Chapter XXXI The House of Blood
XXXI
The House of Blood
The mist-cloaked woods broke open at last. The black trees shuddered away.
The mist itself remained, but only in thin, diaphanous vapors, which draped over the fat gray towers of stone like tattered banners.
The castle was a distended thing, wider than it was tall, gorged with outbuildings and crumbly ramparts.
From the vast lime-green moat, moths rose in white clusters, like souls fleeing the underworld.
All seven noble houses of Drepane were alike in one respect: However they had endured, they had endured through some manner of apathy.
The House of Teeth had the advantage of its remote location, guarded by those jealous peaks.
Those houses that were not fortunate enough to be remote in location had to be remote in spirit.
This castle was not foreboding so much as it was, simply, indifferent.
Fat and self-concerned. It did not even have guards posted upon its battlements or parapets.
It knew, with an air of disdain, that even those who could brave these twisted woods would fall vainly against its stone walls or drown in its stagnant moat.
Upon looking at it, Agnes was not filled with fear. The castle seemed to impart upon her its own impassiveness. She felt more like a ghost than a body, watching with lidded eyes as the carriage clattered to a halt before the closed drawbridge.
Yet there had to be some surreptitious observer, for the moment the carriage stopped, the drawbridge began to lower.
It creaked and groaned and then thudded to the earth, kicking up the hard-packed dirt and splashing the green water of the moat all about.
A bullfrog leapt to safety, and more moths fluttered upward, blown like the petals of a flowering pear.
Liuprand opened the door to the carriage.
Already the Dolorous Guard had arranged itself, forming an aisle from the carriage door to the open drawbridge.
Liuprand offered his hand to help Agnes down, and then Waltrude, the golden cage in her arms. Each guard’s hand rested meaningfully on the pommel of his sword.
“Stay behind me,” Liuprand murmured. He dropped her hand.
At the loss of his touch, Agnes felt immediately bereft. She nodded.
He walked slowly down the path formed by the guards, not with hesitation, but with the leisurely deliberation of a prince; the Master of Blood would wait on him, not the other way around.
Agnes followed, unable to see very much with his large body in front of her.
She peered around Liuprand’s elbow. He, too, palmed the hilt of his sword.
Liuprand reached the end of the aisle and stopped. A heavy, languorous breeze picked up, thick with the vapors rising from the fetid water. Agnes’s skin prickled.
Then a voice rumbled out: “Your Highness.”
Still Agnes could not see to whom the voice belonged. It was a throaty voice, suggesting that it was conceived by aged lungs, but through it there was a subtle rippling of vitality.
In turn, Liuprand inclined his head. “Lord Fredegar.”
There was a brief moment of silence. The moth rustled in its cage. And then the voice answered, haltingly, “Let us not linger here in the dank air. Please come in, Your Highness.”
The Dolorous Guard preceded them, forming a gray phalanx around Liuprand, Agnes, and Waltrude.
Agnes could see, very faintly, through the gaps in the guards’ arms, that they were passing by a man wearing a dark-crimson doublet.
She saw his chest only, his silver belt.
And then they were through the barbican, into a courtyard, and soon after delivered into the great hall of the castle.
Only when they were inside did the Dolorous Guard part, and Agnes was finally treated with the sight of the man who had spoken.
He was a shockingly large man, nearly of a height to Liuprand.
He was as at least old as Nicephorus—likely older, his hair a neatly slicked-back silver—though surely not of an age with Adele-Blanche.
The vitality that had been apparent in his voice was apparent in his form, too, though less subtle.
Here was no Sluggard, no indolent lord well past his prime, contenting himself with only wine and feasting and women.
He was broad-shouldered, well muscled, as though his days in the tiltyard were not so far behind him.
And his face, though lined with years, was long and handsome.
There was a particular and unexpectedly vivacious gleam to his eyes, their color a soft hazel.
The man raised his arms, and then spoke ruefully. “My deepest apologies, Prince Liuprand. Had I known you were coming, I would have made arrangements for a welcome feast. As it is, I will have to see what my servants can put together.”
Immediately Agnes was bewildered. He had not known they were coming? She wondered if this was some kind of sly device by the king, but she could not puzzle out what it would achieve. He had seemed sincere in his declaration that she was to marry the Master of Blood.
