by Stina Leicht
“Get that creature under control, you irresponsible—!”
Nels let Loimuta have his head. The horse obliged with a burst of speed Nels hadn’t thought the gelding possessed. Loimuta plunged through the portcullis, the hollow clank of his ironshod hooves echoed in the tiny space before they reached the courtyard. He galloped through the courtyard gates—not slowing until they’d reached the arched, iron-fenced west entrance of the cathedral. Nels leapt from the saddle onto the steps, not bothering to secure Loimuta’s reins.
“Nels! Come back here at once!”
Nels shoved at the main doors with all his might; their ponderous weight gave way grudgingly. Then he rushed through the nave, past the choir, and through the south transept to the chapter house. Fury and grief blunted the peaceful scent of burning frankincense, the beautiful vaulted ceilings, rows of white marble pillars and statuary. Startled courtiers, priestesses, priests, and clerks blocked his path until they recognized him. Then they retreated with ashen faces.
“Damn you, boy!”
Upon reaching the passage leading to the chapter house, Nels assumed a more dignified pace. Head high, he forced his way through those loitering there, stomped up the stairs and through the open doorway. His uncle’s distant protests were cut off by the slamming of the door. Those trapped inside fell silent—except his father and the short, fat noble he conferred with.
Built by Nels’s ancestors, the Great Mother’s cathedral was more than five hundred years old, but the chapter house was new. Laid out in an octagon, the small room had yet to inherit an air of the importance from the proceedings occurring within its walls. Half-finished frescos graced eight niches. Four of the stained-glass windows were incomplete. They were temporarily covered with parchment, permitting access to cold drafts and insects. Wooden arches naked of paint formed the vaulted ceiling. The posts were carved with intricate swirls and details. Rows of benches—mere wooden planks balanced on stone steps—bordered the confines of the room. Every bench supported the weight of nobility draped in furs, finery, and, at the moment, disbelief.
Nels felt the door latch turn against the small of his back. Muffled curses seeped through the wood like a bloodstain. He hoped to speak to his father before Uncle Sakari could force the door open, but the king was absorbed in his discussion. Only the top of his dark head was visible. Nels heard a gasp.
To the king’s left, the queen’s moon-thistle hair shone in graceful ringlets drooping past her shoulders. After Captain Karpanen’s revelation, it was reassuring to see that paleness reflected like a mirror, to see the obvious similarities in the line of her nose and the tilt of her eyes. Grief glistened raw on her beautiful face.
“Oh, Nels, darling. What have you done?” his mother asked, covering a sob with a delicate hand.
Involved in their father’s discussion, Suvi peeked over the top of the nobleman’s bobbing head. Where Nels favored their mother, Suvi took after their father—or had always seemed to. Her unruly brown hair had been tamed into curls, and Nels saw her eyes change from black to a wide white before she caught herself and changed them back.
The portly nobleman turned, and Nels recognized Baron Hiltunen as the man scurried off.
Move. Now. Nels took a deep breath. The scent of raw wood filled his lungs as he traversed the room. The king’s face was unreadable. Feeling the weight of every stare, Nels forgot to breathe. He tried not to notice how like Uncle Sakari his father looked with the new moustache and goatee. He tried not to think about the door opening behind him. He focused on getting across the room without tripping—which wasn’t easy, since his legs had gone numb. He had imagined many variations of his father’s reaction, but none of them had included silence. Time gaped with possibility. When he reached the bench where his family sat, Nels’s mind instantly voided all the things he’d thought to say. Instead, he unknotted the braid securing the saber to his side and knelt. Using both hands, he placed the captain’s blade at his father’s feet.
“Captain Veli Ari Karpanen is gone.” Nels paused. “Another will take his place.” He followed the form without shaming himself. He was relieved that he’d managed that much properly at least. Still, he didn’t have the nerve to look his father in the eye.
He heard his mother choke. His heart slammed in his ears two, three, even six times. Then his father finally shifted in his seat. A loud wooden squeak pierced the air. Standing, he grabbed Nels’s shoulders. Nels flinched with the violence of it. His mother sniffed. Nels still couldn’t bring himself to look up. The hands gripping him emanated strength, maybe even love. Blood rushed through his veins. The room seemed to swell and fade to the beat of the thundering in his ears. He took a deep breath and braved his father’s face.
