A muscle twitches in the side of my lord steward’s lean face. ‘And I see that you are determined to leave Merl and your dominion as soon as possible.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Regardless of my attempts to persuade you otherwise. Regardless of the fact that there is so much to be done here and now in Atratys, Your Grace.’
The sound of singing floats up from the courtyard. Abandoning our quarrel, I go to the tall, arched windows and open the casement wider. There are servants working in the kitchen gardens, walking to and fro between the vegetable beds with hoes and wheelbarrows. Leaning outward, I turn my face to the sun, trying to catch the stray beams just lighting up the angle of the wall, wishing I was outside. On a fine morning like this my father would have summoned me to walk beside him through the castle grounds, testing me on my knowledge of Atratyan plants and crops, teaching me about those we export, entertaining me with tales of his visits to other dominions and the differences he found there. Places I’d never been allowed to see for myself.
‘Your Grace …’
‘I’ve been shut up here long enough, Lancelin. I know I have responsibilities –’ I cast a guilty glance at the piles of paperwork that take up at least half my desk – ‘but I won’t be gone long. And it’s the court. I would have spent at least two years there by now, in the ordinary course of things –’
‘But your situation is not ordinary, Aderyn.’ The use of my given name surprises me into silence. My steward pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. ‘Forgive me for speaking plainly. But you know very well that your father kept you here at Merl for your own safety. If the king realises that you are, for all practical purposes, flightless –’
‘I am not flightless.’
‘We’ve discussed this. You cannot shift your shape; not at the moment. If the king asks you to transform for some reason –’
‘Why would he? Nobility is not put to the test; it would be considered an outrage.’
‘But if he did –’ Lancelin glares at me over the top of his spectacles – ‘you won’t be able to comply. And you know what will follow.’
Disgrace and death. The flighted rule; the flightless do not. A Protector who could not fly would automatically be stripped of power and banished, no matter who was on the throne. To be sent away from Atratys would be bad enough. But Lancelin tells me I wouldn’t even live long enough to grieve. With my claim on the throne, no prudent ruler would leave me alive.
‘It isn’t fair.’
‘But it is the law, Your Grace. The Elders spoke, and the Decrees are what they are.’ A stock phrase, used by parents to silence children, or by those in authority to explain why something cannot change. I heard my father use it often enough.
‘But it must be nearly two years since my cousin the prince lost his arm. And he has not been banished. Or assassinated.’
‘No, he hasn’t. Not yet. But only because Prince Aron is protected by the king, and the king’s pride.’ Lancelin eyes me a little warily. ‘And I’d like to remind you, Your Grace, that the prince has been cut out of the succession since his accident. Moving you one step nearer to the throne. Putting you more at risk.’
‘I’ve no desire to become queen, you know that.’
‘But does anyone else?’ Lancelin ignores my scowl and continues. ‘I’m sure you’ve read my reports on the situation at court: your uncle the king’s new wife, the rumours of factions, of a power struggle.’
‘Yes, I read them.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘What’s your point, my lord steward?’
‘My point is, things change. Even in the kingdom.’ The kingdom – that is how Solanum is always described, in books or in speech. As if the rest of the world does not exist. Or is, at best, unimportant. ‘The current political climate makes the Silver Citadel even more dangerous. Your father did his best to shield you. Everyone here has worked hard to keep your secret. But really, it is impossible to know what words might have been whispered into the king’s ears. And to put yourself into harm’s way, when it is not required, when your uncle has not sent for you, when your father specifically asked you not to go …’ He throws his hands in the air as if despairing at my stubborn stupidity.
Anger lends acid to my tongue. ‘You do not need to remind me what my father said as he lay dying, Lancelin. It was only six weeks ago. I remember his words quite clearly.’
My steward does not answer. He seems absorbed in straightening the papers stacked on the desk.
I clamp my mouth shut. Bite down on my irritation. Manage – just about – not to stamp my foot. ‘Really, Lancelin, if the political situation is as you say, then all the more reason for me to go to the Citadel – someone needs to protect the interests of Atratys from those who might scheme against us. We’ve heard nothing from my uncle the king since his letter of condolence. I do not trust his silence.’
Through the window next to me I can see fields full of early crops, and brightly coloured fishing boats rocking gently in the harbour. Further off, looking landward across the causeway that links Merl Island to the mainland, are the straggling stone buildings of the nearest town, dominated by the copper-roofed sanctuary, the tapering chimney of a tin mine, the tall masts of ships docked in the port at the end of the next headland. Just a tiny fraction of my Atratys, but so heavy with life and history and expectation that I sag forward, bracing myself on the window frame as the weight of my inheritance, my home, bears down upon me. There is almost nothing I wouldn’t do to defend my dominion. Almost nothing I wouldn’t give up to protect what my parents were trying to build here, to keep Atratys free from the oppression and poverty that stalk some of the other dominions.
Almost nothing.
A huge rose bush scrambles up this sheltered side of the castle. If I stretch down from the window my fingertips will just brush the tops of the highest, pale green buds, but in a few weeks’ time this section of wall will be veiled with deep pink roses, my mother’s favourite flower. She and my father used to walk in the rose garden every afternoon during the summer months. I was often with them, and I remember darting along the paths between the flower beds, gravel crunching beneath my feet, breathing in the scented air, collecting up the silken rose petals that had fallen to the ground. I remember looking back to see my parents strolling, hand in hand, behind me. Or sometimes sitting, her head on his shoulder, his arm tight about her waist.
My father never returned to the rose garden after she was murdered. For him, there seemed to be no more summers.
‘Why did my father stop visiting his brother?’
A shadow crosses Lancelin’s face. ‘Your father never took me into his confidence. I only know that he became more reclusive after your mother’s death, burdened as he was with grief. Grief, and anger, at his own inability to find and punish the culprit … I believe he held the king in affection, when they were younger.’
Strange, then, that my father should never even talk about him. But I suppose there were a lot of things we never discussed. Whether it was my mother’s death, or my requests to be allowed to leave the castle, my father’s response to unwelcome topics was always the same: fly into a rage and lock himself in his laboratory.