The rain continues into a fourth day. After a long morning of meetings, weary of confinement, I make my way to a large cloistered garden near the sanctuary. I’m thinking about Odette and Siegfried, wondering what they are doing at that moment, wondering how I might contrive to speak to Siegfried alone, when he emerges onto the path just in front of me.
‘Your Grace.’ He smiles and bows. ‘What a pleasant surprise. We missed you at lunch today; I hope you’ve not been working too hard. May I join you?’
‘Of course.’ He falls into step beside me and I take his arm when he offers it. ‘I’ve spent the last few hours discussing trade agreements. Necessary, but tedious. I hope you and my cousin have been more enjoyably employed?’
‘We’ve been in the sanctuary, discussing wedding plans.’
‘Has a date been set?’
‘Not yet. It’s up to the king.’ He smiles slightly. ‘But I don’t think Her Highness is in any particular rush. I’m not.’
I’m surprised by his words. ‘Perhaps you underestimate my cousin’s affection for you.’ We walk in silence for a while, as the rain patters against the stone columns and splashes onto the edges of the marble tiles, switching places when Siegfried tells me he’s worried about my gown getting damp. ‘You don’t wish to be married?’
‘Everyone must wish to be married eventually. And to be selected by the heir to the throne, to be offered the crown … I don’t think there are many who would refuse.’
‘But you had a choice, surely?’
‘I had a choice. But I had to think about the good of my dominion.’ I realise he faced the same choice my mother faced, all those years ago. But he came to a different decision. ‘I feel sorry for the princess,’ he continues. ‘As heir to the throne, she must marry.’ He shrugs. ‘Her choice was also limited. If I was her, I would have probably picked me too.’ A sudden smile brightens his face. ‘Does that sound terribly vain?’
I grin. ‘Perhaps a little. Still, as handsome as you are’ – he bows in acknowledgement of my compliment – ‘I am sorry for her. To be forced to marry before you can rule the kingdom, to be forced, in those circumstances, to choose someone to whom you will be bound for the rest of your life … I don’t know why the Decrees insist on it.’
‘But they do. They Elders have spoken –’
‘And the Decrees are what they are. I know.’ My mind drifts back to my first conversation with Aron, and his description of Siegfried. ‘Some people think you’re nothing more than a handsome face, apparently.’
He laughs at this. ‘I’m sure they do. But perhaps I don’t mind.’ The amusement in his eyes fades as he adds, ‘We all do what we must to survive.’ He studies me, running his thumb along the edge of his jaw. ‘May I ask you something?’
I nod.
‘Well, then … the discomfort you have in transforming; I believe I might be able to help you. Would you allow me to?’
I stiffen instinctively. Odette must have repeated what I said to her. I shouldn’t be surprised. But still, to have the subject brought up in such a way, so openly. To be reminded by this relative stranger, even though he doesn’t know the truth, of my continued failure …
‘I’m sorry.’ He lays a hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
‘I’m sure. And I thank you for your offer of help. But I don’t require any assistance.’
‘As you wish, of course.’ He smiles. ‘And now it’s your turn. Ask me anything you like.’
‘Anything?’ I smile back at him. ‘Very well. I’d like to know what my father talked to you about, when he visited you.’ The evidence I’ve discovered so far – the records in the library, the testimony of the red-headed man in Lower Farne – clearly links Flayfeather to Olorys. If anyone can help me find out more, it should be the man who is going to inherit that dominion.
My companion has screwed up his face in an effort of remembrance. ‘Well, we discussed trade, as you’ve been doing. My father was suffering from gout, as I recall, so I was playing host. And we talked about music, books … and a little about you. He was very fond of you.’
I decide to take a chance. ‘Did he happen to mention anything about survivors from the War of the Raptors? Members of the Accipta families, perhaps, still living secretly in Olorys?’
Siegfried looks taken aback for a moment, before he laughs.
‘You think it’s ridiculous?’
‘Not at all. I’d be amazed if some members of those families hadn’t survived somewhere. But your father didn’t bring the subject up. It’s hardly something that’s discussed in polite society.’
The obvious curiosity in his glance forces me to attempt an explanation.
‘My father was gathering material for a history of the kingdom. I thought I might attempt to finish the project, but his notes are incomplete.’
‘I see.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re very unusual, Aderyn of Atratys.’
His tone is warm, not critical, and the comment makes me smile again. ‘I’m honestly not trying to be. Is there anything else you can remember?’
Siegfried frowns again. ‘Um … he asked me about a book. Or about a writer, rather. An Oloryan by the name of Brant. Or Frant, I think it was. But I’d never heard of him. Which doesn’t necessarily mean much.’ Another quick smile. ‘My younger years were nothing if not misspent, and I can’t claim to be well read.’
A writer? I can see the library tower from where we are standing. Excitement stirs in the pit of my stomach. ‘Well read or not, you’ve been most helpful, my lord. Thank you.’
Siegfried bows. ‘I’m glad. I know it must give you pleasure to speak of your father with one who knew him, even slightly.’
We move on to other topics until we part at the entrance to the cloister. I make my way straight to the library.
It takes me a while to track down Gullwing Frant in the library catalogues: he was not from a particularly important family. But eventually I find him and the title of his book: Tales of the Flightless of Olorys. There’s even a bookcase number, so I don’t have to ask for help from the chronicler. The book is chained, like all the others, but it seems little read; it creaks as I open it, and although the spine is faded, the rest of the blue cloth cover is bright and unstained. I sit at the nearest desk, still in my cloak, and start reading.
As the title suggests, the book is a collection of stories – folk tales, some from before the war, some more recent. Stories of the flightless collected by one who could fly. Some seem fantastical, describing such impossibilities as a tribe of flightless who are immune to our touch, in hiding until the day they are summoned to the kingdom’s aid. I skip over a tale about a flightless person travelling to the moon on the back of an eagle. But in almost every story, believable or not, we are the villains, the monsters, the stuff of nightmares. I read about hunts where the flightless are the quarry, famines where the flightless starve while the nobility hoard grain, servitude presented as expected and acceptable loyalty. The stories sicken me. But I keep turning the closely printed pages.