Chapter Eight - The Visitors

‘We must be realistic, M’lord.’

Sara stopped in her tracks, snatching a half-breath. Then she pressed her back against the cool stone of the wall and shifted slowly towards the door, craning her ears.

‘Do not presume to tell me my business, Halin.’

It was her father’s voice, and there was venom in it. There was a moment of quiet beyond the doorway, then a soft sigh.

‘I did not mean to overstep, My Lord. I only worry for the trouble we left behind us. If the King will not... surely we must return soo…’

Another silence. Sara waited, holding her breath. It was warm and dark in the corridor, even with the giant-height ceilings, flush with the still warmth of nearby fires, and the stone walls were thick with the twisting patterns of weavings. It had been four days since their audience with the King, four days locked away in the lodgings the Fox had found for them. Four days since she had prickled under the shifting starscape of the nightglass ceiling, the King’s eyes digging at her skin. Four more days of more waiting, as if she had not waited enough. Each day, her father had gone in search of the King’s ear, and each day, he had returned with dark eyes, silence, and a belly ready for drink. Neither had Sara heard any summons from her new mistress, the Queen, and, more confusingly still, there had been no sign of Dana whatsoever. Surely her duties for the Queen could not keep her from her family forever?

‘I am well aware of our situation.’ Her father’s voice again, wearier than it had been. ‘The King will listen. He must listen. We are bound together, he and I.’

Another uncomfortable silence. Sara became very aware of the sound of her own breath, and she pressed her back even closer to the wall, willing herself to silence.

‘That will be all, Halin. Have them send in dinner.’

‘Of course, My Lord.’

Footsteps on stone, heading away from Sara’s hiding place in the corridor. She relaxed away from the wall, taking a breath, then stepped out through the amber light of the doorway into the room beyond, smiling.

The room she entered was broad and bright, edged on one side with an open facade of tall, pillared arches that overlooked a pristine walled garden of emerald grass, bubbling water and pale stone. It was evening, and braziers lined the open space between the pillars, throwing a flickering gleam of amber light over the fine fittings of the room; a polished nightwood table, a tall drinks’ stand with ornate jugs, walls lined with mosaic vistas in marble and jet and silver. The apartments the Fox had found for them were certainly comfortable. The solid, seamless vastness of the City of the Moon was here filled with more modern comforts, made small by the tallness of the ceilings, the thickness of the walls. There was a kind of fine craft to the furnishings that made Sara want to sit and look at each for hours. To spend her days examining the razor thread of the weavings, watching sun-gleams over the glistening order of the gardens. Even the little waterways that raced through the grass and trees were a marvel; a contrivance of the Forgers, who had found a way to pump water up through a system of metal pipes in the rock of the Heartspire itself. In her own chamber, she need only turn a tap to summon steaming water to her basin, and her baths had been long and frequent. All of it was almost enough to make her forget the Black Guard outside the entrance to their quarters, or the twitching fingers of her father’s men as they patrolled the gardens. Almost enough to make her forget the King’s dark eyes, staring down at her with that strange grey sword in his careless hands, broad shoulders framed by the shifting shadow of the Night Throne.

Her father was standing beside the drinks’ stand, a small glass of deep red liquid in his hand, looking out at the lengthening shadows of the gardens. Sara had never seen a glass mug before she arrived in the capital. In the Westmere, they were pewter, or wood, or even stone, but here in Uldoroth, the Shapers were without match.

‘Father.’

He turned at the sound of her voice, frowning. His impatience was growing, and the worry was gnawing at the lines of his face like wind over dune sand. He caught himself, giving her a thin smile.

‘Sara.’

‘You sent for me?’

‘Ah… Yes. Dinner will be in shortly, I could use some company.’ He took a sip from his glass, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Or have all those baths made you forget your family?’

‘Of course not, father.’

‘Come, sit.’

There were two chairs of matching dark wood beside the broad table, and Sara lowered herself into one. Her father slumped wearily into the other, setting his glass down, and rubbed at his eyes. The view into the gardens was a pleasant one, true, but Sara did not like the table. It was far too large for only two chairs, and the polished stretch of nightwood stretched out between them like a gleaming shadow. She’d take an axe to it herself, she thought, if the nightwood wouldn’t break it. She looked at her father.

