State of Sorrow

by Melinda Salisbury

  “You stupid, stupid… Father!” Sorrow barked.

  At the sound of her voice, his eyes came momentarily into focus, and he looked past her into the room.

  “Mael’s gone,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Sorrow’s hands became fists at her sides.

  “My son. My heir. Mael. Born and died on the same date. What unkindness is that, to be so exact? How can we bear it?”

  Sorrow shook her head and reached for her father’s arm, roughly lifting him and half dragging, half guiding him to a chair by the bed. She poured him a glass of water and held it to his lips. “My boy,” he murmured, pushing the glass away.

  “Drink,” Sorrow barked at him.

  “I have no desire. Everything tastes of ash. How can I drink, or eat, when my only son is dead?”

  Sorrow’s mouth tightened. It wasn’t grief killing the chancellor’s appetite. “Mael wouldn’t want you to starve for him.” She tried to soften her voice.

  “What would you know of Mael’s wants?” The chancellor’s glassy eyes were sharp briefly, blazing at her. Then they filmed over with fresh tears and he began to weep once more.

  She should be moved by it. Her father’s weeping should move her. But she’d seen him weep too often for it to muster any emotion in her, save for resignation, and a low, simmering anger that she did her best to ignore. He was supposed to be their leader. Thanks to Lamentia, the only place he seemed willing to lead them was down a path so dark Sorrow didn’t know if Rhannon could ever recover.

  Sorrow knew what had happened at the bridge – everyone knew – how Harun had inadvertently saved himself, but damned his son in the process. Sometimes she felt guilty that her life had heralded her mother’s death, but Sorrow’s guilt was nothing to Harun’s. Nothing at all.

  His need to atone became a lash of contrition on the back of the kingdom. He’d worked night and day to remain grief-stricken, to punish himself, turning the entire realm into a monument for his lost family.

  In the Hall of Remembrance at the Summer Palace, Mael’s possessions were on show behind glass cases: the birthday presents he never got to unwrap, his first pair of boots, the blanket he’d been swaddled in as a newborn. His miniature riding whip, a book of stories he’d never learned to read. Pride of place was a tiny coronet, as though he’d been born a prince, and not merely the son of the chancellor. It was so small that Sorrow could wear it like a bangle if she liberated it. One day she might, she thought spitefully. One day she might raze the Hall of Remembrance to the ground.

  Sorrow hated her brother sometimes.

  But sometimes she envied him too.

  Sorrow watched her father give in to weeping, waiting until he was bent double and his body was consumed with sobs before taking the chance to slip a vial from beneath her dress. It was a sleeping potion, nothing more, but necessary to keep him from the powder that controlled him. It was supposed to be for her – she’d never been a good sleeper – but she saved it instead for these occasions, when she had to deal with Harun. She added a few drops to the water glass and held it out to her father again.

  “Just a little,” she said, taking his shoulder and pulling him up. “A toast, for him.”

  “He was the best of us,” the chancellor said. “It was my fault. My pride… My fault.”

  “Drink,” she said again, ignoring his words. She’d heard them too many times before.

  Finally, he opened his mouth and allowed her to drip the water on to his tongue.

  With his stomach empty and his body weakened, the sedative acted quickly; his eyelids began to flutter and she lifted him to his feet, her arms around him as he stumbled to the bed. She lowered him down, rolling him on to his back.

  He looked up at her, once again a flash of lucidity brightening his eyes. “Why don’t you cry for him?” he asked.

  Then his eyes closed, his breathing softened, and he was unconscious.

  Sorrow straightened and looked around the room, lined with portraits of her brother. Mael aged one, two, and finally three, all painted from his living image. Then afterwards, four, five, six, seven, all the way up to twenty. Mael as a golden child, a gilded youth. Mael as a shining young man, strong-jawed, haughty-eyed.

  Unlike his sister, the painted Mael never had an awkward phase; he never had spots, and his hair was never greasy. Each year, a new one was commissioned, imagining how he would look if he still lived, and he was always glorious. The chancellor was supposed to unveil the latest one the following day, after they’d returned from the bridge, and Sorrow was dreading it.

