Guardian of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “I’m a better fighter than you are. You know that. And Fedrani would still be alive.”

  His hand was slowly opening and closing with that regularity that told her he didn’t know he was doing it. She went to him and took his hand in hers. “Kerish, we both felt safe here. If you’re at fault, so am I. So how about you let me bear a little of that burden?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Don’t I?”

  Kerish looked at her finally. “No.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  His dark eyes were intent on her the way they’d been so many times before. Then he sighed. “I don’t know. It’s nothing. Look, will you go over the Residence with me? I’ve been searching for places where someone could get in, and you’ll see things I’ve missed.”

  “Kerish—”

  “It’s really nothing. I just didn’t sleep well last night.” He removed his hand from hers. “Come on.”

  He turned and walked away, not looking to see if she was following. She stared after him. “Kerish,” she began, but he didn’t stop. It wasn’t as if she knew what to say, and throwing her arms around him, kissing him, was the wrong thing to do. She hurried to catch up to him. At the very least, the two of them could do what they could to protect Felix. Even if they’d totally failed at protecting themselves.

  Chapter Three

  “No,” Willow said. “Absolutely not.”

  Caira threw the multicolored skirt on the bed and brandished the short jacket with its full sleeves at Willow. “Is to wear,” she insisted.

  “I realize you don’t speak Tremontanese well, but do you understand no way in hell?” Willow kept one arm crossed over her bare breasts and reached for her shirt with the other. The healing scab itched, and she wished she had a third hand free to scratch.

  Caira snatched the shirt out of Willow’s reach and rolled her eyes. They’d passed the point where Caira’s fumbling grasp of Tremontanese vocabulary could break their impasse about five minutes earlier. “Is all,” she said irritably.

  “Is all but Willow,” Willow said. “Give me my shirt.”

  Caira tossed the jacket on the bed and, to Willow’s surprise, took off her own shirt. Naked, she shrugged into the jacket, which ended a few inches above her waistline and was open at the front. It didn’t have buttons and was clearly intended to reveal the skin beneath. Caira tugged both sides forward to cover her breasts. “Is to naked not,” she insisted, pointing at herself. “Is to all wear. Janida, Alondra, all.”

  “All right, so you’re mostly covered,” Willow said, “but there’s nothing keeping that thing from flipping open whenever it wants and revealing everything I’ve got.”

  Caira glared at her. “Wear not, go not,” she said. “Janida say, Willow is, and I say, is…sulk.”

  “I am not sulking!”

  “To say, not have…” Caira held her hands in front of her breasts and made cupping motions, indicating much larger breasts than her own, which were still bigger than Willow’s.

  “That’s got nothing to do with it! Tremontanans don’t go around half-naked!”

  Caira took off the jacket and stood in front of her, not bothering to cover her breasts. “You Tremontane, you not Eskandel. You Esk—to say, in Eskandel, be Eskandel. I in Tremontane, be Tremontane. You not, then…” She made an irritated noise and began chewing on a fingernail while she groped for words. “Proud. Disrespect. Look wrong.”

  “You mean if I don’t follow Eskandelic customs, it will look like I don’t respect you all.” Willow scowled at Caira’s nod. Of course, she was right, but the thought of going out in public like that, even if it wasn’t actually very public according to Janida, made Willow cringe. It was just unnatural, that was all. She scowled more fiercely and held out her hand. “Give me the damn jacket.”

  Properly clothed in the multicolored skirt, which was fuller than it looked thanks to two deep pleats in the front, and the skimpy jacket, she stood in front of the mirror to brush her short hair, which really needed to be trimmed. The jacket didn’t reveal as much as she’d feared, though the pale skin of her chest and waist did make an odd contrast to her tanned face and arms. She laid the brush aside and picked up her mother’s ivory bracelet, slid it over her wrist, then spun it around a few times, enjoying the cool smoothness against her skin.

  “You look different,” Felix said, and she squeaked and pulled the front edges of the jacket close together.

