I wince in sympathy. He may well be in as much trouble as us then. If talk about him is right, the king has little tolerance for those who go against his beliefs. If you fill your voice with treason and the king gets his hands on you…well, you might not have a voice—or a head, for that matter—for long. I’m sincere when I wish him luck. He acknowledges it with a small tilt of his head.
But there’s this strange sort of energy to this other prisoner. Maybe it’s in the way that he’s more disgruntled than anything else. It’s like he’s not really concerned with the fact that his neck is on the line. More annoyed by it. As though it’s an inconvenience.
“Got a name?” I ask. I bite at a frayed nail. Maybe he’s a wealthy merchant’s son. The fibers in his cloak are certainly finely wrought enough.
“A name?”
“Something to call you by. For example, my name is Breena Perdit.” I extend a hand. “I’ve also been known as Barmaid, Bree, or when I’ve got my most shining personality on, Brat. Something like that. Got one of those?”
“Breena,” he repeats thoughtfully, finger to his chin.
Something about the way he says my name is disconcerting. He rolls it on his tongue like a wine. Nonsense. He’s only repeating it so he doesn’t forget it. I’ve used the same technique with newcomers in the tavern. I repeat the name a few times and I’ll remember it for at least a little while.
But when he doesn’t say anything else in response to my question, I begin to entertain the thought that he’s perhaps a bit mad. Maybe I should withdraw my hand.
“No,” I say slowly, drawing the word out. “You can’t have ‘Breena.’ That one’s mine. Any other ideas?”
He comes back to himself and coughs into his sleeve. “Rick,” he says gruffly. He seizes my hand, still dangling between us, and gives it a hasty shake.
I glance him over from the top of his well-groomed head down the length of his lanky form all the way to the tips of his barely scuffed shoes. Back in Abeline, we’d had a Rick who frequented the Bridge and Duchess. A bit of a ne’er-do-well, his hair always long and uncombed. He had a beer belly and was missing several teeth.
This boy is not a Rick. A Leopold, maybe. I’m sure he has a name that’s as fancy as his cloak and isn’t some shortened thing that his friends call him. If he doesn’t want to give me his real name, I don’t much care to hassle him for it. Maybe he just wants to pretend to be someone else before he’s sentenced, or maybe he has another reason. Either way, it doesn’t affect me.
“Don’t you want to know my family name?”
“Why bother?” I ask, feeling weary. He must have an answer prepared. “You’ll probably just tell me it’s Smith or Jones or some other name that every other person in this kingdom lays claim to.” This is my life now. People who deal in falsehoods and omissions.
“It’s Williams, actually,” Rick says, tilting his chin at a proud angle. He draws himself up to his full height. He doesn’t tower over me like Tregle does, but I do have to crane my neck a bit.
I wave aside this information. “That would have been my third guess.” I deflate as a wave of tiredness washes over me. “Look, there’s still hours to dawn. I don’t know about you, but I find sleep a much more pleasant place to be when I’m here.”
He nods stiffly.
“No funny business,” I warn him. “You stay on your side, we’ll stay on ours. And,” I add in a fit of inspiration, remembering Da—who’s miraculously slept through all of this undisturbed. “My da here’s a Rider. You’ll not want to cross him.” There’s little enough comfort to be found in the knowledge of his power, but at least I can use it now.
Rick looks affronted. “Lady Bree—”
“Just Bree.” That makes twice in the space of several hours that I’m making this correction.
“Do I look the sort to cause trouble?” he asks. For the first time, he looks me directly in the eye. I catch my breath as his eyes slam into me. They’re the gray of the sky right before a blizzard.
“Well, they did just throw you into a cell,” I say, voice soft. “But, no.” I break our gaze, finishing my thought silently.
You look like the sort that brings it.
Eleven
My father never told me fairy stories of princes and princesses.
Which, when I think about it now, makes perfect sense.
Instead, he told me fables of shadows that whisk naughty little children away in the night. Of rivers and earth that come alive when strangers trespass upon their land. Tales of anger and punishment—these were my bedtime stories.
