Sea Dragon Heir

by Constantine, Storm

  AT SUNDOWN, A MAIDSERVANT with narrow eyes came to tell Varencienne and Oltefney that dinner was ready to be served on the first floor, in the grand family dining room, which they called the Carving Hall. Varencienne thought of whole oxen roasted over an open fire, of male laughter and the sinister glimmer of flames, of sly-eyed women and spilled wine. Would Valraven’s slaughtered ox be turning slowly in the great hearth, dripping hissing gobbets of fat and blood? She felt half nauseated, half starved. The Carving Hall was situated at the back of the castle. As Varencienne and Oltefney followed the maid through the corridors and down stairs, all Varencienne could think of was that he would be present at dinner; the one who could infect her, dominate her body, make it do things over which she had no control. Why had her father made her get married? She could have remained a virgin, and lived in her brother?s house. She could have been the one saying those terrible things to a young bride as they walked the battlements. It would never happen now. Oltefney was already speculating greedily on the forthcoming cuisine, but Varencienne ignored her comments. They had reached the Carving Hall, and the doors were opening before her. She stepped through. The room was long and lit by soft candlelight. A stoked fire chewed enormous, gnarled logs, dwarfed by the size of the hearth. Above, on the wall, was the crest of the Palindrakes in carved, painted wood: a fish-tailed dragon rising from a nest of foam and surrounded by a court of hideous merpeople. The table, which could have comfortably seated thirty people, was, like all furniture in Caradore, of a blond unvarnished pine. High-backed chairs surmounted by swooping wooden gargoyles were ranged along its length, but only two were occupied. The air smelled heavily of flowers and furniture wax. A bowl of spring blooms dominated the center of the table; tiny flowers which had come adrift lay wilting on the wood. Valraven Palindrake’s presence flowed out into the room, hanging around him like a dark miasma. Varencienne imagined that he drew energy from the candle flames, made them grow dim. She could not believe he had once touched her so intimately; it was a stranger sitting there, his inky hair cataracting over his shoulders, his hawk eyes deep and shadowed. Handsome, yes, but not classically. There was a brutality to his face, and his eyes were cold like a predator’s. Hardly a surprise; how many had been his prey? Near him, at the head of the table, sat a woman, who could only be his twin—undoubtedly Pharinet. She was leaning towards him and laughing conspiratorially, her strong dark arms lying with panther’s ease on the tabletop. Here was a black-haired enchantress, who could have stepped from Varencienne’s own fantasies; a charismatic creature who shared her brother’s aloof mien. Varencienne could tell that Pharinet was aware of her presence immediately, even though she did not look up in either politeness or welcome. Perhaps she had already made up her mind to despise the young bride. She was not slim, but muscular, dressed in a pale cream gown that seemed almost too feminine for her and made features of her dark-skinned shoulders and masses of coiling hair. Her brows were arched for wickedness, her eyes black and heavy-lidded beneath them. She could not be termed beautiful, being too angular and aggressive-looking, but her presence was arresting. She possessed a quality Varencienne could not name, but knew she did not have herself. Outside, behind Valraven, the sky seemed almost mauve, full of clouds. The sea’s presence was very strong in the room, threshing against the cliffs. Through the windows, Varencienne could see the wild spray around the bay and sensed the inexorable strength of the waves. Valraven seemed the focus of this energy. “Ah, the little princess!” Pharinet said at last, once Varencienne had made the seemingly endless journey from one end of the table to the other. Valraven Palindrake got to his feet, his long fingers pressing lightly on the table. “Good evening, Varencienne,” he said. The only other time she’d heard him speak her name was during the wedding ceremony, when he’d had to repeat it after the priest. It sounded strange coming out of his mouth, as if it wasn’t her name at all. “My family call me Ren,” she said. She would not call him anything. Pharinet laughed. “Ren. A little wren. How sweet!” Valraven gave her a stern look, and she shrugged her shoulders. Still, Varencienne could tell the unspoken censure had stung Pharinet. The atmosphere in the room changed, became charged with tension. Valraven indicated that his wife should sit next to him, opposite his sister. “I welcome you to my home,” he said formally, bowing his head. His home—not hers or theirs. As Varencienne took her place, she studied Pharinet’s face. Valraven’s twin was turning a crystal goblet of wine in her fingers, gazing into the ruby fluid. I would prefer to be liked by a woman who looks like her, Varencienne thought. She looks interesting, yet she is jealous of me, perhaps in the same way Bayard is jealous of Palindrake. How will this end? Will I win her over, or will she destroy me, push me from the battlements, poison me or have me killed by a brigand? Perhaps we will always be enemies until we are old, or perhaps she will marry and move away. “Everna has shown you the castle,” Valraven said, breaking Varencienne’s reverie. “What do you think of the place?” “Very nice,” Varencienne replied, without thinking, regretting the facile remark at once. Pharinet made a small sound of amusement. Varencienne forced the blood from her face; she would not blush in front of a potential enemy. She shook out a linen napkin that smelled of flowers and spread it on her lap. Insouciance itself. ?Tomorrow, I think I shall walk upon the beach.? “Not alone,” said Valraven. “The cliff paths are