Chapter 8
Melia
Once Ferisa switched her priestly clothes for a pretty wine-red gown, she became just another woman rushing through the busy palace.
Melia didn’t go so far as to introduce her to the queen—she had a disturbing feeling that Queen Orsiana saw people more clearly than she let it show.
There was no need to risk a closer look or a deceptively gentle interrogation in the garden.
Apart from that, every corner of the palace was open to them.
Their act required no special effort, they’d been playing this lady-and-her-companion game for years, and if it had passed the surly scrutiny of Roderi of Elmar, it was certainly good enough for the courtiers distracted with the royal wedding.
Prior to Ferisa’s arrival, Melia had been afraid of the palace and avoided wandering through it alone.
With Ferisa by her side, she felt giddy exploring the great hall as it was being made ready for the feast tomorrow, the busy kitchens and stables, the offices on the first floor where the overworked clerks and scribes went about their business trying to ignore the chaos, and the second floor, where the royal family and all the guests who didn’t have accommodation in Abia now resided.
To a girl who grew up in Syr, where the only noise was produced by the wind howling through empty passages, this turmoil was overwhelming and scary.
However, a strange surge of pride filled Melia while showing the magnificent floral tapestries in the long gallery, the marble sculptures and exotic flowers in the gardens and hidden terraces, the hand-carved furniture, the mirrors, the map room with maps of every corner of the world, the curious mechanisms and plants and animal specimens collected by the queen’s late father, the library with thousands of books and rare manuscripts.
Showing it all to Ferisa was like seeing it for the first time, through the eyes of the girl who grew up surrounded by dust, rough-hewn wood, and threadbare carpets.
It was a world neither of them was familiar with, but which now belonged to Melia.
She feared Ferisa would be bitter about it, dismissive of the opulence, resentful of the plunder on display. But instead, her companion watched in wide-eyed silence and nodded when Melia explained.
When they grew exhausted, Melia led Ferisa to her small room. “You can stay here if you like. I mostly sleep in the other room.”
“The other room?” Ferisa lifted an eyebrow, but the question was teasing rather than hostile. Melia had done her best to make Ferisa know she was just as important to her as she’d always been. There was no reason for her to be surly or jealous.
As she fished for a neutral answer, a little page knocked on her door and said, “His Royal Highness, Prince Amron, requires your presence.”
She shrugged apologetically to Ferisa. “I’ll be back soon. He’s joining his brother tonight.”
“Where?”
“Oh, some lady’s house. Her name is Celandina, I think.”
“The brothel, right?”
Melia hadn’t thought about it, but it was obvious. Only men were invited. How stupid of her to overlook that; Ferisa saw through it in an instant.
Melia checked her face in a mirror before entering Amron’s room.
Deception was written on it in bold brushstrokes.
She tried to convince herself she hadn’t been unfaithful, Ferisa wasn’t a man, and yet the intimacy she shared with her felt dangerously close to betrayal.
Her secrets, her dreams, her longing—it was all locked in a tight cocoon she shared with Ferisa.
Amron was the one left out. But then, Amron had his ladies-in-waiting, and brothel girls, apparently. He had no need of Melia’s affection.
“Wait,” she barked to the page rushing before her. “I need water.”
“Water, my lady?”
“I need to wash my face.”
The boy looked at her as if she were mad, but ran off and returned with a jug and a small porcelain basin. Melia let him pour the cold water into her cupped hands and washed her face, scrubbing it with a handkerchief. When she looked in the mirror again, her face was red, her skin irritated.
“Good,” she said to the boy. “Now get lost.”
She knocked on Amron’s door and entered. “It’s me.”
“Melia.” He was already dressed for the evening, in cloudy gray hues that complemented his eyes, with his hair tied back and his face freshly shaven.
Just like the interior of the palace, he looked like something you could show off, like a coveted prize, like the reason why the queen’s ladies sighed into their pillows at night.
No one in Syr, no one in Elmar, no one in the whole kingdom but her had a prince to parade with.
A prince who smiled at her as she entered, and made her face burn even worse.
She checked herself. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. I must go with Amril tonight, but before that,” he motioned to the window, “please sit down.”
