Chapter 12 #2
“The men who were with you last night, has Amron seen their faces? Can he recognize them?” she asked.
“No, they left Abia immediately. They’re halfway to Elmar already, and I had my face covered. No one will recognize me.”
She was probably right. Few people in Abia knew what Seragians really looked like. All border folk would look the same to them. Dark skin, funny accents, strange clothes seen only on woodcuts depicting border clashes.
“No one will recognize you,” Melia echoed. “I wish we could just go away, you and I. Jump over this wall right now and disappear, leave Abia, leave the kingdom. There’s so much of the world outside where no one would know or care who we are.”
“You’d never leave your father,” Ferisa said.
“I would. For you.”
Ferisa’s eyes were two windows into burning darkness. She nodded. “Two more days. And then it’ll be over.”
· · ·
The queen was an early riser, and by the time Melia had made herself presentable and rushed to the royal chambers, the ladies had already gathered, whispering furiously.
The queen was dressed in somber sea green silk, her hair braided and covered with a white veil as fine as a spider’s web.
Melia couldn’t decide if she looked paler than usual—her complexion was always pearl white and translucent—but this morning, her eyes were red.
They were gathered in the garden chamber, surrounded by fantastic tapestries depicting plants and flowers with imaginary beasts stalking among them. It was a room for receiving guests, for showing off.
“Your Majesty, the Seragian ambassadress is here,” a maid said.
“How dare they show their face at court?” Lenka muttered in the background.
“I hope they’re here to apologize,” another lady added.
“Shush!” The queen glared at the ladies. “Sit down and pretend to do something useful. I don’t want to hear a single sigh from any of you, let alone a comment.”
The ladies plopped down on their cushions as one and picked up their books, their sewing and embroidery. Melia kept her fingers busy with a misshapen bit of lace she was unsuccessfully trying to make, but her eyes wandered to the door.
She’d never seen a highborn Seragian before, and although she knew it couldn’t be true, her brain still expected to see a slightly upgraded version of the border tribeswomen: dark skin, head wrapped in a scarf, loose woolen coat, baggy trousers.
“Ambassadress Dorosia of Seragia,” a servant announced.
The woman who entered was tall, almost a head taller than the queen, and twice as wide, draped in mahogany brocade in a fashion Melia had never seen before.
The high-collared jacket with puffed sleeves was cinched at the waist, and the stiff, ankle-length skirt was split in the middle, revealing baggy silk trousers gathered in at the ankle and gold-embossed leather shoes.
The woman’s face, round and smooth, with a complexion lighter than Melia’s, put her age anywhere between thirty and fifty, and her henna-red hair, falling in a long braid down her back, showed no grays.
“Your Majesty.” The ambassadress knelt before the queen.
“Ambassadress Dorosia.” The queen, sitting in an ivory-inlaid chair, motioned at a cushioned bench before her. “Please sit down.”
A lady rushed in and set down a steaming teapot with two painted porcelain cups and a silver tray filled with assorted sweets on a low table between them like a peace offering.
“How is Prince Amron?” The ambassadress’s voice was filled with concern, her Amrian perfect.
“Bruised but not injured, thanks to the king’s guard.” Clipped, cold. “They’re looking for the culprits, but their search would be more efficient if you helped us.”
“Your Majesty, the embassy’s resources are at your disposal.
” The ambassadress emphasized her words with a light bow.
“However, we have no idea who they might be. Since we heard of the attack, my staff has been tirelessly going through the records of every Seragian subject in Abia. They found nothing suspicious. Just merchants and diplomats preparing for the wedding, all vetted by the ministry. Could it be possible that they weren’t actually Seragian? ”
“A very convenient theory for you,” the queen said, pouring the tea, “but no. Their clothes were genuine and so was their language. My son spent six months at the border, he speaks Seragian and knows the local people. These were frontiersmen, Ambassadress.”
“Indeed. But were they our frontiersmen?”
Melia’s heart missed a beat and the queen’s cup paused halfway to her mouth.
“You’re not suggesting that Elmarrans would dress as Seragians and attack their own prince?” The queen’s tone was incredulous, but the very fact that she said it out loud made Melia focus on her handiwork, hiding her face from the queen. “Shall we ask Roderi of Elmar what he thinks about that?”