unsafe.” Pharinet looked up then. “I will take you.” Her expression was inscrutable, her voice without inflection. “Perhaps not,” murmured Valraven. “I am sure Varencienne would prefer a more measured tour with Everna. She is not used to your gallivanting, Pharinet.” “No, no,” Varencienne said, looking Pharinet directly in the eye. “I would love to walk with you.” Don’t think me a mouse, she thought, or even a little wren. I am yet to discover myself what kind of animal I am. She glanced at her husband with assumed docility. “I’m sure Everna will not mind.” “That’s settled, then,” said Pharinet. Valraven pulled a wry face, but did not intervene. Perhaps this was because it was the business of women; a territory strange and unwelcoming to him. Everna made an entrance accompanied by women carrying the soup. She stood by Valraven’s chair and leaned stiffly from the waist to kiss his brow. “I missed you earlier. How were the Leckerys?” Her voice indicated a ruffled disappointment. Valraven suffered the kiss, but seemed impatient with it. “They are all in good health.” “I would have liked to have ridden out with you, but never mind, perhaps next time.” Valraven took a sip of wine. “Saska sent her regards.” Everna sat down beside Varencienne. “It is impossible to pin my brother down. Once you have made friends around here, my dear, don’t expect him to take you with him when he goes visiting. He will temporarily forget you exist.” “It was a fleeting visit,” Valraven said mildly. “I did take the liberty of inviting the family over soon to meet Varencienne.” Varencienne found the exchange embarrassing. She herself would never betray such pique before someone she didn’t know, but then she had already learned that formalities did not appear to exist in Caradore. The soup was exquisite, thick with fruits of the sea. Everna took a long time to finish hers, as she sniped at her brother continuously, to remind him how much he neglected both her and his home. Pharinet remained silent, but smiling. Once she caught Varencienne?s eye and appeared to deliver a conspiratorial glance. Varencienne smiled back, but Pharinet looked back to her soup plate. After the soup came the promised meat; slabs of rare beef, swimming in blood and served with young scallions, potatoes and leeks. It was simple fare, devoid of the rich sauces favoured in the capital. Varencienne had never seen meat that so much resembled living flesh and at first balked from cutting into it. Once she had dared to taste a morsel, she had to finish it all. “You eat well for one so small,” Everna remarked. “Perhaps your shape will change dramatically as you age.” “I always eat a lot,” Varencienne said. “My nurse used to tell me I have to graze like a horse—all the time—otherwise I’d die from starvation.” “So much energy to burn,” Pharinet drawled, and raised her brows slowly, making the remark im
mediately salacious. The family discussed people Varencienne did not know and both of the women spoke with authority about the running of the estate. It seemed that Valraven’s presence was not really needed, and his inspection over the last few days had merely involved catching up with friends. The sisters deferred to him, made him feel important, but his role must involve something other than day-to-day administration. Perhaps he had more of a spiritual function, riding over the landscape proclaiming his ownership, and thus his protection of it. It was clear the sisters managed quite well without him, but now that he was back, however briefly, they would be reluctant to let him leave again. Oltefney seemed to fit in well. Despite Everna’s initial snubbing, she now seemed content to converse with Oltefney about domestic matters. Oltefney spent the entire meal praising anything her eyes fell upon, which seemed to please Everna. Valraven spoke only as much as he needed to; his mind seemed elsewhere, but Varencienne did not flatter herself he was thinking about her. He barely glanced at her. It seemed inconceivable that she belonged to this man. As a platter of cheese was being circulated at the end of the meal, Everna asked the question that was on the mind of every woman present. “How long are you staying this time, Val? Are you going to run off in a day or two and leave your poor little bride alone?” “The emperor has cordially granted me leave,” Valraven answered carefully. “I shall be home for some weeks.” “That is marvellous!” Everna exclaimed, while Varencienne’s heart sank. He will not leave until he’s sure I am with child, she thought. There were hands of steel around her head. “Everyone in the area will want to meet you,” Everna told Varencienne, “and of course we should indulge them. It might look as if we live in a lonely wilderness, but several large estates border our own, and there are also two towns nearby, not to mention all the farms and villages.” “Quite a community, aren’t we?” Pharinet said. “You will be busy, Evvie.” She reached out and touched her brother’s arm. “And you, of course, will hate it. All that small talk, Val. How will you manage?” “Everna will do everything she can to make sure events run smoothly,” he answered. “I enjoy entertaining,” Everna said. “It brings life and energy to Caradore.” She is too easily pleased, Varencienne thought, as she observed how Everna’s face shone with a private happiness. She craves his attention, and the least morsel of it gives her satisfaction. “Perhaps we could all go into the evening room and play crackbones after dinner,” Everna said. Valraven shook his head. “Varencienne will be tired. There will be plenty of other occasions for games.” “I’ll play with you for a while,” Pharinet said, and Everna agreed readily. Varencienne wondered whether she should say she wasn’t tired at all and would like to participate in the game, but realized Valraven might have a particular reason for getting her upstairs so quickly and dared not speak, afraid of what he might say in return.