  With a start she realized that with Harun unconscious, albeit by her hand, Charon would expect her to lead the mourning feast that very evening. That the people who’d come from across Rhannon, the Jedenvat, the stewards, wardens, landlords, they’d all turn to her to lead them.

  Something inside her lurched, as though she was looking down from a great height. If Harun was still incapable tomorrow, she’d have to lead the mourning then too; she’d have to stand on the bridge and face the people, enact the ceremony, and say the words. Because there was no one else. Not any more.

  Despite the heat, she shivered, and looked again at the portrait of Mael from last year. He was wearing a high-collared shirt, covering the crescent-shaped birthmark on his neck, hair a shade lighter than hers falling loosely to his shoulders. Sorrow touched her own messy braid, and the painted Mael stared back at her with accusing eyes.

  Sorrow had never had her portrait taken. As far as she knew, no one had ever so much as sketched her likeness.

  “Why don’t I cry? Because I never knew him,” Sorrow said quietly as she left the chancellor to his slumber. “Because to me he’s always been dead. And I’m alive. I want to live. Not mourn, or wallow. Or even rule. I want a life.”

  Only Rhannon Matters

  Six hours later, dressed in a heavy silk mourning gown that stuck to her skin, a pair of small onyx studs in her ears, and her hair newly braided into a crown atop her head, Sorrow sat alone on the platform in the banqueting hall. Though the places beside her were set, the cutlery and plates polished to a dull sheen, the chairs were empty.

  Sitting at the head of the room always made her feel vulnerable, too aware that everyone could see her, too aware of the swathe of space to her right and left, leaving her a target in the centre. Soon, all eyes would turn to her and she would have to lead the prayers for Mael, a prospect that made her skin feel too tight, stretched thin over anxious bones. She knew the words she had to say; stars, everyone in the room knew the words. But it was the first time she’d have to say them. Take that role. It was enough to send her hand reaching for her glass.

  The heat in the banqueting hall was a living thing, a hundred candles sucking the air from the room while adding to the summer heat searing the palace outside, and sweat pooled beneath her breasts and trickled down her spine from beneath her hair. When she tried to raise her glass to sip the bitter wine, the dress clung to her, making it almost impossible to move and sending her into palpitations at the feeling of confinement. She fought the fabric, and the seam in her armpit gave way as she forced the cup to her mouth. For a moment she was grimly satisfied she’d managed to ruin another of the hated gowns, until she remembered she’d have to mend it later.

  It was horrible, unnatural, to have a feast in almost-silence. Although it was how it had always been for her, she knew from books, and Rasmus, but mostly from some instinct, that it wasn’t right. There ought to be talking to counter the bone-shuddering scrape of knives and forks against plates. There should be music to mask the sounds of chewing and slurping. Laughter. Flirting. Debating. Even fighting. Instead the dining room was embarrassing: a hundred people, all in black, who must surely want to be somewhere – anywhere – else, instead of sitting playing audience to a concert of each other eating.

  Across the room Rasmus sat at the consulate’s table, nodding over the bones of the feast with the Rhyllian ambassador, Lincel: the woman Rasmus was officially in Rhan
non to aid.

  Once, the table had been full of delegates from other lands: representatives from the desert republic of Astria to the east, vast Nyrssea neighbouring Rhylla, Skae with its one thousand islands, and polar Svarta. Sorrow remembered, back when she was a child, when the tall, pale-skinned envoy from the top of the world had given her a sweet that looked like bark, but tasted like salt. She, Irris and Rasmus had taken turns to lick it until it had made them sick and then they’d hidden it in an old vase and forgotten it.

  They were long gone now, the other ambassadors, all claiming illness or family problems, returning quietly to their own lands, no replacements ever arriving. With hindsight, Sorrow was glad of it – she couldn’t imagine how they’d have kept the world from knowing about Lamentia had Rhannon been full of foreign diplomats. But at the time she’d missed them: their accents, their customs, and their stories. Just the Rhyllian envoys had remained, bound by the Peace Accords to maintain a diplomatic presence in Rhannon, come what may.