‘You are tired.’

He glanced up at her, then took another swig of his cup, sighing.

‘Yes.’ he snorted. His pale skin had taken on a pallid tone since their arrival in the capital, and the dark bags under his eyes had lengthened. She might have been imagining it, but he looked as though he had lost weight. She even fancied she could see the line of his jaw under the doughy weight of his cheeks.

‘Will it be much longer?’

‘If the King wills it.’

Sara hesitated. ‘I thought the King was our ally.’

Her father paused, looking up at her with a frown. Then he sighed again, sweeping back his thin hair with one hand. ‘He was, once. Maybe he still is. But the King has many friends, and I do not presume to know his mind anymore. Much has changed, since last I was here. Or maybe nothing at all.’

He paused, looking away past the braziers. There, in the centre of the garden, was a statue of white marble, gleaming orange by the ember-light. A man in armour, tall as a horse, reaching a great sword towards the darkness of the sky.

‘When we were in the King’s hall.’ her father began thoughtfully, staring at it. ‘You saw the sword?’

The King sat in the Night Throne, staring back at her with dark eyes, turning a grey sword in his pale hands like a shadow.

‘Yes, father.’

‘You know what it is?’

She hesitated. ‘No.’

‘But you have heard of it.’ he told her, still staring at the statue. ‘Windtamer. Aren’t many of the Chosen swords left, now, and the secrets of how to shape Temur’s Steel are long gone.’

Sara frowned, remembering the dull grey of the metal, the plain lines of the hilt. Moonsilver swords were legends. Relics. Left over from the old times. From the first Chosen. She’d never paid such things much mind, but their closeness was hard to ignore, even for her.

‘King Talor’s sword.’ she said quietly.

‘Once.’ her father told her, a thin smile on his lips. ‘His blood held that blade for centuries. Longer. Passed hand to hand, father to son, daughter, even. Always theirs.’ He looked at her, narrow eyes suddenly hungry. ‘Till Dekar took it. Chosen Blood. That’s what they wanted us to think. That’s what kept Talor and his folk on the Night Throne all those years. But it was a lie. Power isn’t in a man’s blood. It belongs to the strong. To those who take it.’

He took another swig of his wine, swallowing, and smiled.

‘Don’t you worry, Sara. The Weasel of Westmere isn’t done, yet. Not by half.’ he half-sneered, staring at the wine in his glass as it swilled against the edges. ‘I won’t be sent back to the Westmere like some discarded lover. You can be sure of that.’

Sara said nothing, looking out into the garden, feeling his eyes prickling at her skin. The braziers murmured beside them, and beyond, the light trickling of water spilled over smooth, moonlit stone. Winter may have been coming beyond the giant pillars, but the flickering flame kept it from them, and the warmth bled away some of her unease. They sat in silence for a time, and her father sipped from his wine, staring into the darkened garden. They were quiet, still, when the Keepers arrived with their food, fussing invisibly around them. The nightwood table was soon filled with platters, and Sara had a modest mound of delicacies piled on a plate before her. Freshwater cod baked in lemon and herbs on a bed of chopped lettuce, onion sausages fried in oil, fresh bread with soft butter and wine to wash it down in a little glass of her own. She picked at the food politely, taking her time. In the garden, one of her father’s men was making the rounds, marching through the grass with the faint glimmer of steel. Her father made little attempt at his own plate. One of the Keepers had refilled his wineglass. The silence grew as they ate, heavy with the weight of her waiting, and soon Sara could bear it no longer.

‘Have you heard from…?’

‘The Queen will call on you when she is ready, Sara.’ her father interrupted her, not looking up from his cup.

‘I… I meant from Dana.’

Her father frowned, glancing at her. Then he took another swig, looking back towards the flickering veil of amber light beside them, and did not reply. They sat in silence whilst Sara finished what remained of her food. He barely looked up when she bid him good night, mumbling a response through his goblet with purpling lips. She looked back from the doorway, back into the vast emptiness of the garden room behind, and found him where she had left him, dwarfed by the ancient, immovable walls, as she slipped quietly away towards her bed.

*

The next day was a day for visitors.

Two visitors, to be precise. Neither came expected, but only one was unwelcome.

