Buried Heart

by Kate Elliott

  “What of my husband, Polodos, my lord?” she asks.

  “Because of the peculiar nature of your parentage, you cannot marry Steward Polodos. Neartos will keep him safe with my other clerks. If he proves useful, then I see no reason to toss him overboard in a weighted barrel.”

  Maraya nods at Polodos, communication passing between them in wordless signals they must have perfected in the early months of their illicit courtship, right under our father’s nose. Then she blinks at me as a signal that we’ll find a way to speak later.

  The boy leaps up to follow her out. “What do you know about magic, Doma Maraya? I am going to the Stone Desert to study to become a priest and learn magic.”

  Maraya pauses to allow him to cross the threshold before her. Our gazes lock. She’s remembering the ruins buried beneath the tombs in the City of the Dead, just as I am: the sparks that brought Wenru back to life, the twisting shadows, the glowing pool. The smile that tilts up her mouth brings her as close to crowing as I have ever seen her. Against all expectation, she may have just been given a door that will open onto information about these mysteries.

  I’m left behind with Gargaron, who takes another sip of wine.

  “And there is a fourth sister, who I never met. What became of her, Jessamy?”

  “She’s dead,” I say in a leaden voice, although a part of me wants to rub in his face that he met Bettany and never guessed.

  “And the child your mother was pregnant with?”

  “Twins, my lord. A boy and a girl.”

  “A relief for General Esladas, I am sure, since the sages argue whether a man who cannot sire a son can call himself a man.”

  “If Lord Menos is destined for the priesthood, then he must not be your eldest son.” I am seeing how these Rings turn, how Gargaron intends to keep control of the kingdom even as other people carry the royal titles.

  “He is my third son. A dutiful and intelligent boy.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah? Is there some wit or wisdom you wish to share with me?”

  “You will have the king and queen appoint him as High Priest once he is a little older, while meanwhile you hold the current High Priest in your pocket. So the temples will remain under your control for a very long time.”

  Under his control. Never under Kal’s.

  “Very good, Jessamy. You understand me exactly. It’s why you are such an exceptionally promising adversary.”

  Of course Gargaron’s game to place his niece and nephew on the throne has been rigged from the start. Why did I ever believe Kal would have a chance to make genuine reforms? Ro would tell me I was being willfully naïve, and poets always tell the truth.

  Weeks later I am standing at the prow with the spray in my face as the sun rises. We have sailed north along the coast for day after day after day. A wide bay opens before us with a tabletop mountain rising behind it as in judgment. The choppy gray-blue of the open sea shades into a sapphire brilliance in the semicircular bay. But that is not what rivets my attention.

  Maldine Harbor is filled with war galleys flying the kestrel of West Saro. They are imposing with their tiered banks of oars and their fierce bronze-sheathed battering rams visible just below the water. But are they here to invade? Or has Kal’s uncle Thynos made the marriage alliance Kal told me about?

  The prows of the warships have eyes that seem to follow us as our sails come down. Oared boats cast lines and tow us in.

  Maldine is a town built of stone the same color as the pale rock of the bare mountainside behind it. A strip of green runs along the bay and widens where a valley with orchards and villages works a gouge in the landscape. Somewhere in this area, half a year ago, my father beat back an invasion of the East Saroese alliance. Everyone thought we had won, but of course now we know it was only a preliminary attack. Just as Gargaron has carefully laid his plans over many years, so too surely have the kings of old Saro readied their fleets and armies and their covert alliance with Nikonos.

  Gargaron joins me at the railing, accompanied by his son. To my astonishment, a crow perches delicately on Menos’s forearm. A tiny tube is fastened to its leg.

  “Look, Spider!” says the boy in a hoarse, excited whisper. “This is the first time I’ve been allowed to release a messenger crow!”

  He sweeps up his arm and the crow flies off, headed for the town.

  “I wish I could be a crow priest,” he adds. “Then I would have crows of my own.”

  “The High Priest must have his eyes, Menos,” says Gargaron, “so you will undergo a different sort of trial.”

