CHAPTER THIRTEEN
W eeks passed.
Her shifts were from the late morning into the evening, but if messages came for Rand at any hour, she would be fetched. There was a rhythm to everyday life and an itching gap within her. She did not know when Rand would return, nor could she live every day in dread and anxiety. She was a courier of the Cloistered City and when the truth came out, she still had her mother to support; they still had a life to live.
The days went on.
Where chilled autumn winds had blown, harsh, cold gusts ravaged now. Autumns in Vale, even this far from the Black Mountains, were short. Soon, those wild currents would carry snow.
Heavier cloaks were passed out in the hall. New woolen undergarments were also given to everyone. The slippers they had worn throughout the year were replaced by a leather boot that cinched tight at the ankle.
Miriam showed Petra the best way to wear the heavy hose and fitted long-sleeve shirtwaist, so the searching fingers of the wind could not touch bare skin.
Often Petra saw worry haunt the kind woman’s face, but she had found a way to be humored by the oddities of daily life. There were days when Petra felt she could take a similar perspective. Either way, whatever the answer, she would be free. Perhaps she could keep a tender secret near to her heart. Perhaps she would have to carve the feeling out. Either way, for the first time in ages, she would be able to look towards the horizon of her own life.
Unless I am so wrong, and Rand had no part in this. I can’t fathom it. Everything in me cries that he was invested in Aldney’s last moments. If I am wrong, I will face that burden when it is laid on me.
On the main road, amid fur-lined cloaks, velvet muffs, and hats that hung over the ears crafted from beaver and rabbit pelts, the constant flow of gossip was not stilted by the arrival of winter. Lady Theophania did not move into the emperor’s palace. Her procession to the Benign Mother-of-State for a blessing was postponed several times.
This reoccurring delay also prolonged the choosing of an auspicious date for not only the marriage ceremony but the first marital encounter. Already, there had been a council meeting suggesting the delay of the marriage altogether. The stars and the moon’s phases were not lining up favorably.
Loose lips from the kitchens and interior palace staff whispered that Cyprian had threatened to dismiss the tradition of an appointed day altogether. He’d marry Theophania the instant he desired, and damned if it was not a combination of luck favoring numbers two, eight, thirteen, fourteen, seventeen, and so on. Perhaps he would marry her on the fourth day of the fourth month, even!
Throughout this time, she learned more from Augustine about creating and carving insignias and received his permission to visit the Hall of Renowned Scribes in her free time. A short script from him enabled her to request and study the history of insignias in the Cloistered City.
The study was fascinating, and Petra poured over how different cuts, symbols, and animals had changed meaning and ranking over the centuries. She also learned she had a terrible memory for all of it and re-read passages, if she hoped to remember a fraction of the information.
Upon requesting the same tome numerous times, one of the scribes said this was the reason women should not bother themselves with history. Their brains could not handle it. She tried to tease back that she was simply a poor representation of her sex.
If only these clerks knew how the women in the Palace of Embroidery memorized the way every thread and combination of fabric would respond to one another. Those who blended dyes had trained their hands and eyes to recognize when the perfect shade had been reached. Miriam’s touch with wax was masterful; even Augustine admitted to learning from her.
For as educated as the scribes were, they were still men who lived their days amid history and did not see how the world could change.
When there was time, Petra wrote to her mother until her hand cramped. She liked to envision her mother’s face when the long letters arrived in the little town, marked with the stamp of the Cloistered City. If anything, her mother deserved to be the woman who received news from abroad.
Winter settled throughout the city.
Chopping wood and straining tallow now became many servants’ full-time occupation. Clouds and coiling spirals of smoke rose from palaces and halls, mansions and gatehouses. At night, the city was a dragon deep in slumber. During the day, the endless rising smoke appeared to reach the Heavens, as if the spirals would be caught by angels and the entire city lifted beyond the known world.
Many complained. When snow scattered over rooftops and frost decorated courtyards with its elaborate patterns, nobles and servants, alike, yearned for warmer weather. And even though Petra did not relish how the wind chapped her lips and cheeks, the frost and snow seemed like extraordinary gifts offered as only Nature could.
On one such night, she had drifted to sleep watching powdery crystals collect in the corner of the window, tucked beneath twin layers of woolen blankets. A stiff arm shook her awake and said a letter had arrived for Captain Tsenturian.
“It seems important. There’s a feather tied to it.”
She sat up. “A red-tipped feather?”
Not that it mattered. He wasn’t there but that was not information she had been cleared to reveal.
“No. Yellow. Aren’t all feathers important?”
“I think so.”
Swinging her legs over the mattress, Petra dressed quickly, ignoring how cold her boots felt compared to the warm pocket she had left.
The ones who could tell her what yellow meant had long since retired for the evening. The feather was small, rounded, and fair in color, as if it had been plucked from a chick.
Cautiously sliding it in her pocket, she hurried into the night.
From behind and around winding swirls of smoke, diamond white stars twinkled, like countless beautiful eyes overhead but the effect was lost on her. Petra was tired. She fancied she could make the trek with her eyes closed and stop within arm’s reach of the mansion gate.
Though what a catastrophe it would be if a superior passed her, and she failed to acknowledge.
