“Her name is Feather, majesty,” the old man said, ducking his head politely. “She comes from our very best line of horses.”
“She is lovely,” Doran admitted.
Distracted from its pursuit of the apple, Feather nuzzled Doran’s ear. Laina scratched the horse’s glossy neck.
“The saddle has been fitted for you,” their father said, surveying the scene with his hands behind his back. “You should give it a try.”
At a whistle from her master, Feather bent her knees and dropped onto the lawn. Laina had not known horses were capable of such. An awkward shuffle followed as the servants and horsemaster lifted Doran bodily into the saddle. His left leg would not clear the saddle of its own accord; with some impropriety, the Darden took him by the ankle and slid the lifeless limb over the horse. They were lucky that Doran was slender.
“Now we strap your legs in, if you don’t mind, my lord,” the horsemaster said. “We can rig an additional support structure behind the saddle, if you cannot sit straight without your legs to grip the horse’s flanks, but—”
Doran immediately straightened.
At another whistle from the horsemaster, Feather surged to her feet in one elegant motion. Her father joined the horsemaster in buckling Doran’s legs into two sturdy braces. When that was finished, their father led Feather by the reins around the perimeter of the garden. A breeze ruffled the palms and emberwood below, carrying the damp, salty air up to the garden.
“You must be the princess,” the horsemaster said, joining Laina in surveying the ocean below.
“Laina,” she said. She didn’t like being called a princess.
“Your father mentioned that you took a nasty fall in the accident as well. Are you recovering well enough?”
“I’m fine,” she said in surprise. No one bothered to ask how she felt these days, with Doran the center of everyone’s concern.
“And your brother?”
She sighed. “He’s very unhappy. I don’t think he wants to recover, not if he remains crippled.”
The man nodded. “That was the idea behind the horse. Hopefully it will remind him what he’s missing.” He glanced at Laina. “Have you ever learned to ride?”
“Of course not! We’ve never had a horse here before.”
The man flashed her a grin. “You’d turn a few heads in Dardensfell, my lady, that you would. Especially if you learned to ride like a proper warrior.”
Laina gave him a wry smile. “I hardly think you’d want a woman slowing you down.”
“You would be surprised. Some of our fiercest warriors are women.” He looked out at Doran. “Cripples, too. One of our first kings was famously born with a twisted leg. He could do no more than hobble about, until he found himself a horse and became the greatest rider ever to live.”
“I’ll tell Doran.” Her brother was returning now, his face a mixture of pain and hope. “What are you doing in Lostport? Surely you didn’t come all the way here just to bring him a horse.”
He shook his head, smiling. “I am a cartographer by trade, my lady. Lostport and the fjords beyond are one of the last great mysteries of the Kinship Thrones. I could hardly resist the chance to chart this coast.”
“What about your own mountains?” Laina asked shrewdly. Whenever someone spoke of the mountains separating Dardensfell from Whitland, the terms “haunted” or “impassable” were frequently attached.
“You have a keen mind, lady.” The man tugged at a button on his coat. “Perhaps you should consider cartography yourself.”
It was not a bad idea. “Are you staying here long?”
“In town, yes. You should come to me for lessons.”
She smiled. That would be exactly the diversion she needed.
At last Doran and her father had come to the edge of the lawn; Feather slowed, with her front hooves resting on the line of paving stones bordering the garden. The manor was perched atop a short hill, and where the lawn ended, the ground dropped away in a dizzying slope. A steep white staircase led straight down to the heart of Lostport, and to its left, a more sensible footpath wound its way to and fro until it reached the same terminus. She could have leapt and landed on the main street, it seemed, but the walk itself took the better part of a morning.
When Doran returned to the Darden’s side, the horsemaster made to help him from the saddle.
“Look for me at the Seal’s Roost,” he told Laina with an odd, foreign salute. “The name is Swick.”
“I won’t forget,” Laina promised.
