Chapter 32
The royal palace in Largotia was a collection of sharp blue-roofed, bone-white towers wreathed by the river Amity.
During large events like the coronation, an elaborate dam was closed to prevent the river’s flow, forming a broad lake at the base of the palace for guests to boat and wade in.
The deep, muddy riverbed ran out of the city, through the forest, and past the village of Owlbright, cutting off their water supply until the river flowed again.
As the coach clattered over cobblestones, Magdala watched through the window as the people lined the street in silent obeisance. It was strange, seeing them from behind glass instead of standing with her face to them, their spit spattering her cheeks.
Asherton lay stretched out on the floor—safely away from the windows—lazily playing a game of cards with Zephyr. He was wearing his brother’s leather coat—cleaned and mended, the wool lining only faintly stained.
“It’s working,” he said.
“They’re so quiet,” Magdala whispered. There was no need to whisper, but with the eerie silence outside, even her breathing rattled like a shotfire.
“Because they like our plan.” Asherton looked up at her. “Stop it, Mags, you’re about to chew your fingers off!”
Magdala’s teeth scratched her fingertips, and she pulled her hand away, her nails bloody, chewed to the quick. She stared at them, bewildered. She’d never chewed her nails before.
She let the curtain fall back and watched Asherton for a long moment.
“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” shouted a lone voice. The crowd hissed, like a coiled snake. Asherton’s jaw tensed, and Zephyr gripped his cards so hard that they crumpled in his fist.
“He’s an idiot,” he said, glancing anxiously at Asherton. “An ignorant, prejudiced fool.”
“What do they expect me to do about it?” Asherton asked. “My mother got a bit too diplomatic with the king of Ashkendor. It’s not my fault. Why aren’t they angry at her?”
Magdala wasn’t sure who the question was directed to—her or Zephyr or perhaps the anthropomorphic voice of the crowd outside.
As they passed over the bridge, Asherton laughed and said, “Funny story, so when we were last here, someone broke into the coach and …”
“And you tossed them off the bridge,” Magdala said. “Yes, I recall.”
His jaw dropped. “No …”
“I was on the riot line, and the crowd was pressing me to death, and so I scrambled in here for shelter.”
“You should have told us you were a royal guard,” Zephyr mused. “We would have been more polite.”
“I couldn’t. You were crushing me, and you stuffed something in my mouth.”
“Oh, stars above, Mags,” Asherton breathed. “You couldn’t swim!”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“How did you survive?”
“No thanks to you, I was wearing a cork vest.”
His eyes wide, Asherton muttered, “Heavens, I nearly killed you.”
“You deserved the crack in the face I gave you.”
“I really did. Well, now I feel vindicated for all those torturous swimming lessons.”
The coach creaked to a stop and Asherton sat up. “This will be a warm family reunion,” he said, looking grim.
Zephyr gripped his shoulder. “Try to be charming.”
“That won’t matter,” Asherton said with a wry smile. “Haven’t you heard, Zeph? I’m cursed.”
Queen-Regent Madelaine met them in the grand entrance. It was paneled all in mahogany, carved with dragons twisting among flowering cherry trees. A nurse stood behind her, holding a baby dressed in lace.
Magdala watched Asherton with rising anxiety, uncertain what he would do when he met his mother again.
Magdala was so busy worrying about him, she wasn’t prepared for how deeply the sight of the queen affected her.
The instant her eyes rested on Madelaine, her skin prickled, and heat rose from her chest to her cheeks.
This woman had cast Asherton off like he was worthless, exiled him when he had done nothing wrong, refused to protect him, and refused to allow him a decent entourage. If the assassins succeeded and Asherton was killed tomorrow, the blame rested upon this woman’s velvet-clad shoulders.
Beside her, Zephyr let out a low growl. She glanced at him, their eyes met for an instant, and Magdala saw her rage reflected in his face.
“There’s my little bean,” Asherton cried, ignoring his mother entirely and going straight for the nurse.
He scooped the baby from her and nestled him in the crook of his arm, bouncing gently.
“He looks like his father,” he said, smiling at Madelaine.
“But don’t worry, he may outgrow that! You should send him out to Elegy when he’s older.
