A Throne of Swans Read online

  My cousin’s face is cold. ‘Indeed. I look forward to seeing her fly, before long.’

  As Aron turns away towards the side exit, the king holds his fingers out to me; I step onto the dark blue carpet of the dais and force myself to kiss them. ‘I am glad to have you here, my dear. I have been considering your marriage. As Aron reminded us, the Dominion of Atratys is important, and we must make sure its future is assured.’ He waves a hand towards the assembled courtiers. ‘There are several of your cousins here who have already expressed their affection for you.’

  Affection for my wealth and lands. I wonder which of the men staring at my back he is planning to auction me off to.

  My uncle pats my arm. ‘Go and rest now, niece. We will speak further at the feast this evening.’

  I bow again and step off the dais, taking my walking stick from the guest master. The courtiers part as I move towards the door at the far end of the throne room. Again there are whispers and sideways glances; again I pretend not to notice. Another servant – one of the guest master’s underlings, I guess – is waiting to conduct me to my apartment. We go up staircases and along corridors and all the time I stare straight ahead, keeping my eyes fixed, my face set. Then we are shown into in a room, and the servant is bowing and handing us some keys, and the door closes and finally, finally I am alone with Lucien.

  ‘I can’t stay here. I can’t.’ The room is huge but somehow there doesn’t seem to be enough air; I rush to one of the windows and fumble with the catch, trying to force it open. ‘We have to get out of here, go back to Merl. He’s mad, he must be –’

  ‘Your Grace –’ Lucien catches my wrists in his hands, casting me a look full of warning – ‘you’re tired after the journey. You should rest.’ He presses a finger to his lips, then walks softly back towards the door, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet, and flings it wide. The servant who brought us up here is crouched on the other side; shock sends him sprawling backwards onto the floor. Lucien kicks him. ‘Go and fetch the Protector’s waiting woman. Then get out of here.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. My apologies –’

  Lucien slams the door on the man’s grovelling and returns to where I’m still standing. ‘Next lesson: this place is full of spies.’ He stands close, leaning in towards me, his voice low, almost a whisper. ‘I don’t know if that idiot is working for someone, or whether he was just hoping for any information he could sell, but it doesn’t matter. Most of the lower servants, the housemaids and so on, can’t read, and they’re not allowed to learn, but they can still listen. You have to watch your tongue at all times, even if you think you’re alone. And always remember the first thing I taught you.’

  ‘Trust no one.’ Either here or at home, seemingly. ‘Who would have told him I was flightless, Lucien?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  No more do I. Some guest who attended my father’s Last Flight, perhaps? But I was in deep mourning – no one would have expected me to fly. Someone who lives at Merl, then? I twist my hands together, running through names in my head.

  ‘Your Grace, you passed the king’s test: you should let my father worry about whose words provoked it. I’ll write to him before this evening’s banquet. But in truth, rumours of all kinds – plots, potential invasion, rebellion – have grown rife in the last couple of years. The king is ruled by fear. The kind of fear that leaves no room for right judgement. Or mercy.’

  There are sofas and chairs scattered about the room, all gilded wood and rose-pink satin. I realise how badly my legs are shaking and sink down onto the nearest pile of cushions. ‘But what he made me do … Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to scare you.’ He sighs and sits down next to me. ‘Though perhaps I should have done, if it would have kept you at home. The king seems to take delight in suffering; there are stories about what he does in private to flightless women –’ He breaks off as I press a hand to my mouth, my stomach churning. ‘They may be nothing more than stories. But I wish the king was more like your father. It’s hard to believe they were brothers.’

  ‘It’s impossible. My father was a good man, a kind man, and the king …’ Bile rises in my throat as I picture my uncle, sprawling on the throne of Solanum, defiling it with his cruelty and greed. As I imagine him wearing the Crown of Talons, degrading that ancient symbol of our people by his unworthiness. I push the image away and think of my father instead, and pretend that he is here next to me, protecting me. Make-believe; but it gives me a little strength. ‘And what about my marriage?’

