Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Cradle Door

‘Still, don’t see why we shouldn’t have some fun, too.’ Glada scowled, folding the sheet in her hands.

‘That’s what you’re calling it?’ Velis replied, snorting. ‘How much of your cousin’s coin did you spend, the last time the Matron let you loose on the City of the Moon?’

‘Not enough to be missed.’ Glada shot back, grinning, and Dana scowled. Sara just kept on folding, glad, for once, not to be noticed. ‘Besides, it’s good to blow off some steam, once in a while.’

‘There’s always more chores.’ Dana added, fluffing one of the Queen’s pillows. They were in the room behind the moon door, a bedchamber, about as sparse and empty as the rest of the Queen’s apartments. A couple of small tables, complete with spindly-looking, ornate chairs. Another, for the wine. The two small, pale windows, looking out over the City of the Moon towards the edge of the Heartspire, were barely large enough to let any light in at all. The only item of any real substance was her bed, a grand, four-posted monster of intricate, dark wood, with enough pillows to sleep a legion clustered at its head in a small mountain of patterned grey fabric. The sheets had been pulled back from the mattress, and a little pile of them was building on the divan at its base, fussed over irritably by the little clutch of handmaidens.

‘Wonder what she’d do, without us.’ Glada grumbled, folding another and stacking it with the rest. ‘Change her own sheets? Tip her own chamberpots?’

‘Fetch her own wine?’ Dana added.

‘I’m sure she’d manage that one on her own.’ Glada smiled slyly. ‘Not sure she’d last long without it.’

Velis tutted, swatting at her with the back of her hand, but Glada darted clear, grinning. Sara frowned, stretching a clean sheet out over the bed. It was strange, she felt, being here. The emptiness of the Queen’s bedchamber was strange enough, but the raw shadow of her mistress’ past presence in it hung over her head as Sara worked, filling the air with a kind of cold silence even Glada’s complaining couldn’t shake. She almost shivered, frowning.

‘It’s so empty in here, too.’ the other handmaiden was saying, staring irritably at the bare room. ‘Got all the gold in the kingdom, and I’ve never seen a room more boring. It’s a crying shame.’

‘Is it, really?’ Velis replied tiredly, not looking up.

‘Still, I suppose she doesn’t do much else but sleep in here.’ Glada grinned again, shaking an empty pillowcase. ‘Bet the King’s bedchamber is much less... empty.’

She trailed off, looking at Sara. Velis gave her a withering look, and Dana just frowned. Sara stared at the mattress, gut knotting. A knock at the door saved her, and one of the Queen’s Black Guard stuck his head into the room, gleaming.

‘My apologies for the interruption, M’ladies.’ he told them, armour clinking, lowering his eyes politely.

‘Out with it, man.’ Glada told him, rolling her eyes.

‘Lord Royce is outside. He wishes to speak with the Lady Sara.’

Sara fixed her eyes on the floor, making for the door. Dana took a step towards her, then drew back, and the other handmaidens’ eyes bored into her back like blades as she vanished into the room beyond.

*

‘Lord Royce.’

The Fox turned away from the edge of the gallery, eyes flashing. He was wearing a well-worked doublet in vivid yellow, and the fox brooch at his chest gleamed. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like there might have been the first shades of dark rings under his eyes, marked into the smooth-dark skin of his face.

‘Lady Sara.’

It was drawing on towards evening beyond the windows of the King’s Hall, and the amber-ruby gleams of the high windows filled the vast ache of the empty floor, glistening against the iridescent shifting of the nightglass ceiling. From the gallery, the hall below seemed a long way away, wreathed in narrow curls of brazier-smoke, and shadows raced each other wordlessly across the patterned floor. The Fox made no sound as she approached, watching her with his sharp, dark eyes. She hesitated, swallowing.

‘You will leave tomorrow?’ she ventured, strangely nervous.

‘At the King’s command.’ the Fox agreed, flashing her a small smile. Yes, he did look tired, but there was none of the displeasure that had chased him from the hall the day before. Sara frowned.

‘You seemed less pleased with that command when I last saw you.’

‘Ah, yes.’ he admitted, almost apologetically. ‘A game, of sorts, but a necessary one. The best laid plans are often the ones no one ever knows you had.’