There were two chairs beside the window, with a small round table between them. Melia chose the nearer one and sat down, eyeing the flagon of red wine and two glasses, wondering what he was up to.
“I owe you an apology.” He sat and poured the wine.
She accepted the glass and took a sip. With her father, this would be a trap, a false apology to draw out a confession. But Amron couldn’t have known about Ferisa, could he? She studied his face. He looked sincere. “For what?” she dared to ask.
“For neglecting you,” he said.
A part of her wanted to laugh at this. The men she grew up with hurt women without apologizing, without even noticing. They would have sneered at the idea of asking for forgiveness, they would have thought it weak.
But then, a part of her found his words curiously soothing, even if it was her who should be apologizing to him, for neglect and worse.
“I was rude to you yesterday,” he continued. “And I’ve spent the last few weeks running errands for others, without pausing to check how you felt. My mother tells me you’ve found it hard to adjust.”
She blushed. “Amron—” She cursed herself silently for reacting to him, and she cursed him for finding a way to get under her skin. She sipped her wine. “I’m not asking anything of you.”
He drained his glass.
They spoke different languages, where the words were deceptively alike, but their meanings clashed.
“No one teaches you to do this,” he said, looking out of the window. “There are no instructions for royal marriages. Oh, you see examples, but they are almost all bad.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, looking disheartened.
She was torn between the image of her father riding towards Abia, of Ferisa demanding her attention with soul-burning intensity, and this chance Amron was offering her, this miniature peace treaty of their own. No matter which side she chose, she’d be stabbing someone in the back.
“I sometimes don’t know how to react to things and my body responds before my brain.
That’s why I tend to run away from situations that upset me, cut them harshly rather than engage in conflict.
I’m sorry.” He laid his hand on the table, palm up, like an invitation.
“I’ve been trained for this life, and still I’ve found these last weeks trying.
I can’t imagine how it must be for you.”
She reached across the table and caught his hand.
She was tempted to tell him she was a worthless traitor, that she deserved his scorn, his punishment.
And yet, something stopped her. Not fear, no—she had long stopped caring what would happen to her.
It was only that she hated the idea of losing his kindness, of turning this gentle concern on his face into disappointment and disgust. She wanted him to look at her like that for just a little while longer.
“Read to me,” she blurted out.
“What?” He blinked, but his fingers remained entwined with hers.
“I don’t know how to talk to you and I’m not ready to discuss how I feel. This is too much, too hard. But if you read to me for a bit before you leave, it will be enough. I like the sound of your voice.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Poetry?” he asked. “A six-tome history of Abia? A treatise on the wines of Larion?”
She chuckled against her will. “Poetry will do.”
He shuffled through the books stacked on his desk and picked a hefty tome bound in dark leather and gold leaf, well-worn from use. “Mareo’s posthumous collection,” he said. “Any preferences?”
Her education was lacking: She barely recognized the name. “Anything you like.”
He thumbed the pages and started reading in his clear baritone.
The stress of the day evaporated from her limbs, leaving her heavy and pliable, her eyes half shut.
He read about love and yearning and carnal pleasures, and the words ignited a small flame in her belly.
When he closed the book after a dozen poems and rose to leave, she was sorry to see him go.
“That place Amril is taking you to, what is it?” she asked.
“Have the ladies been gossiping again?” he said. “It’s just a place where men go together and encourage each other to behave badly. They’ll get drunk and vulgar, and I’ll get bored.” He kissed the top of her head. “Good night.”
When he left, she blew out the candle and sat in silence for a while, breathing in the scent of the room, the beeswax polish, the leather, the subtle notes of bergamot and frankincense, the salty smell of the sea that permeated everything.
Then she got up and walked to her room, expecting to find Ferisa waiting for her.
But instead of the priestess, she found an unsigned note.
Urgent business, it said. Meet me in the cherry orchard at dawn.
Her mellow drowsiness hardened into anxiety in an instant. Ferisa had no other urgent business in Abia but the Black Lord’s. Melia was stupid to believe that Ferisa was there for her. She was there for her father, to put into motion whatever he’d planned.