Chapter 7
Hannalinde
Hannalinde counted each rung as she climbed to what would be her new home for the first time.
Counting helped her pace herself and kept her from looking down.
It was a long way to the floor. The Tower was built for gargoyles, which meant each level had high ceilings, so the ladders were long between them.
To add to it, the rungs were spaced for gargoyle limbs and assumed the climber had claws and a tail for balance.
She had neither. What she had were two weary human legs and a pair of boots with smooth soles, but she refused to arrive at her future in-laws’ home winded and weeping.
Rikard climbed ahead of her, his pace unhurried.
His ruined wings were bound tight to his back with leather straps, a bit like folded umbrellas.
It did not seem much effort for him and his powerful hind legs, but he’d likely made the climb a thousand times.
Perhaps her limbs would strengthen in time.
Her husband-to-be did not speak to her, but twice she noticed him pause at a landing to listen and look before proceeding past it, before she realized he was checking for other gargoyles. Making sure the landing was empty before she passed.
He was sparing her their derision. Or himself the shame. Either way, she appreciated the consideration.
By the fifth tier, her legs and lungs were burning, and the nausea that had been her constant companion for weeks made a pointed reappearance.
She stopped to catch her breath, leaning her cheek against the cool stone wall between rungs.
It smelled of minerals and moss. Not unpleasant, just a long way from the dusty leather and roses of her rooms above the cobbler’s shop.
“We’re nearly there,” Rikard said when he reached the landing for the next tier and realized she was no longer on his heels. His voice echoed in the hollow center of the Tower, flat and uninflected. “Can you manage, or should I have my father fly down to carry you the rest of the way?”
Fallen gods, what a first impression that would be. Hannalinde wiped her damp palms on her dress one at a time and climbed the final ladder-and-a-half as quickly as she could. Rikard was waiting for her and held out a hand to help her dismount.
The hollow center of the seventh tier was circled by a wide, open-air corridor carved from the Tower’s pale stone, with arched doorways leading to individual eyries.
The scale of everything was enormous, the ceilings twice as tall and the doorframes twice as broad as even the tallest and broadest in Lamont House.
Rikard led her to one of the doors. Before he could push it open, she put a hand on his arm.
“How much do they know about me? What did you tell them?”
His mouth twisted, and she feared what might come out. “They know your father’s name. They know you’re human. They know I have claimed you.”
“That’s all?” she pressed, suddenly afraid of what she was walking into.
“I don’t know much more about you than that. I have not mentioned the hatchling, if that’s what you’re asking. I will leave that coin in your purse to spend.” He pushed the door open without ceremony, motioning for her to enter.
Carved stone shelves lined the walls of the antechamber, holding a collection of statuary. She did not have time to examine it before he led her further into the eyrie, to the main living area that opened onto a wide balcony. She could just make out a moonlit view of the palace quarter beyond.
The furniture was gargoyle-scaled. She hadn’t considered that.
There were high stone benches instead of chairs, a heavy table that came to her chest, and on the balcony, a thick railing that served as an outdoor roost. Tapestries depicting midair battle scenes lined the walls.
It was all quite grand, especially compared to the sad pair of rooms she inhabited above the cobbler’s shop.
“Mother, Father!” Rikard called. “Come meet Hannalinde.”
Two gargoyles swiftly entered from one of the adjoining rooms.
Rikard’s mother, who he introduced as Cléa, was stocky and broad-shouldered, with a wide mouth and smaller horns capped with gold filigree.
She wore a delicate, draped gown of yellow silk edged with silver that floated all around her as she moved.
It was so pretty that it made Hanna regret returning Pudding’s pink gown so soon.
His father, Roul, was bigger and softer, a gargoyle who’d been formidable once but had let the years and the mead have their way with him. He held a cup that was clearly not his first of the evening. But his gaze, when it settled on Hannalinde, was sharp.
“You must be the unlucky female my son convinced to mate him,” he boomed jovially.
