At the Noble’s Gate, Rogan displayed my sister’s seal. I kept my head bowed until the rotten perfume of the Kettle Road had completely enveloped us. The oppressive warmth of the lowlands’ air intensified as we descended into the city. It slid into the hollows of my bones and itched there.
“You remember what we talked about,” Rogan said to Harmony. “You must prepare your lady’s face-powder carefully. All eyes will be on us.”
The maid, too nervous to speak, hunched down in her saddle. I clutched my sister’s shawl tighter, trying to focus on the street ahead.
Pieces of the city loomed at me like shapes in a fever-dream. I recognized nothing: not the painted store signs, not the dried strings of orange fruit dangling from poles, not the merchants, many of whom were light-skinned and gabbered in tongues I didn’t know. There were more people than I remembered, and they were all loudly, aggressively, alive.
As we passed the high wall that bordered the Iron Tower, dizziness clawed at me. Perhaps it was merely the nearness of iron, which screamed against the mountain-magic in my bones; or perhaps it was the memory of Asilt forcing her sweat-stained locks beneath her deathcap.
“Have there been many executions at the tower?” I asked. “In your time at Court?”
Something flickered in Rogan’s eyes. “Only a few. The king is merciful.”
“The year my family was last here,” I said. “The Year of Golden Sails—there were some that year. Do you remember their names?”
“None of noble blood, my lady,” he said, flashing me a warning look. “Save the Lady Asilt, and her lovers.”
Lady Asilt, I noted. Not Queen Asilt. I nodded, sagely, my mouth dry.
“Abominable woman,” I said. (You have it, Rey. It looks much better on you.) “How many were they again?”
“Eleven. Including the Farrow of the West, and old Lord Tarth, who had been highly favored by the king.”
Something seized in my throat. Eleven. Including Tarth, who’d asked for my hand by the fountain; Tarth, who had always been a good ally for us. There should have been only four: Queen Asilt, the Farrow, Lord Harn, and the singer, Father had said, counting off their lives on his fingers.
“Lord Darren, whom we will meet tomorrow, was instrumental in exposing that treason.” The part of me that wasn’t frozen admired the blandness with which Steward Rogan said this, as though he were just making conversation. “He has always been a great lover of justice.”
“I remember hearing as much.” The numbness spreading in my chest was not the comforting numbness of snow. I remembered Darren, his eyes wide with what, to him, seemed like sincerity, professing his love for me.
“Whatever your family wishes, I’ll do,” he’d said, and kissed the fingertips of my glove. And I’d smiled, not sure if I should believe him, knowing I had to smile anyway, because it had become dangerous not to.
Oh, I realized. Like a traveler standing before a southern tile-picture, suddenly seeing the fragments resolve into clarity. Oh.
I was glad, suddenly, of the prickling wool shawl that hid my face. I wished I could bring it with me into the petition hall, but such coverings were not allowed there.
Tomorrow I would have to kneel before Darren, bare-faced, and pretend to be all these things I was not: my sister; a living woman; an innocent trusting in his mercy. As though we had not plotted together all those years ago. As though he had not sent me to my grave.
* * *
Our petition was heard at the Dunner’s Hall, in the Hour of Bells. Four lords and two scriveners were in attendance. I recognized Lord Eckledge, who looked like a thinner version of his father, and Lord Kar, who’d gone falconing with us in the Bright Hills. I didn’t see Lord Darren, and my heart lifted.
“My lords,” Rogan said. “The Lady Fehle ap Etrel comes before you to plead the king’s mercy.” This was my cue to kneel. Once this would have been hard for me, but my bristling pride was a memory now. I lowered myself to the floor. The stone reached up to meet me, its thoughts slow and quiet.
“She begs mercy for her husband,” the Steward continued, “and for her child.”
“Lord Gaven is an accused traitor,” drawled a lord who I didn’t recognize. “The child-lord Brau is the son of a traitor. Need we hear more?”
“My lord,” Rogan said smoothly, “whatever Lord Gaven’s sins might be, his son is a scion of House Etrel, which has long served the Summerlands loyally.”
