“Thank you.” I hugged him back. “I hope this is all a lot of nothing. Just Amalia being … Amalia.” We both tried to laugh, but it sounded false.
Tobin and the prince left, and I returned to my room. I began the altered design of the skirt, my fingers shaking. It wasn’t just Amalia being Amalia, I knew. Why would she want to hurt Shardas? And her father’s sudden arrival was no coincidence.
Luka did not return to Ulfrid’s. Two days later I received a note saying that things were too tense at the palace for him to slip away, but again he wished me the best at the Merchants’ Ball. I put the note in the little box with my pearls and his other letter, and went back to work.
All day long and into the night I stitched away on my gown. The pictures were taking shape, the creased and hole-pricked velvet taking on new life. Whenever the colour of the embroidery threads started to swim and swirl, I would set it aside and do a little “regular sewing”: putting gold satin borders on the aprons of Ulfrid’s serving maids.
For three weeks all I could do was pray and sew and hope that I would finish my gown in time for the Merchants’ Ball. If there still was a Merchants’ Ball this year.
We might just be having a war instead.
A Gown Like Stained Glass
Everyone was staring at me. I could feel their eyes running over me, over every inch of my gown and every braid of my intricately bound hair. If I had managed to eat anything at all that day, I’m sure I would have thrown it up then and there.
But I hadn’t eaten, no matter how Ulfrid pressed me to have a bite of bread or a sip of tea, and so I didn’t disgrace myself. Instead, I put my chin up and walked into the ballroom, doing my best not to gawk like a bumpkin at the marble columns like cold, white trees four times the height of a man, and the floor inlaid with jasper and malachite.
The Merchants’ Ball was held in the Winter Palace, which had been built by Milun the First. The current royal family lived across the broad Jyllite Square in the unimaginatively named New Palace. The Winter Palace was used for public ceremonies, housing foreign dignitaries, and the Merchants’ Ball. Amalia’s father, King Prilian, was in residence, though gossip said he would not make an appearance at the ball, considering it a vulgar custom. Ulfrid had told me that the royal wedding would take place in the Winter Palace’s chapel, followed by a banquet in the same ballroom where I stood now.
The room was already swarming with people. Along the walls were tables where some of the hopefuls displayed blown glass, paintings, cunning little clockwork toys and other items. Knots of splendidly dressed nobles circled the room, talking to each other, to the artisans, asking to see their wares more closely or leading them into the figures of a dance. Music soared from a gallery high above the floor and thousands of candles blazed in crystal holders, making the room glow.
“You are exquisite,” a rich voice said behind me, and I jumped.
Whirling around, I found myself face-to-face with the Duchess of Mordrel. She was wearing the grey-and-blue gown, the first I had made for her, and I felt a surge of pride at seeing my handiwork. It was beautiful, and the duchess wore it like she knew it.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I responded, feeling shy. I made a small curtsy to her and her escort. She was holding the arm of a short, plump man with a friendly smile. He wore a darker shade of grey, to complement her gown, I noticed.
“This is my husband, the Duke of Mordrel,” the duchess said. Her husband inclined his head to me, and I curtsied again, a little more deeply this time.
“Please turn around again, and let me have a look at that gown,” the duchess instructed me. “I was feeling proud of mine, but you have truly outdone yourself with this garment.” And she gestured at my skirt with her fan.
I didn’t bother to repress the grin of satisfaction that settled on my face as I slowly rotated before the duke and duchess. For nearly a month I had sat in that little room at Ulfrid’s inn and embroidered this gown. Every stitch that I sewed was a prayer: for success, for peace, for Shardas’s well-being.
According to Ulfrid, I looked like a piece of gold and glass and something that she didn’t know the Feravelan for. Marta and Alle had come to the inn that afternoon, bearing Marta’s silk wrap. They had insisted on playing my handmaidens, and under their ministrations I had been bathed and scrubbed until I thought my skin would come off. They had combed, brushed, and combed my hair again, and then massaged lavender-scented pomade through it. Alle had plaited it into a bundle of braids, which she then arranged in a crown atop my head. And while she worked with my hair, she told me all the gossip: she had met a handsome baker’s assistant in chapel, and he had left a rose and a love poem for her on the doorstep of the shop, to Derda’s great annoyance. But the biggest news was that Larkin had suddenly disappeared a few days after I left.