  VARENCIENNE LAY AWAKE, listening to the moaning whistle of the wind, and the distant thunder of the sea. The tide was far out, and fierce white moonlight fell into her bedroom through cracks in the shutters at the long windows. The air smelled strongly of a salty perfume; she felt drunk with it. She had wondered when her husband would make an appearance, and for some time had lain in a fit of dread, but as the moon arced across the sky and he did not come, the feeling left her. She sensed that tonight he would leave her alone. Was this through compassion, or simply because he was tired himself or had something better to do? Whatever the reason, she was grateful for his absence. Restless, she got out of bed and went to the window, where she opened the shutters. Immediately, a thread of wind found its way in and the thin drapes started shivering. The world was black and white outside. She could look down upon the beach, where the sand seemed to glow with its own light. Someone was walking there, she could see a dark figure. Perhaps it was her husband, thinking of his girl-wife alone in the high castle, or perhaps it was Pharinet, eating her heart out for a forbidden love. Would Everna walk there, lost in her own dry thoughts? I would like to be on the beach now, Varencienne thought. I would glide across the damp sand with bare feet, so that anyone who saw me from the castle would think me a ghost. I would not leave footprints. I would not feel the wind, nor the sting of sand and salt. I would be walking out towards the water, and there would be a silver ship, or a city of crystal rising from the waves. I would leave this world, and no one would know where I’d gone, but there would be legends left behind, of a girl who walked along the beach to a magical place, and whose shadow could still be seen on moonlit nights … Her thoughts were broken by a noise from outside that made her jump. It was a strange sound; a honking howl, like a great pig, or a bird of some kind. Sea-owls must roost in the cliffs. Was it that? There; it came again. Varencienne shuddered. The sound did not seem natural, but she knew how her own imagination liked to romanticize. It was just an owl, its cry amplified by the empty night, and the distance of the waves. She saw that the shadowy figure on the beach had stopped walking and now stood straight and still, perhaps staring out at the ocean—or back at the castle? Instinctively, she ducked behind the shutter, even though it was unlikely she could be seen in an unlit window from so far away. The howl came again, but more distant. It had a mournful quality. Something answered it, in a rasping screech. Varencienne risked a glance round the shutters. It seemed the sea, a distant wrinkle of foam, was shining with a weird light. Shadows rose up from it and crossed the moon, monstrous shadows. There was a gracefulness to their movement, and looking at them, Varencienne became aware of strange feelings twisting in her heart. She was at once filled with melancholy and excitement. When the howls came again, she wanted to open the window and answer with her own wild voice. She wanted to be up there, eclipsing the stars with wide wings. Her body was trembling. She had to pull away from the window and lean back against the wall. Her face felt hot, her eyes were watering. What?s happening? Her heart was going mad. The next howl seemed to be almost in the room with her, it was so loud. It pinned her to the cool stones of the wall. She was filled with it, like the clamor of bells on her wedding day. It has found me, she thought. Sweet Mivian, it saw me watching. She was afraid, yet did not feel threatened. The fear came from knowing that something might manifest before her that her mind could neither comprehend nor cope with; she would be driven insane. Only blind priests could invoke the presence of Madragore, for if he decided to manifest in the incense smoke, whoever saw him lost their eyes. It would be like this, she thought and squeezed her eyelids shut. Go away! Go away! The presence vanished with such immediacy, Varencienne doubted her own heart’s cry had been responsible. It had been called away from its distraction, that’s all. For a while, she stood motionless against the wall, waiting for her racing heart to calm down. What have I come in to? she wondered. All her life, she had dreamed of excitement and enchantment. Had it found her at last? After some minutes, she closed the shutters over the windows without looking outside, and went back to bed. The darkness did not frighten her. As she lay between the cool sheets that slowly warmed around her body, she became aware of a yearning within her. It was a simple hunger, but for what?