  “Will I learn the sacred magic of the priests?”

  Gargaron shakes his head. “These are matters not to be spoken of outside the sanctuary of Lord Judge Inkos. Now go get the royal messenger pigeon.”

  “Will it really fly all the way to Saryenia, to Cousin Kal?”

  “It will. You may release it as a reward for doing so well at your lessons.”

  The boy manages a courteous leave-taking before scampering back to the afterdeck.

  “I wondered why we were sailing into a harbor filled with enemy ships,” I remark. “That crow must have brought a message from Princess Berenise that all is secure. I didn’t see it fly in.”

  “It arrived at dawn before we came in view of the harbor. Now, Jessamy, be aware that you will be on display at every moment, and always within earshot of me or Captain Neartos. Your sister and Polodos will remain on this ship under guard. The penalty will fall on them if you do not play your part.”

  “What exactly is my part, my lord? You could keep me on the ship with Maraya.”

  “But you would like that. So therefore you must accompany me and act as an obedient adversary.”

  “And if I act as an obedient adversary, my lord? What then?”

  His thin smile is all the answer he gives me. I’ve learned just how far I can push him so I ask no more questions.

  An honor guard awaits us at the wharf. Soldiers wearing the horned and winged fire dog of Garon Palace stand at attention. Officials garbed in gold-striped palace robes embroidered with the queen’s cornucopia jostle for the right to greet Lord Gargaron.

  A Garon steward approaches. “My lord! May the Sun of Justice shine upon you and your safe arrival in this haven. I’m here to escort you to the queen.”

  Princess Berenise and Queen Menoë hold court in the dusty garden of a palace compound that looks as if it hasn’t been lived in for years. Kal’s mother sits amid their ladies; when her gaze pauses on me and her eyes wrinkle up, I cannot tell if she is nearsighted or puzzled.

  The garden is large and must once have been a splendid haven in which to relax. Awnings have been strung up to provide shade. Pots with blooming flowers are set around the chairs, which are raised off the ground on a makeshift platform constructed of brick and covered with a carpet. Pellets of incense burn to purify the area. These small flourishes can’t disguise that when the foreigners invaded, they trashed the palace as sacrilegiously as possible.

  The lotus pond has become a scum of muddy water and dead plants. Four ancient sycamores, one at each corner of the garden, have been recently chopped down, their bare trunks a terrible scar. The back of the audience hall is two stories high and built masterfully of brick. The wall bears a magnificent relief depicting the famous arrival of Prince Kliatemnos and his sister and ships in the land of Efea at this very harbor one hundred years ago. It looks almost exactly like the mural painted in the king’s audience hall in Saryenia. The relief has been defaced as high as people can reach with obscene graffiti that scrubbing hasn’t quite eliminated. The highborn sit with their backs to that side of the garden wall.

  “Here you are, Nephew,” says Princess Berenise. “We heard from a crow priest that you were on your way. I see you brought Menos. Come up here and greet us, little one.”

  The boy hurries forward to get a kiss on either cheek from the old woman. Menoë also gives him a kiss, then he walks along the lower rank of chairs so the rest of
the women can kiss him. If one is his mother I cannot tell, for they all smile fondly at him and give him affectionate pinches.

  “You may join us, Uncle Gar,” says Menoë. “We are expecting the commanders of the West Saroese fleet to arrive at any moment.”

  It’s hard not to laugh at the way she indicates a chair set off the platform and, as such, situated below the women. But he shows no irritation as he takes a seat. His new concubine that I met on the ship bathes his hands and applies a wet towel to his face.

  I’ve been left standing in the hot sun even though there is space under the awning. Now that we are on land again I feel how much hotter it is here than in Saryenia. The furnace blast of heat sucks the moisture right out of my eyes. Menoë’s gaze touches mine, and her lips press primly together as if she is recalling an unpleasant memory. She looks deliberately away, pretending not to notice my plight. There’s my thanks for rescuing her from Nikonos!

