State of Sorrow

by Melinda Salisbury

  The jab was not lost on Sorrow, but she ignored it.

  “Who else is here?” Luvian asked.

  “Miss Ventaxis’s brother, of course. We have, due to the political situation in Rhannon, allocated Mr Ventaxis and his party rooms in a different part of the castle complex. We thought it best.”

  Sorrow wondered whether those quarters were in Vespus’s private palace.

  Deryn continued. “The Duke of Meridea and his consort will join us for the Naming and the ball. The Astrian and Nyrssean ambassadors are representing their leaders – sadly the leaders themselves could not attend – and so are staying in their usual accommodations and are, of course, already here.”

  “What of Svarta?” Sorrow asked.

  “Fain Darcia herself is due to arrive later today, as is the Lady of Skae.” Deryn paused outside a door, then opened it, ushering them in. “As you can see, you have your own sitting room, and your bedrooms are marked for you.” She nodded to the doors on each side of the room. “We hope it’s not an imposition, but – as I said – space is limited so we had hoped to house Fain Darcia in the small palace too. She’s travelling alone, and will have separate quarters.”

  Sorrow nodded her acceptance eagerly. She’d never met the Svartan leader, but she’d liked their ambassador very much, and she’d spoken highly of the Svartan fain. Svarta had always intrigued her.

  Deryn appeared relieved, and continued. “And Lord Day will be the guest of Ambassador Mira, of course.”

  “Charon is coming?” Sorrow’s heart lifted at the idea of seeing him.

  “Indeed, though sadly only for the Naming and the ball. Again, the climate in Rhannon made Her Majesty believe it prudent to have a neutral Rhannish presence. Actually –” she turned to Dain “– that gives me an idea. We’ve had to make special arrangements for Lord Day, on account of his chair. Perhaps we can create a similar setup for you.”

  Dain shrugged, and Deryn frowned.

  “Of course, we heard of the incident two nights ago. Her Majesty wants you to know that the palace compound is very secure,” Deryn said, glancing at Dain from the corner of her eye. “You’ll notice that neither Her Majesty nor the prince consort or princess have bodyguards. That’s how much faith we have in the palace guards, and our other security systems. Castle Adavaria has never been breached, by land nor water.”

  Luvian gave Sorrow a knowing look, and she had to refrain from rolling her eyes. There weren’t merrow in the lake.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Sorrow said. “And I have Dain.” Sorrow smiled at the Ward, and her cheeks turned dusky.

  “I rather hope you won’t need her,” Deryn replied, and it was Sorrow’s turn to flush as she wondered if she’d insulted her hostess.

  “No, of course not. While we’re here Dain can relax.”

  “Very good,” Deryn replied. “Though it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to attend the festivities, you must feel welcome to use the parlours downstairs.” She addressed Dain directly before speaking to them all. “Her Majesty says you’re free to use the grounds, but she asks that you respect the privacy of the castle residents and remain on the paths. The guards won’t take kindly to people being where they’re not expected. Dinner is at seven; if you could please meet downstairs in the hall, someone will come to escort you to the main keep. I think that’s all… Unless you have any questions?”

  “None. Luvian?”

  “I’m good.”

  “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll see what I can do about rooms for you.” Deryn spoke to Dain, who turned to Sorrow with a questioning look.

  Sorrow nodded, and the Rhannish and Rhyllian women left.

  “I don’t think Deryn has a good grasp of what bodyguard means,” Sorrow said.

  “I think she was insulted you thought you’d need one here,” Luvian replied.

  “What should I do? I mean, the point of her being here is to guard me.”

  “Hard to argue that when you left her on a bench in Ceridog because it suited you,” Luvian said. “And Deryn is right. The castle complex – Rhylla in general – is the safest place in the whole of Laethea. Historically there has never been a breach of the walls, never an attack here.”

  Sorrow narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you actually read some kind of guidebook before we came?”

  “Yes. Because I like to know about the places I’m going. Ignorance is nothing to be proud of, Sorrow dearest. Now, I think I’ll go and investigate my room.” He smiled winningly and left her.

