State of Sorrow

by Melinda Salisbury

  “So now…” she finally managed.

  “Now we go to your father, inform him of our decision. Depending on his … state, and reaction, we’ll decide how to proceed, but the most important thing is that we invest you. Then we can make our way to the bridge.”

  “Wait,” Sorrow said. “I’d like to propose waiting to invest me until tomorrow.”

  The look of impatience that crossed Charon’s face told her he’d expected her to do something like this.

  “Sorrow—”

  “Today is the eighteenth anniversary of Mael’s death,” Sorrow said to the room. “It would have been his twenty-first birthday. To do it today would be the height of cruelty. We can surely afford to wait one more day, now the decision is made and we’re all agreed?” Then she turned to Charon and spoke in a low voice. “I’m not playing for time; I’ll do this. But I don’t want history to remember me as the girl who deposed her father on the anniversary of her brother’s death. I want… I want to be better than he is.”

  Charon gave her a long look, then nodded. “Very well. Tomorrow.”

  Sorrow pushed back her chair. “Thank you. We should get ready to go to the bridge. I’ll go and see if my father is ready.” She lifted her glass and drained it in one, leaving the room while she still could.

  As she walked to the west wing, climbing the great stair that split the foyer, she tried to sort through her feelings. Oblivious to the guards who opened doors to her, murmuring their sympathies, she saw and heard nothing, save for her own thrumming heart, and the faces of the Jedenvat as Charon had announced that final, vital motion.

  No matter what Irris had said, no matter how much fun it had seemed last night, it still felt to her as though the trapdoor had opened, the axe had fallen. Her old life, pathetic as it had been, was over.

  Unless…

  There was always a chance, she told herself as she approached the west wing, that the spell had broken. Perhaps now, eighteen years later, on the day he would have turned twenty-one, Harun would finally be able to let Mael go. He might be waiting, weak, but determined to see this through. Maybe he could finally heal, and take his place.

  The hope died a swift, cruel death when she saw her father’s valet outside his doors, wringing his hands as he waited for her.

  “Miss Ventaxis…” He paused and looked at her. “I don’t think the chancellor is going to make the ceremony this year. I don’t know where it came from, I thought…”

  She didn’t reply, and moved past him, opening the doors herself.

  Sorrow found Harun face down in a pile of Lamentia powder. He’d sniffed so much of it he was in a stupor, incoherent and drooping, his eyes streaming tears that were tinged red. Sorrow stared at him, at the mess, and then swept the Lamentia to the floor, creating a toxic cloud that she had to back away from.

  The chancellor protested feebly as she destroyed the pile, and she turned on him, her jumble of emotions honing itself into one clear, bright feeling.

  “Your son would have been twenty-one today,” she leant over and hissed at Harun. “And I’m glad he’s dead, because it means he doesn’t have to see you like this.”

  Harun didn’t look at her. Instead he laid his head back on the table and closed his eyes.

  “Enjoy today, Father. Tomorrow, things will be different.”

  Without another word she left him there.

  “My father won’t be joining us,” Sorrow said to Charon as she levelled with him in the hall. “And I’ve changed my mind. Find a clerk now, and have the papers drawn up ready for when we return later. Let’s get this over with.”

  She left him and Irris staring after her as she marched through the doors to the palace, to where her carriage was waiting.

  The Bridge Again

  The journey, from the capital city of Istevar to the bridge in the North Marches, took around four hours, so Sorrow settled in to seethe her way through it. Irris read beside her; Charon sat opposite, going through papers, a rug over his legs, despite the heat.

  Sorrow didn’t say a word throughout, not even when they changed carriages, her mouth set in a line, her fingers tapping at her thigh until she could climb back into her seat and stew over her father some more. The temperature wasn’t helping her mood, either; by midday, under the high sun, the bridge would be unbearable. All traces of yesterday’s rain had vanished, sucked down by the greedy earth, leaving the world exactly as it had been before.