  “I thought you were with Kerish,” she said.

  “We came back to have dinner. Why are you dressed like that?”

  “This is traditional Eskandelic clothing. Men and women wear it to special events, like this thing I’m going to with the harem and Imara and Gessala. And it’s extremely uncomfortable. So please stop staring.”

  “Hilarion says women should cover themselves because women’s bodies are a snare and a temptation. I don’t understand what that means.”

  “It means Hilarion wanted to blame his urges on someone else. Look, Felix, this isn’t something you’ll understand until you’re older, but Eskandelics don’t think there’s anything wrong with this kind of clothing, and we’re going to respect their customs unless those customs want us to do something bad. But I don’t have to like it, so I’d rather you didn’t stare.” The jacket was too loose and was already starting to chafe her nipples despite the soft satin lining. The only thing that could possibly make it worse was for it to be covered in solid gold sequins. Chafing and burning, that was what she needed today.

  “I think you look nice.” Felix sat on his bed and began taking off his shoes. “I want to go barefoot all the time. Will you have dinner with us before you go?”

  “We ate already. Did you have fun at the scholia?”

  “Yes!” Felix stood on his bed and started jumping. “They have a man there who teaches about animals, and he said I knew more than a lot of his students, and I can go to where he keeps a lot of animals to teach with and learn more about them!”

  “That’s nice. Stop jumping, you’re going to ruin that bed.”

  “Felix, it’s time for—oh,” Kerish said from the doorway, and Willow turned to face him, still clutching the jacket together over her breasts. He looked stunned, and Willow blushed hotly even though all he could see of her skin was the three-inch space between the jacket’s hem and the waist of the skirt. A vivid memory of his hands stroking that same skin flashed across her mind, and she gripped the jacket harder.

  “You look wonderful,” Kerish said. “And you don’t have to—it’s not immodest, here—”

  She took refuge in belligerence. “If it’s not immodest, why are you staring like it is?”

  “You have bad manners, brother,” Imara said from behind him, and slapped him lightly on the back of the head. “Willow, it is time to leave.”

  Willow nodded, then had to push past Kerish, who stood in the doorway as if he’d forgotten why he was there. She followed Imara, who wore the same clothing as Willow, but strode confidently through the Residence as if she didn’t care if anyone saw her. Which was probably true. Imara hadn’t left the Residence alone since she’d gone to meet her lover, at least not as far as Willow could tell, and Willow hadn’t figured out how to get her alone to ask what she was doing. Some of that was reluctance to interfere, but mostly she’d just been busy. The adjeni had been decided the day before, and Serjian Principality’s question was on it. From here, the real work began.

  She let go of the jacket and tried not to feel conspicuous and foreign and naked. He still thinks you’re beautiful, he still wishes—she tried not to remember Kerish’s look of stunned appreciation, how for half a breath she’d wished they were alone together to explore the possibilities of the jacket. Now was not the time to daydream about impossibilities. She was about to step back into the world of Eskandelic harem politics and she didn’t need distractions, however pleasant they might be.

  They entered one of the Serjian carriages and settled in for a ride. It was
another scorcher of a day, tempered only by the breezes that blew in off the ocean, which Willow still hadn’t seen except through her window. Unlike Lower Town, whose walls seemed to trap the hot air at ground level to suffocate its inhabitants, Umberan’s stone arches felt as if they were designed to collect the heat and store it away for release in the cool of evening. If not for the sun beating down on her head and the black embroidered satin of the jacket, she would have felt almost comfortable.

  She envied the people thronging the streets in their white headwraps and loose robes. There were fewer people about than before. Probably they were all sensibly indoors, eating their dinners, possibly in some cool garden enjoying the spray of a fountain. If she were home, she’d be doing the same, but in far less comfort, and she felt a little guilty that she didn’t feel any homesickness at the idea.