  Sorrow rolled her eyes, and turned to the door labelled for her in beautiful script. It was small but elegant, a carved bed with a headboard that looked like a scroll in the centre, a wardrobe and dressing screen made with the same golden wood. Alvus, she expected. She crossed to the window to see what view she had.

  She regretted it instantly. Rasmus – there was no mistaking him this time – was walking away from the guest quarters, heading towards the main keep. Beside him was a young Rhyllian woman, fair-haired as he was. Longing tugged at Sorrow. Though she’d tried to prepare herself to see him, she hadn’t realized just how strange it would be. Nor how sad it would make her.

  As though he sensed her gaze, Rasmus turned, looking directly at her, and Sorrow ducked back, pressing herself against the wall, her heart slamming against her ribs as though she’d been running. Luvian chose that moment to appear in the doorway, a steaming earthenware cup in his hand.

  “Coffee?” he began, then frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice was high and tight, like a violin string.

  Luvian wasn’t convinced. “Right… Just casually standing pressed against the wall?”

  “Yes. No. No, thanks, to coffee.” Sorrow stepped away from the wall and tried to calm herself. “I think I might lie down for a bit.”

  Luvian shrugged, but his eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. “Do you want me to come and get you when it’s time to go?” he said finally.

  “Thanks, yes.”

  He stayed there for a moment, and Sorrow waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t, merely turning and closing the door as he left.

  Sorrow turned immediately back to the window and peered out, but Rasmus was gone.

  Instead of resting, she’d locked herself in the bathroom and tried to groom herself into calmness.

  With painstaking care, she lined her upper eyelid, keeping the wings small and sharp, only having to start again three times, which felt like an achievement. She’d already decided there was no point in lipstick if they were eating, but once her eyes were done, she thought her face looked out of balance, the drama of her eyes versus the normality of her mouth. So she smeared on a rich red, only to wipe it off a moment later. Too much. Unless she added more eyeliner…

  No. She forced herself away from the mirror. Her make-up was fine.

  Rasmus had never seen her with make-up on – not that he was the reason she was doing it, she told herself. Putting on make-up was like putting on armour – a mask to hide her worries about seeing him, and also Mael, the election, and the Sons of Rhannon. How could anyone with kohl-lined eyes, or bright red lips, be thought of as afraid?

  And it wouldn’t hurt for him to see her looking good, so he’d know she was all right.

  She released her hair from the braid she’d worn to travel in, running her fingers through the soft waves, allowing them fall naturally down her back, though she slipped a hair tie over her wrist.

  Ines had fashioned a soft teal gown for this first supper, as it was known to be one of Melisia’s favourite colours. The gown was simple, a sleeveless column with a modest V-shaped neckline in front and back, falling into soft folds to her ankles, a braided gold rope around the waist. Mercifully, Irris had paired it with flat gold slippers, and Sorrow was grateful to slip her feet into them. She found the shawl her friend had included, and was mulling over whether to put it on, or wait, when Luvian knocked on her door.

  “Coming,” she said, turning as h
e opened it.

  “Are you—Wow.”

  “Am I wow?”

  “You look…” He waved his hands at her as though that said it all. “Your eyes…” He gestured again.

  “Does it look bad?” Sorrow asked, suddenly worried by his reaction. “I tried to do it how Irris did it for the presentation, but I embellished a bit. Because it’s a party…”

  “No,” he said slowly. “It looks good.”

  Mollified, she took his arm when he offered it and they made their way down to the rose parlour. They were the first there, save for a manservant serving drinks and Dain, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and a book in the other, looking for all the world as though she belonged there. She stood guiltily when they entered, but Sorrow waved her down, moving to stand beside her as Luvian went to the bar.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  She held it up so Sorrow could see the cover. “Adavere and Namyra. I love that story.”

  “It’s all they had in Rhannish,” Dain said. “Miss Ventaxis, if you need me to come—”

  “It’s fine. I’d prefer not to insult the queen by implying I don’t think her castle is safe.”