Sara woke late; she had made a habit of doing so, since they had arrived in the keep. After the first day, she had explored every corner of their luxuriously appointed lodgings; even the delicate marble busts in the main hall had lost her attention entirely, and sleep was a welcome respite from the waiting. But wake she always did, and her empty toil would resume. That morning, one of the maids had opened a shutter in her room overlooking the garden, and soft morning light was spilling through the gently shifting moats of fine dust in the air. She slipped her feet down beside her broad bed, and sighed with pleasure as her toes found the soft throes of the rug. She could feel heat rising through the fur, and she smiled, closing her eyes for a moment. Another, not unpleasant, effect of the Forgers’ pipes.

She rose slowly, stretching her lithe body, feeling the last numbness of sleep fading. Then she pulled her nightgown over her head and went naked over to the sunken basin behind its little semi-circle of filmy curtain beside the windows. A twist of a brass tap, a liberal pour of scented oil, and the steaming water began to lap against the edges of the basin, filling the air with the scent of rose-petals. Sara sat back to wait. She watched the garden through her window, the soft shadows playing over the grass, hemmed in by walls tall as trees. She closed her eyes and breathed the rare, clean air of the Heartspire, so far from the smoke and stench of the city below. And she said her prayers, as she was ought, naming each of the Gods in turn (save one, of course), speaking the words her mother had taught her. None of them answered, but that hardly mattered, and she knew they were listening all the same.

She took her time bathing. There was no hurry. Her father would already have departed on his daily quest for a private audience with the King, and her days had had no other interruptions, now that she had instructed the maids not to disturb her. No matter the fashion in the capital, she preferred to tend to her own needs. It idled away some of the endless day, when waiting became hardest to bear. By the time she finally rose from the rose-petal water, her fingertips were pruned and pale. She turned a dial beside the taps, then watched, ringing her raven hair, as the water began to sink again through the holes that appeared in the bottom of the basin, swirling away like so much pink wine.

Next, she rose and went over the ornate vanity set against one wall, and stood for a time eyeing the nakedness of her reflection in the brass. Then she sat down in front of the distorted mirror and began to plait her hair, drawing from a little open-topped pot of jetstone pins on the vanity’s polished table. She worked slowly, carefully, and her dark hair began to take shape around the base of her head, falling in a broad, silken rope over the pale skin at the small of her back. That done, she dabbed some perfume at her neck and collarbone, inhaling it with a smile. Rosewater, kilm petals, daisy dust. Her favourite.

Despite her protestations, her father had not allowed her to bring all of her clothes with her to the capital, and the wardrobe beside her bed seemed to her to be almost empty, though she still managed to select a passable dress in a fetching emerald green, its shoulders knotted with silver. Green. To match her eyes, mother would have said. Next she went back over to the vanity, and sifted idly through the little chest of fineries beside it. She drew out a matching pair of silver bracelets, wrought like intricate metal vines, then hung a silver pendant around the bare skin of her neck, settling the amberglass stone over the centre of her chest. She stood there for a time, fingers brushing the stone, eyeing the glint of it in the blurring face of the looking brass, and smiling softly to herself at the sight of it.

A quick knock at her door drew the maid she had inherited with her lodgings out of hiding, and a short while later she broke her fast beside the open windows, looking out over the garden from a little table of dark wood. Toast with rosemary butter, runny boiled eggs and diced potato fried in salt. There was some cordial to wash it down with, and Sara savoured the sweet taste of it against her tongue as she watched the trickling waterways of the walled garden below, the soft shimmer of the silver-barked trees shifting in the breeze. The day was bright, and the air spilling through the window was not so cold as it had been, the day before. She sighed.

‘M’lady?’

She blinked. Her plate was empty, and there was a shadow in the doorway behind her. She turned to find one of Halin’s men looking back at her with a polite smile. He was young, with a light tousling of blonde hair at his brow, an unscratched pommel at his waist.

‘I am sorry to bother you, M’lady.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ she told the guardsman cheerily. ‘Sorin, isn’t it? I was just finishing. What is the time?’

‘An hour before midday, M’lady.’ he told her, then hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘You have a visitor.’

Sara felt a little thrill. ‘Who?’

