by Callie Bates
My father’s cause? My father’s stupidity, to bring a king from across the sea and think the Eyrlais would lie down and let him do it. To think his family has the right to choose and crown a king.
I gasp out loud as the implication strikes me. “So he did have Antoine killed! He’s done this.” And I am the one taking the blame.
Hensey frowns, begins to say, “No, El—That is, I don’t know,” but at that moment, knocking sounds from the outer chamber. The guards are at the outer door. We both go still, holding our breath. My heartbeat leaps and stutters.
Hensey paces to the inner door, cracks it open.
“Open,” a guard hollers, “in the name of the ki—queen!”
The queen. Lord Jahan told me the truth, then; part of me prayed that he was wrong. But Antoine is dead.
Hensey marches back and presses her fingers along the smooth plaster wall beside my bed. “What are you doing—?” I begin, but as I speak, I hear the click as the wall springs open.
A narrow staircase plunges down into darkness. I stare at my nurse. I’ve always known the passage was there. But I didn’t think she did.
“Go.” Hensey motions at me. “I’ll keep them off.”
“No, Hensey! They’ll—”
“Elanna.” She says my full name, and I straighten, swallowing hard. “The stairs. Let me do this for you.”
There are tears on my cheeks. “No.”
Hensey points at the doorway and hands me the candle she left beside my bed. She’s thought of everything. I swallow, taking the candle between both hands, and step toward the hidden passage.
Hensey’s already in the other room, the inner door shut tight. I hear her saying, “Lady El will be but a moment—”
My hands are shaking. I close the secret door behind me. The candle flame flickers. There’s air coming in somewhere. This passage leads outside, I remember.
Something crashes in my rooms. I flinch and start to turn, Hensey’s name on my idiot tongue. Then I hear her voice, strident over the confused racket of the guards. She’s alive; they haven’t harmed her yet. Not like my nurse when I was a child.
Not yet. And I have to take the opportunity she’s risking her life to give me.
I run down the stairs, which twist around in the dimness. Hot wax drips onto my hands.
I’m not going to the Hill of the Imperishable. I’m not going to the unspeakable Ganz. And I’m certainly not going north to the parents who abandoned me. I won’t be part of another foolhardy revolution, doomed to failure before it begins. I’m taking Hensey’s escape, but not her plan.
No. I’m going to Paladis.
—
WHAT WILL THEY do with Hensey?
I make my way through the sun-bright city, toward the Paladisan embassy. The streets have exploded with activity, and under the cold, brilliant blue sky everyone seems ebullient, even though they’ve drawn up hats and hoods against the autumn wind. I pull my collar up; I can’t muster a smile. At least the press of the crowd makes me anonymous. As I hurry over King Street, a coach hurtles past me, the horses’ hooves ringing on the cobblestones. The sunlight glares off the windows, and I have to hope whoever’s inside doesn’t see me. I grip the pistol in the sleeve of my greatcoat, though it’s almost too bulky to fit alongside my arm. It occurs to me that I’m as likely to shoot off my hand as shoot an assailant, though I’m a decent markswoman under ordinary circumstances—which would be hunting pheasants at the king’s country estate. I start to laugh hysterically and force myself to shut up.
I dart up the stairs of the pale stone townhouse and rap the brass knocker. At least the columned portico protects me somewhat from prying eyes. I wait, but no one comes, so I rap the knocker again, harder this time.
They have to let me in. Ambassador Nikerites likes me; I’ll drop to my knees and beg that he offer me asylum. I am no traitor, no murderer. I’ll tell him I don’t feel safe in Laon or even in Eren, because Loyce’s men could break into his house and force me out. I’ll have to go to Ida. There, I’ll make my case before the emperor: While Denis Falconier frames me for regicide, the real murderer is running free. It could be my father or one of his cohorts, set upon instigating another pointless rebellion against the Eyrlais, pitting Caerisians against Ereni. I don’t want a civil war, and I don’t want to be named a traitor or a pawn again. The emperor will have to grant me sanctuary in Ida.