I frowned at his willingness to concede Lord Gaven’s guilt. That should have been a sticking point.
“My lords, this is true,” Lord Kar said, with the haste of someone who’s been dug in the ribs. “I knew this lady’s father. He was ever a good servant to our king.”
Lord Kar had not known my father well; indeed, he’d a reputation for not knowing much at all. Plied with enough wine, he would testify to anything, which is why my father had taken him out falconing in the first place.
“Indeed,” another lord said, “few of the northern lords have shown such loyalty.”
Lord Eckledge drew his lanky frame up against his chair. “Lord Kar,” he said incredulously, “you remembered this lady’s father very differently when you were in your cups at Midwinter. But no matter. The fact remains, we speak of an accused traitor and his son.”
“Perhaps,” the third lord said, “we should appeal for a fifth judge to join us, given that we seem to be divided.”
“Seconded,” Kar said before Eckledge could protest.
Rogan’s face was opaque. If he’d arranged this, he’d done it well. Eckledge and his sour-faced companion sat back, baffled, while the second scrivener flurried out of the hall. Even before his footsteps returned, I felt cold. I understood, now, who the fifth judge would be.
“Lord Darren,” the scrivener announced, leading my old companion into the hall.
Darren’s hair had gone steel gray, and the years had chiseled away the false softness from his face. Eckledge sucked at his cheeks when he saw him, but said nothing.
“Where does the case stand?” Darren asked once the obligatory greetings had been exchanged.
“The Lady Fehle petitions for mercy,” the third judge said. “It was suggested that something might be done for the boy.”
“A scion of House Etrel,” Darren said. “Of course.” He tapped the golden arm of his chair.
“I knew this lady’s father well,” Kar mumbled. If he was supposed to use a different line this time, he obviously couldn’t recall it. “He was a good servant to our king.”
“Perhaps a wardship could be found for the boy,” Darren said, “in the home of a good family, close to Court, so that the king can monitor his upbringing.”
I could see the game-pieces in motion: next would be the suggestion of a lord to act as Guardian, a man in Darren’s fealty. When Lord Gaven was executed—his fate had obviously already been decided—Darren would hold the heir to the mountains.
Rogan, standing to my right, seemed at ease. And perhaps Fehle would not object to this outcome. She did not seem overly fond of her husband, and her son would live under Darren’s protection. All I had to do was let Darren’s plan—or the Steward’s plan, whosever it was—play out. We could return home with Brau’s life secure and the reputation of House Etrel intact.
I thought of an ivory box carried lightly across a summer garden.
“Forgive me, my lords,” I said. At the sound of my voice, the bird hopping in its wooden singing-cage stiffened and stared at me with a beady black eye. “The child-lord Brau must be returned to his family. The mountains will recognize no heir who grows up so far from its soil.” And its magic.
Eckledge looked pale and frozen. Lord Darren studied me with an expression I am sure he’d never worn before.
“As for... my husband,” I continued, “Surely you would not risk our king’s displeasure by failing to consider what mercy you might show.”
“My lords.” The third lord looked confused. Something about my voice unsettled him, but he wasn
’t sure what. “What—what this lady asks is... most extraordinary. Perhaps...”
“No,” Darren said, firmly. “No mercy for Lord Gaven. And as for his son—” His eyes flashed. “In view of the historic loyalty of the Etrel, he will be made a ward of a southern house.”
Eckledge was glancing from Darren to me to Rogan. He rested his hands on the top of his thighs, waiting to see how this would play out.
“My lords,” I countered, emphasizing my words with the chilling accent of the dead. “By the old laws, I have the right to wait to present my petition to the king. I invoke that right now.”
Bowing my head, I folded myself forward into the terrible silence that followed.
* * *
The law says that a petitioner can wait to see the sovereign. But in the Year of Thorns, a clever High Steward had ruled that food and drink could not be brought into the petition halls. So most vigils do not last long.