‘Lord Royce, M’lady.’

She frowned.

‘The Fox?’

‘As… As he is known, M’lady.’

‘Where is my father?’

‘The King’s Hall, M’lady. We do not expect him back for some hours, yet.’

Sara’s frown deepened. As the Keeper of the Hall, Lord Royce would have known of her father’s absence. She stood up, smoothing her dress.

‘Where is he?’

‘The main hall, M’lady.’

‘Good. I will receive him in the garden room.’

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‘Of course, M’lady.’

She waited for a few minutes after he had gone, looking out over the garden. Then he checked her reflection in the vanity again, tweaking her plaited hair, smoothing the creases of her emerald dress, making certain the image had not slipped, and went out to meet her unexpected guest. The maidservant, a young blonde girl with an endless smile and dimpled cheeks, fell into step behind her as she swept down the stairs, deftly invisible in the way that practised servants often are. Sara lifted the hem of her dress as she descended the stairs, adopting the easy grace she had been taught. By the time they reached the door to the garden room, flanked by a pair of her father’s men in dark leathers, there was a small, polite smile on her delicate lips.

‘My Lord Royce.’ she purred as she entered.

The Fox was stood waiting for her in one of the tall archways that opened towards the garden. He turned calmly at the sound of her voice, sharp eyes picking out hers. His blue doublet was vibrant enough to almost be purple, fitted close around his narrow shoulders, and the dark skin of his head was smooth as wax. She was taken again by the ready movement of his hunter’s eyes, keen as a hawks’.

‘My Lady Westmere.’ he replied, bending slightly at the waist into a graceful bow. She smiled, curtsying delicately, and approached him, circling the nightwood table with its two solitary chairs. She offered him her hand, and he took it, pressing his smiling lips against the back of her palm. Behind them, the handmaid had settled into an unobtrusive niche beside the door, eyes lowered politely. One of her father’s guard was standing watch nearby, a hand on the scratched hilt of his sword.

‘How are you finding the Capital, M’lady?’ the Fox asked, releasing her hand.

She favoured him with a sunny smile.

‘It is very beautiful. You were most kind with your choice of our lodgings.’

‘On the contrary, M’lady, it is our City that is favoured by your presence.’ he said, smiling a narrow smile. ‘Quite selfish of your father, to keep you to himself for so long.’

Sara stretched a smile over her lips, dipping her head politely. She had known praise all her life, but there was a cold abstraction to his voice that unsettled her.

‘Unfortunately, my father is not here, M’lord. He has business with the King, but if you return this evening you are sure to…’

‘Ah, but you mistake my intention, M’lady.’ the Fox told her apologetically in his deep, faintly lilted voice. ‘It is you I came to visit.’

Sara hesitated, hiding her discomfort. Their eyes had not left each other in some time, and the sharpness of his gaze was unnerving. ‘How might I be of assistance, M’Lord?’

‘I thought we might have a conversation.’ he lowered his voice ever so slightly, and his words grew soft as silk. ‘And that I might offer some advice.’

‘Advice, M’lord?’ In the garden, water rippled and murmured over stone.

‘Might we walk for a moment, M’lady?’ he asked, offering her his arm. ‘The gardens are quite lovely, at this time of year.’

Sara hesitated, but her curiosity was piqued now, and propriety was overruled. She lay a hand on his arm, and signalled her father’s man to stay in his place. The Fox smiled reassuringly as they stepped down out of the arches onto the garden path, and pale gravel crunched beneath their feet.

‘What do you make of them?’

She looked up at him as they walked, and realised he was scarcely taller than she was. ‘Of what, M’lord?’

‘The gardens. Quite the marvel, are they not?’

‘They are very beautiful, M’lord.’

He pointed to a tree as they passed, its dramatically twisted trunk barked in silver, slender leaves like emerald spears on its swaying branches. ‘That is a Quin, from great wood of the High Places. Few can survive outside the forests of the south, but here they grow as easily as grass. And that-’ he pointed to the pale statue beside the path, the ancient marble king with his silver sword scratching at the sky. ‘-have you ever seen such detail in marble?’

‘Only here, M’lord. The Westmere has no such treasures.’

‘Please, call me Royce.’