Da had seemed to think the stories important as he imparted them to me. Even as a child, I understood how serious he was about them. His eyes were grave when they held my wide ones, and he’d tuck my quilts up to my chin before beginning.
I hadn’t been a bad child, but I had tended toward…mischief. Da’s stories, when I’d first heard them at six years old, had scared me into a week’s worth of unnatural goodness. I didn’t respond to any barbs from the local bully on Market Day, didn’t have to be asked twice to perform a chore, woke up early to sweep the hearth and give the glasses an extra polish.
I rested easy. The shadows would not come for me.
After noticing how unlike myself I was acting, Da changed tacks. He told me instead of a magical little village, tucked away under cool sunlight where shadows wouldn’t think to pass. Gentle hands smoothed down my hair, and he dropped a kiss onto my forehead.
“The lands here know you, Breena Rose. They’ll keep you safe from any shadows, even if you do have a naughty moment here or there.”
He’d hesitated in my doorway, I remembered now. The flame of his candle trembled on its wick. “Besides,” he added. “They’re only stories.”
Perhaps that was when the lying began. And it never truly stopped.
Light floods into the cell when I wake up, illuminating the squalor Da and I have spent the night in. A film of dust and dirt coats the floor. Liquid sluices down over the rocks that comprise the walls.
Maybe it’s a good thing I hadn’t grown up wanting to be a princess. I’d be far more apt to scream when a rat scurries past the bars of the cell if I had.
But I’m used to seeing rats. They’re almost comforting. I stretch as I sit up, feeling a satisfying give when my elbows pop. Arching my back, I look at Rick, still asleep in his corner of the cell. Thankfully, the eyes that so disconcerted me last night remain closed. Long lashes rest upon his cheeks. I stand and glance back at Da. Also still asleep.
Rick shifts, and his cloak falls open over his hip. Is that a scabbard? I can’t believe they’d have brought him in here with a weapon in it if it is. I lean in closer for a better look.
“If you’re planning to kill me, please make it quick.”
With a screech of surprise, I lurch backward, falling onto the ground. Rick sits up, stretching, and finally, Da does, too.
“I see we have company, Breena Rose,” he says, blinking back and forth between me and Rick. “Do introduce me to our guest.”
Oh, now he’s every inch the proper duke. I snort. “Da, Rick. Rick, Da.” Rick crosses the cell to give his hand a quick shake.
Da lengthens his body until he’s reclined against the wall. “Call me Ardin. What brings you to our humble lodgings, Rick?”
“Political affiliations,” Rick and I say in the same breath.
“I see.” Da’s eyes narrow in on Rick’s other hand, squirreled away in his pocket where he’s toying with something. I follow his gaze and catch the glint of a purple stone on one of his fingers. “My daughter and I suffer from a similar burden. Good luck to you.”
Rick inclines his head slightly. “And to you, sir.”
A loud clanging draws our attention. It sounds like someone’s playing the bells—badly. We all shift to the bars as the source of the clanging moves into view. It’s Katerine, dragging a stick lazily across the cell bars. Her stare lights upon us.
“You’re awake. Pity. I was h
oping to have the pleasure of waking you myself.”
I’d wager she was. Katerine’s idea of a proper wake-up is probably a kick to the stomach.
“Oh, but then you’d deprive us the pleasure of seeing your grand entrance, Kat,” Da says, grinning beatifically.
“Why, Ardie, you sound like your old self.”
“It must be the return to the old homestead.”
Katerine’s smile sours. “You have an audience with His Majesty in three hours. I’m to make you presentable.”
“But what will be done about you?” I interject sweetly, batting my eyes.
Ouch. Da elbows me hard in the side. His look couldn’t be plainer; I’m to leave the verbal barbs to him. Katerine’s glare speaks of blood.
“And what about me?” Rick pipes up. He’s practically as cheerful as Da.
The countess’s glare shifts, becoming slightly docile. How curious. “I’m sure you’re fine,” she says flatly. She calls a guard to unlock the door, and four appear at her summons. One takes my arm firmly in hand and another takes Rick. The other two go to Da.