  ‘I doubt he’s going to try to rush you into anything; the longer he can keep all the potential suitors dangling, the more favours he’ll be able to extract. And remember, you’re of age. He can’t make you marry anyone.’

  In theory. In practice, who knows what kind of pressure my uncle might seek to apply? I sink my head into my hands, digging my nails into my scalp and screwing my eyes shut. In that instant, the chance that I can do some good here – that I can somehow avenge my mother, or make amends for my father’s long, lonely years of grief – seems so remote as to be ridiculous. ‘What am I to do?’

  I feel Lucien shift position next to me, but he doesn’t attempt to answer my question.

  There’s a knock at the door and Letya walks in, followed by housemaids carrying pails of steaming, scented water. ‘Time for a bath, Your Grace. You need to rest and change before the feast.’ She turns to Lucien, her hands on her hips. ‘Your servant is waiting for you, my lord. In your usual room, he says.’

  Lucien accepts his dismissal without argument. He stands and bows to me. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours, Your Grace.’ And then he is gone, and Letya – her hands protected by fine leather gloves – is unbuttoning my dress, humming one of our favourite childhood songs under her breath.

  A warm bath in front of a large fire soothes my muscles, although it can’t calm my mind. My bedroom is as enormous and grand as my sitting room. Too grand, after the faded comfort of my rooms at Merl. But the view from my windows is breathtaking: they open onto a sheer drop, where the castle is perched above the top of a fjord. Rising up from the centre of the fjord, some distance away, is a tall tower built of the same glittering stone as the castle. And in the other direction are mountains, crowded together like a mouthful of sharpened teeth. White-water streams rush down their sides, and I can see the blue-green edge of a glacier cradled in between the highest snow-capped peaks. Shape-shifters don’t feel the cold particularly, but I notice that Letya has on a new dress of thick lavender wool. As I wait for my hair to dry, she selects a gown for me to wear to the banquet: flowing green silk, high to the throat, caught in at the waist with a band of gold embroidery that is repeated along the hem. Sleeveless, as is the fashion for evening. The train sweeps behind me as I walk, and Letya reminds me that it will need to be pinned up if there is dancing. She plaits my hair and twists it, clipping it at the nape of my neck. Once I’ve hung my mother’s emerald earrings from my earlobes she walks around me, her head tilted.

  ‘You’ll do. Just try to look less terrified. Remember who you are.’

  She’s right, as usual.

  ‘Where’s my sword belt?’

  ‘Noblewomen don’t carry weapons. And it will spoil the line of the dress.’

  But I’m not just a noblewoman. I’m a Protector; I’m entitled to wear a sword. ‘Trust me: it will help me – and everyone else – remember who I am.’

  Letya smiles. ‘True. And at least it’s gold. It won’t look completely out of place.’

  I fasten the belt around my hips and place my mother’s sword into the scabbard, as Letya fusses with the fall of my skirts. Finally she surveys me again and nods approvingly.

  ‘I wish I could stay here and have supper with you.’ I stretch out my hand, careful not to touch her, just in case. ‘I feel so … exposed.’

  ‘Come, it’s just a banquet. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ She grins suddenly, deepening her voice. �
�Unless it’s the Dancing Demon …’

  I laugh, remembering how Letya and I convinced my somewhat gullible nursemaid that Lord Lancelin’s apartment was haunted by a demonic presence from the underworld. He was less than amused when he found her ‘cleansing’ his favourite possessions by throwing them on the fire. ‘We got into so much trouble. But at least we were together; if only you could come to the feast too.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll have my supper in my own room and spend the evening sewing and reading, which will suit me very well.’

  There’s a knock at the door. Letya passes me my walking stick (we’ve agreed that it would be as well for me to keep using it, at least for a few more days), then opens the door to admit Lucien. He’s dressed in a sleeveless grey silk tunic and trousers and has the gold chain of the House of Anserys around his neck. The clothes suit him; the grey brings out the hints of deep blue in his hair and eyes, and the style of the tunic shows off the muscles in his arms. ‘Are you ready? The first bell has been rung.’

