“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
“Once my stepfather is dead, we must marry. If I have a queen, I can take my crown and give you yours and we can put my mother somewhere she can hurt no one.”
“But she’ll kill me,” I say. “She’ll kill me before we can arrange the wedding.”
“Not if we move quickly.” He fumbles for my hand again, pressing it to his chest. “If we act before she realizes what we’re planning. We can even pretend that we want to delay the wedding out of respect for my stepfather; that will throw her off the scent. She won’t need to hurt you as long as she believes her plan is still progressing; too many deaths would look suspicious. We won’t have to keep it up for long.”
The walls of the room close in around me. “When?” I say.
“Tomorrow night. I must send for a priest we can trust, but I know of a man. There will be no ceremony to it. Just you and me and witnesses.” He looks at me with hope-filled eyes. “I know I am asking you to commit treason,” he says. “And believe me, I know I have no right to ask you for anything. But this is our only chance, Twylla. We must end this now. Because if we delay, we’ll both be dead. It must be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. I won’t ever be free if I agree to this. But if I don’t, then what? The queen will marry Merek and she will kill me to do so. I don’t believe there’s anything she wouldn’t do to keep her crown. If I stay, then I will lose Lief, I will lose myself, but if I go … Merek will take his own life. I know it. I can see the truth of it in his eyes, and if I refuse to ally with him, then he might even do it tonight, before anything else can happen. I would be his killer, an executioner absolutely. I would have walked away knowing that doing so was his death sentence. He would die so Lief and I could be together. His life for ours.
He crosses the room and takes my hands, before sinking to his knees, his arms wrapping around my waist and his cheek resting on my stomach. When I look down at him he stares back at me, his dark eyes filled with dread. He looks so much like his mother.
“Please, Twylla,” he says softly. “I cannot do this without you.”
“Merek—” Before I can continue, my door is thrown open and a huge red-faced guard struggles into the room, trying to push Lief from him. Merek rises to his feet, his face wholly pale now.
“Forgive me, Sire,” he says as he kneels, and Merek looks at me, his eyes so wide I can see the whites of them all around his dark irises.
“What did you call me?” he asks the guard, his voice strained, and Lief stops pulling at the guard as the meaning of the greeting sinks in.
“I had to come. Her Majesty the queen insisted,” the guard pants. “The king is dead.” He looks up expectantly as his words assault me over and over, beating against my ears. “The king is dead,” he repeats when we do nothing but stare dumbly at him. “The king is dead.”
Merek looks again at me, his face etched with misery, haggard and desperate, his fingers wringing the collar of his tunic, pulling it tight like a noose.
Duty or choice. His life or mine.
As if in a trance, I kneel before Merek, completing the proclamation: “Long live the king.”
Then I nod at him, once, and his face clears, the lines fading as he breathes out. He lifts me into his arms, whispering, “Thank you” in my ear as my heart breaks.
I look away, unable to speak, and Merek takes my hand and kisses it.
“Thank you,” he says again, and turns to the guard. “We’ll leave the lady to pray,” he says, and the guard dips his head at me before following Merek from the room.
Lief looks back and forth between the door and me.
“We’re not leaving, are we?” he says flatly.
“Lief—”
“You promised me. You said you would never marry him. You chose me.”
Gods help me. “Lief …” My voice cracks and I can’t force the words that will break my promise to him from my lips. I can’t abandon Merek. If I do, then he’ll kill himself. His death would be our curse. And not just ours, but all of Lormere’s. Leaving would damn every soul that lives here. Lormere would become Tallith, a lost kingdom. But Lief would never understand that.
Lief nods and turns.
“Please!” I say. “You can’t leave me.”
“Don’t ask me to stay here and watch you marry him,” he says. “You can’t have it all, Twylla.”
“I don’t want it all, I want you!”
“Then come with me.” It is his voice that cracks now, and I feel my heart shudder, as if it means to leap from my chest and into his hands.
“I can’t.”
“Why? What’s changed, Twylla? What did he say to you?”
I shake my head, trying to find a way to explain to him what Merek has asked of me and why I can’t refuse. But again the words clog in my throat and I stare at him, mute.
He looks at me for a long moment. “This is good-bye, then.”
He turns and leaves me.
* * *
An hour later, when the door opens again, I expect it to be him, full of fire and demanding an explanation. But it is Merek, his eyes still bright.
“Twylla?” He rushes to my side. I have not moved since Lief walked out on me. Gently, he guides me to the bed and sits me down. He leaves, returning a moment later with a goblet, which I drain without question. Brandy, from the burn in my throat. I should have known it would be alcohol of some sort.
“Are you well?” he asks, and I turn to look at him. My face feels slack, my whole body is limp and numb as though it’s no longer mine to control. I am empty; there is nothing inside me at all.
“Speak, my dear.”
His dear. I cave in on myself, collapse into grief, and his arms snake around me. The wrong arms, the wrong smell, the wrong man.
“My mother has gone to pray at the mere.” His mouth twists, and I shudder as we both realize what she has gone to pray for, why she’d choose a fertility mere to pray at. “I’ve told her we wish to delay the wedding in light of what has happened. She consented. She says we may take as long as we need, that Lormere will understand.”