At this hour, she recognized others on the road. Some of the councilmen insisted they be brought a midnight meal. It must be made fresh from the kitchen, heavy boiled dough doused in wine. There were also a few noblemen in service to the prime minister who believed they received clarity by spending one hour outside each night, no matter the weather. Among careful voices, there was a joke that one of the men was actually a pangolin in human form who relished nocturnal life.
When she arrived at the mansion gate, Petra was surprised to find an official guard in front of it. Captain Tsenturian rarely required a watch to be set. Bartholomew had told her of the few times it had been necessary and how his master used his own servants for the task. This man, however, was one of the palace guards.
She looked past him to see if there were visible lights from inside, but all was dark, fitting the hour. The guard noted her cloak and pushed open the gate, stepping aside. Despite herself, Petra clenched her hands. Unfounded worry bristled, prickling the skin on the back of her neck.
The young man she now knew as Samual greeted her at the doors, sleep still dragging down his features.
“I have a message to deliver.”
He motioned her inside and shut the door. “I’ll fetch my lord.”
What ? Her body constricted within itself. The hairs on the back of her neck stood.
“He’s back?”
“Aye. He’s asleep. I’ll tell master Bartholomew to wake him.”
Words jammed into her teeth and stuck on her tongue. “You don’t...I mean, I can give it to Bartholomew. There’s no need...no need to wake...”
Rand .
But Samuel had already trudged away.
The mansion was still. In the receiving room only, a lone, thick, pillared candle was lit. It popped and the flame guttered, wavering from breezes creeping in through the old walls. Petra felt it within her body, as if the candle’s flickering blaze was the beat of her heart, unstable and easily extinguished.
She breathed deep, trembled, and coughed.
This wasn’t the right time. She had been wrong. She needed to wait. He was back now; there would be another opportunity to ask him. Alone in the surrounding dimness, she could not face the eyes she saw in her dreams and demand a truth that might crush her.
Coward! This is all you have wanted since he went away. Now is your chance and you won’t do it? Coward! He may break your heart tonight and it will break twofold. An old wound will be torn open and a fresh one will bleed profusely. You cannot handle the pain of both, can you? Remember who you were when another woman’s misfortune was your shining opportunity. You took it. When Mother gave you money for the journey to the city that should have gone to fabric and seeds, you took it. It’s betrayal to fail now! Just because he’s beautiful? Just because his presence stirs a resonance in you? You would keep that over the truth of your brother? Coward!
She paced. Her joints felt like vices gripped them. In an instant more, they would crack and explode, rendering her a spineless monstrosity.
Heavy, measured footsteps sounded behind her. She clenched her teeth and held her breath. She knew this pace; the steps marched on her bones.
“Petra.”
Everything shattered. Like a kaleidoscope that has been shaken and damaged, its colored glass and mirrors broken, she was powder and shards. Fragile and sharp.
She ran at him.
He stood bare-chested and breathtaking. She wanted him, hated him, and needed to be at his side. She wanted to push him, seize him in her arms, and stop herself from running to him like a lover.
Rand did not move, did not step back, though his mouth was parted in surprise.
By the arms, she grabbed him, locking her elbows to keep herself from burying her face in his chest. Her first words were a gasping shout. Bartholomew hurried into the room, only to be dismissed by Rand with a commanding glance.
Confusion knitted his brows and concern pulled his mouth into a straight line. Yet, his gaze was steady. Beneath it, Petra could not find her voice. She had to look down or she would never hear anything through the ardor cascading around her. For he stared at her not as a superior to an unhinged servant. Instead, Rand looked at her like a man who sees pain he does not comprehend and is hurt to witness at the same time.
She looked over her shoulder, keeping him at arm’s length.
“And here I thought,” he began, “somewhere in the back of my mind, that you might be glad of my return.”
She screamed. “Tell me the truth! I came to this city to know the truth and everything I have learned points in all directions.”
He lifted his arms as if her force was nothing and put both hands on her shoulders. “What’s happened?”
“You tell me! You tell me! My name is Petra Ondise. My brother was Aldney, and he was a courier. One year ago, I received a letter saying my brother had killed himself. He lived for me and our mother. He wouldn’t have taken his own life. And you know life isn’t precious here. He was killed! Murdered! I know a captain of Shivalry buried him, but a Shiv had a hand in his death.”
“Petra, I—”
“Did you bury my brother because you killed him? Because he rejected Lady Melisende?”
His gripped tightened and she thrashed against it.
“Tell me the truth!” she cried. “Then kill me because I have broken every rule but tell me the truth!”
“Petra...”
“Keep my name from your mouth!”
The grip changed and suddenly both her arms were behind her back, held in place by his one hand.
“Look at me.”
It was the command of a military man. She obeyed but jerked her chin at him. His gaze consumed her face and her throat constricted when she saw recognition slowly appear.
Recognition, surprise, and then grief.
“His last request was to be buried alone and not thrown into the mass grave outside the city.”
“You...”
“I did not know his name but he spoke of a sister and mother. I see his face in yours,” he said, gravely. “Though I would not have without you commanding my memory. I confess, I had put the incident from my mind.”
“Monster!” she hissed.
“He was buried with honor.”
“After he was killed!”
Rand shook his head. “No. No, Little One. The letter you received, the letter I wrote as a courtesy to a woman I didn’t know then, was true. Aldney killed himself.”