“Good riddance,” was all I would say to that, although inwardly I felt sick. She hadn’t been “poached” by another dressmaker, as Derda feared, or gone into religious service as Alle half-jokingly speculated. She was in the Winter Palace with her new employer, Princess Amalia. I was sure of it.
Around my neck I wore the triple strand of pearls from Luka, and on my feet were my plain slippers, ornamented with some of the smaller rosettes from the gown. Marta’s wrap went around my shoulders.
But it was the gown that was the real glory.
The great full skirt was almost entirely covered with six panels of embroidery telling the story of the maiden Irial and the dragon Zalthus in radiant hues of scarlet, azure and violet, with leading of a mellow gold thread highlighting each block of colour. The tight bodice had more abstract embroidery around the neckline, and the long, fitted sleeves were decorated down the outside of each. While it wasn’t the fashion for ball gowns to have sashes, I wanted to show off my skill with sash-weaving and, as Marta had pointed out, I was creating my own style anyway. So I wore a sash of azure and violet and scarlet silk yarns, woven in the most intricate pattern I knew. I had wrapped the sash twice around my waist, and then let the ends hang down my left side, in a military fashion. I thought it went well enough with the straight, snug fit of the bodice, and the stiffness of the heavily decorated skirt.
“My dear, you are magnificent,” the duchess said at last.
I had made at least three revolutions in the meantime, and we had attracted quite a crowd. There were a handful of men of all ages giving me admiring glances and not, I realised with surprise, simply because of my gown. There were several older women as well, looking thoughtful and more than a touch envious. One or two people, however, wore sour expressions, and I recognised them for my fellow hopefuls. I gave one young woman in a beautiful sky-blue gown a small smile, but she made a rude gesture with her fingers and turned away.
“Would you care to dance?” The duke was standing at my elbow. “My wife has spoken to me of you and your work, and I would like to discuss your plans, should you gain a sponsor.”
The duchess was looking on and smiling in an encouraging way, so I said that I would love to dance. I hoped that the duke was a good dancer, since I was terrible at it. I knew all the country dances of the north, but Ulfrid had been trying to teach me (with Tobin’s silent help) the more courtly dances performed in the King’s Seat. In her post as royal nanny, she had sat in on Prince Luka’s dance lessons, and was an able instructor. Even more surprising: her brother was a skilled dancer. She informed me that any good sword fighter should be, which made sense, in a way.
At least, with my long skirts, no one could see my feet if I forgot the steps.
The duke and I moved through the stately passes of the alutine. It was a slow and easy dance, and the duke was a fine dancer, putting me at ease immediately.
“All the dances are like this,” the duke explained, as though sensing my relief. “It’s easier to conduct business if one isn’t hopping up and down and panting with exertion.”
“Very sensible.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. What was wrong with me? After weeks of
sewing and planning and learning to dance and getting my hair painfully pinned up, my mind had gone blank. I should have made Marta put the dress on and come in my stead. She was never at a loss for words.
“Do you sew as well as embroider?” The duke took the lead, fortunately.
“Yes, but my real talent lies in the embroidery, and the designing of patterns,” I babbled with relief. Marta and Ulfrid had told me to go ahead and boast about my skills, everyone was expected to. “But I have a partner,” I went on. “She’s even more skilled than I at dressmaking, and is responsible for the current trend in low, decorated necklines.”
“Well, I’m sure that gentlemen all over the King’s Seat thank her for that.” The duke chuckled.
I snorted, then tried to turn it into a ladylike giggle, but gave up and just snorted again.
“So, it sounds like you have a good plan for your shop,” the duke said in a leading tone.
