
“Yes, if the weather keeps clear. For the viewing party, Princess. Of Morogana’s Lights? We always watch them from here; it’s the best view in Skalluskar.”
Night on a snowy rooftop in midwinter? After a full day tramping over ice and snow? Didn’t these people ever stop? And what were Morogana’s Lights, anyway? There had been a vague reference in a book about ‘God’s writing on the sky’ but any further detail escaped me. I would just have to smile through it, I supposed. I murmured: “Delightful.”
*
After dinner that evening, a little later than usual to give everyone who would be staying up the time for an afternoon nap, the Silinganans, plus Yasha, Katja and a handful of Skalluskar’s notables, headed up to the roof.
The viewing party, at first, did not seem as if it would be an occasion of much significance. Sleepy-faced servants led us along a path lined with oil lamps, so that no one stumbled into one of the deep snow drifts which had been packed, cut and shaped into fantastical shapes on either side. As Katja had said, a large section of the garden had been cleared of snow and all its other features. In this space, comfortable couches and seats, piled high with furs, blankets and cushions, awaited us. Small iron braziers surrounded the seating area, glowing with warmth. The servants placed out trays of steaming drinks and candied nuts and fruit, and then withdrew to give the noble company some privacy.
Uldar seated himself on one side of a small loveseat in the most shadowy corner, away from the others and beneath a large fir tree. I expected Shell to sit beside him, and prepared to assert my own claim. But as I looked around, Miramand caught my eye. She had snagged Shell and drawn the other girl to the front of the cleared area where Uldar’s young friends waited. Shell was looking back, brows drawn together as if seeking a chance to escape – but Katja claimed her attention, and the castaway girl reluctantly turned away.
I mouthed grateful thanks at the Queen, who quirked an eyebrow at me. Then I took the second seat next to Uldar and, greatly daring, pressed myself into the Prince’s side.
“What have you been up to?” I asked him, playfully, expecting my ears to be filled with tales of heroic feats from the afternoon’s hunting.
He jerked as if the question had been a sharp prod, making me wonder what on earth he had been up to. Then he seemed to relax, grinning rather tiredly. “Oh, nothing much. Yasha says I’m out of condition, if you can believe his cheek! There was a lot of noise and running about, but we didn’t see much sport. I – am a tad worn out, I think. I don’t really like muskets all that much...” he trailed off, a little forlornly.
“That’s all right. We can just sit quietly and look at the sky,” I said, surprised by his wistfulness, but gladdened to find that we agreed on at least one thing. “You don’t have to entertain me.”
“No?” He gave me an uncertain look. “Won’t you be bored?”
“Of course not. We have all the time in the world to talk, Uldar.” I hesitated, then placed my gloved hand over his where it rested on his knee. “I’ll always be here. With you. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
The Prince’s lower lip seemed to tremble. He nodded, casting his gaze down as if moved. “Yes. Thank you, Theo.”
He turned his hand over to clasp mine firmly. I mentally awarded myself a point. Minutes spilled away like sand. I sipped on a glass goblet of a hot, milky drink, enjoyed the relative privacy – Miramand had put her back to us and everyone else was following her lead – and waited for a god to write on the sky. The rooftop had gradually quieted down, expectant. Only nothing much was happening. The sky was certainly beautifully clear, awash with familiar constellations viewed from an unfamiliar perspective, all the brighter because it was an old moon. That was all.
“What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?” I whispered.
The only reply was a soft snuffle. Head pillowed on a thick cushion and with the furs pulled up around his throat, Uldar had fallen asleep.
I rolled my eyes upward in exasperation – and went still.
What...? What – was – that?
Murmurs of pleasure fluttered over the roof. A luminous blue line had snaked across the darkness of the heavens. It undulated, expanded, danced like gauze curtains caught in a gentle breeze as it stretched up, changing to green near the top. The blue light intensified and then suddenly flashed with
brilliant gold. New lines soared around the first, filling the sky with colours and movement. It was like watching Shell dance for the first time. My mouth was open and my eyes were blurring with tears. Beautiful. So beautiful.
Then I swallowed, and tasted the acidic green sweetness of apples on the back of my tongue.