In Ida, I will be safe. I can go to the royal botanical gardens and prove my worth to Markarades. I’ll meet the crown prince, who’s said to have an interest in plants, and perhaps I can even match wits with the Korakos, who saved the prince’s life in battle and whom they say is both charming and enigmatic. I can spend my life studying plants, far from Loyce and Denis, far from the treasonous father who’s let me suffer for his mistakes.
I blow on my hands to warm them from the chill. Where are the servants, always so prompt? If they take much longer, I’m going to have to go. I can’t take the risk. I’ll have to make my own way to Roquelle, find a ship at the harbor to take me to Ida. Maybe it would be safer than taking shelter here—even if Ambassador Nikerites grants me asylum, Loyce’s guards could still catch me before I can get out of the city. I’ll have to—
The door opens. It’s not a servant whose hand is on the knob. It’s a young man in a silver-trimmed blue coat and breeches, his light eyes surprised. Lord Jahan, the guards called him.
We stare at each other. For a moment, I think he’s as astonished as I am. Then he begins to smile, deepening the dimple in his cheek. It’s hilarious to him that I’ve arrived on the doorstep of the embassy. My heart is pounding, and at the same time I want to smile back. Who is he?
All I know is that he’s a sorcerer, and that he saved my life. And no one saves someone else’s life for nothing.
An Idaean sorcerer. How does someone from Ida even learn sorcery? The witch hunters burned all the books. But of course there are still people who practice magic; everyone knows the witch hunters still haul renegade magicians off to prison. He must have learned from one of them.
He leans out past me and glances back and forth. Then he grasps my arm. “Come in.”
I’m pulled into the familiar foyer, with its marble and hangings and beautiful painted ceiling. There are no servants anywhere. What’s going on? Above us, in one of the receiving rooms, I hear floorboards squeak, and the sound of raised voices.
The young man is still gripping my arm. Ordinarily I would protest at being touched like this by a stranger, but his hands are strong and warm and I’m slow to pull away. “I suppose it’s good you came here,” he says, almost to himself, in Idaean. He switches to Ereni with a facility that surprises me. “They’re upstairs. Come with me.”
But my feet seem to have become rooted to the carpet. He swings around to face me. A frown disrupts his easy grin; he says gently, “It’s all right. You’re safe here.”
“Am I?” My voice is shaking.
A floorboard squeaks directly above us. We both look up. Nikerites himself stands at the top of the stairs, wearing a shapeless old banyan robe though it’s midday. He looks old, haggard, his face carved with lines. He barely acknowledges my existence, but simply nods at Jahan and walks away, in the opposite direction from the raised voices.
Strange.
Jahan bounds up the stairs. I follow, my feet heavy. The filigreed doors of the receiving room stand open, and as I come to the landing I make out the voices. Male voices, raised. “If Benson doesn’t return from the stones, then—”
I stop. The stones. Where Hensey wanted me to go.
“But I don’t see why we cannot go ourselves,” a younger voice responds. “Then make our way north, to the duke’s lands.”
What is this?
Jahan has turned back, almost exasperated. “It’s all right, really. They’re your friends.”
They are?
A shadow passes over the doorway and an older man steps through it, his riding boots tramping the elegant carpet. “We need
to take several horses tonight, north. We—” He stops, looking at me. He wears a dark-gray greatcoat over plain, dark clothes, and his dark hair bristles with silver.
His voice. His accent.
He’s Caerisian.
Caerisian. In the Paladisan embassy.
No. Not my father’s people, not here.
The man says in an astonished voice, “Elanna? I thought—”
The way he speaks my name, it sounds as if he knows me. As if he remembers me. For a breathless moment, we stare at each other. The timbre of his voice, made for singing. The silver in his hair; the lines fanning out from his eyes. The years have not been easy on him.
No. I don’t know this man. I can’t know him.
I whirl, running down the stairs, throwing open the door, back into the crowded streets. If they come after me, I don’t know it. I pelt through the alley beside the house and run as if my life depends on it.