  Sorrow shuffled to the window and pushed the curtain aside, hoping to entice a breeze into the stuffy carriage. When she couldn’t find one, she shot a look at Charon, and, when sure he was absorbed by his work, looked out of the window. The homes they passed appeared abandoned, though she knew they weren’t. They all had an air of neglect, evident in the scuffed paintwork, the missing tiles on roofs. Weeds grew in gardens, strangling pathways; fragments of old plant pots jutted out of the soil, and vines crept untempered along the sides of the houses.

  The temples were sadder still, the gold paint that once gilded them faded and peeled away, columns crumbling to dust under the relentless sun. Though never overly religious since the fall of the monarchy, the Rhannish had always attended the Graces’ temples at holidays, and for personal celebrations, her grandmother had said. But now, of course, there was nothing to be thankful for. Nothing to celebrate. Weddings and funerals took place quietly in homes and were dealt with swiftly and efficiently.

  As for the Rhannish themselves…

  Her grandmother had told her that once the crowds had thronged these roads during the midwinter and midsummer festivals, even during the war. There had been music and singing, hot wine and cold beer. People had kissed openly, laughed loudly.

  The crowd today was thin, and silent. The people were reedy and spare, bones jutting above necklines and in cheeks. They stood stock-still under the sun as though it couldn’t burn them, couldn’t warm them, watching the procession of carriages with blank faces. Their clothes were shabby and faded, the blacks paled to charcoal, and Sorrow looked down at her own dress, newly dyed and midnight dark. There was no embroidery on the tunics of the people, no onyx and hematite in their ears or at their throats. When Sorrow made eye contact, they held it steadily, offering no sign of greeting, or even acknowledgement. It made her uneasy. She tried to remember the year before; had it been like this then?

  Last year her grandmother had led the mourning when Harun had been incapable, though she’d told Sorrow her father was simply ill. Sorrow had stood with Irris and Charon throughout the ceremony. She couldn’t remember the people. She realized then she’d never thought of them, at least as anything other than a distant mass. Behind the walls of the Winter Palace, they hadn’t felt real to her. Here, today, they felt very real.

  She looked back at them, watching the Decorum Ward pacing up and down the streets. And as the crowd turned their eyes on them, the hatred obvious, Sorrow’s worries grew. How on Laethea could she fix this?

  Charon cleared his throat, and Sorrow leant back, allowing the curtain to fall into place, ashamed of how relieved she was to be hidden from view once more.

  “You know what you need to do? At the bridge?” he asked.

  “I think so. Step in the gum, take the doll, and climb halfway up. Address the people; Irris will come and remove my veil, so I don’t fall off the side. Then I go to the apex, say a final prayer, and throw the doll in.”

  She hadn’t meant to sound flippant, but Irris snorted, and Charon’s expression darkened. “Don’t toss it in, for the Graces’ sake, Sorrow. You need to show some respect.”

  “I wasn’t going to fling it over my shoulder.” Charon made to reply, but Sorrow headed him off. “Is everything arranged for when we get back?” she asked, before he could chastise her again.

  He nodded. “I sent a bird from the coach stop. The papers will be ready by the time we return. You’ll need to sign them, and we shall sign them too. Then they will be sealed, and you will be chancellor presumpt of Rhannon. We’ll also pre
pare the papers to announce your intention to formally run for the chancellorship, and to call for an election three months from now.”

  Sorrow took a deep breath. “I suppose we’d better send word to Mira in Rhylla, and the other ambassadors in Nyrssea, Astria and so on, to warn them of the change. I’m sure the other rulers and leaders will have questions.”

  “The falconer has been briefed to select his swiftest birds and make them ready. But, while we’re speaking of ambassadors…” Charon began, then frowned, uncharacteristically awkward. “You will need to do something about attaché Corrigan.”

  Beside Sorrow, Irris stiffened. Sorrow had been unable to keep her relationship with Rasmus a secret from her best friend, despite the danger it put all three of them in. And while Irris didn’t approve, she would never have given them away. Irris kept her attention on her book as Sorrow frowned and said, “Why? What has he done?”

  “His devotion to you is starting to raise some eyebrows.”