  The carriages brought them through the sprawling marketplaces that sprang up wherever the narrow streets widened to a street lined by a ten-foot-tall hedge. It was dense enough that Willow could have climbed it easily, if she weren’t here as a guest. A gate of delicate iron filigree stood open to admit the carriages. No one stood guard there, the way they would have if this were an estate in Aurilien. But no one would ever mistake this place for an Aurilien estate.

  Shorter hedges defined sweeping sections of lawn, connected to each other by stone-paved paths that gleamed white in the noonday sun. Ahead, a lake gave off sharp reflections of sunlight that burned Willow’s eyes when she tried to estimate how large it was. Easily two hundred feet across at its widest, she guessed, and the road they were on became a bridge that crossed the lake’s narrower end.

  Brightly colored fish swam just beneath the surface of the lake, as if they were enjoying the warmth of the sun. Definitely not an Aurilien estate. There were plenty of poor people there who’d see those fish as a source of food.

  Ahead, a number of other carriages were depositing women at the doors of a palace built of yellow limestone, arched and pillared and delicately latticed with contrasting white marble that glittered as if someone had dusted it with diamonds. Willow cast an experienced eye over the façade of the palace. It was probably best accessed at the far end, where a shaded porch extended in a grand curve out of sight. The porch roof led to a small door in the side of the main building, but there were also trellises meant to conceal that little door that could probably be easily climbed to the roofs. That had all sorts of potential. Not that she would break into this place, but it was nice to know she could if she had to.

  They waited a few minutes in line to reach the front door, whose iron-banded doors stood open to admit streams of women both entering and leaving. Though all wore the same open jacket and pleated skirt Willow did, there was such a variety of color and pattern that the overall effect was of a rose garden overgrown for ten years with no one to prune back its excesses. Exotic garb aside, these could have been Tremontanan noblewomen attending a ball at the palace. None of them looked at all as if they ruled a nation.

  She suppressed a tiny shiver of nervousness as they passed through the doors and into a wide hallway floored with tiles two feet square, cobalt blue and as shiny as if they’d been waxed. Conversations in Eskandelic echoed off the ceiling, which was painted a deeper blue than the floor and supported by more of those white marble arches.

  The tingling, itching, burning, fizzing sensations of too much jewelry in too small a place made Willow dizzy, as if she’d had a little too much wine, and she breathed deeply and wished Janida would walk faster. This might not turn out to be the best idea she’d ever had, but it wasn’t as if she’d had much choice. The Review, as Kerish had helpfully and concisely translated it for her, was the most important event of Conclave, where the opening moves in the political dance were made, and as Felix’s eskarna she had to be there.

  Her palms were sweating the way they did about an hour before she tackled a complicated theft. This was nothing to be nervous about. Her palms didn’t believe her.

  “Stay close,” Janida murmured to her. The red-haired vojenta’s lavender and gold skirt and deep purple jacket somehow complemented her hair perfectly, and she settled her bracelets on her wrists in a way that told Willow she wasn’t the only one whose nerves were troubling her. “You are Serjian Principality’s guest and therefore we obligated to guide you are.”

  “Catrela said we would meet people here.”

  “Our question on the adjeni is and received much attention. There will be many interested in discussing it with us.”

  “This is a lot of people. How does that happen?”

  “The Review lasts two days and all harems do not come at the same time. We have let it be known when we attending are, and those who wish to us to speak will come at the same time.”

  “So we just…wait for them to find us?”

  “We will visit the exhibits and congratulate those harimi who have completed their negotiations and will soon married be. Gessala as harima will be observed by those harems who wish her to join with them. And as we proceed, we will encounter those who have an interest in our question, and we will converse.”

  “And one of those is probably the one who planned the attack.”

  “Yes. Now is the time for you to observe them and see what conclusions you can make.”

  “That sounds subtle. I’m good at observing, but I’m not sure I can manage subtle.”

  “Most will understand that you are a foreigner and will forgive your missteps. The ones who do not, undesirable allies are. You need not worry.”

  They reached the end of the hallway, and Willow gaped at the enormous room beyond. “I won’t worry,” she said, “but this is a little intimidating.”