  ‘I’m ready.’ I straighten my shoulders as we leave the relative safety of my apartment.

  My clerk looks me up and down; his gaze is appreciative in a way I hadn’t expected, and I clear my throat, suddenly self-conscious. He inclines his head towards me. ‘You look … appropriate,’ he murmurs. ‘Letya has good taste.’

  A spike of annoyance punctures my embarrassment. ‘You’re too kind, my lord. I’ll be sure to pass on the compliment.’

  There are other nobles here, all moving towards the great hall, where the feast is to take place. Most are lords and ladies of Solanum. Some are visitors from other realms. Lucien tells me that a couple with vivid scarlet hair are members of an ibis family from the Kingdom of Gerda. A tall man with blue-tinged skin and green hair – a peacock apparently – makes eye contact with me and bows his head.

  I grip my cane more tightly. ‘I don’t know who anyone is …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The king appears to have accepted you, and you outrank everyone but the royal family. Over the next few days, most, if not all, of the nobles here will approach me for an introduction. You don’t need to do anything.’ Two more men and a woman duck their heads as we pass, and Lucien’s lips twitch. ‘I suspect I’m about to become extremely popular.’

  When we enter the hall I can’t help gasping. It’s by far the largest room I’ve ever been in, larger even than the throne room: double height, with a floor of red-and-white marble tiles. The ceiling is elaborately vaulted and surmounted by an octagonal glass lantern. Huge arched windows are set into the upper half of each wall, the glowing stained glass bearing the same symbols over and over. Symbols of power. The shield of the royal family of Cygnus sits in the centre, flanked by the shields of the families (my mother’s included), that have controlled Solanum for the last two hundred years: the seven Houses of Cygnus. The lower walls are covered in tapestries that show the history of the royal house. I spot an image of Tavin of Chenorys taking the throne as Cygnus I, after the War of the Raptors wiped out the House of Aquila (who could transform into eagles) and most of their related families. There are tables laid out in the other half of the hall, the embroidered cloths almost obscured under masses of silverware, but the courtiers are gathering here, nearer the entrance, talking in small groups and glancing towards the doorway. The ever-present mail-clad guards are dotted around the perimeter. Lucien guides me towards the centre, and people make space for us.

  ‘Why are we waiting here?’

  ‘After the second bell the royal family will process in; no one else can sit down until they are seated. And then we take our seats in order of rank. You’ll be seated at the highest table, with the prince and princess.’

  ‘But what about you?’ My voice comes out louder than I’d expected; the nobleman next to us raises an eyebrow. I move closer to Lucien. ‘You’re my clerk – can’t you sit with me?’

  He smiles grimly. ‘My temporary status as your clerk doesn’t alter my rank.’ A bell sounds from somewhere up above us, and the people around me start to move, lining up either side of the pathway from the door to the high table. Lucien whispers, ‘After dinner there will be a concert in the long gallery; I’ll join you then. Just try your best not to say or do anything idiotic in the next couple of hours.’ The smile disappears; his expression is grave. ‘Remember, the most important thing here is not your future; it’s that of Atratys.’ He nods at me curtly and retreats into a crowd of lower-ranking nobles as the harpists in the gallery above the main door begin to play.

  The king enters first, wearing white silk and a diamond coronet, a much younger woman on his arm – the new queen, I guess. She’s very beautiful. Her hair is white with one long black streak and her skin has the silvery-grey tint characteristic of heron families. In her white silk gown, she could almost be carved out of ice. Beneath her coronet her face is impassive, though a slight puckering of the skin between her brows suggests she takes little pleasure in her surroundings. Still, as she passes she notices me looking at her, and gives me a quick, tentative smile. The king and queen are followed by Odette, wearing a more ornate version of the white dress she had on earlier, and then by Aron, still in black. I expect the prince to go past, but he stops next to me, holds out his remaining arm.

