Chapter 7 #2
Stide, with her bold insults to Kyor and her warm, often silent, companionship. We owe her more than we could repay.
‘You know of the Sannings?’ I say finally, breaking the fragile moment that has formed.
Other than from old Rohan back in Wrohelm, I’ve never heard them mentioned. Yet it’s clear Magnus has knowledge of these people, if he knows it’s unusual for them to travel alone.
Magnus inclines his head. ‘It is amazing how much you learn when you keep an open mind,’ he says, his gaze sharpening on mine.
‘You have come to us for aid. For training. I am certain there will be plenty of volunteers.’ His words are pointed, and as his eyes fall on an Issen a few seats down on his side of the table, Kyor stiffens beside me.
It’s the man Ranveeg was talking to when we arrived. The one whose simmering gaze stirred thoughts of conspiracy. Yet now, any hint of that coolness has melted away beneath a welcoming smile.
Next to me, Kyor growls.
‘Stefan is one of our most skilled fighters,’ Magnus says. At the sound of his name, Stefan glances over at the king.
‘Sorry, Your Majesty,’ he says, abandoning his conversation to face us fully. ‘Did you ask me something?’
‘Not at all,’ Magnus replies. ‘I was merely talking to Rose about the skill of our fighters. You have trained many of our finest warriors, have you not?’
‘It has been one of my greatest privileges,’ Stefan says in a deep, resonating voice.
‘If it is training you need, I am always on hand to help,’ Toren offers, only for Brida to scoff.
‘Why train her? We already know she’s a Morathkian sympathiser,’ she mutters, deliberately not quite under her breath.
‘Brida…’ Ranveeg hisses, and her daughter shrinks back in her seat.
I do not doubt that Ranveeg agrees with her daughter’s thoughts. It’s saying them aloud in such company that she disapproves of.
‘Thank you for your offer to help, Toren,’ I reply, focusing on the Issen I actually feel an affinity for. ‘Truly.’
Toren smiles and a silence threatens to follow our exchange, but before it can settle, the king stands.
The action comes without warning, and I expect the rest of the table to do the same, scrambling to their feet in an obvious show of deference.
My group starts to scrape our chairs back to stand too, but the Issen remain exactly where they are as Magnus crosses the room.
We awkwardly seat ourselves again, chair legs scraping on the marble floor as we scooch back in.
‘I have a gift,’ Magnus announces.
‘Oh.’ My mouth rounds as I internally chastise myself for not thinking of bringing a gift to give in turn. Though truly, I’m not sure what we’ve got left in our supplies that a king would want.
‘That’s very kind of you…’ I begin to say.
‘Actually, Rose, it is not for you. It is for our Sanning guest. Thessa, is it not?’
A blush of embarrassment colours my cheeks, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot Brida’s smirk as Magnus walks to a small wooden table and withdraws something from its drawers.
He carefully carries whatever it is to the end of the table where Thessa and Caz are sitting with Loch.
He holds something out to her. A … brush?
‘A bursta,’ Thessa says in surprise as she takes the item.
‘What is it?’ Caz asks, leaning to look at it, ever the student.
‘They are gifts of friendship,’ Thessa breathes in wonder, a light shining in her eyes that is a relief to see after earlier. ‘To brush our stoles. It is a very old tradition.’ She turns back to the monarch. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty. Truly.’
‘You are most welcome.’ Magnus smiles with a broadness I haven’t seen before. ‘It is an honour to be able to find a home where it will be treasured. It has rested in that drawer over long.’
‘I will cherish it,’ she promises reverently. She cradles the item delicately in her hands.
I’m still peering at the brush when the door to the dining hall swings open.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Magnus.’
My jaw drops. The man who steps inside is almost as tall as Magnus, and there is a regal air about him that almost matches the king’s, but that’s not what causes my response.
His hair is notable enough, ebony black touched with grey, with a beard to match – a striking contrast to the ice-white hair of most Issen – but what truly steals my attention is his face, which is completely and utterly clear of the icy patterns that cover the other men.
My heart leaps, and I am frozen, staring at the newcomer who may hold the answer to William’s salvation.
‘Rose,’ Kyor whispers beside me. ‘What is it? Is everything okay?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ I whisper back, truly meaning the words. My heart skitters with an excitement I’m unable to conceal, and next to me, Kyor frowns a little.
My desire to ask how the man’s skin is clear is close to bursting out of me when Magnus turns to me.
‘Rose Kultavaris,’ he says, ‘if you would.’ He gestures to my gloves.
‘Right.’ I stand so everyone can see, and then, without ceremony, I tug the long white gloves off, exposing the black marks now decorating my arms. The only gasps that follow are from my own companions. The rest of the Issen are silent and stony-faced. Okay then.
I sit back down as another door opens, and several other people walk in carrying plates of food.
My gaze lingers on the man with no marks upon his face.
He is looking at me – and the marks I bear – with interest. I go still as I note that, like me, he has marks upon his hands and arms, but though they are similar to mine in form, they’re the usual white lace rather than inky black.
As if thinking of them has brought it forth, my hands tingle slightly, and I clench my fists to rid myself of the sensation.
With effort, I push the questions down. Now is probably not the time to ask about the man’s clear face.
For all I know, it could be a sign of shame or insult.
I need to approach the matter delicately.
Yet the mere lack of lace patterning gives me hope.
Maybe William will have more options open to him than simply leaving the home he has always known, braving the Rottings and the wild wolves, and fleeing to the Issen.
I turn to Benny, ready to see his excitement at a proper meal, only to watch the way his smile falters as a plate is placed in front of him.
Mine arrives shortly after, and I struggle to contain my own disappointment at the green slop I’m faced with.
‘This is … this is the banquet?’ Benny tries but fails miserably to hide the disappointment in his voice.
‘This is the sustenance of the Issen people,’ Stefan responds with calm neutrality. ‘Riverweed. We harvest it from the waters by the sacred lands.’
‘Is it true that you Morathkians dine on meat and fish in a single meal?’ Brida asks. ‘That you eat to the point of sickness and drink so much wine that you lose control of your limbs and powers?’ She is not even trying to hide her disdainful scorn at such a concept.
‘Limbs, yes. Powers, never,’ Kyor replies instantly.
I’m more measured in my response, unsure of the intention behind Brida’s question. Is it pure curiosity, malicious disgust at the thought of our gluttony, or something else?
‘The circumstances are different for all Morathkians,’ I say carefully. ‘For some, there is plenty, but others struggle to afford food and warmth. I myself experienced starvation more than once during my decade living in the slums.’
I’m not ashamed of my time there, and I refuse to conceal it like it’s a shameful secret.
One of us.
I wait for their reaction to learning a fraction of their princess’s sordid history, yet the gasps of shock I expect don’t come.
Instead, they look at me in puzzlement, only a few expressions shifting beyond that.
The patternless man, for example. His brow knits in a manner I wish I could read. Pity? Anger? Perhaps a mix of both.
‘I’m sorry you experienced that,’ Magnus says, but his expression remains eerily neutral.
‘Luckily, our riverweed contains every nutrient you need to survive and grow strong,’ he adds, regaining control of the conversation.
‘As you can see from Stefan and Uzra’ – he gestures to the clear-skinned man who has only just entered the room – ‘it is more than adequate to keep us strong.’