Cressyda
SHE STOOD BEFORE one of the guest rooms in the King’s chambers, watching physicians gust in and out of the door, their footsteps making light taps in the dark stillness.
It was early morning and bright outside, but all the windows here were covered with black silk and, except for this room, everywhere was deserted.
No hunting dogs flopped before the fireplaces.
No councilmen knotted in corners, discussing Calestran politics.
No squires jostled and guffawed together in the corridors.
The King’s chambers were mourning the loss of Borto Donolaino.
And awaiting the arrival of their new King.
‘You wished to see Master Jakespurcia, Princess?’
‘Very well,’ said Pataso with a bow. ‘He is awake just now, but he tires quickly. Please go through.’
Inside, the room was dim and cool. Bowls of murky, ominous-looking liquid were stacked on side-tables, their surfaces lightly rippling, and reams of bandages lay unfurling on a seat, some dark and soiled, others clean.
Scents of herbs mixed with the heavy weight of magic hung in the air, but they could not mask the unmistakable tang of sickness.
It clung to the walls and nestled into the furnishings: a warning that death had taken root.
Cressyda pressed her fingers to her lips as nausea rushed up the back of her throat. ‘Good morning, Master Jakespurcia,’ she managed to choke out.
The shrivelled, gaunt figure in the four-poster bed at the centre of the room twitched. Two small eyes turned towards her.
‘I need to speak to you,’ Cressyda added, forcing herself to move closer.
The last time she had seen Master Jakespurcia, before he took to his sickbed, he had looked pinched and grey. Now he was skeletal and almost colourless. Folds of waxen skin hung from his sunken face and his hair and beard were thin and matted.
Worry churned in Cressyda’s stomach. Perhaps this would not work.
Perhaps she had left it too late. She had never dared to confront Master Jakespurcia before, worried that he could not be trusted, worried that she would ask the wrong questions.
But now, with King Borto dead and Samsel soon to return and claim the throne, her fear had curdled into desperation.
Cressyda licked her lips and glanced towards the door. ‘Master Jakespurcia, I have come to ask you some questions.’
His watery, rheumy eyes studied her face before flickering with recognition. ‘Princess?’ he wheezed.
Cressyda took a deep breath. Gathering herself together, she prepared to reveal what she had never said aloud. ‘I’ve discovered that I’m one of the Mountain folk,’ she breathed, her voice quivering. ‘And I have the Sight.’
There was a long pause.
Master Jakespurcia looked thoughtful, but not surprised.
‘I always wondered if there was some kind of Gift in your blood,’ gasped the old man. ‘Spells stuck to you so well.’
Cressyda ignored this. ‘Tell me what you know of the Sight,’ she said, leaning closer. ‘Please. I must learn as much as possible. I’ve searched the magical books in the library, but I can’t find anything written formally about it.’
Master Jakespurcia’s mouth opened and closed. Finally, he managed, ‘It isn’t something that can be taught. It’s a Gift, passed through bloodlines. Gifts are prevalent in the Mountain folk; they seem to have more magic in their blood. It’s like that with some populations.’
Cressyda nodded. This confirmed most of what she had already guessed, but it did not tell her anything new. She must push for more.
‘I can see … shadows,’ she said. ‘They speak to me.’
Master Jakespurcia dipped his chin in a nod.
‘Mountain folk call them the Hidden People,’ he said.
‘In other parts of the realm, they are known as the Fair Folk or Fae. They are ancient creatures that live on the borders of our realm and their own. They sometimes help and they sometimes hinder; they are a law unto themselves.’ Something hitched in his throat and he began coughing, great, gasping breaths that made his whole body shudder.
Cressyda snatched up a cup and pressed it to his trembling mouth, not wanting a physician to rush in and interrupt their conversation.
Her own fingers also shook as she poured the water over Master Jakespurcia’s lips, reeling from what she had just heard.
The shadows that she could see were creatures that existed across the realm, and she had been wise to be wary of them.
‘What else do you know about the Sight?’ she asked.
Master Jakespurcia stopped coughing and settled back against his pillows. ‘Nothing,’ he replied in a whisper. ‘It isn’t an area of official study.’
Cressyda had spent most of her life ignoring magic; like washing clothes and cooking meals, spells were a task completed for her by others.
She had read basic principles and learnt simple laws, but magic belonged to the scholars and Masters who spent their lives studying and honing it.
She had never imagined it might live within her.
‘If magic runs through my blood, is it dangerous?’ she asked. Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘I don’t want to become a magic-wielder.’
‘If you’ve managed this far, you need not fear it,’ he replied. ‘I think there are many across the realm who live their whole lives hiding such things.’ His eyelids drooped, as if he might fall asleep, then he muttered, ‘Someone else has asked me these questions before …’
Cressyda felt a sinking drag of dread. ‘Who?’
‘Prince Samsel.’
She knew this, of course, but panic still surged. ‘What did you tell him?’ She grasped hold of Master Jakespurcia’s sleeve, shaking his bony, frail hand. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know …’ he replied in a soft groan.
‘What was that?’
Master Jakespurcia’s eyelids fluttered. ‘He asked me where you came from.’
An overwhelming bout of longing boiled up Cressyda’s throat. She had spent so long suppressing it that, for a moment, she could not speak for the sharp, keen pain of it. Finally, she said, ‘You mean my mother? He asked you who my real mother was?’
‘Yes.’
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, approaching the door. Cressyda turned to see the catch wobbling as someone lifted it to enter.
‘Who was my mother?’ she hissed at Master Jakespurcia. ‘Tell me!’
But the old Master’s eyes were closed, his face slackened into sleep. A hoarse, rattling noise puffed from his dried, scabbed lips, and his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
‘Princess?’ called a voice.
She turned to see Pataso standing in the doorway.
‘Master Jakespurcia appears to be asleep,’ he said, his dark eyes narrowed on her.
Cressyda nodded. She forced herself to step away from the bed as steadily as she could. Following Pataso, she walked out of the room into the fresher darkness of the corridor, leaving the rasping breathing of the old Master behind.