Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
The first known magician, Oberon, ruled beside his king with a steady, guiding hand. When the Sun shone through Oberon’s eyes, the king knew truth.
—THOMAS FEYDON, A HISTORY OF MAGIC IN ALVION
The day before the Final Breath, a light rain fell. The stone castle gleamed, adorned from every angle.
Roland and I entered Redhall through the gatehouse, loaded in carts and disguised as servants, our features constructed from scratch.
As I held both of our transformations at once, I felt that same sense of expansion as I had in the chapel, as if the lungs of my magic could take deeper, more luxurious breaths.
Once we were in the courtyard, Roland helped me down from the cart and nodded to the stairs leading to the kitchens.
This was our home. We knew the corridors like the lines on our palms.
We carried cartons into the hot, stifling kitchens, a din of cursing and red-faced cooks screaming for herbs and salt. They paid us no mind as long as our arms were full.
The stairs wound up to the second floor, to the storage rooms full of grain and wine, and the holding rooms where the servants waited to present the final celebratory feast for Cecily’s crowning.
The doors in this section of the palace were not Saturn-spelled, so servants could move in and out freely, as we did.
We looked plain. Common. Like life was hard and had kicked us harder. Roland kept frowning when courtiers passed by him without a nod or a “Good day, Your Grace.”
We carried jugs of wine into the storage room, then twisted the doorknob to the wardrobe closet next door. “Locked.”
A boundary shimmered here. I’d anticipated this, bent over our plans all night, drawing countermoves, alternate routes.
I became Edward Guildford, and when I pushed against it, the door clicked open.
All of the palace livery hung here, swords strung across the walls like trophies.
Roland threw me a jerkin and matching hose. I scrambled my features once again.
As I tugged on shoes, he kissed the top of my head, then set a feathered cap on his own.
We stole swords from the wall and slid them into the sheaths on our belts.
Through the halls, we walked at a clipped pace until we reached the gallery, where the other grooms and page boys were lined up, waiting for the king and queen to pass by to dine with the court. The real Edward Guildford stood far to our right, his head raised high.
The bells rang three times for the hour.
The king preferred to eat early. The first to walk through the gallery was Fulke Roet and his household.
His blue-haired magician, Jasper, and the apprentice Cosmo, then Fulke’s secretary.
I trained my eyes on Fulke’s wan, pinched face and wondered if he knew he was already dead.
The queen and her ladies came next. The newly crowned Cecily was no longer beaming. She clasped her belly as she walked, her face pale and withdrawn. Joan Rockford and Agnes Bryer stood at her side, and forming the last point in the diamond, carrying the squirming spaniel, was Kitty Seton.
Then the Guildfords and their entire household strutted through the gallery. “You better hand that to me,” Charles reprimanded, slapping a young boy on his ear, then pushing him forward. Roland clenched his fist as he passed.
Miranda did not dare glance at us. Her gaze was downcast, and her gown was a rich burgundy, the same shade as the garnets that hung from her ears. Now, the Guildfords had her on display.
King Richard hobbled forward on his cane.
He looked frail, a man clinging to the cliff of life.
He no longer had Roland to soften his looks, his teeth black and rotted.
The gentlemen of his privy chamber surrounded him: Tom Guildford, Wyatt Francis, and the other young, rich men of the court he gathered around himself.
A few men not so young, but still rich. Then Oliver, rolling a coin over his knuckles.
We marched behind the king, filtering into a room called the Great Watching Chamber, where the spillover, the lesser members of the household, sat, and then into the great hall.
The fireplaces and candelabras all blazed, the light catching every gilded thread in the king’s coat.
The entire court held their goblets up, waiting for him to settle in his seat.
He gripped the edge of the table, struggling into his chair.
“Thank you all, my dearest friends, for these marvelous weeks of celebration. This—” His voice gave out.
“This marvelous welcome for our new queen. Now we are all together, and I am glad for it. The bad times are over. We enter a new golden age. I am in full health, I have a young wife, and we will have an heir for Alvion.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Charles Guildford, tipping his cup from where he sat at the high table, in a position of honor beside his daughter. The tables were arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, with Miranda seated diagonally from her master. She clapped halfheartedly, lips curled in a faint smile.
