‘Aderyn?’ Letya is frowning at me. ‘Is there something wrong?’
I press my fingers to my temples, not knowing where to begin, whether I should tell Letya about Siegfried’s kiss, or about the man burned to death merely for trying to feed his family … ‘What do you think about the Decrees, Letya? Do you think they’re fair? Do you think Odette will be able to change them, when she becomes queen?’
My friend’s eyes widen. ‘Well, I can’t say I spend much time thinking about it. The world is the way it is.’ She peers at my face. ‘You look exhausted.’
‘I didn’t sleep well, and it was a long journey.’ I poke the yellow knitting on Letya’s lap, not wanting to think any more about Siegfried, and his expectations, and whether I’m able to turn back along the path that I’ve been travelling. ‘What are you making?’
‘A dress, for my brother’s youngest.’ She lays out the woollen shapes. ‘See, here is the front yoke of the dress, here is the back, the sleeves, the skirts.’
‘It doesn’t look much like a dress …’
‘It will when it’s made up. And then I’ll embroider skybells along the hem, in blue thread. My brother lives in Gartin, and they grow on the chalk escarpments there.’
I know I visited Gartin as a child, but I can’t really remember it: a small town on a lake not far from Merl, mostly inhabited by ironmasters and their forges. ‘Lucien thinks we should go home straight after the royal wedding. Should you like that?’
‘Oh yes. To be back at Merl for the end of autumn, in time for the Blood Moon festival …’ She trails off, and I know she’s seeing the same image as me: the cliffs around the castle glowing red with crab-blossom. Each blossom falls from the tree after just a day and drifts down to the beaches and into the water. From a distance, it looks as if the sea is on fire.
Letya resumes her knitting, and I worry at a piece of dead skin next to my thumbnail, going over Siegfried’s words to me. Does he love me? Is he perhaps reconsidering his marriage to Odette, hoping to marry me instead? Perhaps it might be an advantageous alliance, for Atratys. Better than being forced into a union with Patrus, or Grayling Wren. But I don’t love him. And yet, if I turn him down … I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
‘You should get some rest,’ Letya observes.
‘You’re right.’ Needles of pain stab the muscles in my shoulders and back. ‘Shall we go for a ride later on? I’d like to –’ There’s a knock on the door.
It’s Lucien.
‘Come in, my lord. I’m glad to see you.’ It’s the truth: I’m pleased to see another familiar face, a reminder of my home. For a brief moment I study his face, trying to trace in his features some resemblance to my dear Lord Lancelin. But then I remember the thoughts I had about Lucien last night. And I remember his words to Turik. The spark of happiness fades, replaced by a churning mixture of guilt and anxiety, as I wonder whether spending the night away from court with Siegfried comes under Lucien’s definition of endangering the dominion. I take a deep breath, preparing to deflect the conversation onto some neutral topic, but Lucien forestalls me.
‘The king wants to see you. As soon as possible.’
My heartbeat accelerates. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ He rubs a hand over his face. ‘You’d better get changed.’
Letya has already set aside her knitting and has rung the bell. ‘I’ll have the maid fetch you a tisane. Hopefully it will wake you up a bit …’
Half an hour later I’m walking alongside Lucien towards the king’s apartments. I’ve not been in this part of the Citadel before; all the doorways here are watched over by Dark Guards. My clerk is silent, glowering at the ornate carpet covering the floor, but he remembers his role and gives our names to one of the servants when we arrive at the receiving room.
The man returns shortly with a reply. ‘His Majesty is currently engaged, but he’s requested that you should wait, Your Grace, if it’s not an inconvenience.’
Deferring to my convenience is a formality, obviously. Maybe the king really is busy, or maybe this is a reminder that he has power here and I do not. Either way, we have nothing to do but stroll about the receiving room until my uncle decides to send for me. I wander over to a large book of maps displayed on a stand in the corner, thinking that I might at least look at the outline of Atratys, even if I can’t be there. But Lucien follows me.
‘Where were you last night?’ he mutters.
I run my finger down the index page, giving myself time to think.
‘Here. Why?’
‘Don’t lie to me, Your Grace.’
‘If you think you know where I was –’ I make a show of turning to the correct page – ‘I wonder that you should take the trouble to ask me, my lord.’
‘Letya is discreet. But Siegfried’s servants are not. Either that, or he wants everyone to know that you spent the night with him.’
I stiffen, gripping the edge of the book. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, it is already common knowledge that you were with Siegfried last night, and that you were not at court. As I said before, it’s none of my business what –’
‘Then why do you question me?’
‘Because I don’t trust him. And … And I care about you.’
I almost laugh. ‘Now who’s lying? You’d sacrifice me without a qualm if you believed I was a danger to our dominion.’ I glance sideways to see what effect my words have.
‘I am your loyal servant, Your Grace, as I hope you are aware.’ His tone is dry, but he can’t conceal the doubt in his eyes.
The servant approaches. ‘His Majesty will see you now, Your Grace.’
I leave Lucien to his uncertainty and follow the servant through to the audience chamber. The king is lying on a daybed, wearing a loose robe. There is a servant – a physician? – applying some sort of poultice to a lesion on my uncle’s leg. The air in the room is close, heavy with the scent of juniper wood burning in the hearth.
‘You wished to see me, uncle.’
‘Indeed.’ The king holds out his ring for me to kiss. ‘I would like to discuss – ouch!’ He grimaces, seizes a bowl of candied plums from the table next to the bed and hurls it at the servant. ‘Begone! No more treatment today.’
‘But, Your Majesty –’
‘Get out!’ He picks up another makeshift missile – a silver-backed mirror – but the servant hurries away. The king slumps back against the couch, a sheen of sweat on his face.
The lesion on his leg is not isolated; there are more, on his arms and neck. The word at court is that this illness of the king’s is an infection, born of his dissolute style of living. He certainly doesn’t seem to have benefitted from the water cure he took yesterday. But I find I cannot pity him.
‘Well, niece,’ my uncle says, having recovered his breath, ‘be seated.’
I obey, taking a chair nearby.
‘Protector Patrus has been to see me. I think you can guess why.’
My stomach twists, but I keep my expression impassive.
‘No, indeed, uncle. I cannot.’