Black eyes burned with an overwhelming rage. The ground collapsed, and suddenly the only thing keeping Nels upright was the grip of bruising fingers.
King Henrik Ilmari bent close. “You. Are not. My. Son,” he whispered between clenched teeth.
SUVI
ONE
Masked courtiers danced parallel lines across the royal ballroom floor, mirroring steps across a two-foot divide. Turning, their hands reached across the void. With that, the dancers made their way back to center and linked arms with partners, two by two. A rainbow of silks, feathers, and fine linen spun in tight circles. Wide coat sleeves of heavy brocade, skirts, pocket hoops, and layered petticoats fanned air heavy with the cloying scent of plague herbs. Holding her breath among the dancers, Princess Suvi Natalia Annika Hännenen performed her required role with a smile pinned on her face. This, in spite of wishing to be somewhere else—a somewhere with open skies, tall sails, water, and fresh air, somewhere with smooth wooden planks under her bare feet. It’s been two years, she thought. Two very long years since I could freely walk the deck of a ship. Two years since Nels gave up everything and sentenced me to this.
He wanted a life at court, she reminded herself yet again. It isn’t his fault.
Unable to employ her fan while dancing, she held her feathered sparrow mask to her face until she reached the outermost edge of the country dance pattern. When she lowered the mask to gulp a few breaths, she sneezed.
“Many blessings, Your Grace,” several of the dancers said at once.
“Thank you,” she said. The exchange was as practiced and wooden as everything was at court. Her mother had warned her, Reveal only what you intend to reveal. Watch for weakness in yourself and in others. Be wary of attack. Remember, nothing is what it seems. These were the seas that Suvi was now doomed to navigate.
At the edge of the dance floor, she caught sight of her father’s latest indulgence—a group of performing automatons. The sight of them with their terrified, pleading eyes staring out of serene faces turned Suvi’s stomach. At the moment, they were executing a series of awkward tumbling moves. One of them, a human male dressed in old-fashioned motley and bells, sprawled onto the marble floor and crashed into a servant carrying a tray of drinks. Fine crystal and wine exploded on marble. Those watching laughed. The motley automaton jingled as he returned to his tumbling as if nothing had happened, a bloody streak across one cheek.
Suvi inwardly shuddered and turned away. I’m like they are, trapped by confines over which I’ve no control.
Oh, for the Great Mother’s sake, stop feeling sorry for yourself. The thought-intruder was Piritta, her lady-in-waiting and her souja—her thought-shield. Dancing nearby, Piritta stayed close enough to dampen anything an opposing thought-reader might overhear.
Suvi would’ve preferred to rely on self-discipline and not a souja. Unfortunately, she wasn’t like her twin brother, Nels. She didn’t have the ability to shield herself outside of her magically shielded bedchamber. I could have you killed for invading my thoughts like this, you know.
You wouldn’t, and we both know it, Piritta thought back. I’m the only real friend you have.
That isn’t true, Suvi thought back. There’s Nels and Dylan, too.
And where are they? Pirit
ta asked.
Suvi didn’t need to see Piritta’s smile. Mentally, Suvi sighed. They’re off living their own lives.
Oh, shut up and have some fun, Piritta thought. It’s your birthday. Aren’t you the least bit excited? All of this is for you.
Not all of it, Suvi returned. All of the alcoves surrounding the ballroom were draped with deep red velvet curtains. A palace guard was stationed outside each. The little rooms served as spaces for guests to partake of whatever private amusements suited them—whether that was imbibing in alcohol laced with specialized herbs, smoking dreamflower, or indulging in a harmless tryst. All but Uncle’s alcove. Looking to the heavy white velvet curtains to her right, Suvi caught one of her would-be suitors, Baron Karl Rehn, exiting her uncle’s addition to the celebration. Rehn was buttoning his coat, but his shirt was undone beneath. Her blood chilled as the parting curtains revealed a closing door and a brief glimpse of naked automatons chained into place on furniture and walls. Rehn caught her eye and winked. She nodded and forced the corners of her mouth to turn up in return. Cross Rehn off the list. I’m never seeing that man again.