Sara blinked. ‘You wanted this?’

The Fox paused, looking out over the hall towards the Night Throne. ‘Why does the King rule, M’lady?’

Sara frowned. ‘He rules because he is the King.’

‘He rules because the people allow him to.’ the Fox replied. ‘Do you remember what we talked about, at the feast, watching them in the crowd?’

Sara thought of the milling crowds of nobles, drawn in about the King like moths to a flame.

‘Power.’

The Fox nodded.

‘Power is a illusion, M’lady.’ he told her, and his sharp eyes gleamed. ‘Try to snatch it, and it will vanish through your fingers like mist. Move with care, and it will surround you. The game must go on, and we all play our parts.’

‘You also once told me power belongs to those who take it.’

He looked at her almost sadly. ‘But not all power is there to be taken, no matter how much we desire it.’

Sara thought of the King, sitting on the Night Throne, staring at the bare gleam of moonsilver blade across his knees, and frowned.

‘So you will go to Dal.’

‘As my King commands.’ he smiled, looking out over the enormous emptiness of the King’s Hall. ‘Here, I am an outsider. A man of colour in a place devoid of it. In Dal, it is pale skin that is rare.’

‘You will be accepted there?’ Sara asked quietly, looking at him.

‘I am a child of two worlds, Lady Sara. Neither calls me friend.’ He did not look up. ‘Men will always find a reason to hate.’

Sara didn’t know what to say to that, so they stood for a moment in silence, listening to the inky whispers of the empty hall. Sara opened her mouth, then closed it again. The Fox had been the first person to show her any kindness in the capital, and his departure was too sudden for her liking. The thought of it left her gut strangely unsettled.

‘Have you any word from your father, M’lady?’

Sara blinked, looking up at him. She realised with a little tingle of guilt that she hadn’t thought about her father for some time. Guilt? Or gladness? He’d be back in the Westmere, by now, no doubt, raising men to put down the Black Hand in the outer villages. There was no need to worry for his safety, either; Lord Westmere would leave the soldiering to more suitable men. Sara frowned.

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‘I… I have not, my Lord.’

‘You must send him my regards, when he writes.’

‘I am not sure he would welcome such a greeting.’

‘No.’ the Fox chuckled. ‘I suppose not. Though he would be pleased, I think, to see the many friends you have made, since his departure. The Lord of Westmere always did find the closest seat to the throne.’

Sara’s frown deepened. ‘I am not sure I catch your meaning, M’lord.’

The Fox paused, nodding at one of the banners hanging from the gallery. The King’s sigil, same as all the rest; a gold tower on black beneath a blazing sun.

‘I told you once that I remember when another banner hung there. When the silver tower and lightning of the old Kings still ruled from the Night Throne.’

‘I prefer the gold.’ she shot back.

His eyes brushed hers. ‘Not all that is precious is gold, Lady Sara, and not all that is gold is precious.’ he paused. ‘The most important things often don’t gleam at all.’

‘You must be careful in Dal, my Lord.’ she replied, not looking away. ‘I hear it is a dangerous place for whispers.’

‘I have heard the same. I am sure there will be plenty of new stories for me to collect.’

‘Perhaps I will have my own to tell you, when you return.’

He looked at her thoughtfully, sharp eyes flashing.

‘Perhaps you will.’ He looked out over the hall for a moment, frowning. ‘Take care, Lady Sara. You are a leaf, dancing in the wind, and there is a storm coming.’

She stared at him, but found she had nothing to say. The Fox watched the hall below for a moment longer, then straightened, smoothing his doublet.

‘Goodbye, M’lady.’ he said, bowing gracefully. ‘I have very much enjoyed our conversations.’

‘Lord Royce.’ Sara replied, regaining some of her composure and dipping into a small curtsy.

‘Please,’ he told her. ‘Call me Royce.’

She nodded politely, and he gave her a small smile; the kind that never reached his eyes. Then turned and went away along the gallery without looking back, disappearing into the hallway beyond. Sara watched him go, frowning, then stood for a moment, looking down alone at the empty hall below. The candles flickered, twisting, and the nightglass ceiling whirled in endless obsidian spirals. She lingered there a while, staring at the empty slab of the Night Throne, black as a shadow. Then she, too, turned and went away along the gallery, bound for the Queen’s chambers.