  It is Kalliarkos’s mother who whispers to an attendant, who whispers to a steward, who shepherds me into a patch of blessed shade. The highborn nibble from platters of dates and halved apricots as Berenise describes the long journey they took upriver, hidden belowdecks, and the grueling overland trek across the Stone Desert to reach Maldine.

  A horn blows three times. A Garon steward enters. “Your Gracious Majesty. Princess Berenise. If it is your will, the honorable visitors from West Saro beg leave to enter your august presence.”

  “Send them in.”

  Menoë sits with hands folded in front of her noticeably rounded belly. She looks robust and lovely. Being queen, and pregnant, agrees with her.

  A file of resplendently robed stewards enters, each bearing a tray laden with an astonishing gift: a bowl of polished jewels, a gold cup, a pair of ivory-hilted knives, a hinged silver box, and a cedarwood chest with lid open to display nuggets of aromatic resin. It’s a staggering display of wealth.

  “Prince General Cissorios and Lord Admiral Dorokos.”

  The men and their accompanying officers look stern and competent. They wear wool trousers and calf-length wool jackets completely unsuited to the climate of Efea. All have faces flushed from the heat.

  The prince general gives a flattering speech filled with meaningless phrases. When he finishes, Menoë leans sideways, looking toward the entry.

  “Is my uncle Thynos not with you? I expected him and his new bride.”

  “We had thought the princess might prefer to go immediately to the privacy of your women’s quarters rather than be assaulted by a public greeting unsuited to the delicate constitution of a lady.”

  “Yet here I am,” remarks Menoë with a not-so-subtle edge.

  “But you, Your Gracious Majesty, have been required to endure this hardship due to the absence of your esteemed and gracious brother, His Gracious Majesty King Kalliarkos. I will send for the princess at once, if I may gain your favor by doing so.”

  He snaps a finger to an aide, who hustles out.

  The man’s tiresome condescension annoys me so much that when Gargaron glances back at my shifting about and scuffing my feet, I actually roll my eyes at him as if he were one of my sisters sharing an unspoken thought. He smiles just enough to make me realize I’ve confided in him, who I hate. No wonder he separated me from Maraya. There isn’t a single person here who will treat me as an equal, as Kal did. But I won’t be humbled by Gargaron. I just remember that every time he looks at me, he has to be reminded that I defeated him by saving my family.

  A phalanx of women appears at the entrance. A male steward speaks.

  “Your Gracious Majesty, Princess Shenia offers greetings and begs the courtesy of being allowed to address you as elder sister.”

  The women all look alike, straight black hair pulled severely back without a ribbon or flourish in sight and covered by scarves whose colors range from tedious brown to exhausted gray. They look like peahens, made as drab as possible. The contrast with the bright colors, gaudy ribbons, and bold hair designs of Menoë and her court is stunning.

  Curiosity coaxes Menoë’s habitual arrogant sneer into the more relaxed expression of a young woman who once knew how to be happy.

  “Little sister, please come forward and greet me. I am anxious to make your acquaintance.” She scans the ranks of the women with a touch of puzzlement in her brow. There is nothing different in their garb or decoration except for the one girl whose skin is pale as ivory instead of an attractive golden brown. It is this freckled, brown-haired girl who comes forward. Menoë greets her with a kiss to each cheek, then indicates that another chair must be brought up to the platform where she and Berenise sit. Shenia looks toward Prince General Cissorios. His nod gives her permission to sit.

  This signal allows the most exalted among the visitors to sit as well. Attendants bring around basins in which the newcomers can wash, after which drinks and platters of food are offered. I, of course, am offered nothing, not even a wet cloth to cool my face.

  “Where is your new husband, my uncle Thynos?” Menoë asks Shenia.

  The prince general answers for her. “He met with an Efean man who he said was a servant of yours. They intend to travel inland immediately to take charge of the garrisons in the Stone Desert, the route that leads to the fortress of Furnace Gate. Did he not pay his respects to you before he left?”

  Berenise smiles with the easy sardonicism of age. “Ah, so he went with Inarsis. Thynos is a bit like the south wind from which he takes his Fives name, changeable and inconstant.”