—
THE STREETS ARE quieter now that I’ve veered away from the thoroughfare near the palace. My feet pound over the cobblestones. A passing woman stares at me with suspicion, knowing that my running means I’m in some kind of trouble. I force myself to slow to a walk, even though my heart’s leaping.
I glance back. There’s someone—a man; two men—well behind, but following me down the street.
The man in the house. His name is on my tongue. What is he doing here? He must know the risk. I’ve seen his face on the wanted posters. Loyce’s taunts echo in my memory. Did you know him? Was he dear to you, the traitorous, spying Caerisian pig?
But it’s been fourteen years, and I was a child. It’s been a long time since they bothered to put his face on the posters. A long time since I squinted my eyes and refused to see the reward for bringing him in. Maybe it’s not him. Maybe they’re not my father’s men. Why would my father’s men follow me onto the street, anyway? How badly can he want me back after all these years?
These rationalizations don’t convince my heart or my sweating palms. Or the prickling in my back. Now they’ve found me, they’re not going to leave me alone.
And really, would it be so bad to go back to Caeris? I’d be looked after. I wouldn’t be tried for murder. I wouldn’t be executed.
But it’s my father who murdered the king. It’s he who left me, who abandoned me here, for all these years. If he wants me now, there has to be a reason for it. Simple, human compassion is not enough in his world.
And what if he knows? What if he knows what I did fourteen years ago?
No. I can’t go back to Caeris.
I have to think. I’ve just run in blind panic, no rhyme or reason to my movement. I’m on a cold white avenue, the blue slate roofs of the houses high above the chilly marble columns of porticos, and the river isn’t far away.
The river. Victoire lives near the river.
So I haven’t been aimless after all. My body knew—my feet knew. I redouble my speed, feet rushing over the cobblestones, and quickly turn to the right down one street, then swing onto another.
No one behind me now when I glance back. Good.
Two more blocks. I’m so near I can smell the lavender Victoire’s mother uses to perfume the house. I mustn’t go in the front. I slip into the alley, where the houses cluster around a shared garden courtyard. An ash tree grows by the wrought-iron gate. I duck into its meager shelter and, hoisting myself up into its branches, clamber over the gate.
The garden is a wild tangle of elm trees and dry autumn shrubs, the bulk of a hedgerow beyond it. At least no one is likely to look out a window and see me in all this foliage. I thrash along the overgrown path until I reach a cleared space surrounded by hedges and a wooden swing hanging from an elm. I study the tidy line of surrounding houses, trying to get my bearings. The river rushes nearby. I’ve been in this garden many times, but I always reach it through Victoire’s back door. Finally I recognize the sloping lawn running up to the back portico of the Madoc family residence, and in an upper window, the ruffled silhouette of a young woman’s morning-robe.
Victoire. I recognize the baize curtains of her room. She hasn’t dressed yet. She must be reading a novel—or writing one. Victoire has great ambitions to wield a pen as incisively as a sword.
She’s writing a novel, and I’m running for my life.
I clamber up the lawn, digging out a few loose pebbles from the dirt. I toss one at the window. It goes wide, clattering on the stones instead. I try another. This one hits and the silhouette in the window goes still. I throw another.
A round, pale blob of a face presses against the windowpane. Cautiously, I emerge from the bulk of the hedge so she can see me. I pray no one else does.
The window squeaks as it opens. “El?”
“Let me in.” I can’t seem to catch my breath; I just point at the garden door.
The window claps shut and she disappears from view. I imagine her running down the stairs, sneaking out through the servants’ doors, darting through the rose-and-white salon to the door.
It opens. I’m halfway there before my limping mind takes in the heavy shoulders and stern countenance of Master Madoc, Victoire’s father, the minister of finance, home too early from the palace. Of course. The king has died. Does Master Madoc know Denis Falconier accused me of murder?
I halt at the base of the steps. His waistcoat is still unbuttoned; he looks even more disheveled than he did when I saw him earlier. A frown pouches his face. Behind him in the house, Victoire is crying out, “But Papa—”
“Lady Elanna,” Master Madoc says, and there is no mistaking the sternness in his words. “Come in.”