She glanced at him again, smiling softly. ‘As you will, Lord Royce.’

He smiled at that, teeth gleaming, and looked back into the gardens.

‘The City of the Moon is a place full of wonders. The Shapers, Forgers, Keepers, Scholars, working towards a common goal. The people make a place, M’lady, and they have made it well.’

‘But they did not make this place, did they?’

He paused, then flashed her another smile. ‘Very sharp, M’lady. In this city, it depends who you know, and what questions you ask. Perhaps, if you ask the right ones, you might hear it said that the moonsilver is what gives the soil its lustre, not the Shapers’ water pumps, if they even claim them to be theirs, either. Or perhaps that the finest works of stone were here long before the Forgers began their work.’

‘Moonsilver.’ Sara murmured. ‘Like the King’s sword?’

‘Talor’s sword… Dekar’s sword.’ the Fox replied, stroking the pointed hair at his chin. ‘You can count the blades like that left on one hand. Only the oldest of bloodlines can lay claim to one. Quite the prize, our young Lord Dekar took from his predecessor.’

‘Inherited.’ Sara corrected him.

‘Just so, M’lady.’

They moved slowly into the shade of the trees. Besides the grand, tall Quin, there were birch, acer, rose bushes thick as thickets, even a low willow draped over a silver pool of water. Pale stone and immaculate grass ran through it all, lending a uniform shape to the carefully cultivated curves of greenery. Sara watched it passing around her, frowning softly. Even here, the ancient smoothness of the enormous walls seemed to leach some of the colour from the air, lending even the greenest grass a grey edge. Overhead, the dark, smooth shadow of an old stormtower poked over the tops of the pale roofs, gleaming darkly. The Fox did not speak for a time, apparently content to walk in silence, and the gardens drew past around them, murmuring softly of shifting branches and running water.

‘How goes your father’s business with the King?’

‘I… my father does not speak of such things with me, Lord Royce.’

He watched her closely for a moment, then smiled. ‘Of course, M’lady. Though I do not envy his task. The King has grown suspicious with age. He sees shadows round every corner, and often mistakes old friends for new ones. Sparing a few dozen men from Uldoroth to stomp out Black Hand in the Westmere… What reason could he have to refuse such a simple request?’

Sara almost frowned. Somehow she was not surprised that the Fox knew her father’s purpose in the Capital. She thought of the Black Guard posted outside the door of their apartments, dark armour glistening… and frowned, shaking her head softly.

‘He will come around. My father was his closest ally, in the rebellion. Our house barely had a copper to rub together. Now my father rules one of the richest lands in Valia.’ she paused, smiling. ‘King Dekar remembers his friends.’

‘Ah, yes, the Rebellion of Tears.’ The Fox smiled wistfully. ‘Though there are few in the City of the Moon who would dare to call it that. I am sure you are right, M’lady. Your father did the King great service, when he took the throne from Talor.’

‘From the Red King.’

‘Last of the Old Blood, last of a line of Kings all the way back to the Darkness, ruler of the Old Kingdom and the New, Valia, The North and the High Places united beneath the Night Throne for thousands of years. Succeeded by his closest advisor, an upstart from the Greenfangs. Amazing what can be accomplished, with the right friends.’

‘Talor was cursed.’ Sara said with a frown, meeting his sharp eyes.

‘Cursed, indeed.’ the Fox replied, as though he hadn’t heard her protest. ‘Vice, famine, pestilence; they soon add up to tyranny.’

‘He kept with the Greycloaks.’ Sara insisted. ‘The Makers had turned on him. And it was the Northmen that rose up, not Dekar. The beast Aerolf that slew him. But Dekar stopped them, and cleared the rot Talor left behind.’

‘Just so, M’lady.’ the Fox agreed, touching the pointed tuft of dark hair at his chin again. ‘How quickly he cleaned the wound, too. Not a Greycloak to be seen, inside the Rings, every stormtower empty for a generation. Longer.’

Then he smiled, and the shadow over his smooth face vanished.

‘But today is not a day for such talk. The Rebellion was a dark time, for those that remember it.’

‘You said you brought some advice for me, my Lord.’ Sara prompted him. She had known the stories of mad King Talor’s fall since she was old enough to listen; all the bards in the Westmere would sing such songs for her father’s hall during feasts. But there was an edge to the Fox’s tone she did not like, and his riddling was beginning to test her patience.