Queen Orsiana was close, so close.
How had her father persuaded the men to pose as Seragians? Had Ferisa forced them somehow? Drugged them?
“It is in your interest to find them as much as it is in ours,” the queen continued. “Our guards did their duty, now it’s your turn.”
“I am highly motivated to deal with that before the emperor finds out, Your Majesty,” the ambassadress said. “But in the meantime, I’m baffled by the party the crown prince organized in that house of ill repute, putting himself and his guests at risk.”
The queen gently lowered her cup to the table. “I don’t think I have to explain pleasure houses to a Seragian, do I?”
“Not at all. But the prince’s behavior seems reckless, impulsive, self-indulgent to the point of endangering others. It’s not the first time, either. We are worried about Carevna Aratea’s wellbeing.”
Melia was close enough to see the queen’s lips turn white. “A group of Seragians tried to kill my son last night, and you’re worried about the wellbeing of your carevna? I expected a defter spin from you, Ambassadress.”
“There’s no spin, Your Majesty. The incident with Prince Amron was a vile treachery, and if the culprits are Seragian, they will be executed promptly.
I admitted my doubts about them to you, but in public, I will take the blame and apologize, if that’s what it takes to appease the king and the city.
But I want you to promise me that the incident won’t affect the crown prince’s behavior to his future wife.
The carevna is blameless, and arrives in good faith, hoping to end three centuries of conflict.
I need assurance that she will be received as such. ”
Melia’s gaze focused on a fine thread in her lap until she could see every fiber. From the corner of her vision, a red pool of blood spread towards the center and the stench of iron and gore filled her nostrils.
“You have my word that your carevna will be welcomed with friendship and respect,” the queen said. “I will treat her as my own daughter, and the crown prince, I assure you, knows his duty. We’ve worked too hard for this treaty to let one random incident destroy it.”
“I agree, Your Majesty. Every Seragian in Abia knows this wedding is of the utmost importance.”
The queen’s features softened a little. “Let’s have some tea, then, and agree no lasting damage has been done.”
Melia’s hands trembled so hard that needle slid under her fingernail and blood ruined the lace in her lap.
· · ·
Ferisa was a nobody, that much was clear, even to Melia who barely knew anything about the world. She never talked about her family or home, and only gods knew what wind had blown her towards the border forts and into the path of Roderi of Elmar.
She had a reputation as an herbalist; the soldiers sought her out when they needed arrowfoil for alertness or poppy to ease the pain. She was also a guide, a priestess of the Goddess of Death who eased the passage to the other side. She fit right in among the soldiers who worshiped death.
After she’d given Melia back her voice, Melia was afraid her father would drive Ferisa away as he’d driven away all women from her late mother’s retinue.
But Ferisa had carved a place for herself deep in the bowels of Syr, where she boiled her herbs and distilled her potions and soon it seemed she’d been there forever.
Melia followed her around like an infatuated pup.
It wasn’t just that Ferisa was a little older, it was that she acted with the utmost confidence of a grown-up.
“Who taught you all this?” Melia asked.
“Oh, I picked it up here and there.”
“How did you manage to give me back my voice?” Melia asked.
“It never went anywhere, little raven. It was inside you.”
That might have been true. There were so many things buried inside Melia—she felt like a graveyard. Ferisa had simply pushed a hook into the wet earth and fished out a silver string of her voice, leaving everything else inside, rotting in the dark.
Melia learned to talk again to please her father, but rarely did so.
Her voice had grown raspy, unmodulated, and using it to break the silence felt like sacrilege.
She made herself invisible. She ate as little as possible, she moved without making a sound, she never demanded attention.
She perfected her shadowy existence so flawlessly that even her father forgot about her sometimes and left her alone.
If he ran into her by mistake, his eyes would widen in surprise, as if he’d forgotten he had a daughter.
When Melia became a woman, it was Ferisa who taught her how to fold the linen rags, who massaged her back and gave her chamomile and fennel tea to ease the cramps.
When men started noticing Melia, it was Ferisa who explained what they wanted from her and how to dodge them.
Ferisa was a friend, a cousin, an older sister to her, and if Melia’s feelings towards her weren’t entirely sisterly, she was too confused to explore them.
Then Rovin died and everything changed.