by Claire Merle
Afternoon sun leaks through the closed shutters. I wake on the bedroom floor with tears in my eyes and the sense of Kel so close, my swollen heart feels ready to burst. While Deadran still sleeps I take off my shirt and wash using a jug of cold water, noticing my rib bones aren't sticking out so much and my breasts are fuller.
I decide to skip eating until later, and spend the next couple of hours inside the innkeeper Addy Mulburry's mind, scouring tedious memories of days that bleed into months, and months into years that all look the same.
By late-afternoon, stars twinkle in the deep night-blue sky. I stretch my legs and stare out the window at the pigs, my thoughts numb from so many hours of Addy's kitchen-hand drudge.
The sound and smells of pigs snuffling and squealing drifts up. In the stables, a horse whinnies.
“I never knew pigs could be so fascinating.”
I turn. Jakut stands in the doorway, tufts of hair falling into his eyes. Half his face glows from the candle in the wall sconce, while deep twilight gives the other half of his bronzed skin a silvery tint. He reminds me of the portrait paintings of elegant noblemen and women hanging in the boarding house dining room. His breath is ragged from riding which means he has come straight here after leaving his stallion.
I point to Deadran on the bed, then cross the room. Jakut retreats into the narrow corridor. I join him, clicking the door shut behind me and stand crushed against it to create a little space between us. At least I have washed.
“How have you been getting on?” he asks.
From his casual tone, it sounds like polite conversation, but I sense he is already testing me. “I know the names of every cook, serving girl, butler and footman. I am familiar with the running of Lord Tersil's fort and the names of his wife and children. But my information is fifteen years out of date.”
Jakut stares as though he's listening to something other than my spoken words. The sincerity in his eyes tilts me off balance. I think of Tug's words in the forest. I should not need to be warned to distrust the Prince. A child would know this. Yet instinct betrays me.
“If that is all,” I say, fumbling for the bedroom door handle.
“Mirra, please, take a walk with me.” I grope for an excuse, but he turns before I find one and I am left to follow him through the dark hall.
Outside the moon is bright, lighting our way as we cross towards the stables. This is some consolation as I wish to check on my mare.
“Tomorrow, we will dine in Lyndonia,” he says. He ambles with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. I fleetingly wonder where he and Tug have been for the last two hours. “Deadran has instructed us together, but I will need as much help as you can give me. I will not recognize my uncle or aunt or the guards or anyone from the fort.”
A sudden thought strikes me. “I could sketch them for you,” I say. “I am not practiced with people, but I used to draw some of the forest animals and—” Kel. I stop myself before my brother's name slips from my lips. What is wrong with me? I almost said it aloud.
“Mirra,” he says in a low, gravelly voice. My stomach rolls, and I wish I had eaten earlier. I flinch as he takes hold of my shoulders and turns me so we are face to face. “Mirra,” he says again. This time his voice sounds softer, almost wounded. “I am sorry for putting you in this situation. If anyone suspects your true nature, I will do everything I can to help you escape.”
I stare at my boots and twist my hands together. “My true nature?” I ask, trying to tame the anger rising from the bottomless waters inside me. “Umbra, shadow weaver, glitter-eyed... Are these the words you search for? Is your true nature that you are a prince?”
His arms fall to his sides. “You are right.”
The release of his touch returns me to my senses. I shake my head. “Excuse me, Your Royal Highness. I thank you for your consideration.”
He snorts in mild amusement. “You reveal me to myself.”
I glance up. In the shadows of his face a smile brushes his lips.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“I wanted your understanding, Mirra. I wanted you to lighten my guilt, and yet I did not realize this, until you gave me what I wanted without meaning it.”
With a sensation I have misstepped, I frown. Why would he need my understanding of his acts? The strong take from the weaker in their quest for better survival. It has always been the way of the world.
In the starry darkness it is easier than normal to meet his probing gaze.