‘I did, M’Lady.’ The dark-skinned nobleman continued walking, eyes ahead, and though the soft smile on his lips remained, his words fell to a murmur. ‘You are new to Uldoroth. It is a place of great beauty, but there is danger here, and its workings are more complicated than any of the Forgers’ gearwork. There is always someone watching, for the right coin. Take these apartments, for instance.’

‘The loyalty of my father’s men is not in question, Lord Royce.’ she replied, glancing at the silent guards watching from the edge of the garden.

‘Nor should it be, M’Lady.’ the Fox told her, still watching the path ahead. ‘But the cook? The hall-sweeps? Your pretty little handmaiden?’

Sara hesitated, looking towards the pale walls around them. The weight of a dozen invisible eyes prickled at her flesh from the darkened windows, and she almost shivered.

‘You seem very knowledgeable on the subject, my Lord Royce.’

He chuckled quietly, looking back at her. ‘The King is not the only one with eyes in this city, M’Lady. I told you, when we first met, that I was fond of stories. Every person has one, and I am a collector, of sorts.’

‘What does the King care what we do here?’ she asked, frowning, finding herself very uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

‘The King, like me, knows the value of stories, though perhaps he would not see it that way.’ the Fox replied, looking back to the path. ‘Perhaps he would like to know how much wine Lord Westmere takes of an evening, or how well he sleeps between their talks. Perhaps he is more interested in the Lord’s lovely daughter…’

‘Are you getting to a point, my Lord?’ Sara asked bluntly. The garden rustled around them, and one of the silver Quin trees groaned softly as it shifted in the breeze. The Fox stopped walking, and she found that they were standing once more before the arched facade of the Garden Room. Inside, her father’s guard stood waiting, watching them carefully. Beside the door, her handmaiden stood quietly in her little niche, just where they had left her.

‘My advice, is this, M’lady.’ the Fox told her, and his teeth flashed from dark lips as he smiled. ‘This is a city ruled by stories. Be careful to keep to your own, or you might be swallowed by another’s.’

‘I am too old for riddles, Lord Royce.’ Her feeling of discomfort had not left her, and she was suddenly impatient to be inside, away from open space and phantom eyes of the garden.

‘You must allow me my little indulgences, M’lady.’ he replied, still smiling. ‘As I say, there is always someone watching. And doves live far shorter lives than foxes. I know what it is like, to be an outsider, here.’

Sara frowned.

‘How long is it, since you came to the capital, My Lord? Twenty years? Longer?’

‘Tell me, Lady Sara. How many men like me have you met, since you arrived?’ He smiled at her, running a hand over the gleaming dark skin of his head. ‘A man of colour is always an outsider here, no matter how long he lingers.’

‘M’Lady!’

Another of her father’s guards had appeared at the doorway, standing to attention. Sara reluctantly looked away from Lord Royce, frowning.

‘Yes?’

‘You have another guest, M’lady.’

‘Who?’

‘It… It is your sister, M’lady.’

Sara’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart went with it. Any thought of the Fox’s warning vanished. Dana!

‘Show her in, then!’

‘Right away, M’lady.’ The guard turned on his heel and disappeared back through the door, boots clicking on the stone floor.

‘I think it is best I took my leave, M’lady.’ Lord Royce said beside her. ‘I would not intrude on a family reunion.’

Sara inclined her head politely, more than willing not to object, and they climbed together up the short stair through the arches. They had barely reached the final step when Dana appeared through the doorway, and Sara froze.

In the three years since she had last seen her sister, Dana had changed very little. Her hips were a little wider, her chest a touch thicker, and the roundness of her body pressed against the lines of her dark dress more than she remembered. Her hair, caught behind her head in a simple knot by a small silver ribbon, was dark, though not quite as dark as Sara’s, and without some of its silken lustre. Her pale skin was just a little less even, the lines of her face broader and less delicate. She caught her sister’s gaze with the same dull green eyes Sara remembered, unsmiling.

‘Dana!’ Sara exclaimed, grinning at her.

