Chapter Nineteen #3
“Is it?” he said, smiling, but there was a shadow in it. “I’m sure you would love to correct their false impressions, but please restrain yourself, my dear. At least until we have spoken to the Pontiff.”
“Is he here yet?”
“I have not seen him.” Patrick scanned the room.
“I don’t understand these people,” I whispered. “They are all fighting each other, openly or behind closed doors—the Pontiff, the nobles, the king. Even you. And yet they all gather together for … what? Wine and dancing?”
“And cards, don’t forget the cards,” said Patrick lightly.
“How can you all … make small talk and act like nothing is happening?”
“My dear, that is just how the wealthy are. They are quite happy to stand in a room with their mortal enemies and glare at each other, so long as there are canapés.”
He steered me towards a long table and ladled punch into two glass cups with a silver spoon. “Drink.”
“What is it?”
“Just fruit, I promise.”
The punch was sweet and icy, and cooled the flush in my cheeks. I gulped it down. Baldbeak swooped down to snap at a miniature meat pie, enjoying how much attention he was attracting.
“It would be easier without you here,” I told him. “You’re making everyone stare.”
“You think he’s the only reason they’re staring?” said Patrick with some amusement.
“Why else would they be?”
He laughed a little, sipping his drink. “I can’t imagine.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Only a little, and in the nicest possible way, I assure you. You do look lovely, although I know you don’t like me pointing it out.”
“I told you to behave normally.”
“Would you like me to do some magic tricks?”
“Believe it or not, that might be a comfort.” I accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant.
The Hair rustled a little on my head, and I put up a warning hand to still it.
Baldbeak, ignoring my earlier instructions, flew to my shoulder and tugged on a strand.
His claws rasped against the velvet on my shoulder, and I hoped he wasn’t tearing it.
“You’re trembling.” Patrick took my elbow.
“It’s a lot of people.”
“You know, when I was a boy, I found affairs like this terrifying.”
“And what was your secret?”
“To dress exceptionally well.”
“Really? That’s it?”
“If it helps, you can picture them all in their smallclothes.”
My gaze drifted over the room and then back to Patrick, where it lingered. My cheeks flamed.
“That doesn’t help at all.” I downed my second glass.
“You are just as good as any one of them,” said Patrick with sudden seriousness. He held my chin in his hand and tilted it upward. “Better, in fact. Remember that.”
His eyes were very green all of a sudden. I swallowed and nodded.
A trumpet and the shout of a major-domo made a booming announcement.
“Ah!” Patrick said, turning away and sounding pleased. “The king. Come.”
He strode ahead to where a commotion had formed at one end of the room, and I had to trot to keep up with him.
The crowd bobbed and swayed in curtseys and bows, looking rather like ears of corn caught in a stiff wind, and a uniformed man ushered King Colin to a comfortable seat.
I had expected him to be wearing a crown, as he had during the Plaguenight parade, but the only thing marking him as the king was a slim golden circlet that almost disappeared into his pale hair.
He looked younger than I had thought, this close, and—despite the rouge that had been rubbed into his cheeks—sicker.
His skin had a waxy sheen, like a soft cheese, and the shadows under his eyes were dark as violet petals.
Even the lightweight circlet looked so heavy on his veined forehead that I imagined it might leave a bruise.
Patrick led me through the crowd by my arm. Once again, it parted for him like magic, and the king stirred himself a little at his approach.
“Patrick,” greeted the king. He had an oddly sweet smile, boyish and self-deprecating. He held out his limp hand to be kissed. “And who is this?”
“The woman I told you about, Your Majesty.”
“Ah. The little mage.” It was hard to sound condescending when you looked like one good sneeze would finish you off, but he managed it.
He extended his hand again, this time to me.
I stared at it for a moment before realizing I was meant to curtsey and kiss it.
Beneath my lips, the skin of his knuckles felt soft and painfully thin.
“I have heard so much about you,” said the king.
“Um … oh. Your Majesty,” I added hastily.
“Charming,” the king said to Patrick over my head. “And pray, what is this magnificent bird?”
Baldbeak preened.
“A raven, Your Majesty,” said Patrick.
“Really? How original.”
He gave me a sweet, distracted smile and turned away from me. He and Patrick whispered for a moment and then Patrick rejoined Baldbeak and me, smiling like a man who had the whole world in order.
Was that the king? I thought he would be bigger, said Baldbeak.
“What was all that about?” I hissed as we walked back through the assembly.