  “The game of Fives!” The prince general makes a show of laughing. “Lord Thynos described this contest at great length although it is hard to picture how athletes can manage feats of agility and strength on such a small playing field. In West Saro our chief games are chariot racing, horse racing, wrestling, and archery contests.”

  Gargaron says, “You’re in luck, Prince General. We have made plans to hold a Fives trial here in Maldine in honor of our alliance. I have my particular favorite and most obedient adversary traveling with me, who has been practicing for weeks now on the ship’s rigging. Quite the boldest and most adventurous competitor I have ever watched run. Choose any man among your soldiers, and my spider will climb that wall faster than he can. I guarantee it.”

  As our West Saroese allies laugh in disbelief it’s all I can do not to rage aloud at the thought of being ordered to perform like a trained animal. But at least now I know what Gargaron wants from me besides to keep me away from Maraya.

  “How can a man climb that wall without falling?” asks the prince general.

  “You have no brave man willing to risk it? What a shame.” Gargaron snaps his fingers. “Spider, show them how it is done.”

  I’m just grateful I’ve been wearing Kal’s riding clothes on the ship: not as supple as Fives gear but at least my knees won’t get scraped up and no one will be able to look up my keldi.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Every gaze among the West Saroese leaps to me.

  Of course I cannot help myself, even in these circumstances. The taunt slides out.

  “Shall I climb up the figure of His Gracious Majesty King Kliatemnos the First, my lord, stepping atop his head? That looks to be the easiest route. But perhaps you would prefer I take a path more respectful of the dignity of the founder of the Saroese-Efean dynasty?”

  “You have climbed atop enough kings recently, Spider.”

  Just like that, the atmosphere in the garden sharpens. Humiliation scalds me, as he means it to, especially knowing I can’t talk back. The West Saroese stare, and that isn’t even the worst of it. It’s the snickering among the highborn Efean women, because however embarrassed I am to be mocked in this way, Gargaron is really doing it to undercut Kal.

  I shouldn’t care. Kal is lost to me. He’s my adversary, not my lover.

  And yet I do care.

  As I walk over to the wall and examine the relief for the holds and pressure points by which I can create a route up to the top, a young West Saroese man
hurries over. He strips out of his feathered helmet and kestrel-embroidered uniform jacket. After giving me a sharp look, he frowns at the wall.

  “On my signal!” calls Gargaron.

  He whistles.

  16

  I fix my foot where the foundation sticks out and shove myself up to the main face of the wall. The hull of the ship makes a kind of ladder because each carved plank is delineated just enough to give purchase for me to finger-climb. I miss my fingerless gloves and wrist wraps, which protect my palms and capture sweat before it slicks my skin, but I don’t have such luxuries. The West Saroese man slips, drops, and lands on his feet, but he moves right back, seeking a new way up. I cling my way up the carved afterdeck and press my face against the head of the steersman at the rudder. Hot stone prickles against my cheek. If I doubt, I will fall.

  Isn’t that always true?

  From the steersman I reach to capture the rigging and the unfurled sail, and from there use the pressure of fingers and toes to mount the crow’s nest and thence move to the top of the mast. My left foot slips. My shoulders tip out. A shout splits the air, and I grab for and catch the rim of the roof, dangle a moment with legs bumping a spray of carved stars, then fix my other hand beside the first, hook a foot over, and heave myself up onto the flat roof.

  Up here the sun blasts me. I lie panting and also laughing under my breath as cheers and a buzz of astonishment serenade me from below. I could escape through the confusion of the half-empty compound. But he’ll kill Maraya and Polodos.

  So after I can breathe properly I look for a safer way down and, to my relief, find a ladder. My reward is having to return to the garden and be gawked at while the highborn eat and drink. My mouth is parched until a woman attendant appears with a cup of palm wine.

  “Lady Adia sends this cleansing drink, Spider, with her compliments.”

  Lady Adia is Kal’s mother. I lift the cup in her direction before I drink it down.

  A trio of young men wearing West Saroese uniforms sidle up to me.