“Yes,” I said with firmness. Since I had quit Derda’s, Marta had been sneaking over to Ulfrid’s inn so that we could plan. We would mostly specialise in what my mother called fancywork: aprons, sashes, scarves and shawls, the occasional ball gown. At least at first. Then, once we started making some money, we wanted to hire apprentices so that we could branch out and start doing more gowns. I related our ambitions to the duke, and he seemed impressed.
“You have clearly taken the time to think about your future, young mistress,” he said.
“Thank you. Marta and I have been planning hard,” I replied.
“My only hesitation is that the political situation is rather dodgy at present.” He went on, looking thoughtful. “My wife always insists that we attend the ball, but this year I hadn’t planned on investing too deep.”
I knew a lot more about the “dodgy situation” than I should, so I swallowed my own doubts and brazened on. “I should think that a royal wedding would be the perfect time to open a ladies’ shop,” I said. “I understand that there will be balls all summer, and parties, and of course the ten feasts surrounding the ceremonies.”
“If the wedding takes place, yes,” the duke said in a low voice.
“What?” I stumbled, and he had to haul me upright. “But, I thought that the arrangements had been made.”
“I know that you are a friend of Prince Luka’s – he speaks very highly of you, and made me promise to seek you out tonight – so you must have an inkling that things aren’t right. King Prilian of Roulain is here right now, you know. These days our king isn’t as enthusiastic about this marriage as Prilian, and now Roulain is making more demands for the marriage settlement.”
I blew out my lips. “Then why is His Majesty going along with it? Why not just send them back to Roulain?” I couldn’t keep my outrage hidden.
“We’d like to, my dear. Oh, how we would like to! But we would benefit from any alliance with Roulain,” the duke told me. “Our nation is far wealthier, but they have the best ports. Better port access, relaxed tariffs; they would be invaluable to us.”
I was very pleased that the duke was talking to me in this frank way, as though he thought me an equal, or at least an intelligent human being. “Of course. I’ve been wondering what we’re supposed to gain from it, other than a rather shrill future queen.”
“Our Feravelan velvet and furs exported across the sea without having to pay the Roulaini tariffs,” the duke said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth at my description of Amalia. “And, most important: a cessation of hostilities along the border.”
“I didn’t think our border was all that hostile,” I said, puzzled. “Since King Milun defeated the Roulaini –”
The duke was shaking his head. “Milun’s, er, unorthodox methods … were successful, but they made the Roulaini very bitter towards us. We’ve been trying to smooth things over through a royal marriage for centuries. Prilian was the first king to even consider it.”
A jolt went though me. “Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why after all these years would the Roulaini suddenly agree to this marriage?” A voice in my head snickered that he was trying to send Amalia as far away as possible, but I stamped it down. There was something odd about this.
Pursing his lips, the duke’s feet slowed, and then we scrambled to catch up with the dance before the couple to our left stepped on us. “We thought it was because Prilian was more peaceable than his ancestors. And Miles and Amalia are much of an age, so it would be a good match for them.” He nodded, thoughtful. “But in light of recent events, it does seem … odd.” He opened his mouth, then glanced around and closed it. “State secrets,” he said with a shake of his head. “You are a very clever girl. I will say this, though: lately King Caxel seems to think that something is afoot….” His voice trailed away and we danced in silence for a moment.
“Who will inherit the Roulaini throne?” I had never heard anything about a crown prince.
“A nephew. But the boy is barely old enough to –”
The duke never finished his sentence, because that’s when the roof was ripped off the ballroom.
As I watched in shocked disbelief, a great golden dragon head snaked down through the gaping hole where the roof had been and a long tongue flickered out. All around me, women and men fainted dead away and the screams of others scratched my ears like rusty nails. The candlelight gleamed on his crown of blue horns, but his eyes looked cloudy and didn’t reflect the light as they usually did. I stepped forward, rather than back, ignoring the duke’s shout to take cover. He pulled at my arm and I shrugged him off.
It was my dearest friend looming above us, my own Shardas, but something was terribly wrong.