“Well, then,” Katerine says brightly. “Busy day ahead of us. We’d best get started.”
In the light of the day, I can see that the previous night’s hulking shadows are actually the palace. It’s a monstrosity of a thing. The gray parapets of the central castle sit atop high rocks overlooking a cliff. Crumbling towers of varying height surround it in a mismatched set. The structures leer down as I pass beneath them.
We sail into the halls of the castle, guards tipping their heads in respect. With Katerine as our escort, no one stops us to ask any details of our trip into the king’s home.
She leads us through a labyrinth. We take so many turns and climb so many stairs that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to the exit without help. Purple banners line the walls, and stern portraits look down at me. Finally, we follow her up a spiral staircase where ivy wilts along the banister. Dark wooden doors greet us at the top.
Katerine jerks her head at the room. “In you go.”
I move to obey before I realize that no one is following me. “Aren’t you coming?” My question is for Da, but it’s Katerine who answers.
“Ladies and gentlemen prepare for court in separate wings.” She shakes her head at Da. “Honestly, you could have told the girl that much.”
A queasy ball rolls around inside me. “Then you’ll be readying yourself with me?”
“I do not require readying,” Katerine snaps.
Pardon me, then.
“Besides, I think I had best stay by the side of my old friend. We wouldn’t want him to lose his way again.”
My mind stutters. It’s bad enough to be trapped in this mess with Da, but to be trapped in it without him? I shake my head. The strands of hair that have grown out over the past several weeks flutter about my ears. “I—”
“I’ll see you soon, Breena Rose,” Da says. He sends a smile my way. “We’ll be meeting His Majesty together in few hours, isn’t that right, Kat?”
“Of course. Father and daughter must be together for such a momentous occasion.”
“There. You see?”
I crack a knuckle in agitation. It’s not as though I have a choice, but I can delay the moment when I’ll have to face things alone just a little longer. My eyes wander past Da to where Rick stands with his guard.
“What about you?” I ask.
He looks surprised to be addressed. “Me?” He grins like he’s suppressing a smirk. I’m so glad he finds the situation humorous. “I’ll be fine as well. I believe I’m to meet with His Majesty about the same time. Correct, Lady Kat?”
“Lady Kat.” It suits her. I resolve at once to begin using it. Especially when I see her expression upon hearing it. She looks like a worm’s crawled beneath her nose and her nostrils are flaring to put some distance between them. “Indeed.”
I nod and take a deep breath, waving away the guard’s hand as he moves to push the door in. “Please. I’d like to do it myself.”
He sends a questioning look to Lady Kat, who nods her acquiescence.
The metal handle is cold in my grasp. What waits for me behind these doors? I imagine hands reaching out for me from the darkness, a militant overseer barking out orders, my skin being scrubbed raw. On the count of five, then. One, two, three—
I push the doors open and don’t let myself look back at Da as they close shut.
It’s an old trick Da used on me growing up. He’d let me brace myself for a moment, but wouldn’t allow me all the time he’d promised. I had a few seconds to get used to the idea, but not enough time to panic about it.
The memory’s painful. Every instance Da had used the trick on me had been in the Bridge and Duchess. The time he’d drained an infected cut sprang to mind. My pallet and quilt had boiled with my fevered sweat, and I’d howled as the sterilized knife sliced the wound open. Da had hushed my cries and mopped my brow.
But my pallet burnt away with the tavern, and laying the memory to rest with it would hurt me less.
Inside the doors, two women sip from teacups. Gossiping on their settees, neither of them notices me, so I take my time investigating my new surroundings, ignoring their prattle.
What a contrast to the prison cell. I’m in an extravagant sitting room. Shelves of books line the wall, interrupted only by a gold-framed painting and two windows. Heavy rose draperies cascade from golden curtain hooks sculpted in the shape of small suns. The room is warm and pretty and, given what I’d been bracing myself for, not at all what I expected.
My surveying over, I tune into the women’s conversation.
“Have you any idea why we’ve been called here?” a wisp of a girl with black hair and brown eyes asks.