  3

  MEETING THE SEA

  AT DAYBREAK, VARENCIENNE WAS awoken by the maid who brought her a cup of strong tea. It was too early; Varencienne was used to rising late. When she voiced a complaint, the maid informed her that Lady Pharinet was expecting her company at eight o’clock. Varencienne groaned. Outside, it was raining. She had forgotten about the walk. “What is your name, girl?” she asked the maid, who was clearly ten years older than her at the least. “Twissaly, ma’am.” She was laying out a set of clothes for Varencienne, without asking for her preference. It seemed an importunate act for a servant. The ways of Caradore would take some getting used to. “And you have been appointed to my staff?” Twissaly smoothed a length of fabric with apparent affection. “This is my place, ma’am, in these rooms. I have always serviced them.” “Even before anyone lived here?” “These are bride’s chambers. I have always worked here.” Deciding to come back to this eccentric custom later, Var
encienne launched into another topic that puzzled her. “What manner of creature is it that makes such a racket at night?” “Beg your pardon, ma’am?” Twissaly frowned at her, in puzzlement or distress? “I was woken last night by a set of howls,” Varencienne replied lightly. “What was it?” “Sea birds, ma’am.” “They seemed very big, then.” “Sea birds are big in Caradore, ma’am. They’re called perigorts. We eat them at festival times. Very tasty. You’ll like them.” “They squawk like pigs.” Twissaly laughed. “They do. Taste better though. Once you’ve had some on your plate, it will be your favorite meat. Don’t mind their rumpus. A body soon gets used to their screeching, until you don’t hear it at all.” “I am relieved. My night was much disturbed.” Varencienne was disappointed. She remembered how she’d felt the previous night. Was there a secret here, or just her imagination working busily as usual? If it had only been birds screeching, why had she felt an unearthly presence in the room? She wasn’t yet sure how she felt about the informality of the staff in Caradore either. Oltefney was allowed certain privileges of expression because she was a woman of fairly high birth herself, but the maids in the palace at home would never have dared to offer opinions or suggestions. Twissaly did not appear nervous or seem particularly eager to please. She just got on with her work and said what she liked. Should I change this or not? Varencienne wondered. Do I like it? Twissaly prepared her a breakfast of eggs and fish in the small kitchen, and after consuming it, Varencienne dressed herself in the clothes her maid had laid out for her. Rain hurled itself at the windows in great splashes, as if a lazy servant of the gods overhead was emptying divine bathwater over the castle. The wind virtually screamed its way about the turrets; this was not the day for a walk. As she dressed, Varencienne considered that Pharinet would cancel their outing and perhaps they could explore more of the castle instead. But when Pharinet arrived at her rooms, it was clear she intended to take Varencienne outside. She wore what appeared to be men’s clothes beneath a thick leather cape. “You will see the best of the ocean in this weather,” she said, “but make sure you wear a thick cloak.” She eyed the flimsy article Varencienne was inspecting. “Hmm. Perhaps you should borrow something of mine. Run to my rooms, Twiss, and see to it, will you?” Twissaly left the room, and Varencienne was alone with Pharinet. Oltefney must still be in bed. For once, Varencienne would have welcomed her presence. She did not know what to say. “You are so young,” Pharinet said, her voice frighteningly clear and strong. “It seems almost a crime Val has married you. Perverse, even. But then, I understand your family has always married its female stock off as soon as they’re capable of breeding.” Again, mention of the hated topic. “Given the choice, I would be your sister,” Varencienne replied, unable to keep the ice from her voice. She wasn’t that young either. Some girls at home were married off at fifteen. Pharinet laughed. “You should prefer to be me. I am, after all, somewhat better favored.” “I don’t want men to like me,” Varencienne said vehemently. “That might change,” Pharinet said, her voice milder. “Actually, I do sympathize, but don’t think badly of Val. I think you should know that he had little choice about marrying you.” “I had guessed as much. I could tell.” “You should learn to be friends.” Varencienne could not help laughing—the prospect of that seemed so unlikely. She could not be friends with a man like Valraven Palindrake. Pharinet sighed, perhaps mistaking the reason for Varencienne’s response. “You are right to laugh. There’ll be no time for it. Val will soon be away again, and in his line of business there’s always a risk he’ll not return.” “Surely, that’s his choice,” Varencienne said, involuntarily heartened by the thought she might one day be a widow rather than a wife. Pharinet did not answer.