  The chamber wasn’t quite the size of the Conclave bowl in the Jauderish, but it was still larger than any other single room Willow had ever seen. Rows of arches made of striped stone filled it from one end to another, some of them supporting lengths of white silk that divided the chamber into smaller…could you call them rooms, when their walls were only fabric?

  She could only see into three of them before the silken drapes blocked her view, but Catrela had, with some pride, explained everything to her before they left: members of the harems, as well as women desiring to join a harem, displayed some work of art or music or literature that demonstrated their skills and achievements. From where she stood, Willow could see a bronze sculpture, a painting, and a wall hanging with something written on it in Eskandelic. The last two spaces were occupied by young women wearing the red headwraps that marked them as harimi. They both looked at Willow with some curiosity.

  Janida slowed to examine the sculpture, then ran her finger along a small plaque beside it. “Gharibi Esyana,” she said. “Middling work, but Hovanesian Principality will not be interested in her artistic talent.”

  Willow gave the sculpture a wide berth—bronze filled her vision with the kind of sparkles you see when you’re about to faint—and went to look at the painting. Two children fought over a toy that on closer inspection proved to be a doll with a very detailed face. “Markhosi Jeneta,” Catrela said in her ear, and Willow startled at the unexpectedness of it. “The doll, that is. This is her zuareta Tammena’s work. Striking, and probably true, but it will win Tammena no invitations, that she has aired her principality’s secrets here.”

  “I can imagine. That painting…I don’t even know the woman and I can feel her pain.”

  Catrela took Willow by the arm. “Let us continue. I wish to see how Gessala’s work received is.”

  The silken dividers turned out to be spaced widely enough apart that it was easy to move between displays. Willow stood for a time in front of a young woman who sat on a cushion with her head bowed and plucked the strings of a long-necked, full-bellied fiddle, or at least that was the only instrument Willow knew to compare it to. It made a low, throbbing sound, the sort of noise stones might make if they wept, and she had to be nudged more than once by Catrela to walk away. The written displays, of course, meant noth
ing to her, though she could admire the beautiful calligraphy and the creative ways the women had found to make their works visually appealing.

  She was on the outskirts of a small crowd, listening to a harima speak, not that she could understand the words, when an unfamiliar voice said, “What do you think it means?”

  Willow turned to see three women grouped close together, all of them intent on her rather than the speaker. The woman at the front of the group was tall and angular, taller even than Willow, and her black hair was cut short to brush her collarbones and partially obscure her face. She seemed curious rather than antagonistic, and Willow said, “I don’t know. I wish I understood your language. It sounds lovely.”

  “It is a lecture on how ancient Eskandelics worshipped the lost gods,” the woman said. “Their actions were not lovely. But this young woman is exceptionally intelligent, an excellent writer, and her research is impeccable. She has no fewer than ten principalities courting her.”

  “Is that a lot? I’m sorry if that seems ignorant.”

  “It is unusual. Only one woman has surpassed that in recent years, and that was Bejdrossi Alondra. Serjian Alondra, now.” The woman eyed Willow as if waiting for a reaction. Willow made a guess and went with awed surprise. “It was a great political coup for Serjian Principality. They already had great power, and Alondra made them vojenta mahaut that year.”

  Willow glanced quickly around. None of the Serjian harem seemed aware of this interaction—or was Catrela perhaps a little too intent on the lecture? “They all seem very astute.” No wonder Janida was willing to put up with Salveri’s infatuation, if the result was power for Serjian Principality. Not that Willow thought Janida calculating enough to take advantage of either Alondra or Salveri, but she was certainly capable of sacrificing her own desires for the sake of the principality.

  The woman made an abbreviated bow Willow had never seen before. “I am Hajimhi Fariola,” she said.

  That was a name Willow knew. Hajimhi wanted Gessala to join their harem. Her mind went blank briefly. Should she return that bow, or use the one Fedrani had taught her? She made a quick decision and returned Fariola’s bow. “Willow North,” she said.