‘Lady Westmere.’ Dana said quietly. There was a sudden stillness to the air as she spoke, heavy with empty release. ‘Not in Uldoroth a week, and the Fox has his claws in you, already, I see.’

Sara opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. She frowned.

‘I was just taking my leave, Lady Dana.’ Lord Royce said politely, showing no sign of offence. He dipped his smooth head to Dana apologetically. ‘Please, forgive the intrusion.’

‘There is nothing to forgive.’ Sara told him, taking her hand off his arm. ‘Thank you for your visit, Lord Royce, and for your counsel.’

The Fox met her eye and smiled, sharp eyes flashing. Then he bowed gracefully and left, colourful doublet vanishing into the shadows of the corridor. Dana watched him go, frowning softly.

‘Come, embrace me, sister!’ Sara said once he was gone, hurrying around the table, wrapping Dana in both arms. Her sister didn’t resist her embrace, but her arms didn’t move from her side.

‘You’ve grown!’ Sara sighed into her shoulder.

It was true. Dana was now a few inches taller than her, and her chin dug uncomfortably into Sara’s head as she held her. Sara frowned, stepping back, and took Dana by the hands.

‘What is wrong, sister?’ she asked softly.

‘Nothing.’ Dana replied, pulling back her hands and turning away towards the table. ‘How was your journey?’

Sara hesitated, a little lump in her throat. Then she swallowed it, smiling.

‘I thought it would never end.’ she said cheerily. Dana had stopped several feet away, resting a hand on one of the chairs. Sara felt the sudden distance between them with the keenness of a blade, but did not try to close it. ‘I swear I’d rather be on horseback, the way that carriage bounces.’

Dana said nothing for a moment, and silence filled in the air like heavy wax.

‘How is mother?’

Sara hesitated.

‘The same.’

Dana did not reply. Outside, the shifting murmur of the gardens rose and fell with the breeze, but, try as it might, the sound found little purchase in the leaden quiet beyond the arches. The size of the room stretched out the space between them, filling it with the weight of ancient stone. Sara frowned, disoriented by the unexpected frostiness of their reunion. Something wasn’t right.

‘Father is well, too, though he wears his worry a little more around the waist than he used to.’ she went on, looking for the right words, but Dana still didn’t look up. The three years that had passed between them felt suddenly very long indeed.

‘You look the same.’ she said quietly.

‘You… you are a woman, now.’ Dana replied without turning.

‘About time.’ Sara tried to smile. ‘I wanted to come sooner, but father said I must wait. I was so jealous of you, here with the Queen, and all… this!’ She waved a hand towards the meticulous finery of the gardens.

Dana snorted. ‘Jealous? You?’ She drifted slowly around the table, until the broad, empty surface of the polished nightwood was between them. Her eyes were in shadow, lidded, and Sara saw for the first time that there were dark circles under them.

‘Of course I was! How could I not be?’

‘Fancy that, Lady Sara, the Rose of Westmere,’ Dana said darkly, and her eyes flashed. ‘Jealous of me, out of sight so far from home.’

‘Please, sister, do not speak like this.’ Sara told her, leaning over the table towards her. ‘What is wrong?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Dana replied, looking away.

Sara smiled, forcing herself not to frown. She had been unsettled by Lord Royce’s words, but the strangeness of her sister had left her skin tingling with an anxious lightness. She swallowed. There was an unfamiliar coldness to Dana’s tone, and the subtle changes in her appearance seemed suddenly more profoundly different than she could explain. She bit her lip, staring at her feet.

‘You should be careful, with him, you know.’

‘Who?’

‘Lord Royce. He has earned his name. He’d cut his own mother’s throat, if it gained him another stair to the throne.’

‘Does everyone in this city keep so many secrets?’ Sara replied darkly, glancing away into the garden. ‘At least he shows his face.’

‘And which face is that?’ Dana sighed.

‘You would have me mistrust him because he is a foreigner?’

‘It is not the colour of his skin that makes a man, sister, but the content of his mind.’ Dana told her, frowning. ‘You pretty fool. Whatever he told you, he has his reasons. Believe me. He can’t be trusted.’

‘Is the Keeper of the King’s Hall not welcome to visit his guests?’