Chapter 3
F or the third time, the end of Faolan’s quill snapped, spraying ink across the carefully scribed page.
“Blast!” His customary smooth handwriting looked cramped and lopsided after the amount of second-guessing that had gone into this letter; on second thought, the ruined parchment was a good excuse to start anew.
My dearest Katrien,
It has been far too long since our last correspondence.
There he paused. Should he tell his wife that their son would never walk again? The first draft of his letter had been written for no other purpose. But now Faolan was no longer certain he should reveal such devastating news in so callous a fashion.
We have recently commenced a project that I have been planning for years. We are to build a city amongst the fjords, fed by the gemstones that wash up on our beaches. It shall be a jewel of civilization amidst the wilderness. Even you must appreciate the beauty of such a thing. If you would consider making the journey south to celebrate the completion of the city, four spans from now, it would gladden my heart.
Here he stopped again. It would take ages—two spans at the least—for Katrien to travel the length of two countries down to Lostport. How could he possibly ask her to endure such difficulties solely for his own satisfaction?
This is a mad dream, of course. It would be foolish for me to hope for such a thing. But I have news of our son that I wish to give you, very dire news indeed, and I wish to do so in a more personal way than is possible through written correspondence. Doran is alive, do not fear, but his future has been ripped cruelly from his grasp. This is all I may say for now. I am an old man, grown foolish. If you cannot travel south to visit me, perhaps I will take our children to Whitland in a few years’ time. Such a pilgrimage would follow closely with the original contract of the Kinship Thrones, would it not? We could discuss certain political matters with the regent of Whitland in person, rather than negotiating through ambassadors and acting on hearsay.
I count the days until I see your reply. If I cannot set eyes upon your lovely face once more, at least your penmanship can bring me comfort in my old age.
Yours, now and forever,
Faolan
With a sigh, he scattered sand on the ink and blew it dry. This would have to suffice.
He had barely folded the letter when Harrow knocked once on the study door and pushed it open, unbidden.
“Good afternoon,” Faolan said wearily. He had spent the morning poring over architectural sketches and employment charts and budget goals, and had no remaining patience for the enthusiasm of his advisor.
“Pity,” Harrow said with a sideways smile. “You don’t seem in the mood for an overnight trek to the new city.”
“Harrumph,” Faolan said, pushing back his chair. Rising, he stretched his arms behind him, cracking the knot in his lower back. He winced. “And it needs a name. Something wealthy-sounding, to attract the Whitland investors we need.”
“Port Emerald,” Harrow said cheekily. “My daughter recommended it.”
Faolan shook his head in amusement.
“You will ride down with me someday, will you not?” Harrow said.
“Of course.” Though he did not want his friend to know, Faolan was very curious to see the gemstone bay for himself. Ever since the forest road had opened to the public, not two days ago, increasingly far-fetched descriptions of its splendor kept winging their way up the hill to Faolan’s manor. Even Laina had b
egun spouting a few of her own. “You knew I would never agree to something so foolish, not this late in the day and with no forewarning,” Faolan said. “What was your true reason for ruining my quiet afternoon?”
Harrow raised an eyebrow. “You presume too much, my lord.” Then he laughed. “You guessed correctly. Someone came to see you earlier—a young man hoping to court your daughter. I bade him wait in the entrance hall, and supplied him with enough food to satisfy a horse. He looked as though he needed it.”
Faolan straightened. “You should have told me sooner. The poor fellow must be close to giving up on us.” Brushing the spoiled parchments on his desk into a pile, he tucked the letter into the pocket of his doublet and strode to the door. He did not need to look back to see that Harrow had fallen into step behind him.
The young man was sitting in a chair by the entrance, alternating between cramming morsels of food into his mouth and glancing shiftily up the off-kilter flight of steps that had failed in its design as a grand staircase. Faolan and Harrow peered at him from behind the second-floor screen, sizing him up, until Harrow gave Faolan a nudge and they started down. Now that Doran was crippled, Faolan had to seek other ways to ensure the stability of Lostport. If Laina bore an heir who reached maturity before Faolan died, the kingdom would go to her son.