“I thought you might want to meet the king.”
“You thought no such thing.”
“These are uncertain times. Making powerful friends is never a bad idea.”
He was steering me towards a small reception room leading off the main hall.
“Is the Pontiff here? Where are we going?”
Patrick ushered me into the room, then closed the door behind us, turning the key in the lock. My stomach lurched at the sensation of being confined again, and I smiled a little uncertainly.
“What are you doing?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“Behind a locked door?”
“I needed to make sure we weren’t interrupted.”
Baldbeak was contentedly playing with a strand of the Hair and seemed unworried. I clasped my hands before me and stood very still, waiting. Patrick fidgeted with his cuffs a little and cleared his throat.
“The king will grant us access to the catacombs tomorrow,” he said quietly. “He has the authority to override the Temple’s restrictions.”
“Oh.” I tilted my head. “Well, that’s good.”
“It is.” He wasn’t meeting my eyes. All the assurance he’d had in the ballroom was gone, replaced by this strange tension and his suddenly monotone voice.
“It is a large favor,” he said. “Tensions between the crown and the Temple are high. But he has granted it.”
“And why would the king do that for you?” I ventured.
Patrick crossed to the window and gazed out, hands clasped behind his back. His voice was too even when he spoke, as if rehearsed. “Not for me. For you.”
“Why?”
He turned then, resting his hands on the back of an armchair and meeting my gaze fully. His hazel eyes were steady, but there was a flicker of something in them—some emotion I could not define.
“The king wants to secure the throne. And you could do that for him.”
“He already has the throne.”
“But it is precarious. The high lords are snapping at the palace gates. The Temple’s influence grows. The king is sick. He needs to cement his place.”
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Why did he keep such a white-knuckled grip on the chair back as he stood there? Why did he look at me with such a strange hunger?
“What are you talking about?”
He released the chair and took a step forward, so suddenly that I flinched.
“Your power isn’t just rare. It’s … unprecedented,” he said.
“Ban Morin wants it. The Temple will want it, if they haven’t caught wind of it already.
But the king—” He paused, jaw clenching.
“He’s our best chance at peace. If the power of the monarchy were secured, strengthened, the Temple and the high lords who clamor for the king’s place would have to subside. ”
“So you want me to help the king …?” I frowned, shaking my head. “I barely understand my own power. How can I …?”
He turned abruptly from me. “I want you to marry the king,” he said, his voice becoming all at once clipped and more formal. My stomach dropped.
“Marry?” I repeated stupidly.
“He may be dying, and the kingdom is hanging by a thread. If the high lords or the Temple gain control, it will all collapse. If you align with him …”
“Aligning is one thing. Why would I have to marry him? Why is everyone so set on marrying me off?”
“It is a holy bond—the only bond that neither the nobility nor the Temple can contest.”
“You sound just like Milady right now, do you know that?”
“I have seen you heal. I have seen you cheat death itself. You are his only chance at survival. The kingdom’s only chance at survival.”
I swallowed, a convulsive movement. “And if I can’t heal him?”
“Then you will be queen.”
My vision went white, then cleared. I felt suddenly cold. “I don’t want to be queen.”
“Netta …”
“This has been your plan all along,” I said.
“No! Not until I realized how exceptional—”
“What use will I be to him when I can’t even cast a spell?”
“You will learn! There will be mages to help.”
“Lessons? Like the one Ban Morin wanted to give me.”
“No! Not at all like that.”
“You just want to … give me to the king. Like a present. Like I’m a thing.”
“No, Netta, I …”
“But I thought that you … that you and I …” I couldn’t finish my sentence. I didn’t know how. Patrick stared at me, his jaw tight and his face pale. I turned away and took a deep breath, clenching my hands into fists at my side. I made an effort to speak slowly and carefully.
“So those are the mages you spoke of? Your group of mages that you told me about—the ones who practice freely, owned and controlled by no one. The ones you told me would take me in. They are employees of the king, then, who will groom me for his service?”
“No! They believe in the free use of magic, as I told you …”
“How is anything you’ve just told me freedom?”
“They will help you to control your magic. To guide it.”
“Yes, towards your ends. How useful I could be to you.” I said coldly. I remembered his face when he had watched me heal the bone-deep wound in my finger. Something had changed then. Even at the time, I had felt it. Silly. Slow. What a fool I had been to let myself soften towards him.
“Not just useful! What you could do,” he continued, “what we could do, would be … remarkable.”
I scoffed.