“Shardas! Shardas, what are you doing?” My fists clenched, I shouted up at him, but he didn’t acknowledge me.
His nostrils flared as he sucked in a great breath. Horrified, knowing what was coming next, I ran for one of the tree-trunk-like pillars, dragging the duke with me. We barely made it to safety before Shardas unleashed a great gout of blue dragonfire.
Tears coursed down my face as I looked out at the chaotic scene and listened to the heightened screams of people trying to flee the attack. “Why would Shardas do such a thing?”
“You know this dragon’s name?” The duke, white with horror, was staring at me as though I was the one who had just set fire to the ballroom.
“He’s my friend.” My voice came out in a sob. “He’s always gentle, not a killer! Not a killer!” I wrapped my arms around myself, rocking back and forth in my plain slippers.
The ballroom was in flames. Where dragonfire hadn’t set the tapestries alight, candles tumbled from their holders by falling pieces of the roof had done so. Tables bearing the wares of other hopefuls had been shoved out of the way by escaping dancers or started on fire as well. My stomach lurched as I saw still figures who hadn’t escaped the fire.
“Come with me,” the duke urged. “This way.”
I didn’t want to go. Shardas needed me! And the duchess, where was she? “But, your wife….”
“I saw her run out the doors on the far side. We’ll look for her outside,” he said in a trembling voice. “We must get clear of all this, and then we’ll have to talk.”
I felt faint, but forced myself to follow him. I craned my head over my shoulder as we went, searching for another glimpse of gold scales. “How could Shardas do such a thing?” I kept repeating the question as we hurried through the maze of pillars and made our escape through a servants’ door half-hidden behind a smouldering tapestry.
“It isn’t in the nature of dragons to attack us in this way,” the duke agreed. “It’s been rare enough to see a dragon since Milun the First’s time.”
“Something’s happened to him,” I blubbered. “He was not himself. His eyes were clouded, as though he were asleep, or under some sort of a spell …”
The duke stumbled and the hand on my arm tightened painfully. “What did you say?”
I extracted my bruised arm, but didn�
�t slow my steps. “He’s under a spell,” I said with greater conviction. “Shardas would never do such a thing.”
“Or an alchemical enchantment,” he said. “A dragon attacking humans, like they did during the last Roulaini war.” His voice was hardly a whisper. “The Triunity protect us.”
“Do you think that Amalia is an alchemist?” The idea was ludicrous, but somehow she had found Shardas’s lair, had told Larkin about it, and now this.
“An alchemist?” The duke shook his head. “She wouldn’t need to be, to control the dragons.”
“That’s ridiculous! Dragons don’t just take orders from humans!” Shardas in particular, I thought, would not bow to the will of someone like Amalia.
“Not if they can help it,” the duke said hoarsely. “But it seems, my dear Creel, that someone has found Milun’s dragonskin slippers.”
“What?” I stopped dead in the middle of the little passageway I was following him down. “Were they blue?”
A Council of War
The Duke of Mordrel led me down one passageway and then another. Other survivors stumbled after us, but the duke kept us ahead of them, his eyes warning me to silence after my outburst. I realised at one point that we were in an underground tunnel. It was faintly damp-smelling and cold, and lit by weird blobs of glowing moss that were positioned too regularly to have grown there by nature.
When we had ascended into a fresher-smelling passageway, lit by candelabra, I stopped again and asked where we were.
“In the New Palace,” the duke said. “It is … convenient … for members of the court to be able to get from one palace to the other without having to cross the square.” Then he took my arm and continued to lead me along, motioning for those behind to follow.
At last we arrived in a wide and very well-lit hallway, ending in a large set of doors embossed with a golden sun. I hesitated. Every child in Feravel knew that the golden sun was the symbol of our kings. I was in the New Palace, the home of my king, and those were the doors to some intimate chamber inhabited by royalty. I shouldn’t be here. The people following us took another, smaller door to one side, and I made to go with them.
Dragonskin Slippers Page 15