*

It was quiet in the room of doors. The balcony curtains were shifting lightly in a cold breeze, and beyond them, the white city of Uldoroth flashed and smoked and sparkled in the gathering dark. The other handmaidens were nowhere to be seen, or heard, and the strange, many-sided room was filled with an eerie quiet that made her shiver. Not that she had much enjoyed their company, of late. More often than not, she’d find them staring at her, when they thought she wasn’t looking, and she would squirm her way through her duties, trying, and failing, not to notice. Even Dana seemed more distant, closer to how she had been when they’d first met in the capital, all those weeks ago. She was worried. They all were, though each had their own reasons. Sara frowned. Maybe she should be worried, too.

Clouds were building, beyond the balcony railing; long, dark rolls of them, shifting murkily on the horizon beyond the black spines of the empty stormtowers. The Rings far below had dimmed to shadow, and she stared at them, watching the vanishing smoke drifting skyward from a thousand rooftops. It seemed so far away, from the top of the Heartspire. Barely the same city at all. She wondered absently, indifferently, about the many lives living themselves out beneath the haze. She had rarely even left the keep, since she had arrived in it; only to visit the Skyperch, in truth. Those rare moments she treasured. The curve of his smile. The touch of his eyes. And…

She shook herself. She wasn’t sure what she had wanted, when it had begun. But now? Now her waiting was sharp as daggers. She’d barely been sleeping, these past few days. Secrets ate at her thoughts, secrets waiting to be unravelled by prying fingers. She could feel the Queen’s eyes on her, always, nibbling at her flesh. Did she suspect something? How could she? The Fox’s warning, in the garden, all those weeks ago, chased her into fevered slumber; there is always someone watching. Was the King any exception?

She scowled, turning away from the purpling sky. Her encounter with Lord Royce had filled her with an anxious lightness, but it was not the first time the feeling had overtaken her, recently. Her mind had not been her own for some time. She had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. A nobody, plucked from nowhere, a woman made Queen, a Queen who was closer to forty than thirty, now, and had borne no children. The one thing no king could do without. Dekar most of all. Why shouldn’t he look elsewhere? And why shouldn’t it be her? Why shouldn’t he want her? Why shouldn’t she be safe, at last?

You look like her.

Her time in the capital drifted before her like a grey haze, full of whispering faces. Her sister, cold and unknown. Her father, leaving her behind. Lord Royce, even, bound for the ends of the world. The King, watching her in the dark. The Queen at his shoulder, eyes like icy blades. Below them all, Uldoroth spread out around her like a forgotten dream. A city of half-seen faces; faces she had never seen, voices she would never hear. Beyond, further, to the Westmere over leagues of empty grass, another face was watching. Mother, alone, mind turned to rot, murmuring in the dark.

All these things, and more, she saw. But she felt nothing for them. Nothing at all. Nothing but the lightness, an empty ache in her gut, waiting to be filled.

She sighed, and turned again away from the balcony. The room of doors sucked at the last of the light, and the deepening dark clung to the many edges of the room in long wreaths of shadow. There had been no call from him that night, and there would not be one, now. Another evening of stares and silence from a room of prying eyes. She made her way reluctantly towards the unmarked door that led to the handmaiden’s chambers, passing each of the others in turn. The silver patterns of the doors swirled and gleamed, twinkling. The sun. The moon. The pendant, teeth flashing. The cradle…

Sara froze. The cradle door was open. Just a fraction, an inch of dark around the gleaming edge. She stared at it, blinking. Nothing stirred.

Her hand was on the door. Her heart thrummed in her ears, and behind her, the breeze whispered through the curtains. She breathed, and her skin tingled. It was opening. Had she done that?

It was dark beyond the doorway. There was a single window, no larger than her hand, somewhere ahead of her, stretched out in the darkness, and pale light crept over it, shifting against filmy black curtains. She squinted into the dark, and it peeled away in layers, receding against the smooth-set walls. The room was not large. Pillared archways traced the outer edge, closed around the shadows of recesses behind them. There was a table in the middle of the room, a table made of stone, and there was something sitting on its flat surface. An empty cradle, carved from black wood, gleaming in the feeble throws of dwindling light. Sara took a step back, hesitating.