No. No. Not here, not now. I’ve been taking my medicine!
Denial was a pounding drumbeat, matching the panicked thud of my heart in my ears. But it didn’t make any difference. I had schemed, plotted, manipulated to get more of my drug, but none of it meant a thing. I had run out of power today – after taking a half dose for the last two days – and it was not enough.
My hand was already beginning to twitch, clenching and unclenching on my knee. There was the silvery, shivery sensation of a wave gushing through my skull.
No, no, no – not here, not now!
I had to get away. Hide. Somewhere, anywhere. Before Uldar woke up, before anyone saw me. Before I lost consciousness, and it was too late.
Slowly and clumsily, clutching my jerking hand and elbow to my stomach, I got to my feet. The others were all still staring, enraptured, at the lights. Uldar had not stirred. I could do it. I could escape.
My shoulder was starting to creep toward my ear. I could feel the side of my face pulling up into that horrible rictus grin, the unbearable sensation of drool slipping down my cheek as I lost control of my lips and mouth. I stumbled toward the darkness, brushing against the heavy needles of the fir, toward one of the large snow sculptures at the edge of the garden, the snow castle nearly as tall as me. I could make –
Where am I?
In the snow.
Where am I?
In the silence.
Where am I?
Alone.
Found in the ruins of the great library at the Ice Palace of Silingana, after the thaw
I have sixteen years worth of memories. Some good, some ordinary, some wonderful. But the bad ones, the experiences of fear, shame, grief? Those are burned the deepest. Like great ripped-up wounds, carved through my mind, ready to surge with new pain again at any unwary thought.
The day of my coronation is one of the most agonising wounds I carry.
It was the spring. The heir to Yamarr’s throne is always confirmed in the spring, to symbolise the fresh new era her reign will bring. The morning rains had passed and the day was exceptionally fine. I remember walking through my golden-walled chambers, my feet bare on the warm stone floors, and leaning on the rail of my balcony to look down at the sunlight glimmering on the surface of the green reflecting pool below. The musicians for the ceremony were practising their music in the throne room, filling the air with distant twangs, trills, and bells. As if seeking to join in, a bird of paradise called insistently:
Weep weep weep! Weep weep weep!
In the spreading boughs of the acacia tree opposite my window, I spotted a splash of vivid red. A hat. One of the gardener’s boys, then, seeking a furtive rest from his work in the sun. I waved, and watched the leaves rustle nervously before a small brown hand emerged from the tree to wave back.
Satisfaction was honey in my mouth. Today it would be mine. The position I had sweated and cried and bled for my whole life would be publicly awarded me. And then no one could ever take it away. No one, not even Mother.
“Highness,” Enesis said.
I had left the stern old lady’s maid fussing over the dozens of thin, elaborate layers of embroidered gold silk that made up my ceremonial gown. I didn’t care about the gown, except that it should be perfect, as everything today must be perfect. I turned away from the view, brushing through the drifting linen curtains, and saw that it was not me she had addressed.
Aramin danced up to me, visibly excited, her sandals barely seeming to touch the ground. I smiled to see it, relieved. She had been – strange, lately. By turns distant and manic, sulky and intensely affectionate. Something was bothering her. I worried that it might be my confirmation, and the final change in my status, but she would not tell me, and I did not want to have another argument about it today.
“You’re not ready?” she asked, flinging her arms around me hard enough to make me stagger, if I had not braced myself. Her wildly curling hair, dark brown streaked with gilt from the sun, brushed my face, smelling of cassia and sweet merrel lilies, as she always did.
“The ceremony isn’t until sundown,” I reminded her, hugging her tightly. “There’s no need to rush. Anyway, I don’t want my dress to get sweaty and my make-up to smear.”
“So wise, oh future Queen!” she mocked, releasing me to whirl away. She was already wearing her own gown, and the blue layers of her skirts and femi flared around her. “I’m impressed! I wouldn’t have been surprised if you had been sitting up in bed at dawn, fully dressed and bejewelled and painted, like a child waiting for festival day.”
I arched a brow coolly, though the joke made me flinch inside. Part of being worthy of power was to seem as if it was innate, inborn. As if you never doubted that it was yours. “Aren’t you mistaking me for yourself, little sister?”