I nod, trying to sit up.
He pushes my hair back from my face in a gesture so tender it brings new tears to my eyes. “I know I scared you earlier, with what I said, but it will be well, I promise you that. Everything will be fine, as we’ve planned. I must marry you, Twylla. And then we will have our coronation and we’ll both be safe.”
I close my eyes, opening them immediately when Lief’s stricken face appears behind my lids.
“Your mother has been sent for,” Merek continues. “Once she has Eaten, and he is cremated, we can marry. As soon as it is done, you will have nothing to fear. We will be free.”
My sob is loud and takes him by surprise. I shake my head, turning away to collect myself.
“Will I fetch something to calm you?” he asks.
Again I shake my head, taking a deep breath. I made my choice and allowed Lief to leave without me. I did this to myself. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I know I have done nothing but heap devastation on you these last few days, but in a few more we shall be safe. As soon as I am crowned, I can control my mother.”
As he talks, his other words sink in. “My mother is coming?”
“She is the Sin Eater and it must be done. Would you like to see her?”
There is no hesitation. “No, I think not. There is no use in it. My life is here now.”
“With me,” he says, making no effort to disguise his triumph.
Every window in the castle will be covered; every looking glass will be draped with black fabric. In the Great Hall the silver plate that normally sits on the tables will be put away, replaced with tin; any surface that might give reflection will be dulled or covered. The servants and handmaidens will work through the night to bring out the black robes, gowns, and tunics, and hastily adjust them for us to wear in the morning.
And as the castle prepares to m
ourn its king, Merek stays in my room, talking again of what he wants to do, what we together could achieve. After hours, I finally beg him to let me rest, and he takes my face in his hands.
“Forgive me, my love, of course you must rest. Have your guard lock the tower door behind me; tell him to open it for no one but me.”
“He’s gone,” I say dully. “He had to return to his home.”
“Then I will be your guard until we take the throne.” Merek kisses my head. “Come down with me now and lock the door. I will come for you in the morning.”
I do as he says, trying not to shudder when his cold hand cups my cheek in farewell. I pause with my fingers on the bolt; if I lock it, Lief won’t be able to return. Then I recall his face before he left. He won’t return. I slide the bolt into place and slowly climb the stairs back to my room.
* * *
Sleep does not come. Instead I spend the night recalling every word Lief said to me, wondering if he hates me now. They say when a limb is amputated you can still feel its ghost, and that is the sensation I experience now. The soul-deep knowledge that he is gone not for a moment, but forever, leaves me haunted. I have failed him, and myself, and even knowing it was the right thing to do is no comfort at all. I sit in the window with my face pressed against the curtain until the sun rises, when I can bathe and put on my mourning gown.
* * *
I wait for Merek to come, to be my guard as he said he would, but no one comes. No maid brings my breakfast. No one comes to protect me. I wait by the window, watching the sun rise higher and higher, and still no one comes. I toy with the idea of staying here and imagine someone finding me years from now, just bones heaped beneath the window.
But then I grow angry with myself, at this maudlin sentimentality. I chose this, and so I force myself to stand, to smooth the creases from the black mourning gown, and to leave my tower, unescorted for the first time since I came here.
I’m braced for fear and suspicion from my fellow courtiers, perhaps even cruelty, given that I am unprotected and my reputation precedes me. Part of me even wonders if I’d welcome it as a balm for the agony of knowing he is gone; it would at least give me some new pain to cling to. But the corridors are empty; they feel vast to me, as wide as the ocean my brothers used to speak of. I float through them like flotsam, far from land and home and anchor. Nothing to bind me. Nothing to keep me. When I arrive at the royal solar, announced by the guards at the door there, Merek is waiting with the queen, his promise forgotten.
“Your mother is here,” the queen says, turning her gaze on me.
“Twylla does not wish to see her.” Merek speaks for me. “She won’t be attending the Eating.”
The queen looks at me. “I’m afraid you must. This is the price of marrying into the royal family, Twylla. Sometimes we must do things that are painful. We put our own needs aside for the greater good.”
Something hard and rocklike settles in my chest as I think of what I have put aside for the greater good, and all because of her. “I understand, Your Majesty,” I say flatly.
She nods. “I must change, better to begin early. The kitchens have prepared the feast. After it is done, we will find whoever did this and execute them.”
“Do you have any idea who it could have been?” Merek asks, his voice level, though his eyes are hard.
“A Tregellian,” the queen says, and my heart stutters. “Who else would want to kill the king of Lormere? I’ve suspected for some time that they’re not as peaceable as they claim to be, and now I am convinced of it. You said yourself, Merek, that their knowledge of medicines and science far exceeds our own. And now we know why they’ve always been unwilling to share it. It seems they plan to use their knowledge for ill, as far as Lormere is concerned. It’s an act of war, Merek. They’ve sent someone in to try to kill us all, and it will not be borne. If it is a war they want, then they will have one.”
I recall Lief telling me how he knew the Morningsbane was a lie because Tregellians knew so much about poisons, and my fingers clench into my palms. It’s common knowledge. Blaming a Tregellian is plausible.