Roland and I peeled off from the wall and bowed to the courtiers, pouring wine into their cups and presenting trays of fruit for them to pick at.
“What is your name?” asked the king, glancing at Roland, who was mid-pour over his shoulder. Roland shuddered at the rank smell of his breath.
I’d disguised him as a handsome, clean-shaven youth with mischievous eyes and a wry grin. He offered the king a common name. Thomas.
“Thomas,” the king said slowly, as if swirling it around. “Are you new to court, Thomas?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He lowered his eyes.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, yes.”
I wondered if this was a script the king recited, waiting to see if he would be surprised by an answer. “What do you like about it?” he asked, lifting a grape to his lips.
“How a man can rise from nothing and still be welcomed here, Your Majesty.”
The king was pleased with this answer. “Yes, yes, you know my man, my magician Prospero—”
He choked. Roland slapped his back. The past had swallowed him up again. Cecily glanced over, startled. “Prospero, he, he—he was a tanner’s son,” the king finished. The half-chewed grape lay on his plate.
“The beautiful women help,” Roland added, to alleviate the tension. He stole a quick glance at me, then returned his attention to the king.
I circled and circled the room with my carafe.
It was as if Roland had never ruled, as if Hal had never died, as if I had never lost so much.
The court laughed merrily. A tenor crooned a ballad about Mars and Venus magicians falling deeply in love as they served warring kings.
Wyatt Francis, swept up in furs, joined in.
Two of Cecily’s maids of honor danced together for Fulke’s pleasure.
He stacked candied fruit on his plate as he watched them.
Wine was tipped into throats. The king whispered to Cecily, and she giggled beneath her hand.
For how could they imagine that Roland and I were here, in made-up faces and stolen livery, refilling their wine?
The tenor’s song faded—a new one began. I nodded across the room, then swept forward to whisk a platter away from Fulke.
Miranda slowly stood and pushed back her chair, walking along the edge of the table, skimming the white tablecloth with her finger, until she reached the center where the maids danced. Fulke raised his eyebrows and slapped Tom on the shoulder.
To the court’s amazement, Miranda joined the dance, entwining her arms around the maids’ waists as they drew apart and then back together.
I poured wine over Fulke’s shoulder. “Perhaps your Mars is gentler than I imagined,” he said to Tom, snickering. “Guildford, what say you?”
“Don’t look at my back,” Tom said with a lewd grin. “You’ll find fresh scars.”
The maid I love is so very far
I long to grasp and call her mine
Though she wavers like a little star
To hold her would be to blanket her shine
Red her hair, of Mars so bright
Red the blush, I long to excite
Red my breath, with empty calls
Red the blood, the hind as it falls
The tenor’s final note rang with gorgeous clarity against the vaulted ceiling of the great hall.
The world stilled, as if it hung suspended, a body swinging from a noose.
My heart kicked and kicked. In the silence, the court glanced at each other and looked to Wyatt Francis, waiting for the music to pick up again. Miranda spun, lifting her hand above her head. The candlelight shone against the rings on her fingers.
She slashed down.
And a bolt of red magic split the king’s shoulder open.
Cecily screamed as Richard toppled from his chair. The screaming caught and raced along the tables, courtiers leaping from their seats. Steel scraped from scabbards.
Roland threw himself over King Richard’s body as guards erupted from their posts along the walls.
Charles Guildford had Miranda by her gown.
She glanced over at me, eyes flickering with panic, yet full of adrenaline, full of fire.
I transformed her into a mouse so she could race from the great hall, leaving only her clothes behind.
Charles stared in disbelief at the loose fabric in his hands, then flung it to the ground.
The guards, in total disarray, only knew the Guildford magician had attacked the king; they drew their swords and pointed them at anyone wearing a Guildford badge. Pressed into a corner, I stoked their panic.
Charles Guildford scrambled onto the banquet table to evade a guard’s thrust, kicking a silver platter into the other man’s chest. “I’m telling you: Find the Mars bitch! Where is she? Find her!”
Another guard had his arm wrapped around Tom Guildford’s neck. “Please,” Tom murmured. “I know nothing. I did nothing.”
The guard dragged his blade across Tom’s throat. “Shut up.”
Blood gurgled from his neck, and he collapsed in a heap.