But the dead have no need of food and drink. For six days, I waited in Dunner’s Hall, unmoving. The crowds flowed uneasily around me. The stones of the palace watched us, patient, incurious.
“Lord Gaven is being moved,” Rogan said on the sixth day. He had come to see me regularly, a man who always seemed to be at the front of a tide of people, bringing me news and adding credibility to the rumors that people were smuggling me food.
I’d expected him to disappear in the wake of my performance before the lords. Instead, he seemed to have accepted my intervention. Either he was more adaptable than I’d anticipated, or more loyal to my sister. Or both.
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. Which means something is happening. But Brau is still with Silon. For the moment, he looks safe.”
“Any word from the council?” The faces lining the judge’s table changed each day. They all avoided looking at me.
“Officially, no,” Rogan said. “But the goldlords have approached them requesting a resolution. There is a rumor, you see, that the goldlords bribed the council to turn down your petition. Lord Xana’s city-house was torched by a mob the other day. The others fear their houses will be next.”
“A mob?”
“This city has no love for tax-collectors. Particularly foreign ones. Lady Fehle, on the other hand, is becoming popular. Yesterday, one of the Grand Craftsmen mentioned you in his sermon as an example of piety.”
“That must have been expensive.”
“Money well spent. I hear another Craftsman preached the same today. Him, we didn’t pay.”
There was a stir near the far entrance. A red-collared scrivener elbowed his way through the line of merchants and made his way over to the judges. He passed a rolled parchment to Lord Yarrow, the sour-faced lord from my own petition hearing.
Yarrow unrolled it. His eyes slipped to me, then back again. He murmured something to the lord to his right, rose, and hurried out of the hall, a wave of whispers spreading in his wake.
“I’ll return,” Rogan said, and followed him at a courtier’s pace. A clever man, the Steward. I could see why my sister liked him. I had no wish to see such things.
This left me alone again, stranded on the island of space that always opened up around me. Pretending to pray, I folded myself down against the hard red flagstones. Kin to kin we reached for each other: the numbness of stone, the indifferent flesh of the dead.
I wanted information. The palace had it, though not necessarily the information I sought. It knew Lord Darren the way a giant knows an ant tracking across its skin. Its flagstones carried him through the diamond courtyard, where he talked to a heavy-footed man about a bribe. The Steward, his tough mountain soles scuffing tiles, trailed Yarrow into the dusty passage between the Iron Gate and the Crescent Plaza.
Frustrated, I reached down into the bones of the palace, searching for something I could use.
I could feel the silent, uncremated valley-dead down there, sleeping in heathen tombs and murdered hollows. Fragments of their dreams knifed into me: the awful sound Lord Finit’s niece had made as she was dragged through the hallways by her powdered hair; a banquet at which mechanical birds hatched singing from silver eggs.
From time to time I snagged an image that seemed familiar. The beggar woman whose bones lay corroding in the sewer remembered Darren’s face. He’d hit her with his fists at first, then something sharp and hard—a brick, she thought. If she could turn her head she might be able to see it, leaning against the remains of her ribcage. It had become a companion to her over the years. An old friend.
I dropped this memory quickly. ‘Nobody cares about them,’ Darren had explained to me once, when I’d confronted him about the stable boy. His voice had been droll and amused. What I needed was a crime the powerful would care about. Something Darren wouldn’t want revealed.
I pulled my mind out of the stones, my body saturated with the weight of old crimes. Their ugliness made me feel miserable, almost as though I were alive again.
I longed for the clean nothingness of snow.
* * *
A tremor ran through the skin of the palace, a shiver only the dead could feel.
I bent my mind to it. Not here, but across the city, in the triangle courtyard of the Iron Tower, a familiar name had just gasped itself into the dark.
I laid my cheek on the cold flagstone and tried to reach for him, but the wisp that had been Lord Gaven eluded me. I reached, and touched only the hard, iron darkness of tower.
Hours later, Rogan arrived, looking pale and drawn. If he’d facilitated Gaven’s death, it did not sit easily with him. A good sign for Fehle, I thought. Or maybe a bad one. In the world of the Court, it was hard to be sure.