  “I don’t want to be accused of neglecting my duties,” Dain said, a faint edge to the words.

  Sorrow understood. “I have no plans to mention this to Meeren Vine,” she told her. From the way the tension in her jaw loosened, she knew she was right. “Enjoy it,” she added with a smile.

  “I will, Miss Ventaxis.”

  “Where are you sleeping?”

  “The library.” The woman’s eyes lit up at the word, and Sorrow gave in fully to liking her. As soon as they got back to Rhannon, she’d ask her to leave the Ward, and become her personal guard permanently.

  Luvian joined them, with a small glass of wine for her, and she was grateful. She’d thought she’d mastered her fears, locked them behind layers of eyeliner and chiffon, but now, with only a short walk between her and seeing Rasmus, she found she wasn’t steady at all.

  When Luvian handed her the glass, he noticed her shaking hands.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  There was little point in denying it, so she nodded.

  “Just remember…” he began, but then fell silent as Fain Darcia – for the tall, slender woman with bone-white skin and silver fur at her throat could be no one else – glided into the room, coal-black eyes settling immediately on Sorrow. She smiled and crossed at once to her, and Sorrow and Luvian bent deeply at the waist in greeting.

  “Miss Ventaxis,” the northern woman said in Rhannish, once again shaming Sorrow for her own lack of language skills. “I am happy to meet with you.”

  “And I you.” Sorrow took the hand she offered in hers. “I heard so many good things about you and your country from Ambassador Stile.”

  “She spoke of you too. With much fondness. She was sad to leave you, but … you know, these things.” She turned then to Luvian. “And this must be…” She paused. “No, I don’t know. Who are you?”

  “Luvian Fen, my lady.” He bowed again, rising when she offered her hand.

  “You may call me Darcia,” the Svartan said. “Both of you may; we are friends.” Darcia gave her drink order to the manservant and waited while he prepared it. When he handed it over, it was a thick, black liquid that smelled like aniseed. Darcia took a hearty swig and wrinkled her nose.

  “Bah, not like at home,” she said, offering the glass to Sorrow.

  Sorrow took a tentative sip and coughed, her cheeks turning scarlet, eyes watering, as the liquid blazed a fiery trail of lava down her into her stomach.

  “Too mild,” Darcia said. “Weak, southern stuff. When you come to my home as the chancellor I’ll give you the real thing. It’ll keep you warm through our cold nights.”

  Sorrow, her voice burned clean away, could only nod. She was saved from replying at all when a liveried woman appeared in the doorway.

  “If you’d like to follow me, your carriage is here.”

  A Taste of Mania

  The assembly hall in the central keep was intimidatingly grand, built to impress or inspire, exactly how Sorrow imagined a temple or sacred space would be. The ceiling was high and vaulted, ornate buttresses arching out from between the stained-glass windows. Rasmus had said the windows told the story of Adavere and the Humpback Bridge, and Sorrow saw it there, fourteen tall, colourful panels recounting the tale of how he tricked the stars detailed in the candlelit glass. Ten large columns supported the ceilings, each one wrapped with white silk that glowed like moonlight, creating a central space, filled with round tables, where the welcome feast was to take place.

  Sorrow couldn’t see a high table, nor any of the Rhyllian royals – including Rasmus – amid the chattering people, and it puzzled her, until she noticed an empty table at the centre of the room and wondered if the Rhyllian royals sat amongst their guests, as though they were all equals.

  A servant showed them to their table, and Luvian pulled out her chair, but before Sorrow could sit, a hand gently touched her shoulder, and she turned to find Mael standing there, smiling at her. She allowed herself to give him a small smile back – it wouldn’t hurt to be nice – and was rewarded by his own widening grin.

  “You came,” he said. “I didn’t know if you would, after what happened. How are you? You got back to the North Marches all right? There was no more trouble?”

  By the time he’d crossed the bridge, the graffiti was gone, Sorrow realized. Should she tell him that the attack hadn’t been a one-off?