As Faolan drew closer, he saw that the young man was tall but scrawny, as though his budding muscles had yet to discover the bones they were meant to support. He could see what Harrow had meant about needing a good meal.
“Good afternoon,” Faolan said, crossing the hall toward the doorway. The walls resonated clearly, carrying his voice to the young man, who jumped from his seat as though slapped.
“My—your grace!” the man said. He bowed with a stiffness that clearly marked him for a Whitlander. “I am Prince Ronnick, the youngest son of King Luistan of Whitland.”
“And what, pray tell, are you doing here?” Faolan asked in the best semblance of politeness he could muster. He did not need Whitland involved in these matters. The knot in his back, far from receding, had begun sending out spasms of pain that gripped his ribs and tightened his lungs.
The man gave another half-bow. “I have been traveling south, and recently crossed over through Ruunas, as part of my apprenticeship with a team of royal architects. Just a quarter ago, I heard news of the new city planned for Lostport, and decided to experience firsthand the design and construction of a truly magnificent piece of work.”
Faolan wanted to roll his eyes at the flattery. “Tanner’s head! Why would a prince apprentice with architects?”
Prince Ronnick reddened, an unattractive flush that crept to the roots of his dark, curly hair. “I said I was the youngest son—the youngest of six. King Luistan had no use for me. I traveled south to prove I was worthy of the title ‘prince.’”
“Ah.” This was better than Faolan had feared. A prince with no true power was better than a commoner, and certainly better than an influential heir. “Well, as a privileged guest, you are entitled to a set of rooms in this manor,” he said. “Your fellow architects may join you, if space allows. I fear this will compare poorly to the palaces of Corona.”
“Thank you. This will be quite—I mean to say, we are honored to experience your hospitality.”
“Indeed,” Faolan said. His entire chest was beginning to ache; if he did not sit down soon, he would be doubled over in pain. “Harrow, please show our guest to his chambers. Dinner will be served at sundown.”
Turning abruptly, Faolan tried to exit the hall with a steady stride. He could not restrain himself from clenching the silk doublet atop his ribs in a white-knuckled fist.
It was a struggle to reach the top of the stairs. As soon as he was behind the cover of the second-floor screen, he sank onto one of the rough benches along the hall, hunching over his knees and massaging the searing tightness between his ribs. Suddenly his fingers prodded the folded bit of parchment in his pocket—he had forgotten to deliver the letter.
Where was his Katrien now? She would think him a tired, failing old man. She had done well to leave him behind.
* * *
For the first time since the accident, Laina and her brother were invited—no, urged—to attend dinner. She had been taking her meals up in his sickroom, always in an attempt to keep Doran from slipping further into melancholy, and it was difficult to reconcile him to the idea of appearing in public.
“No one is ashamed of you except yourself,” Laina said.
“Yes, they are,” Doran grumbled. “I can see it in their eyes. They won’t ever say a word, but they know I’m worthless.”
“Well, you weren’t a very good athlete to begin with,” Laina said. “As long as your mind still works properly, I don’t see what the problem is.”
“I can’t rule like this. That’s the problem. And no one is bold enough to say it to my face. I’m a burden, a failure. If Lostport goes back to Whitland, I’m the only one to blame.”
“You could still take the throne, if you wanted to,” Laina said sharply.
Doran met her eyes with a flat stare. “No. I’ll never have an heir. The line would end with me. Whitland would replace me as soon as they learned the truth.”
Before Laina could think of an adequate response for this, the doors opened to admit Doran’s two guards, Nort and Barrik.
“Dinnertime,” the taller guard, Nort, said with a half-bow.
With a seething scowl, Doran consented to being carried from the room.