Ew, Piritta thought back. Suvi could imagine her wrinkling nose. I told you something wasn’t right about him.
I didn’t like him either, but I didn’t take him for one of Uncle Sakari’s crowd. Suvi turned back on her dance partner. She thought to Piritta, You were right again.
Of course I was, Piritta returned. It’s my duty to be right. Oh, by the way … I’ve some bad news about one of your friends.
All right, Suvi thought. Who is it this time?
Miika Hossi, Piritta thought. He’s gone. Last night. An under-cooked elderberry tart was to blame, I heard.
Suvi’s heart stumbled. I warned him about Uncle, didn’t I?
Apparently not enough, Piritta thought.
The evening’s offering of mourning-ribboned nobles and gentry was larger than the previous month’s. Based upon the varying skin tones, clothes, and hairstyles, they represented every province within Eledore as well as some outside of it. A group from the Kingdom of Ytlain—easily spotted by their less colorful clothing and the absence of powdered wigs—clustered near the refreshments, trying hard to hide their horror and disgust at her father’s automatons. Waterborne merchants danced among the partygoers as well—her own addition to the guest list. Nonetheless, there were fewer guests in attendance than was usual for such an event.
Another breeze scented with plague herbs refreshed her newest worry. She’d heard the latest outbreak of variola had been restricted to the borderlands, but couldn’t be certain whether or not the anemic turnout was a sign that the plague had reached the capital. Such news was kept from her as it was from her father. No one wanted to give the king bad news. It didn’t tend to go well for the messenger. Thousands have died. There aren’t enough healers to stem the tide. How can Father and Uncle Sakari pretend nothing is wrong?
Plot later, Piritta shot back as she whirled past. Fun now.
Fine, Suvi thought. Don’t blame me if the kingdom falls.
Won’t happen tonight, Piritta thought. That’s all that matters right now.
Suvi’s dance partner, a young baronet with powdered hair and an ever-so-earnest smile, made an attempt to capture her gaze. He thought himself favored because she had consented to venture with him into one of the ballroom’s private alcoves. To her disappointment, he’d proven a pathetic kisser.
“Wouldn’t you rather go out for some air?” he asked, linking an arm with hers and then releasing it.
That one is perfectly awful, Piritta thought. I want to wash, and I’m not even dancing with him. Why in the four winds did you kiss him? Yuck. He looks like a frog, and he dances like an automaton horse with three legs.
Suvi hid the laugh that burst out of her throat with a cough.
As luck would have it, the baronet had been forced by the next series of steps to turn his back and walk several paces away. It gave Suvi time to recover herself. She avoided his eyes, concentrating on the floor. “I shouldn’t leave again. Mother would surely notice,” she said. “I don’t wish to insult her after she went to so much trouble to arrange this ball.” Damn it, Nels should be here. Mother should’ve insisted. It’s his birthday too, Suvi thought. It’s his fault I have to spend the evening dodging peacocks. Since her twin brother had bought his captain’s braids eight months before, she had seen less and less of him. Supposedly, his duties had been keeping him from the palace.
Don’t be such a baby, Piritta thought. Surely there’s someone you’d like to meet? Oskar Sundqvist is here. Now, he’s worth upsetting your father over. Kissing isn’t the only thing he’s good at. I know from personal experience.
And have you leering at us the entire time? No, thank you, Suvi thought. But Piritta wasn’t the only one Suvi had to worry about.
She whirled in time to the music. Turning, she got a view of her father and Uncle Sakari sitting behind a banquet table chatting. The ubiquitous purple ribbon was knotted above her father’s elbow. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. The court assumed the king continued to mourn for his soldier son, but Suvi knew Nels had little to do with it. It was her mother’s loss that kept the ribbon on her father’s elbow a year after it was proper, and as Suvi grew older, she had come to understand that her mother grieved for someone other than Nels. So it was that the purple ribbon never left her mother’s arm. Ever concerned about appearance, her father did the same. Whatever the royal family did, so followed the court—thus, hypocrisy had become virtue throughout the realm. In an effort to cheer Nels, Suvi had jokingly told him to invest in dye merchants, since purple wasn’t an easy color to come by. Too bad he didn’t follow my advice, she thought. However, she’d invested a portion of her allowance, and it’d resulted in a tidy sum—a sum she had, in turn, used to fund her most recent illicit venture. The irony of it all made her potential victory sweeter.