  “His devotion to me?” Sorrow could feel her skin heating and prayed the vice chancellor wouldn’t notice. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “We – that is to say myself and some of the Jedenvat – are concerned that his feelings towards you are no longer platonic. Surely you’ve noticed the way he looks at you?”

  “He’s my friend, he cares for me.” Sorrow tried, and failed, to sound nonchalant.

  “Sorrow, I think there may be more to it than that. He spends far too much time in your company, in your rooms, neglecting his duties as attaché to the Rhyllian ambassador. It’s dangerous. Especially for you, and especially right now. You’re about to be sworn in as the chancellor presumpt of Rhannon. There will be scrutiny because of it; people will want to know why. We’ll have our work cut out hiding Harun’s defects, if we even can; there must be no question of any scandal attached to you too. The law of both Rhannon and Rhylla states clearly that citizens may not become involved with each other. It’s treason.”

  Sorrow shifted in her seat, moving the curtain and peering out of the window once more, pretending to examine the low white cottages they passed. “I know,” she said. “But there’s nothing like that between us.”

  It wasn’t even really a lie, she told herself, as her mood plummeted further. Once they were back in Istevar later that night, she was going to tell him about the Jedenvat’s – her – decision.

  “I think you both need reminding he’s in Rhannon to do a job on behalf of his queen.” Charon looked out of the window too. “He’s not ours. He’s theirs. You cannot forget that.” The carriage slowed to a halt, and Charon sighed. “We’re here. It’s almost time. Let’s talk about it later.”

  Irris, who’d finally looked up, gripped Sorrow’s hand and squeezed. “Are you ready?”

  Sorrow nodded.

  Irris reached into her bag and pulled out the lace headscarves, draping the first over Sorrow’s head and a second over her own. Sorrow knew in every carriage in their train, women would be doing the same. Outside in the streets, the women would be covering their faces, and men would be bowing their heads.

  The carriage door opened, and Charon lifted himself across the banquet, closer to it, waiting for an attendant to lift him out and place him in his chair. Once he was settled, he gave his daughter a nod, and Irris reached into her bag one more time to pull out a bundle wrapped in black satin, passing it to Sorrow. And Sorrow unwrapped the glass doll that she would carry to the top of the Humpback Bridge and throw into the river, reenacting how her brother had fallen from her father’s arms eighteen years ago.

  When Charon gave the signal, she stepped down, cradling the doll, and began the walk to the bridge.

  The crowd’s attention turned to her in an instant, as they realized it was she, not her father, who would lead the mourning today. The faint hum of restlessness like a wave at the understanding Harun wasn’t there at all. She faltered then, almost tripping over her gown. She paused, and cradled the doll in one arm, using her other hand to lift her skirt. The people turned to watch her pass, heads bowing, hands rising to press against chests, over their hearts. In front of them stood a row of the Decorum Ward, each of them holding a weapon. They watched her too, with flat, cold eyes, and beneath her veil her face burned.

  Ahead of her, the bridge loomed, tall and blinding in the sunlight, and Sorrow’s mouth turned dry as she realized she’d actually have to climb it. Somehow she’d not really focused on this key part of the ceremony, too mired in thoughts of her father, and Rasmus, and Rhannon. Now, with the Humpback Bridge dominating her vision, she could think of nothing else, save how terrifying a task it was. This was where Mael had died, on this bridge, as their father made this same ascent.

  It would be so easy to fall.

  At the base of the bridge, a tray of gum, donated every year by the Rhyllians, waited, and again Sorrow stiffened, wondering how she’d manage to step in the gum in her long skirts and keep hold of the doll. But then Irris was there, helping her move her skirts so she could take them in one hand before stepping into the tray. Keeping them aloft in one hand and clutching the doll in the other, Sorrow took a deep breath and began to climb.

  There was a fleeting moment where, for the first time in her life, she sympathized with Harun. The bridge was so much steeper than she’d thought possible, and even with the gum anchoring her, every step felt treacherous, her body straining forward to try to steady itself. She was all too aware of the lack of barrier on both sides, and her insides turned to liquid, her bones brittle as kindling, as she tried to tamp down the wild fear that she would trip, and hurtle into the water just as her brother had.