A prince needs some dirt under his fingernails. ”
The queen-regent wrung her hands as Asherton tickled the baby’s chubby chins. “Do put your brother down, Asherton,” she said.
“Why? You’ve managed to separate me from both my brothers, and I dislike it. I think I’ll sort of adopt this one when I am king. Teach him to run about barefoot. When is supper?”
His mother frowned. “You’re so crass.”
“For being hungry?” He laughed. “You mainlanders make up the oddest rules.”
“What are you wearing?” she asked, frowning at Asherton’s coat.
“Whatever I please. When is supper?”
“Supper is in an hour. Go and change—and no, you can’t take the baby with you. Return him to the nurse.”
“You should carry him sometimes, Mother,” Asherton said, giving the baby back to the nurse. “He isn’t heavy.”
Magdala placed her hand on his back and tried to guide him toward the stairs, but as they mounted the steps, two women passed them.
One was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her late thirties with white-blonde hair and a wide, toothy smile.
Behind her came a smaller woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with dark hair and sad eyes.
She wore an aconite-purple dress embroidered with white sunbirds.
The younger woman raised her eyes and they rested on Asherton. She stumbled, nearly falling down the steps. Her sister caught her arm and steadied her.
“Where did you get that jacket?” she asked, jerking toward Asherton.
Startled, Asherton paused. “Why?”
The woman’s face washed a grayish pallor. “You can’t have that. Where did you get it?”
She moved toward him, her arm outstretched like she meant to seize the coat, but Magdala stepped between them. “Do not touch him.”
The taller woman’s eyes widened in panic. “What are you doing, sister?”
“I just … I don’t understand.” The young woman looked between Asherton and her sister—bewildered, almost frantic. “How did you get it?”
“It was my brother’s,” Asherton said cautiously.
“No, no, he didn’t have a brother. He never once mentioned a brother …” Her chest rose and fell rapidly; she seemed like she was about to spiral into a panic.
The older woman gripped her shoulders. “My dear, there are a lot of leather jackets in the world,” she hissed.
“Not like that one.” The young woman’s voice was low and hoarse. “I know that one. But he wasn’t wearing it when he died; it was left on the battlefield. I’ve been looking for it …”
“It’s not the same jacket, my dear,” the older woman said through smiling teeth. “You’re tired from the journey. You’re imagining things.”
“Who was your brother?” the young woman demanded.
She shook her sister off and advanced toward Asherton.
Brown mushrooms burst from the floor and covered the cedar walls.
The queen-regent shrieked and launched herself on the nurse, snatching the baby from her arms. Asherton raised his eyebrows, only faintly surprised, as though mushrooms sprouted from marble floors every day.
Magdala put out her hand, holding the woman back. “That’s enough!” she barked. “No closer.”
But Asherton stopped her. “My brother’s name was Evandaine, but I called him by his Russuli name—Evander.”
The young woman blinked at him blankly and then slowly shook her head. “Of course. I should have worked it out on my own. Tiernan was your father, and so of course Evander was your brother. I just never thought of it.”
“Did you know him?” Asherton asked.
With a melancholy smile, she said, “Your brother was my husband.”
The entry hall fell silent. The dark-haired woman stared at Asherton with a mixture of wonder and ire as toadstools spread down the stairs. Magdala waited to see what Asherton would do.
He tipped his head to the side slowly and his expression changed—like he’d remembered something from long ago. “You’re Valenna,” he breathed.
The woman nodded.
Magdala didn’t know what this meant, but Asherton’s face washed such an alarming shade of white, she gripped his elbow for fear he might fall over.
“We need to go,” the older woman said, still talking through her bearish smile. “You two can talk later.”
But Valenna, whoever she was, said quietly to Asherton, “He mentioned you a few times, but he didn’t tell me you were related, and I, idiot that I am, never thought of it.”
“He mentioned you as well,” Asherton said with a touch of hostility. “He wrote to me that he had followed you to Sennalaith. And he died in Sennalaith.”
Valenna’s lip trembled and she bit it. “If you’re blaming me for his death, then you may join me. I blame myself for that as well.”
This seemed to disarm Asherton. “He would not have wanted you to.”
The baby wailed and broke the spell between them.
Asherton sniffed and straightened. “We’ll talk at dinner.”
“We shall,” Valenna replied.