“You do not act like a slave or a prisoner,” he muses, almost to himself. “Because you do not believe you are one.”
A fresh wave of anxiety pulses under my skin. What is he driving at now? Does he think Tug, Brin and I are working together to trick him? Does he suspect I go with them to Lyndonia because I desire it? He saw Tug and me arguing in the forest. Perhaps captive girls aren't supposed to argue with their abusive captors. And mercenaries aren't supposed to put their lives in the hands of an untrustworthy shadow weaver after killing her parents.
“I have been free for sixteen years,” I say. “Two weeks’ captivity cannot take that from me.”
“It would most. They would know they are no longer free. They would be attempting escape, or giving up.”
“The last time I tried to escape,” I say. “Tug left a scar across my neck.”
I walk further into the stables. A lantern hangs on the barn door, its dim candle flickering in the wind. His words have reminded me of Kel. Pain swells in my throat. The stable boy is brushing down Tug's horse. I find my mare at the other end of the shack, check her water is clean and she has plenty of hay. Will Kel have given up by now? Will he believe there is no hope?
Jakut follows me inside, stopping an arm's length away. He holds the lantern in one hand and strokes the white, splattered star on his stallion's nose with the other. I take deep breaths until the panic ebbs.
“There is something specific you wish to ask me?” I say.
“Yes. Tug and Brin murdered your parents, yet the other day Tug was teaching you to hunt.” He speaks in a low voice so the groom cannot overhear. It makes the atmosphere thrum with intensity and I regret coming in here. “He does not act towards you the way he should. The way Brin does. He does not fear and loathe you and you do not fear and loathe him.”
“Tug is not superstitious. He pays no heed to the wild stories of the Uru Ana possessing shadow magic. But you are wrong. I would be an idiot not to fear him. And I hate him for taking me from my home, though it is true, I would hate him more if he had killed my parents.”
“He said your parents were dead.”
“Not by his hand.” I am glad it is dark so that Jakut cannot read the lie on my face. “May I ask you something?” I say, hoping to deflect his attention from my family.
“Please,” he nods.
“If the attack was from inside your own escort and you were the target, how is it you are still alive?”
His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. “I have no answer for this puzzle. I only hope Rhag has spared my life because he has some higher purpose for me.”
I think of his endless praying before the long-sleep; his decision to risk the spiritual cleansing despite how vulnerable it would leave him. Tug wishes to isolate and control me through my distrust of the Prince. Yet the Prince of Caruca seeks to fill some higher Godly purpose.
“Come,” he says, raising the lantern and touching me lightly on the back. “We must return. You are needed in your bedroom before supper. And tonight we have a seven-hour ride ahead of us before we reach the fort.”
Nineteen
The girl standing in the hallway looks about fourteen. She wears a plain, neat dress and her long plaited hair twists down to her waist. Lined up beside her are four huge jugs of water. In her arms she carries a wicker basket and towels.
“I am here to prepare your bath,” she says with a curtsey.
Prince Jakut said I was needed in my bedroom before supper, but I had not imagined he me
ant for a bath. He has not been as oblivious to my stench as he pretends. I suppose even a serving boy cannot turn up stinking of sweat, rancid long-sleep oils and dirt.
“Come in,” I say. In Blackfoot Forest we bathed in streams, and even in the summer months the water was freezing. My last hot bath was six years ago. A sense of anticipation and warmth runs through me.
The girl lights the fire and I help her carry the water jugs to the washing chamber. As she empties the basket of ointments, oils and creams, I settle on a stool by the wooden tub and unplug miniature corks from the tiny bottles. Pine sap, thyme, mint. I recognize some of the scents, but many are foreign.
The girl does not seem bothered by my company and I absently wonder how long she has been working. If she went to school or learned to read and write. If she was born and raised here. The women who worked with the innkeeper, Addy Mulberry, in the Delladean fort's kitchens talked nonstop, but the girl is quiet. I like her at once.