‘Ah yes, another of the King’s little jokes.’ Dana smiled thinly. ‘How better to keep an eye on the Fox than to have him declared a glorified doorman?’

Sara opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again, thinking of the Fox’s words. ‘The King has many eyes of his own, I hear.’

Dana looked at her strangely for a moment, frowning, then away again. ‘The Queen has not called on you.’

It was not a question, but Sara shook her head all the same.

‘She will, soon. The Queen…’ she trailed off, looking towards the garden.

‘Is your mistress, and mine too, soon enough.’ Sara finished for her. ‘A great honour.’

Dana opened her mouth again, then closed it, lowering her eyes. ‘I must go. I have been away too long already.’

‘So soon?’ Sara protested, edging around the table. ‘We have so much to speak of! Three years, Dana! Three years of feasts and Godsdays and… You must stay for dinner, father would…’

‘There will be time for that.’ Dana interrupted, not looking up. ‘Later.’

Sara hesitated, then lowered her eyes again, frowning.

‘Later, then.’

Dana dipped her head, heading for the door. As she came around the side of the table, Sara snatched one of her sister’s hands, folding it in hers, and looked at her sister’s broad face, the new lines beneath her eyes, struggling to take it all in. Three years.

‘I missed you, Dana.’ Sara said softly, trying to meet her sister’s eyes.

Dana shifted uncomfortably, then took a breath, looking at her. ‘I… It is good to see you, Sara.’

Then she pulled her hand away and left quickly through the darkened doorway, footsteps patting softly against the stone. When she was gone, Sara’s poise vanished, and she slumped against the table, spent. Her heart was racing in her chest, and her skin prickled under a phantom chill. She waited there for a time, listening to the sounds of the garden, watched by a dozen eyes from invisible shadows, then drifted listlessly back to her chambers and closed the door behind her.

*

‘The Queen sent word today.’

Sara blinked, looking up from her untouched food, and found her father looking back at her over the rim of his goblet.

‘You are to attend her tomorrow.’

It was the first time he had spoken since they had sat for dinner, picking at his food with lazy indifference, and the bluntness of his words hit Sara like a hammer. Tomorrow! So soon, but… finally! After all... Yes, she had waited long enough.

‘I… It will be an honour, father.’ she replied brokenly, smiling. She had said nothing of her visitors that day, and for a moment the unease of their appearances faded into the thrill of her new beginning, bright and golden and true.

‘And I will leave for the Westmere at daybreak.’ her father went on, looking back at his glass. Sara’s gut floated up against her heart, whispering.

‘I don’t understand, why would…’ she started, but he held up a hand to silence her.

‘The King has refused my request. It is time I returned… to deal with the heretics myself.’

Sara let her eyes fall back to her plate. The Fox’s question rang in her ears. Why would the King not help him? Brothers killing his own subjects. People were sure to talk. Silence filled the garden room again, and the flickering light of the braziers whispered and gleamed, amber and restless.

‘How long will it keep you?’ she asked after a time, her voice barely a murmur. ‘The business with the Brothers?’

Her father did not look up from his plate. ‘A month, maybe two, once I am home. They are flesh and bone, under those masks. Bleed like any other beast.’

‘When it’s done… you will visit?’

He looked up, then, meeting her gaze, frowning.

‘Of course I will visit…’

‘Like you visited Dana?’

His face reddened, and his brows knitted into a sudden frown. ‘That is…’ he stopped himself, then slammed his hand down on the table, chin wobbling, and glared at her. The careful array of plates on the nightwood surface shook, and a jug of wine toppled sideways with a crash, showering dark liquid over the pristine floor. Sara flinched, lowering her eyes.

‘It is not the daughter’s place to make demands of the father.’ her father growled at her, settling back into his seat. He took a long gulp from his glass goblet, and Sara saw that the dark wine had stained his lips a faint purple. The spilled wine was spreading across the pale floor beside the table, blotted crimson against the white stone. ‘Get some rest, girl. There will be no late rising, from now on.’

Sara hesitated, then pushed back her chair, getting delicately to her feet. She took one last look at her father, sitting indifferently in the mess of plates and spilt wine between walls tall as buildings, then hurried away into the dark of the corridor, fresh tears in her eyes, and her maidservant followed her obediently, soft as a shadow.