“No,” she said, suddenly serious. “I don’t think I am.” Then she laughed. “At least let me help you with your hair and make up, darling Theo. You never let me play! Enesis, you don’t mind, do you?”
“Not a bit ever, Highness,” Enesis said with the faint frown that, for her, passed for as a smile.
Aramin was ten times the expert with cosmetics either Enesis or I could claim to be. She was the pretty one, after all. I felt a faint stab – not of envy, but pity – and crushed it firmly. We were what we were. And I had been born first. Born to be Queen.
I took myself obligingly over to my dressing table and sat before the polished silver mirrors. “I place myself in your hands, then.”
Together my sister and maid combed and coiled the fine waves of my hair, twisting it with long ropes of yellow river pearls and faceted topaz and coiling it into an intricate coronet around my head. Aramin painted thin lines of kohl and red sindoor around my eyes, then dabbed the lids with gold dust, while Enesis dipped each finger-tip carefully into the sindoor pot to dye the skin scarlet, then painted a mixture of gold-dust and resin onto the nails.
“Here,” Aramin murmured as I held my hands up gingerly, waiting for them to dry. Enesis had moved away to pick through my jewel case. “Drink this now.”
She handed me a crystal tumbler, filled with water of a faint, murky green. In the past few weeks she had taken to reminding me about my medicine, and then bringing it to me herself, until it had become a habit to wait for her rather than mix it myself. Even when her uncertain temper had tipped us into a quarrel, she still came. Her care and her discretion touched me deeply. I almost felt that the vile stuff tasted different – sweeter, less chalky – when it came from her hand.
“Thank you,” I said, nudging her foot with mine as I took the dose.
She watched me drink. Was there something in her eyes then? Calculation, apprehension – regret? I have searched my memory, prodding at the wound until it bled, until I could convince myself of almost anything. Still, I do not truly know. I will never know how my sister felt as she betrayed me.
Later on, her face would be easy to read.
Later, after I had walked through the long, narrow portals of the white marble throne room, with all the windows and doors thrown open so that the desert wind and the amber light of the setting sun – symbolising the shift of power as my Mother gave the heir’s crown into my keeping – could bathe me on my journey to kneel before the throne. Later, after I had received my Mother’s kiss of blessing on my forehead under the approving and respectful stares of the Council of Three and all the palace dignitaries, and my Mother had spoken the ritual words and placed the ceremonial chalice of wine in my hands.
Later, after I lifted the cup above my head to salute the setting sun and the descending monarch, knowing I was only moments away from that moment, when Mother would place the crown of succession upon
my brow and all I had worked for would finally be mine.
After I tasted the sweet acid of apples on the tip of my tongue.
After my memories began to shatter, slip sideways, fracture on the sharpness of my shame and disgrace.
After my hand began to twitch and lost its grasp on the chalice, and it fell to the floor with a hollow chime of metal, splattering my feet with sweet red wine, and I heard the cries of shock and fear, and the tingling wave rushed through my skull, and the drool began to drip down my chin.
But before everything went dark.
Then I saw Aramin in her place of honour at my left hand. And saw exactly what my sister was feeling. The complete knowledge of what was happening – what she, day by day, feeding me fake medicine with every appearance of love and concern, had made happen.
I saw horror, and sorrow, because she had not known it would be as bad as this. She had wanted me to have an episode in public and lose my place before it was confirmed, but I do not think even she had believed – or desired – it would happen in this way. The worst possible way.
And I saw her joy and her triumph. Because it had worked. It had worked, and this was the worst moment of my life, but it was the moment when the life she wanted would begin. She had won. The person I loved most had stolen my crown.
26
I have fallen.
That was all I knew at first.
The fit must have passed. I was lying still, limbs limp and frail, like crumpled pieces of paper. My mind was quiet. The wave had washed all my emotions away and left my skull hollow.
It was dark, and I was alone. There was snow all around me. Piled up, covering my arms and legs and even some of my face. Above me, a lightening sky was still filled with stars, but Morogana’s Lights were gone. Time had passed, then. No one had found me. I was safe.