Hannalinde smiled politely at the joke, determined to be the most appealing daughter-in-law she could be in spite of her species. “It was I who did the convincing, I’m afraid.”
Beside her, Rikard blew out a disbelieving breath. “Do not be so modest. I would have mated you months ago if I had my way.”
He was playing along. She nearly laughed with delight. It was an incredible feeling, having an ally in this.
Cléa circled her the way a tailor might circle a dress form, assessing from every angle. Hannalinde held still and let herself be examined. She’d endured worse scrutiny when she’d come out at court, where the human noblewomen could flay a girl’s reputation with a single raised eyebrow.
“You’re pale,” Cléa observed. “Are you ill?”
“She’s human,” Rikard said dryly. “They come in that color.”
“I’m well enough,” Hannalinde said. Then, because the moment required it and because she’d come too far to be coy: “I’m also with child.”
The effect was instantaneous. Cléa’s claws flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide, then bright, then wet. Through her tears, she looked at Rikard, and the question in her face was so naked it hurt to witness. “You’re healed?”
Rikard met his mother’s gaze without expression. “Obviously.”
“How?”
“I visited a human apothecary for a series of treatments,” he lied. “That’s where I met my dear Hanna.”
His dear Hanna. Of course, this was all a farce, but oh, they were pretty words. Pretty as a fallen petal.
Cléa made a sound that Hannalinde had never heard before, a low, vibrating hum that seemed to come from deep in her chest. A purr. Rough and quavering, it filled the room. She reached for Hannalinde with both hands, then stopped herself, claws hovering an inch from her shoulders.
“May I?” she asked.
Hannalinde had not been embraced by anyone except Carlijn in years. She certainly had not been embraced by a gargoyle. The request itself was so unexpected, so contrary to every interaction she’d had with their species, that she forgot to be afraid.
“Of course.”
Cléa’s arms closed around her, and the purr intensified until Hannalinde could feel it in her ribs. Over Cléa’s shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Rikard’s face. He was as bowled over by all of this as she was. What had they gotten themselves into?
Roul clapped his son on the back with a force that would have knocked Hannalinde flat. “Well done, boy. I knew you could do it.”
“It was only a matter of time,” Rikard said, and this time his lie was wrapped in truth so neatly that Hannalinde almost believed him.
What followed was a blur. Cléa released her and immediately let loose a torrent of plans and questions and declarations that left Hannalinde spinning and overwhelmed.
There would be a grand ceremony. There would be two ceremonies, gargoyle and human.
There would be feasting. There would be guests.
The Zenith and his mate must be invited, and the human king and queen, and every family of consequence in the Tower.
Any idea that it would be a small or private affair evaporated.
In all honesty, she was excited to have a more public event, closer to the one she’d always dreamed of as a girl.
One didn’t grow up as the daughter of Lamont and imagine anything other than a grand affair with the finest lords and ladies in attendance. Cléa had a similar vision, it seemed.
“She needs a dress,” Rikard broke in at one point.
“Of course! A dress!” Cléa said giddily, gripping Hannalinde’s hands. “What will you wear?”
“I hadn’t thought about it yet. This is all so new.”
“We must think about it now so the dressmaker has time to stitch. The moths are already carrying the news. By tomorrow, every gargoyle in Solvantis will know my son is taking a mate. A human mate.” She paused, as though processing this fact anew.
“This will require careful management if you are to be well received.”
“I trust you will be an excellent guide,” Hannalinde said mildly, and Cléa gave her a long, appraising look that was warmer than the first.
“You and I are going to get along,” she declared.
Over the following days, Hannalinde visited the Tower nightly and found herself securely tucked under Cléa’s determined wing.
She was everything a society mother should be: energetic, opinionated, well-connected, and utterly convinced that holding the right social event could overcome any bad opinion.
She reminded Hannalinde of the women who’d surrounded her as a girl, her own mother and the other wives of the palace quarter.