  She stopped midway to the apex, sweat soaking the back of her gown, and turned slowly to face the crowd.

  “I stand here before you on behalf of my father.” She raised her voice so it would carry, fixing her gaze on the solid ground behind them. “Eighteen years ago we gathered here to celebrate the end of a war. It should have been the brightest day in our history, and yet, it became our darkest. Not one day has gone by where we haven’t felt the loss of our beloved Mael. Today, on the anniversary of his death, we remember him. We—”

  A murmur went through the crowd and she lost focus at the unexpected interruption, stumbling over her words.

  “We honour—”

  The murmuring grew louder.

  Peering through the lace to see what disturbed them, Sorrow saw the crowd looking beyond her, looking up at the bridge. A few were even pointing, pushing their veils back from their eyes. Her gaze lit on Rasmus, further back in the crowd, frowning at something behind her, his expression both joyous and fearful.

  Sorrow turned. And froze.

  Behind her, a small group of Rhyllians had appeared at the peak of the bridge, right where she would stand to release the doll.

  She knew some Rhyllians came to watch the ceremony – that was expected; they were a curious folk – but they never actually climbed the bridge. Never looked down into Rhannon. Now she could see three of them up there, spanning the bridge with none of the fear that gripped her. She didn’t recognize the two on the outer edges, so alike they had to be twins: both slender, tall and dark-skinned, their hair braided into neat rows that fell to their shoulders, the female wearing a voluminous dress the same shade of ochre as her brother’s tunic and trousers.

  But she did know Lord Vespus, Rasmus’s father, who stood between them, shining in his green coat. He looked like his son: their hair the same shade of buttery moonlight, violet eyes, bladed cheekbones. Rhyllians aged slowly, the gradual whitening of their hair the only real way to tell they were aging, and Vespus could have been anywhere between thirty and eighty. It was only the hardness of his eyes that made him look old enough to be Rasmus’s father.

  He’d been kind enough to her when he’d been in Rhannon, always generous when packages arrived from Rhylla, saving some kind of sweet or treat for her, delivered with a sly wink and never mentioned again. But today his mouth was a grim line as he searched th
e crowd behind her, his eyes clearly seeking someone. It took every ounce of self-control to not turn, but she didn’t. She kept her focus on Vespus, so she saw when his gaze stilled and a smirk played about his lips, saw the small nod he gave to the Rhyllian woman beside him. Then she did look around, following the line of his sight until she saw Rasmus, somehow paler than usual as he watched his father.

  Panic flooded her, as Charon’s words about the obviousness of Rasmus’s feelings rushed to the front of her mind. Was that why they were here? Had someone told them they thought Rasmus’s behaviour was questionable? Had they come to take him away?

  No. It wasn’t fair. It was all about to end anyway. It was over, last night was the last time…

  She looked at Charon, silently begging for help, and he gripped the wheels of his chair as though to go to her. But he couldn’t, and he gazed back helplessly, his eyes imploring her, to do what, she didn’t know.

  Sorrow was on the verge of descending when she noticed a young woman with an infant in her arms, standing at the front of the crowd. The woman was watching her carefully, though her gaze kept flickering back to the Rhyllians on the bridge. She pulled the child she held a little closer, and looked again at Sorrow. Waiting to see what she’d do, Sorrow realized. They were all watching her, waiting for her response. She wanted to run. Every instinct inside was insisting she run. But she couldn’t. Not if she was going to become their chancellor.

  She turned her back fully on the Rhyllians, her heart ricocheting inside her chest, and took a deep breath.

  “We honour him,” Sorrow said. Movement near the carriages caught her attention and her fear grew as Rasmus excused himself, edging closer. With the veil over her eyes she couldn’t make it clear to him that he should go. “And we remember him, today, and always,” Sorrow finished.

  On cue, Irris stepped forward, spilling a little of the gum over the sides of the tray in her haste to climb up to Sorrow. She moved with much more surety than Sorrow had.