—
WE MAKE AN awkward circle in the pastel sitting room: Victoire, Master Madoc, and I. Victoire’s mother, Madame Suzette, came in a few minutes ago, took one look at me, and walked right out, saying she would fetch a pot of tea. As if tea is going to help this situation. So far Victoire hasn’t said a word, just twisted her hands together, looked at me, to her father, and away.
I can barely sit still: I have to stop my legs from moving, trying to push me back up. I study a painted porcelain trinket box on the table. They don’t want me here. Master Madoc already knows everything.
“Lady Elanna.” Master Madoc is doing his best to shrink me down to size. “You must return to the palace at once and give yourself up. Running away only gives further credence to this claim that you conspired in the king’s death.”
How can he possibly imagine this is a good plan? “If Loyce Eyrlai is willing to accuse me of regicide, she’s willing to have me executed without trial. I can’t go back—I have to seek sanctuary somewhere else. Tinan, or Paladis.”
“Lady Elanna,” he says on a sigh. “You always believe the queen to be malicious. She’s reacting as any daughter would to her father’s death. Go back and beg her mercy.”
“You don’t understand. Loyce hates me. She’s glad to blame me for murdering Antoine.”
He simply stares at me, his gaze flat and disapproving. I don’t understand how he can be so distant, so formal, so cruel. I’ve practically grown up in this house. Victoire and I held pretend tea parties in this room. I decided I wanted to be a botanist in their garden. We used to collect plant specimens and store them in the potting shed, much to the irritation of the gardener.
Now he wants to send me back to the palace, to my death. As if I deserve it for running away.
Madame Suzette returns with the tea tray and I lurch to my feet. I need to get out of here. “I’ll leave you—”
“Sit down,” Madoc snaps.
I stare at him. How dare he order me to sit? Madoc’s a good man, on the whole, but I won’t be bullied—not even by him.
“Please, Papa,” Victoire says. Her lips are tight and her nose red, as if she’s close to tears. “Can’t we just help El to the border? To Tinan?”
He rounds on her. “I will not aid a criminal! We’re risking enough keeping her in our home right now. I’m sticking my neck out for you, Victoire, just by l
etting her in the door. We’ll already have to swear the servants to secrecy. How much more would you have me risk for her? Our home? Our position in society? My position at court? My life? Our lives?”
Victoire is crying in earnest now, rocking forward over her knees. “No, Papa, but—”
I should never have come here. I’ve brought danger on their house; I knew it, but I thought of myself first.
An exasperated sigh escapes Madame Suzette, whose pot of tea is going cold. “You’re not making matters any better, Hubert. Lady Elanna is here. Now let’s help her.”
He looks at her, unmoved. “When the crown changes hands, no one is safe—especially us. We don’t have a long lineage to protect us, Suzette. Loyce Eyrlai can be volatile. There’s no telling what she’ll do if we’re caught harboring a criminal.”
A criminal? I am not a criminal.
“The people are uneasy enough, with the poor harvest and the broadsheets claiming the king’s ‘growing fat off the labor of their backs,’ ” he’s saying. “We can’t take the risk.”
I feel sick. These people, whom I thought considered me like another daughter, are too afraid to risk themselves for me.
“You mean because you lied?” Victoire blurts out. I stare at her. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are still bright with threatening tears, but she’s looking defiantly at her father. “Because you’re demanding more money in taxes to improve the palace grounds instead of helping the poor?”
“What?” I say. Madame Suzette looks sharply at me, then rises without a word and murmurs something about getting fresh water for the tea that none of us have drunk.
Master Madoc has lurched forward in his seat. “Victoire!”
Victoire’s chin wobbles, but she stares him down. “I saw the real statistics. You left them lying in your study. I read them.”
I don’t understand. Master Madoc released the report on the nation’s revenue, showing the crown’s annual expenses for the last five years. There was nothing false about it. Antoine never took more than he needed; he gave to the poor.