A perfume in a dark blue bottle fills my head with a hazy memory of running through a valley of tall purple and orange flowers.
“What is it?” I ask, holding up the bottle.
“Jasmine Summer.”
“And this?”
“Roses,” she says, smiling. “You have never smelt a rose?” I shrug. “This is my favorite,” she says, producing an opaque bell-shaped bottle. “But you have to dab it on your skin to get the right effect.” She pops out the lid and reaches to take my hand. I give it to her before remembering the red welts on my wrists from Tug's ropes. As she raises my sleeve I ease my arm away.
“I can do it,” I say. I blot the liquid on the top of my wrist and notice the welts beneath have almost faded. Has the knife slit on my neck lightened to a faint scar too? Next to my skin the soft scent reminds me of the vanilla biscuits a cook in Addy's kitchen was so fond of making.
“Lovely.”
“Pink Lily of the Mountains.”
She lifts a bubbling pot from the fire and pours it into the tub. Steam hisses as hot and cold water collide. “I was told to stay and help scrub you, but I can wait outside if you wish.”
“No, that's fine.” I kick off my boots and undress. My mother changed in front of her maid so I think little of it, until the girl's gaze runs over my body and her eyes widen. A bruise I have not remembered? Too skinny? I have never been so fleshy in my life, but compared to her I am all bones and muscle.
“Your father told me you did not like to bathe.”
I glance at the brown sheen of grime over my arms, chest and legs. Grit sits between my toes and beneath my fingernails. I laugh. Tug is getting his revenge.
“Let's give him a surprise,” I say. “Make me so clean I'm glowing.”
I drift my hand through the silky water, then climb in, submerging myself little by little as the heat tingles against my skin.
Half an hour later, the girl, Tilda, has scrubbed me so hard my back, legs, and arms are bright red. I sit in a cotton towel on the bathroom stool and let her clip my nails and rub nut oil over my back. She combs my ponytail, slowly unknotting all the tangled lumps.
“Well,” she says when it is done. “Where are your clothes?”
Before I can answer she heads to the bedroom. I follow, slightly anxious she'll be suspicious when she realizes I have only the dirty clothes I was wearing. But a midnight blue dress lies spread across the double bed.
I stop, watching as she runs a hand appreciatively across the quality fabric. My eyes twitch to the door. Deadran's shuffle would have alerted me to his entrance, and another serving girl would have knocked. Which leaves the Prince. I imagine him arranging the dress while I sit naked in the tub chatting nonsense to Tilda, and my cheeks flame. But modesty should be the least of my concerns in light of what the dress implies.
The neck of the dress cuts high against the throat. Fabric gathers at the shoulders and extends to cover the wrists with a lacy frill. A cotton petticoat, underpants, and a corset with ribbons have been laid beside it. A pair of brown leather riding boots stand beside the rocking chair, and a matching cloak hangs above them. Jakut means to present me as a lady. Not a serving boy. Not even a serving girl. But a lady!
Tilda helps me dress and I do my best to curb my impatience at getting away from her fluttering, pruning hands. I am impatient to show the Prince what an error he is making.
“Do you not wish to look at yourself in a glass?” she asks as I head for the bedroom door.
“The mirror in the dining room is larger,” I tell her. “I don't want to spoil the full effect!”
I leave her beaming and tramp through the hallway in tight boots and a skirt that makes me feel I've got caught up in riverbed flotsam, and I am dragging it tangled around my feet.
A clatter of plates and Tug's low voice float through the wood panelled hall. Brin, seated opposite the dining room door, sees me first. His mouth opens and he stops eating. Tug turns to stare, followed by Prince Jakut who is taking his supper with a book in his hands.
I stand in the doorway with my palms on my hips, like a peacock attempting to puff itself up and not appear intimidated.
“What is the meaning of this?” I ask.
Jakut closes his book and rises. He crosses the room, arcing around to inspect me from the sides. “The color and cut suit you well enough,” he says. He holds out his arm as a gentleman would for a lady to take. “May I escort you to your table?”