  She tried to catch Rasmus’s eye, but he was absorbed in whatever he and Lincel were discussing. A frown drew his brows together, and Sorrow’s expression darkened in response. Rasmus wasn’t made for misery, it didn’t suit him, and she wanted to go over and rub his forehead until the frown vanished and he was himself again. The moment she had the thought she pushed it away. She shouldn’t think like that.

  Instead she glanced around, and saw Meeren Vine, sitting on the furthest table with some of his brutes, looking directly at her. Her stomach knotted as she realized he’d been watching her. Waiting, it seemed, because the moment their eyes met he lifted a hunk of meat to his mouth and tore into it, peeling the dry flesh from the bone with his teeth. Sorrow’s stomach turned as she forced her gaze away, reaching for her wine glass. She drained it, not protesting when a server appeared and refilled it.

  An odd, deliberate cough drew her attention to the table directly below hers on the dais, where it became apparent Irris had been trying to get her attention. When Sorrow finally looked down, Irris tipped her a swift wink before saying something to her father. Then Charon turned to Sorrow, though his expression was the opposite of his daughter’s: his brown eyes questioning, his mouth turned down at the corners. Worry, she recognized, as guilt tickled her.

  She should have gone to him after seeing her father, instead of seething in her rooms. He’d want to know what happened with Harun, and she ought to have told him what she’d done with Balthasar.

  Lord Charon Day was in his late fifties, a decade older than her father, though Harun’s drug use had aged him far beyond what nature had done to Charon. He had risen to his role during Reuben’s time, succeeding his own uncle as vice chancellor in the last years of the warlord’s office. Rumour had it Harun had once intended to replace Charon with his own man. But then Charon had jumped into the Archior after Mael, and when he’d been fished out, alive, but with the bones in his legs smashed beyond repair, Harun had told him his position would await him when he’d recovered. For once, he’d kept his word.

  She resolved to talk to him after the meal, tell him everything then. Perhaps he could be persuaded to lead the memorial tomorrow…

  Almost as soon as she’d thought it, she realized there was more chance of Harun cartwheeling into the hall wearing rainbow-coloured clothes. Charon would insist she took up the mantle. He’d been doing it more and more since her grandmother had died – he’d even handed over the majority of the funeral plans to her. The past four months had been a ceaseless parade of things she had to deal with now – papers to be signed, meetings to attend, protocols to learn – at Charon’s insistence. She hadn’t realized how much her grandmother had protected her from it all. “Irresponsible”, Charon had called it, in a singular show of open criticism when Sorrow revealed she didn’t know how the Rhannish tax system worked. And that was only the tip of the iceberg…

  As the feast went on, Sorrow eyelids began to droop, the heat, the quiet and the wine lulling her into a daze, and twice her head fell forward, jerking her back into awareness. She picked at the remains of her food, the meat overcooked and chewy, the bread blackened, designed to bring nothing but base sustenance to the eater. Graces forbid she accidentally enjoyed a meal. Rasmus had told her about the bread at his aunt’s court, fluffy and steaming, the smell alone enough to draw you to kitchens to beg for a little. Stars, what she wouldn’t give just to try it…

  The people began to stir, lowering their knives and looking to the dais. Sorrow didn’t notice, lost in her thoughts. It was wrong to wish her father dead, though she’d heard him beg for Death to restore his golden son and take his dark daughter instead. Even so, like her hatred for Mael, sometimes the desire to be rid of her father rose like a snake inside her. But she always tamed it, locking it back in a box inside her mind. She’d have to govern if he was gone. Submit her name, and be elected. Take control of Rhannon… Try somehow to repair the shattered land, and people… Be responsible for it all. The people, the land… All on her.

  Suddenly even the thought of Rhyllian bread wasn’t enough to whet her appetite.

  “Sorrow?” She was so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t heard Charon approach. He sat in his wheeled chair, looking up at her, the worried expression returned to his face. “I think it’s time, Sorrow. It’s getting late.”