She had been raised in that glittering world of artifice. She’d been groomed for it, knew how to dress for it and wear her hair to its best advantage. How to curtsy and waltz and be diverting in conversation. She had mastered the fine art of entering a room so that every head turned.
She’d grieved the loss of those frivolous things almost as much as her own father.
She knew they were frivolous. There were many things in life more important than a pretty hair ornament or shoes with little bells on the toes that chimed when one danced.
But she’d loved them with a fierceness that ashamed her now, and she’d thought she’d buried that love alongside everything else.
Cléa dug it up.
“Silver thread or gold for the veil?” Cléa asked one evening, spreading fabric samples across the wide table. Rikard had retreated to the Nadir’s office hours ago, and Roul was at the tavern, so the two females were hard at work on the wedding planning.
Hannalinde climbed onto a stool to get a better look at the delicate embroidered edge. She would have liked to embroider it herself, but there was simply not enough time. “Gold if it’s in the budget,” she decided. “The silver thread will tarnish in time, and I want it to shine forever.”
Cléa clucked her tongue with approval. “Of course, we can afford it.”
Hannalinde ran her fingers over the ivory silk, its weave so fine it felt like water. She hadn’t touched fabric this quality in a long time. Even the mercer’s daughter did not have any this fine. Her callused fingertips caught on the threads, snagging slightly.
Not for long. She was to be a lady again.
“Now, there is the matter of the venue,” Cléa said.
“The Zenith has offered the highest tier for our use, which is a great honor, but…” She didn’t finish the thought.
Hanna had noticed that she never mentioned aloud Rikard’s inability to fly.
She acted as though her son were perfectly whole, and Hannalinde followed her lead, carefully avoiding the topic.
“I am sorry to request this,” she began delicately, realizing this was her tangle to unpick as Rikard’s future bride.
She had to invent a way for him to save face, even with his own family.
“It may test the limits of propriety for your kind, but would it be possible to hold our mating ceremony on the ground? I think it will be quite difficult for the human guests to traverse the many ladders to the top of the Tower. I can’t imagine all the ladies in their gowns making the journey, let alone the queen.
I fear they will all decline our invitation. ”
Cléa’s relief was palpable. “That does seem more practical if we’re going to host so many humans. Any high-tier snobbery should vanish if the king and queen attend.” Still, she looked worried.
“Perhaps the plaza on the north side of the Tower? We could solicit the owners of surrounding buildings to volunteer their rooftops for roosting, so those who don’t wish to touch the ground can avoid it.
The plaza is large enough that any humans who like can gather to witness the ceremony.
They’re sure to be curious, and I think it will be good for the Nadir’s office if it’s known that he’s taking a human mate, don’t you?
Of course, we’ll set aside some raised seating for the king and his retinue. ”
Cléa’s wide mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Hannalinde with fresh assessment and frank admiration. “My son chose well. I had my doubts at first, when he said you were human. And a Lamont, of all families. But I understand why he picked you now. You will be quite at home here.”
She reached across the table and laid her hand over Hannalinde’s, patting it with approval as she purred. It was such a warm, maternal gesture that Hanna’s heart swelled until she thought it might burst. She might not be gaining a true husband, but she had a feeling she was gaining a true family.
She covered Cléa’s hand with her free one. “I have long lacked for a mother. I am very pleased to soon call you mine.”
They worked until the eastern sky paled, and Cléa’s movements slowed and stiffened, the stone of daysleep threatening.
She gathered her notes and fabric samples and retreated to her nesting chamber, leaving Hannalinde to collect her keeper from the hall and descend the long ladders of the Tower, pondering how her life had changed so swiftly.
She was doing this. She was marrying a gargoyle.
She was moving into the Tower, the fortress of the species that had tormented her.
She was planning a wedding with his mother, just like she would if her groom-to-be were a wool merchant from Meravenna.
In not-so-many months, she’d birth a half-gargoyle child.
Strangely, she felt something she hadn’t felt in nearly a decade.
She felt like herself.