“I think I can find it well enough.” I stomp past him to the table where my supper has been left covered. I yank back a chair and drop down, folding my arms. “Eat,” he says. “We must leave shortly.”
“I cannot ride like this.”
“It will be strange at first, but you will adapt.”
I look to Tug for help. His stony expression tells me he will not be intervening. Brin has acquired another piece of colored quartz around his neck. He squeezes the crystal in his chunky hand. The Prince pulls up a chair at the head of the table, beside me. He leans close and speaks in a low voice.
“I will present you to the Lyndonian court as Lady Mirra Tersil from Delladea.”
My eyes slide across to Brin and Tug. It is hard to glean anything from their schooled faces, but I'm guessing they have known of this plan since their grim expressions in the dining room this morning. If they have not been able to deter Prince Jakut from this stupidity, his mind will be hard to change.
“When I was found after the attack that left me for dead, your father, Lord Tersil, took me into his home and you cared for me and brought me back to life. Your father has provided a discreet escort for my travels across Caruca to Lydnonia, where I intend to wait for news of the King under my uncle's protection.”
I rub tingling hands against the anxious squeeze in my chest.
“What sort of father,” I say, as steadily as I can, “would allow his sixteen-year-old daughter to travel the country with a young Prince whose life is in danger?”
“My assassins left me for dead over five months ago. The King's soldiers began their search after the winter darkness, but no one believes I am alive. While I am presumed dead, my life and yours are safe.”
“People will notice me!” I hiss. “They will ask questions. What possible reason could propel a young lady halfway across the kingdom with two of her father's kinsmen and the Prince of Caruca?”
Jakut looks perplexed. “They will wonder whether you have captured the Prince's heart when you sat day after day by his bedside willing him back to life. They will be full of curiosity and questions, but the last thing they will ask is if you are Uru Ana.”
So I will be watched closely by everyone. The Prince will have a reason to post guards outside my door—in the name of protection. I will not be able to breathe without someone noticing. And how am I supposed to convince lords and ladies I am one of them?
“A man who has money and authority,” I say, “would not let his young, influential daughter go without more reason than she has captured the Prince's attention.”
He cannot be serious! But Tug and Brin's sombre expressions confirm that he is.
“People are not blind!”
“I will need you by my side, helping me navigate whom and what I should already know. It is the perfect excuse to keep you close.”
“Deadran,” I call, rousing the old tutor from where he snoozes by the fire. “Tell him it is ridiculous.”
Jakut bites his bottom lip. “Would it be so hard, Mirra,” he says, “to pretend?” The sincerity in his eyes sets my nerves on edge. A sickness rises through me as I realize what Brin and Tug know. This is a lost battle.
“Perhaps,” I say, swallowing the lump threatening to strangle my voice, “if I were travelling on some diplomatic mission for my father.”
“You are too young and too—” He cuts himself off. The unfinished sentence hangs in the air, affronting me and making me curious at the same time. I am too what?
“You are both willing to risk your lives for such a ruse?” I demand of Tug and Brin. Brin's brow dips in the slightest show of disapproval but it is the only response I get. “So it has been decided?” I do not restrain the fury surging to the surface.
“Mirra,” Jakut says, resting a hand on my arm. I flinch and move away. Until two weeks ago, three people comprised my world. I will be lost in a royal fort, surrounded by lords and ladies, pretending I know of romance and courtship when my heart is a cold mystery even to myself. “You won't have to do anything,” he says. “I'll be the one that convinces them. All I ask is you stay discreetly by my side.”
I eat in silence. When I rise to gather my things for our journey, I catch sight of myself in the giant mirror above the fireplace. A cold shiver prickles down my back. It is as though a wraith from the mind-world has crept into the dining room through a forbidden doorway. I almost mistook my reflection for one of the innkeeper's ladies in Delladea fifteen years ago.