  Sorrow dipped her head guiltily, the motion buying her a second to recall herself. From the corner of her eye she saw Charon shake his head as he turned his chair abruptly and wheeled back to his table. When she looked up Rasmus’s eyes were gleaming, not with tears but amusement at her distraction. She looked away, rising to her feet, her hands clasped before her.

  “My father wanted very much to be with you tonight,” she lied, her voice deadened by the endless drapes. “But this night, of all nights, is hard for him. To remember that eighteen years ago, Mael still walked among us, is unbearable for him. For us all. This land has lost much, and is poorer for it. If you would pray with me now.”

  She paused to allow them time to push away from their tables, for those who were able to kneel on the stone floor, heads bent, hands clasped before them. “Our beloved Grace of Death and Rebirth, we beseech you today to care for Mael, our dearest son.”

  The speech was a modified version of the one her father, and later her grandmother, used to give, and the words were scored across her brain, and that of everyone there, she could see them now, their lips moving as they mouthed along with her. A woman sitting at the Jedenvat table had covered her face with gloved hands, her chin lowered to her chest, praying.

  “… and we pray that one day soon we will be reunited with him in the kingdom of—”

  Before Sorrow could finish a scream rent the air, and everyone turned to the sound.

  It was the praying woman, head still bent, clutching at the hematite beads around her neck, as though they were the cause of her malady.

  Everyone around the woman recoiled suddenly, scrambling over benches to get away from her. She turned towards Sorrow, her hands outstretched as though pleading. Her hands were covered in blood. And her eyes … her eyes…

  The woman’s eyes were sliding down her face, like the albumen of an egg, blood and pinkish fluid coating her cheeks. Her screams were now silent, her mouth gaping as she continued to tear at her necklace.

  Fear wrapped icy fingers around Sorrow’s heart as she vaulted over the table, running towards the woman. What was this? Some disease?

  But no, as Sorrow got closer she saw the redness around the woman’s nose, like it had been around her father’s. She saw the small vial that she must have dropped. She hadn’t been praying. She’d been taking Lamentia. Inhaling it, as Harun had. And it had done this…

  The necklace broke, sending dozens of small, shining dark beads to the ground, the sound like hailstones against the tiles.

  “Call a physician.” Sorrow’s voice was shrill with fear. “Someone do something!” For a moment, no one moved, then two of the guard stepped forward, their faces g
rey as they edged towards her.

  The woman saved them the need to aid her. She took a great gasp that sent those who’d been nearest her tumbling even further back and then she slumped to the floor, spasming briefly before falling unnaturally still.

  Immediately everyone in the room froze too, their eyes on the body. Irris stepped forward then, removing the cape from around her shoulders and placing it tenderly over the woman’s head. Her movement broke the spell, and Sorrow heard someone begin to sob.

  “Return to your lodgings.” Charon took charge as Sorrow stared at the now-covered body. “Add your prayers for –” Charon paused, searching for the woman’s name “– Alyssa’s soul to those for Mael’s. Pray for them both.”

  Alyssa. Charon’s words penetrated Sorrow’s stunned horror. Balthasar’s new wife. So he’d dragged her into his addiction with him. And now she was dead.

  The court began to leave, but Sorrow couldn’t take her eyes from the covered mound on the floor. She kept seeing Alyssa’s empty eye sockets, the remains of them glistening on her cheeks as she collapsed. Irris moved to her side as the room emptied, leaving the two of them and Charon behind. When Irris slipped an arm around her shoulder, Sorrow leant into her friend’s touch.

  Behind her Charon was now giving orders to the guards. “Remove the body to the infirmary. Find her husband.”

  “He’s in the cells,” Sorrow said in a low voice, and Charon turned to her sharply. “I found him earlier when I went to see my father.” She paused then, watching the guards lift Alyssa’s ruined body and leave with it, waiting until they were out of earshot before she continued. “He’d … he was under the influence of Lamentia.”

  “Balthasar? Or the chancellor?”

  “Both. I had Balthasar sent to the cells. I didn’t know what to do with Father.” She immediately imagined Harun as Alyssa had been, tearing at himself, the empty sockets of his eyes as he lay dying in front of his paintings.