Again, a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Keenly aware that her uncle watched, she fixed a flat expression in its place lest he think she was smiling at him. Does Uncle know what I’ve done? Her heart was spurred into a rush of rhythm.
I don’t believe so, Piritta thought. But he’s a hard one to read.
Suvi wrenched herself away from incriminating thoughts. Taking a deep breath, she almost choked. Stupid plague herbs. She executed the final curtsey of the dance. Uncle Sakari approached at the edge of her vision. It sent a tiny quake of revulsion and fear through her body. Rapid questions shot through her skull like lightning bolts accompanying a hurricane. Have I been careful enough? Does he know about the guns? The edges of the fan bit painfully into her gloved palm as she fought for control. Piritta sent reassuring feelings that slowed Suvi’s panic.
Uncle Sakari’s presence at the ball was telling. Unlike her father, Uncle Sakari had no patience for art and music. He was more suited for affairs of state. Therefore, Suvi’s father allowed Uncle Sakari to deal with the drudgery of the kingdom and invested his time in art, music, automatons, and his pretty castles.
“May I have the honor of this dance?” Uncle Sakari asked. He was wearing a deep Eledorean blue and gold brocade coat with thick gold lace, broad, cuffed sleeves, and matching trousers that stopped at the knee. His stockings were pale yellow, and his dark blue shoes had gold buckles. His powdered wig’s long curls were tied at the nape of his neck with a blue silk bow. A gold sash draped from his right shoulder to his left hip displayed his diamond-encrusted badge of office.
Upon catching sight of the competition, the baronet bowed and retreated into the crowd. Nearby, Piritta gave her excuses to her dance partner and left the dance floor. As usual, she kept an expert distance—close enough to shield her charge, yet far enough away to prevent eavesdropping.
“Honestly, a baronet?” Uncle Sakari muttered to Suvi under his breath.
“He has a handsome nose, don’t you think?” Suvi asked. “And nice legs.”
“He’s a graceless buffoon with delusions of grand
eur. He trod on your toes twice and scuffed your slippers.”
Snatching the excuse not to dance with her uncle, she said, “My feet do feel a touch bruised.” She covered a bored yawn with a hand and, at the edge of her vision, registered that her uncle did the same. “I should rest.”
“Is something wrong?”
She leaned toward him and spoke without looking directly at him, in part to avoid seeing his face but also to hide another sudden burst of terror jolting her heart. “A slight headache. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps I should escort you to your rooms. We can leave the others to enjoy themselves,” he said, using a voice that could have soothed the pinfeathers off a hawk.
Careful, Piritta warned.
Suvi concentrated on the white marble floor beneath her feet until the dizziness passed. Court speech. Again. He’s getting desperate, Suvi thought. I’ll have to give some ground somewhere soon, or he’ll sense my true strength. She preferred her uncle to underestimate her. It was safer. “Thank you for your concern, but … I’m only nearing my moon time,” she whispered. Although her mother, a foreigner, had taught her not to be embarrassed by simple bodily functions, it was extremely impolite to bring up such things in Eledorean society. Eledoreans are so squeamish about blood, Suvi thought. In any case, it was the truth. She was nearing her moon time. Therefore, it was a suitable excuse for her discomfort, and one he couldn’t argue with. After a long week of dodging her uncle, she was looking forward to several days of solitude.
Her uncle was uncomfortable. He almost recoiled. “Ah. I see.”
“I won’t have to sequester myself until tomorrow, of course,” Suvi said, enjoying his unease. Why do Eledoreans fear blood? Her mother was from Ytlain and had never been able to adequately explain it.
The orchestra launched into a faster-paced Tahmerian reel. Suvi fled the dance floor in search of a chair. Her uncle made pursuit with all the subtlety of a ship of war in the wake of a sloop.