As her mother had long ago noted with disdain, her father’s dinners were hardly what a royal household should expect. The food was delicious, courtesy of an inventive chef who managed to incorporate the strange native plants into his menu, but Laina’s mother had disapproved of the company invited to join the royal table. Every servant, guest, and child living within the manor was accustomed to dining together. As Laina’s father often argued, royal protocol was awkward and out-of-place in so primitive a land.
Laina agreed. The dinner arrangements had allowed Conard and his father to eat alongside them, which had long saved her from boredom.
Tonight, everyone had already assembled. Her father was there, along with his advisor, Harrow, and even Harrow’s young children, Alvar and Kella. Seeing the two children was a surprise—usually they could not be persuaded to sit still long enough to attend formal meals. Farther down the long table sat the housekeeper, the two gardeners, the chef and his assistant, the tailor, and—who was that? An unfamiliar, awkward-looking young man had taken the seat directly opposite Laina’s father. He had a pale, sickly pallor, and his freckles looked like some sort of rash spreading from beneath his mop of tight curls.
“Welcome, my dears,” her father said, rising from his chair. He sounded oddly short of breath, but he approached Laina and Doran with his usual careful grace and guided his son to his chair. “We have missed you tremendously. Yet tonight is the perfect opportunity to celebrate your return to the public—we have been joined by a very special guest.”
Laina did not have to look up to know who her father referred to.
As she settled into her usual seat, Laina saw, out of the corner of her eye, that the pale stranger had stood.
“I am Prince Ronnick,” he said. He had a deep, steady voice, but the bow that followed was stiff and unduly formal. “Son of King Luistan, of Whitland.”
He was a marriage prospect. Laina realized it at once. Why else would her father have invited him so warmly to stay with the family?
Reluctantly Laina looked up and met the prince’s eye. “Well met, your highness.” She gave him a cold smile. Let everyone present remember that her manners were far more respectable than those of this impudent foreigner.
As she lifted her fork and knife and eased free a tender sliver of the white fish before her, she knew everyone’s eyes were upon her and Doran. Did they think him mentally handicapped as well? With studied care, she slid the fish onto her tongue, chewed delicately, and swallowed.
&
nbsp; Doran cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mylo,” he said gruffly, glancing at the stern, bushy-bearded chef. “This is the best meal I have eaten in a long time.”
His comment seemed to be the signal the others had been waiting for. In another moment, the room was filled with the musical clatter of metal on metal. Laina was glad that the unappetizing Prince Ronnick had been given the farthest possible seat from her—she dreaded the moment when she was forced to make conversation with him.
“Doran!” Alvar was leaning across the table, his small face lit with curiosity. “Is it really true? You can never walk again?”
Kella’s hand was on the arm of her brother’s chair, her expression mirroring his.
“Yes, it is true,” Doran said dully.
Alvar’s eyes widened.
“Excuse me, your highness.”
Laina gave a start. Somehow Prince Ronnick had managed to trade seats with Harrow, who had been directly on her left, and now he was staring at her with single-minded fascination.
“What are you here for?” Laina asked bluntly. She set aside her fork, lifted her glass, and gave Prince Ronnick the same look she would bestow upon a particularly dimwitted salesman.
“Oh, I—I accompanied a convoy of architects traveling south. I intend to oversee the construction of the new city.” There was something anxious and breathy about Prince Ronnick’s voice that made Laina’s neck itch. She took a long drink of honey water, trying to suppress the urge to scratch.
“I certainly hope you don’t plan to court me.”
When Prince Ronnick’s forehead flushed a mottled red, her suspicions were confirmed.
Laina glanced accusingly at her father; he shook his head at her, mouth set in a hard line.
“Why not try to seize power directly?” she said. “Lostport is in a very vulnerable position, in case you didn’t notice. Your dear father is going to appoint one of his sons to rule once my father is gone.”
The Fall of Lostport Page 3
