‘Of course, Protector. My only desire is to serve.’ A form of words, but I actually think Lancelin means it. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ He produces a small leather-wrapped packet from his pocket. ‘I suppose I should have given it to you yesterday, but –’
‘I understand.’ My birthday celebrations had been somewhat understated, overshadowed by packing and leave-taking. I unwrap the package. Inside is a slim rectangular box about the same size as my hand, made of some polished wood, with a small silver catch. I open it. ‘Oh …’ What I’d taken for a box is actually two frames, hinged together. A diptych. On one side, a painting of Merl castle. And on the other –
My family. My parents, and me as a small child, sitting between them. All three of us smiling and staring directly out of the portrait. As I study the image a memory darts to the surface of my mind: my feet dangling from the sofa on which the three of us were seated, my father’s leather-clad legs on one side of me, my mother’s green velvet skirt on the other. My hands held warm inside theirs. I swallow down the lump in my throat. ‘I’d forgotten about this.’
‘Your father gave it to me before he died. But I think it should be yours. I’ve had them reframed, as you see.’
‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’ I take a last look at my parents before closing the diptych and clutching it to my chest. ‘I suppose I should go.’
Lancelin bows and leads the way downstairs. The coaches are there, the horses wearing large blinkers to distract them from my and Lucien’s presence. The footman opens the door of the lead carriage and I get in. Lucien is waiting, sitting with his back towards the driver. Once the servant has put up the steps and shut the door, he leans forward.
‘May I speak frankly, Protector?’
I study his face; he looks tired, but the haughtiness I noticed the first time we met is still there. ‘I don’t suppose I can stop you, princess.’
His lips twist in what might be a smile. ‘Well, then. My father has asked me to help you, and I will, to the best of my ability. So here is the first lesson: not everyone in the kingdom is happy with the way things are. There are plenty of people who would seize your power if they could: you are a target. You will be in danger from the moment we leave Merl. So it would be best if you learn not to take unnecessary risks.’
‘Like riding without a guard?’
‘Exactly. You were alone on that beach. I could have killed you, if I’d been minded to. Letya could have killed you.’
‘Ridiculous. She’s my friend. We spend hours alone together every week.’
‘Then why did she leave you there?’
‘Because she is flightless, as you know very well. She had gone for assistance. She could not have helped me safely on her own. And she depends on me. Why would she kill me?’
‘Perhaps because someone persuades her to. Or pays her more money than she can earn from being your companion. Or applies some other sort of pressure. The only person you can truly trust is yourself, Your Grace. No one else.’
‘What about you, Lord Rookwood? Am I not to trust you either?’
The coach starts suddenly, throwing me forward, and Lucien catches me by my upper arms. Holds me there as his gaze roams my face.
‘Well, my lord?’
He releases me and shifts to sit further away. ‘I said no one, Your Grace, and I meant it.’
I turn to the window. This is no grand gateway. The causeway that links Merl Island to the mainland is used by the flightless: servants, people making deliveries and so on. The marble and gold are reserved for the castle, and especially the landing platform that stretches from the first floor out above the sea. But there is a statue here that I’ve always loved, of a swan and a cygnet. The limestone is worn and pitted by rain. I watch it as long as I can, until my vision is blurred by tears.
For the next few days I don’t get any lessons; both Lucien and I are too busy trying not to vomit. Neither of us has ever travelled by coach before, and the motion of the vehicle makes my stomach heave. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was just me, but every time Lucien turns pale and retches I can imagine what’s going through his mind: All this, just because the stupid bitch refuses to fly …
Occasionally we’re allowed to get out of the coach, when the horses are changed or when we arrive at one of the infrequent inns along our route. At first no amount of rest helps with my travel sickness, but finally my body seems to adapt. The nausea passes, and I’m able to start eating again, to take some notice of the lands through which we are now travelling. Lucien rallies too, and on the seventh morning after leaving Merl he takes down a roll of paper from the luggage rack above his head.
‘What’s that?’
‘Your next lesson. I think you need to understand more about the family you’re part of; from what my father told me, the late Protector thought it best to keep you in ignorance in order to –’ he shrugs slightly – ‘protect you.’
‘And I’m sure my father was right.’ I don’t think he was right at all – I wish every day that he had taught me, not just about Atratys, but everything I needed to know, instead of leaving me to study mostly what I chose: how to read the night sky, how to fight, how to ride. But Lucien needs to learn his place. I wave a hand towards the paper that he’s starting to unroll. ‘You can show me that in a minute. First, I have a question. What did you mean, the day we left, when you said I was a target?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ The faint lift of his eyebrow mocks me.
‘Humour me.’
‘Very well … You are a target in two ways. First, you’re a target for those in your own family –’ he taps the paper roll with his forefinger – ‘who would prefer the considerable wealth of Atratys to belong to someone else. I think this will help you understand.’ There is a sort of folding table attached to one side of the carriage; Lucien pulls it down and spreads the roll of paper out, securing it with books at either end.
‘It’s a family tree.’
‘Quite. Here is the ancestor of the current royal family: Cygnus I. As you can see, his son, Cygnus II, had a lot of children. A lot of potential claimants to the throne.’
I peer at the names and dates written in cramped letters across the paper: countless births, marriages, deaths. My finger finds the current king, my uncle, and beneath him two names: my cousins Aron and Odette. Next to the king is his younger brother Rothbart (my father), and below him, me. Third in line to the throne. No – second. Aron has been disinherited. ‘So, if something happens to Odette, I would be offered the crown.’ My nausea threatens to return at the thought of such a choice, so much responsibility. ‘And what happens if I die?’
‘If you die now, the Dominion of Atratys will revert to the crown, to be resettled as the king sees fit.’
‘I suppose I’d better hope my uncle doesn’t plan to kill me.’ I speak flippantly, hoping for reassurance. But Lucien does not oblige me.
‘Indeed. He may, of course, be planning to use you as a marriage prize, to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. One of your many cousins, perhaps.’
Which includes Lucien, if this family tree is correct. I suddenly wonder about Lancelin’s motives when he suggested that I should employ his son as my clerk; perhaps Lucien was being honest when he told me not to trust him.