‘No, I don’t.’
‘But you should care what others might think. Or what they might do. And in case my father didn’t make it clear enough: if it’s discovered that you can’t fly, you will be banished, and you will be killed. You’re risking the entire dominion because of this … this inability to let go of the past.’ He runs both hands through his hair in what I now recognise as a gesture of irritation. ‘For the Creator’s sake, Your Grace, it’s been six years since your mother died. Surely by now –’ He breaks off, staring at me.
I don’t know what he sees, but what I feel is cold. Cold, as if a hoar-frost has settled on my skin, as if the air is freezing inside my lungs.
‘You weren’t there. You didn’t see what those monsters did to her. You don’t know about the nightmares, about –’ The coach lurches forward as the wheels are freed, and there’s a ripping sound. I glance down: I’ve been clutching my book so tightly I’ve torn the pages loose. A few float onto the rug at my feet. ‘You don’t –’ My voice cracks, so I try again. ‘You don’t know anything.’
Lucien doesn’t reply. There’s an odd expression on his face, but I’m not going to waste my time trying to decipher it. Instead I pick up the loose pages and try to reassemble my book. It’s hard because my hands are shaking, and the paper is so thin and translucent – as light as down – that I’m scared of doing further damage. I’m still busy with my task when I hear Lucien’s voice.
‘Look: we’re nearly there. The Silver Citadel, and the city of Farne.’
I look out of the window. In the distance is a pale grey castle, looming over a city that seems to plunge down the sides of a steep valley towards the sea. I’m about to ask why it’s called ‘Silver’, but then there’s a break in the clouds and the sun comes out and I understand. In the late afternoon light, the castle glitters. ‘It’s beautiful.’
My companion leans back in his corner of the coach and shrugs. ‘On the outside. But I wouldn’t swap the entire place for a single stone of Hatchlands.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard him mention his home, and the intensity in his voice surprises me. But the next moment he smiles slightly. ‘Try not to look so worried, Your Grace. You have an excuse for arriving by coach. And the king has no reason to suspect any more permanent difficulties. After six weeks we can return to Merl, if you wish.’
Six weeks. Too long for comfort, but maybe not long enough to find the answers I’m searching for. The clouds have shut out the sun again. I watch the darkening castle draw closer.
Three
We have to drive around to the back of the castle, to the entrance used by servants and flightless visitors. I feel the curious stares burning into my back as soon as I leave the carriage, and I’m relieved I have my cane for support. I wish I could hold on to Lucien, but my clerk does not offer me his arm, and I am too proud to ask. We walk in silence up wide stone steps, following the guest master, an elderly man upon whose uniform the Cygnus coat of arms gleams in silver thread. The tap of my walking stick echoes in the dimly lit stairwell. Behind us are six heavily armed guards in black chainmail, their faces concealed behind visors; Dark Guards, they’re called, according to Lucien. I wonder whether all visitors are ‘honoured’ with such an escort. The staircase goes on and on; through doorways I glimpse kitchens and offices and grey-clad servants everywhere. But eventually we emerge into the dazzle of the entrance hall on the main floor; the glow of hundreds of candles, reflected in crystal, marble and glass, makes me squint. The Cygnus family motto is carved in gold inlaid letters a wing-span tall around the edge of the ceiling: FROM OUR SERVICE COMES OUR POWER. It’s a reference to Cygnus I’s origins – he was steward to the previous ruling dynasty – that neatly glosses over his ruthless seizure of the throne. I’m still twisting my head to look at it when Lucien stops suddenly.
‘Wait!’
‘My lord?’ The guest master pauses, head bowed slightly.
‘We’ve had a long journey, and Her Grace was recently injured. She will go straight to her apartment.’
‘But His Majesty wishes to greet Her Grace without further delay. Your servants have been sent to prepare your rooms for you, my lord.’ He turns away and continues walking, and we have no choice but to follow. Doors are thrown open ahead of us and suddenly we are in a room full of people. Lucien drops back so he is walking behind me; even though I can just see him out of the corner of my eye, the sense of being alone takes my breath away. But the guest master is still moving forward, so I have to keep moving too. The voice inside my head is getting louder and louder: You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here … More guards are stationed, watchful, in the gallery that runs around the top of the room. There are murmurs from the brightly coloured crowd around me, tones of surprise and scorn. Someone laughs. The sound is hastily smothered, and I try not to react, keeping my gaze fixed, focusing on what’s ahead of me: a huge stained-glass window depicting a swan with outstretched wings, and below that a dais, upon which is set a throne of dark wood, ornately carved with gold-edged feathers and the Cygnus coat of arms. But I can’t stop the blood flaming into my cheeks.
Finally we reach the space in front of the dais. The guest master hits the marble floor with his staff.
‘Her Grace, Lady Aderyn, of the House of Cygnus Atratys, Protector of the Dominion of Atratys, and Lucien, Lord Rookwood.’ The throne is large enough to seat two easily – the Kings and Queens of Solanum have always ruled in mated pairs – but currently there is a man lounging there alone. I hand my cane to the guest master and bow, sinking low before stretching my arms backwards to imitate wings – the correct procedure upon first meeting a reigning monarch. I sense Lucien, still at my shoulder, performing the same gesture.
For a few minutes the king stares at me, and I look back at him. I can see the resemblance to my father – the same blue eyes, the same stubborn mouth, the same long limbs and ash-blond hair. But the man in front of me is older, corpulent – for all he looks so small, compared to the enormous gilded throne – gaudily dressed in blue silks and velvets. His fingers are decked with heavy rings, and he wears an ornate gold and sapphire coronet on his head. It fits well with the opulence of his outfit, but it is not the Crown of Solanum. That – the ancient Crown of Talons, a plain iron band dark with age and set with talons carved from some polished black stone – sits on a worn plinth next to the throne.
The king shifts on his seat, waves a hand and servants approach us both, bearing silver goblets. I take the drink and, as my uncle raises his cup in a toast and takes a sip, mimic his action. The liquid in the goblet – some sort of wine? – is rich and spicy; tears spring to my eyes and I have to suppress the urge to cough. The king smiles slightly, but it seems I am allowed to put the cup down; the servant holds out the platter.
‘So. My flightless niece has finally come to visit me.’
Flightless? The word – the instant realisation that I have been betrayed – lands on me like a blow. Stuns me: every muscle in my body weakens. Behind me, Lucien gasps softly. But the king is still talking; I force myself to conceal my distress.