“Mother, we cannot afford a war,” Merek says. “And there is no evidence it was a Tregellian.”
“The poison itself is evidence,” the queen spits. “Tregellians know all about poisons; it’s a coward’s weapon.”
Merek looks at me and frowns. “Perhaps best to talk of this later,” he says, and the queen smiles grimly.
“I plan to talk of nothing else until I’ve set everything in Lormere to rights.” With that, she sweeps from the room, the sway of her gown punctuating her threat.
I catch Merek watching me as I stare after her. “You did well,” he says softly. “She has no idea.”
“She’s not even pretending to grieve, is she?”
Merek smiles, and then laughs, the sound absorbed into the drapes. “Why would she? She believes she’s on the cusp of her own Golden Age. She cares for nothing but the crown and glory.”
“Will people believe it was a Tregellian who killed the king?”
“I expect so. Would you question her if I had not told you what I heard?” Merek says, and my mind slides to Lief, causing a pain in my chest. “Besides, it’s better for us if she thinks she’s fooled us all. Let her believe her plan is working. We can avenge my stepfather later.”
I stare at him, still not fully able to believe that the queen killed her husband and plans to marry her own son to keep the throne.
“We’ll send her away, once this is done,” he says softly. “There’s a closed order of women at the base of the East Mountains. She can spend her days there. Away from us.”
He stands and pours himself a glass of wine, and we both remain silent, lost in our thoughts until the queen returns, her face covered in a mantilla of black lace that does little to hide the spark in her eyes. Merek stands and makes as if to offer me his arm, only turning to his mother when I shake my head. The queen nods at me and I fall in behind them.
* * *
I haven’t been to this part of the castle since I was here as a child for the last king’s Eating. It is down beyond the barracks, in an undercroft near the north tower. It is peaceful, sepulchral, and completely at odds with the churning inside me. I cannot settle; I lurch from heartache to fear, from loss to dread, and none of it is to do with the poor dead king.
My mother waits, vast and serene, in front of the coffin. She has always been able to fill a room, and not only because of her size. There is something in her bearing that commands you to pay attention to her, and even in this room, with a prince and a queen, she is the ruler. She stands wide-legged, her arms folded across her chest, draped in the black she always wears. I had forgotten how tall she is. I study her face, trying to find some sign of my own in it. But there is nothing. She doesn’t look at me as we enter, staring instead at the coffin. The lid has been covered with the royal coat of arms, and atop it is a small selection of food, much less than there had been for the previous king, or Alianor. My mother will not like it.
We file along the wall and take our seats on the stools placed there for us. Then the Eating begins. My mother works as she always has, slowly, methodically. Three bites of bread and then a sip of ale, a mouthful of ham and then more ale. She is a stalwart Sin Eater, plowing her way through the meal with the quiet dignity of a shire horse in a field. I watch the flesh on her upper arm ripple as she reaches across the coffin for an apple. The crunch as she bites into it is agonizing, but she is mindless of it, her eyes moving from one morsel to the next as she charts her course.
She always starts with the smallest sins—lies, deceptions, angry words—spiraling in slowly to the largest ones. I used to worry at extravagant Eatings that she might fill herself before she reached the worst sins, but she never did. It’s as though the taste for the smaller sins whet her appetite for the terrible ones. The king has no terrible sins, merely the usual ones. My mother prefers a more wide-ranging sinner.
As I watch her
work, a kind of calm falls over me, the routine of the Eating still familiar and comforting, despite the years, because this is something I know, something that cannot and will not change. On my far right the queen is fidgeting; her hands are restless in her lap, her fingers writhing in between each other like eels. In contrast my mother seems to almost move slower, and then it hits me: That’s precisely what she’s doing. As the queen uses her body to try and hurry the Eating, my mother uses hers to slow it. She won’t let the queen be the ruler of this; death is her realm and the Eating will proceed at her pace. It stuns me to see it; though I knew my mother was powerful, I never understood she was this powerful, that in the queen’s own castle she can make time her servant, and the only wishes she obeys are those of the Eating. Whatever battle rages on, my mother will be the victor as long as she plays her part—and she will, because my mother lives to be her part. Through my despair, a tiny slice of hope cuts, because whether I like it or not I am my mother’s daughter, and if she can hold her own here, then so can I. I will take a leaf from her book and be as she is. I will hold true, despite the cost, to my role. And that way I shall win.
Merek looks at me, his face unreadable, and then turns back to observe my mother at work. Time has altered her appearance little: a strand or two of gray hair, lines visible around her eyes as she squints to see how much ale is left.
I’m wondering what my sister looks like now when I realize with a start that she is not here. As the Sin Eater in training, she ought to be here with my mother, observing the rights as solemnly as I used to. I look sharply to Merek, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the coffin.
Despite what I’m sure is deliberate slowness, it doesn’t take her long to finish the meal; the Eating is complete within the hour. As soon as it is done, the queen rises and leaves, without a word to any of us.
My mother looks at Merek and me and then completes the ritual. “I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man. Come not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul.”
The Sin Eater's Daughter Page 21