“I have bad news,” he said. “Lord Gaven...”
“Is dead. I know.” If the stones of the palace hadn’t told me, the changing faces of the petitioners would have. They looked at me with pity. Some muttered angrily to each other. If we were going to act, it should be soon, while the feelings of the cityfolk ran high in Fehle’s favor.
“Brau has been moved to the tower.” Rogan shook his head. “At Lord Darren’s request—he claims new information has come to light regarding Lord Gaven’s treason.”
“Increasing the stakes,” I observed. Darren’s message was clear: either he would have Brau or no one would. “Send a scrivener to him, requesting an interview. And bribe that Grand Craftsman of yours to prophesize doom if Brau is killed. Say a curse has been laid on the city, because of its judges’ hard-heartedness. And so on.”
“And so on,” Rogan agreed. He looked at me warily. “My lady, I must caution you. Your family’s fate hangs in the balance. Remember what it is you are living for.”
A clever man, the Steward. “I will,” I replied, in a tone as bitter-cold as the night I’d returned from my tomb.
What I was living for, I thought as he departed. It was the same thing I’d always lived for: to serve as my family’s tool at Court. Then, my father had moved me on his game-board. Perhaps he still did: the dead had sent me back, after all, and the dead play their own game.
Perhaps my decision to speak out in the petition hearing had really been my father’s. Or, perhaps it had been entirely mine, and in speaking I’d precipitated Lord Gaven’s death. Both possibilities unnerved me.
The living also play a game, I thought, watching Rogan’s shadow shrink and dissolve into the door-light. And those like me, who occupy the space between? Whose game do we play?
The stones of the palace whispered to me: Lord Darren is coming. I coiled myself into myself and waited.
* * *
The worst thing I ever did was carry an ivory box to a fountain. It was tiny, no bigger than a sparrow’s egg, and when I leaned forward to admire the pool’s circling copperfish, I slid it into the gap between two loose bricks. Baylen made one of his awkward jokes, and I laughed—a genuine laugh, because I was relieved to be rid of the token, and because I hoped never to think of it again.
But I have. I have thought about how I stretched my face
in fake smiles as I walked the long corridors from the queen’s apartments; how I told myself (the pebble-weight of the box in my hand) that this was just another task, that it didn’t mean anything; that it probably had nothing to do with Queen Asilt, who was young and kind and who just that day had given me a wooden charm bracelet—”You have it, Rey. It looks much better on you.” It wasn’t worth thinking about. Besides, I had a duty to perform. And my family was counting on me.
Two loose bricks: one red, one yellow. The perfect place to hide a token, send a note of affection, or plant a lie. Asilt’s box clicked against them as I slid it in.
Perhaps that wasn’t the choice that killed me. Perhaps that moment had come later, in the Vault of Words, when I’d turned to Darren with a lie on my lips, and seen his face, and told it anyway.
Still. If I had to name my worst crime, that would be it: the moment I cradled that lovely box in my palm and told myself it didn’t mean anything.
The living can lie to themselves more easily than the dead. But even then, deep down, I knew, I knew, I knew.
* * *
Darren was watching me. He was uncannily quiet. I wouldn’t have known he was there had the stones not murmured his arrival. He’d timed it well: the petitions were done for the day; and the roar of laughter from the merchants at the door meant no one would overhear us.
“Lady Fehle,” he said. “Is your Steward here? He begged an interview.”
Had I truly been a country lady half-mad with grief, this would have unbalanced me further. A married woman cannot speak to men of her own class; her Steward must speak for her. But Rogan was deliberately absent; he knew I might not want an audience for this interview.
“Greetings to you, Lord Darren.” I hoped my voice raised the hair on his arms; I hope it rushed on him like a winter wind. “I hear Lord Gaven has been executed. I hear Lord Brau has been taken to the tower.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Darren’s head tilt. No more talk of “son” or “husband.” The game was changing on him.
“I think these orders came from you,” I said. “Am I right?”
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