‘Don’t be shy, girl.’

Sara froze. There was something else, below the window. A bath, set into the stone floor. The Queen’s head was all that was visible above the milky surface of the jet-dark water, and her black hair was plastered flat against the sharp angles of her skull. Sara realised she was holding her breath, and her heart pounded loud as thunder in her ears. Black eyes stared back at her from above the water, unmoving.

‘It’s very dark, all of a sudden.’ the Queen purred. ‘There’s a lamp beside the door. Be a dear and fetch it.’

Sara blinked. There was a forger’s lamp by her feet, and she lifted it, flicking the little mechanical switch. A gear shifted, ground, and a flame licked out against the walls, spilling amber light against the shadows that filled the recessed walls.

‘Set it there, on the table.’ the Queen said, sagging back into the water. Sara hesitated, then came forward and placed the lamp on the strange stone table beside the empty cradle. She stepped back, averting her eyes. The Queen chuckled softly, a cold sound in the back of her ivory throat. Sara realised she had never heard her laugh.

‘I never knew Westmere ladies were such prudes.’

We… We aren’t…’ Sara stuttered, blushing. ‘… things are different in the capital, your Majesty.’

The Queen did not reply. Her proud, pale face hung above the dark surface of the water, eyes closed, skin smooth as fresh snow.

‘A little rose, afraid of her thorns.’ she said softly. ‘Do you know why the doors are all painted, little rose?’

‘I… I do not, your Majesty.’

‘Because everything has its place.’ the Queen replied, her eyes still closed. ‘Sun door for daytime, the moon door for night. Cradle door for… well I suppose that one seems a little premature, now.’

Sara was completely still, but her skin crawled with a thousand icy legs. She fixed her eyes on the floor beside her, frowning.

‘And what about you, little rose? What is your place?’

Sara opened her mouth, then closed it again, swallowing.

‘To serve you, your Majesty.’

‘Ah, yes.’ the Queen replied softly. ‘And what a faithful servant you are.’

Sara’s heart pounded. Her blood hummed. The cradle door had fallen closed behind her, and the lamp flickered lamely at a dozen shadows, thick as pitch. The Queen’s eyes opened. She stirred, sending ripples spreading across the dark surface of the bath, then rose up out of the water with the careful grace of a dancer. The narrow nakedness of her body gleamed wetly in the lamplight, pale as marble. Sara stared at the tiles, throat clamped like a vice around her tongue. The Queen stepped out of the water, one step at a time, feet pressing wet lines against the floor.

‘So shy, still.’ she murmured. Sara could feel her eyes on her, pouring over her skin. ‘For one so beautiful. So young. So much life to give.’

She took another step. And another. Closer, inch by inch, until she was so close she could reach out and touch her, tall, sharp shoulders looming over Sara’s lowered head.

‘Look at me.’

Sara looked. The Queen’s body gleamed just a few inches from her own, perfect white skin bleeding water onto the tiles. Older, of course, but not old, and the perfect smoothness of her had only one blemish. There was a long, horizontal scar under her navel, waxy silver in the lamplight, knotted like twisted gristle. The Queen’s dark eyes bored into Sara’s flesh, keen as blades, and she realized she was not completely naked. The necklace was still about her neck, and the ruby drops gleamed like blood in the half-light.

‘Are you so different?’ the Queen whispered.

The lamplight swelled suddenly, peeling back the shadows behind the arches. Sara blinked. Not empty. A stone plinth for each, and a glass jar for each of those, no larger than wine jugs. The lamp flared, gleaming. A dozen jars, a dozen bodies. Misshapen. Half-formed. Swollen and pale. Sara blinked, bile rising in her throat. She couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

‘You may leave me, girl.’

The Queen stood before her, unmoving, a statue given breath. The lamplight flickered, and shadows crawled over the arches. The jars gleamed. Then Sara turned and fled back the way she had come, stomach knotted with terror and revulsion, and slammed the cradle door behind her.