“None.” This from the other woman, who bears no resemblance to the first, with corkscrew red curls piled on top of her head. She adjusts the skirts of her pale pink dress. “I know only that my lady was told they had a mess that required fixing and it necessitated her sparing one of her maids.”
The other girl murmurs that the same had been asked of her mistress.
A frisson of irritation vibrates through me. A mess, am I? I clear my throat as obnoxiously as possible.
The girl with the dark hair is the first to hear me. “Oh!” She gasps loudly. “I’m so sorry, sir.” They rise to their feet, hastily setting aside their teacups with a clatter and clasping their hands before them. “Have you come to tell us why His Majesty requires us?”
Earnestly curious eyes flick over me, and I burn with embarrassment. With my short hair and dirty figure, they think I’m a man. Maybe I am a mess that needs fixing.
“I’m Bree? Breena Perdit. Lady Kat sent me in here to get…groomed, I suppose. My da and me are supposed to be meeting the king in a little while.”
Blushes spread over their features at their mistake.
“And I,” the dark-haired girl says. She claps a hand to her mouth like she hadn’t meant to speak.
“Sorry?”
The redhead bustles forward. “I apologize, Lady Breena.” She executes a quick curtsy. “Gisela, your ladyship. Our Emis here has a love affair going on with language and sometimes speaks too quickly in the name of preserving it.”
She examines me, measuring the task before them. “Emis?” The other girl moves to assist her, instructing me to lift my arms so they can get proper measurements.
“You can call me Bree,” I offer as Emis tilts my chin. I feel like a buffoon with my arms stretched out as if they’re wings. “No need for that ‘lady’ bit.”
“Fine bone structure. Lovely eyes,” she comments.
“Lady Breena, we are lady’s maids,” Gisela says. “We wait on ladies. You must understand that that makes you one.”
Not if I can help it.
“First thing’s first. We need to scrape off a layer of that dirt.”
Behind a silk screen that I hadn’t noticed before is a heavy porcelain tub. Emis sends Gisela running for s
ervants to fill it, and they parade in, carrying buckets of steaming water and throwing curious looks my way. None of them ask me why I’m here, and I wonder how often this sort of thing happens. Maybe they’re instructed not to acknowledge the guests, but I’m no guest. I’m a prisoner.
I long for a mirror. Vanity’s never been my biggest flaw (my impudent tongue has that dubious honor), but this is different. I must be a sight if the rest of me is anything like my hands. Mud cakes them and my cuticles are red and frayed.
On second thought, if my hands are this bad, maybe it’s better I don’t have a mirror.
“Lady Breena, I do hope that you don’t take offense at my asking,” Emis says, peeling my sleeve from my arm. I flinch when my arm hair peels with it. “But when was the last chance you had to bathe?”
“Um…” I flap my arm to shake the dried mud loose and think back. We traveled for around three weeks. I’d dunked myself in the nearly frigid river behind the Bridge and Duchess with a bar of lye a few days before I stumbled upon Kat, Tregle, and Baunnid in the woods, so… “About a month?” I hazard a guess, sinking into the hot water with a hiss of surprise at the heat. It’s nearly scalding. What skin is visible beneath my grime turns pink.
Emis’s mouth drops in astonishment. She pats me awkwardly on the arm. “Well, let us just give thanks to the Makers that you’re here with us now.”
“As nice as you two are, I’m quite far from thanking the Makers for it.” The words slip out, and I clamp down on my tongue with my teeth. Curse my runaway mind. I don’t need to burden these women with my problems.
They wisely keep their silence, and for that, I do thank the Makers. I want to explain my circumstances about as little as I want to be in them.
After three rounds of scrubbing, the water’s long-since cooled, but I’m reluctant to get out of the tub, where evidence of the past few weeks has been washed away. Gisela holds out a towel entreatingly, and I sigh, running my fingers through my hair to shake out any excess moisture. They despair over the length of it—or, rather, the lack of length. Apparently, it’s the highest of fashion crimes for a woman to have such short hair.
Threats of Sky and Sea Page 6