  He continued before she had chance. “I asked Arta if we should offer to travel with you, safety in numbers and all, but he said it wouldn’t be right. I think he sometimes forgets we’re brother and sister, and not simply rivals.”

  The annoyance that usually burned through her veins whenever he called himself her brother was absent, but before she could dwell on it, a fanfare echoed through the room, and everyone rose to greet Queen Melisia and her family.

  She entered first, in a flowing gown of silver that clung to the remains of her pregnancy curves, a coronet glittering on her brow. Her consort, Prince Caspar, came next, also in silver, holding an infant swaddled in green in his arms. Then a pretty blonde girl – Sorrow’s heart stuttered – on the arm of Rasmus, and it dawned on Sorrow she must be his cousin, Princess Eirlys, and that’s who had been walking with him earlier.

  Vespus brought up the rear, and beside him was Aphora, the woman who’d been at the bridge and the inn, the day they revealed Mael. Sorrow wondered if Vespus was in a relationship with Aphora. From the way the dark-skinned Rhyllian woman gazed at him – part pride, part possession – and how his hand skirted low on her back, caressing the exposed skin, she surmised yes.

  Melisia paused to greet her guests as the royal party made its way through the room, her face lit with pleasure as she shook hands and, more often than not, embraced her visitors. Sorrow watched her carefully, noting how she made sure to speak to every single person, and how they glowed a little after she had.

  “Mael and Sorrow Ventaxis,” she said in a smooth, melodious voice when she reached them. “Thank you both for coming.”

  She held out her hand to Sorrow, who shook it with as much warmth as she could muster, only to feel slighted when Mael stepped forward and hugged her.

  “You look radiant, Your Majesty,” he said as he released her, before nodding a greeting at the prince consort.

  Melisia laughed, and turned to Sorrow. “Last time your brother saw me I was the size of a house, and itching to have my body back.”

  “Not at all. You looked as fierce and lovely as ever,” Mael replied. If anyone else had said it, Sorrow would have sneered at their insincerity, but she suspected Mael’s words were genuine, and from the way Melisia rested a hand on his cheek, before passing along, it seemed she thought so too.

  As the queen and prince consort passed, Sorrow braced herself to speak to Rasmus. But at the last moment he turned away, saying somet
hing over his shoulder in Rhyllian to Aphora. Sorrow’s skin burned with embarrassment.

  He’d ignored her.

  “Miss Ventaxis.” Vespus’s voice was silky as he drew level with her. “How good to see you. Colour suits you. And, Mael, how wonderful to have you back within these walls.”

  He embraced the boy and lingered with him, speaking in rapid Rhyllian, with Mael replying just as fluently. Back and forth, with Sorrow watching them, the gestures of their hands as they spoke as synchronized as a dance.

  “Sickening, isn’t it?” Luvian leant over and whispered in her ear. “Poor Xalys is better off out of it. They look more like father and son than him and his actual son.”

  They both looked at where Rasmus stood alone, his fingers flexing and straightening, the silver rings flashing with each motion, as he watched his father and Mael.

  “How far exactly could a Rhyllian alter someone’s appearance, if they had the ability?” Luvian asked. “After all, it would technically be manipulating organic matter…”

  “What are you getting at?” Sorrow said.

  “Well, we just discovered Vespus has a secret daughter. What if I’m wrong, and he didn’t take a child from Rhannon? What if Mael is another of Vespus’s children, made to look Rhannish?”

  Sorrow shook her head. “It’s not possible. I told you: it only works within the confines of what already exists. A mole could be increased to look like a birthmark, yes. And maybe, if a Rhyllian had the right complexion, the skin could be darkened so it looked Rhannish. But they couldn’t change the ears. Their shape is too fundamental to alter.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Sorrow fell silent. She was sure because she’d asked Rasmus about it once, not long after they’d first slept together. Back then, with her grandmother still alive and strong, she’d been paralysed at the idea of having to give him up, and unconcerned about Rhannon, so she’d tried to hatch a plan where they could be together. No one would accept them as they were, but what if they looked different, she’d told him eagerly. What if they could find someone to make him look Rhannish, or her Rhyllian?