Liuprand’s forehead wrinkled. “My father did not send a missive?”
“No, or at least, not one that arrived in time. But regardless, you are happily received by the House of Blood and its master.”
“Thank you, Lord Fredegar,” said Liuprand, though his voice was strained. “Then I suppose you do not know our purpose here, either?”
“Other than a friendly visit?” Lord Fredegar quirked one of his silver brows. “No, Your Highness, I am afraid not.”
Agnes drew a breath; she could not help it. She hoped it would not catch anyone’s attention, but Lord Fredegar heard and glanced over at her.
“Is this your lovely wife?” he asked Liuprand. “The princess Marozia?”
A muscle feathered in Liuprand’s jaw.
“No,” he said. “This is her cousin, the lady Agnes. Mistress of Teeth.”
“Ah,” said Fredegar. “The blood of Adele-Blanche as well, then. It is always a pleasure to host a beautiful woman in my halls, and an even greater pleasure to host one of such esteem. I am sorry for the recent loss of your grandmother.”
Agnes nodded slowly, and assumed what she hoped was a gracious expression.
The confusion she was well accustomed to ran across Fredegar’s face. He watched her for several moments, expectantly, eyes wide and head tilted. When still Agnes did not reply, he turned to Liuprand, directing to him the silent question.
“The lady Agnes does not speak,” Liuprand said tersely. And then he himself fell flatly silent.
The remoteness of his affect was beginning to greatly unsettle Agnes.
She had never seen Liuprand fail to show a prince’s eloquence when addressing any of his subjects, much less nobles and lords.
His dignity, perhaps his pride, seemed to have taken some blow, though she did not know by what means.
Perhaps he simply could not exorcise his anger toward his father.
Perhaps he feared, as Agnes did, some elaborate guile.
But Lord Fredegar did not seem affronted. He gave her a gentle smile and pried no further.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said, “but I do not wish to offend you due to ignorance. Pray tell, what is the purpose of your visit here?”
It was Liuprand who drew a breath then, and raised himself up to his full height.
“The matter at hand, Lord Fredegar, is your brazen defiance,” he said.
“Twice now you have rejected my father’s summons.
First at my wedding, and then again at the desecration of the Exarch, not a week ago.
You could not even be disposed to send a member of your household in your place.
The king wishes to know why you have spurned him so openly. ”
A long silence stretched over the great hall.
It gave Agnes the opportunity to look about the room.
It was far from the cold vault of Castle Crudele; the floor did not seem to lurch and swell with memories of the blood spilled there; the walls did not press in tightly, as if to remind its occupants of how Berengar had built them on the bed of such garish violence.
There were hunting tapestries and crimson velvet drapes, with vast, plush carpets under their feet.
The chair upon the dais was constructed of simple wood, not iron or stone, though it was carved lovingly, with intricate patterns on the back and along the armrests.
To her great surprise, Agnes sensed no coldness within this chamber, and not even very much apathy.
It felt warm and shockingly bright, for how little sun managed to seep through the gray mist and then through the arched windows.
The Master of Blood had not been alive to see the plague, nor Berengar’s conquest. And so perhaps he had never learned cruelty at the feet of Drepane’s first king.
Lord Fredegar blinked and blinked, as though to clear wetness from his eyes. He opened his mouth once, closed it, then opened it again, and at last he said:
“My deepest apologies, Your Highness. But I never received any summons from the king.”
Liuprand’s gaze flashed. Agnes felt her heart stutter. “Do you accuse my father of deception?”
“No, Your Highness. No.” Fredegar shook his head gravely. “I merely mean some miscommunication has occurred—through no fault of the king’s, I’m sure. The woods can be treacherous; I wonder if the messenger merely lost his way? Or perhaps…”
He trailed off, thoughtfulness clouding his stare.
“Two messengers, lost in as much time?” Liuprand accused. “I do not believe it.”
“I swear to you, there is no artifice at work within the House of Blood, my prince. This is some unfortunate accident of fate.”
“If you never received the missives, why did your house send a wedding gift?” Liuprand’s voice was ever sharper. “A single bottle of wine, left as a taunt. It came with a note in your hand.”