  ‘Cousin.’ My eyes widen in surprise, and he smirks.

  But I remember Lucien’s words.

  For Atratys then.

  ‘Cousin.’ I bow my head – as small a gesture as I think I can get away with – and lay my hand lightly on his arm. Together we move towards the high table.

  Four

  The banquet is long and tedious. On one side of me is Aron, who once we are seated ignores me, either eating or chatting to the woman on his left. On my other side is a middle-aged, slightly jowly man who introduces himself as Patrus, Protector of the Dominion of Brithys. Like most of Cygnus I’s descendants he is blond, but his yellow, rounded eyes and the feathering of tawny hair at his temples and forehead indicate owl blood in his lineage. Patrus tells me first that he is widowed, secondly that he is struck dumb by my beauty, before proceeding to talk endlessly about his dominion: how many houses he has, how many hunting lodges, how many acres of land. How many noble families owe him fealty. I would be tempted to ask him how many of his people starve to death each year – the poverty I observed while travelling through Brithys is still fresh in my memory – if only he left any silence in which I might speak. At least the food is delicious and plentiful: dish after dish is placed before me, many of which I don’t recognise. But I know the fine, tall-stemmed crystal glasses from which we are drinking were made in Atratys. Proud of my dominion, I take a little more of the wine than I am used to. It makes my eyelids heavy, and I’m glad when the last course – sun-baked plums from southern Olorys – is finally removed, and the king and queen rise from the table.

  Aron turns to me, interrupting the long-winded compliment Patrus has embarked upon. ‘Come, cousin.’

  I take his arm with relief.

  From the great hall we process to the long gallery. Even here, rank and etiquette still prevail. There seem to be divisions within the gallery marked by different coloured marble floor tiles – pale pink at the lower end of the room, deep purple at the upper – guarded by servants in black and silver. Lower-ranking nobles are applying to these servants; sometimes they are admitted into the next area of the room, nearer to the monarchs, sometimes they are not. At the furthest end of the room, where tall arched doors open onto a terrace, a quartet of flightless musicians are playing lutes. It’s hard to hear them over the hubbub of conversation as people mingle and stroll around.

  Aron leads me to a small sofa near one of the doors. ‘Let us sit for a while, cousin; you seem weary. Besides, I don’t think either of us needs to worry about not using our legs enough.’

  I glance at him, suspecting a veiled reference to my ability to fly – or my lack thereof – but his expression is neutral. We sit, and he turns to face me.

 
‘The sword belt is a nice touch. Is it merely jewellery, or is there an actual blade attached to that hilt?’

  His tone takes me by surprise, and I answer more sharply than I intend.

  ‘A functioning blade, cousin. And I know how to use it.’

  ‘I’m sure, though I doubt it will help you here. What did you think of Patrus? Scintillating, isn’t he? And supposedly well ahead in the bidding.’

  ‘Bidding?’

  ‘For you.’ He laughs – at my expression of shock, I suppose. ‘It’s not phrased quite like that, of course. My father has let it be known that he thinks you ought to marry, and various interested parties have, quite coincidently, been moved to offer His Majesty certain lands, or treasures, or what have you.’

  There’s a servant hovering nearby.

  ‘So thoughtful of my uncle, to concern himself with my future.’

  ‘Quite.’ Aron winces and shifts position slightly, as if the loss of his arm still pains him. ‘Of course, you could refuse. In theory.’ He stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing his ankles. ‘Think of it from my father’s perspective. He was convinced you were flightless; it does happen, even in the best families. And Atratys is so very well endowed with natural resources and convenient harbours. To take Atratys from you and have it directly under the control of the crown would be desirable. But if that’s not possible, why not sell you to another Protector in return for one or two of your most important ports, or mines?’ Aron grins. ‘His logic, you must admit, is flawless.’

  I grip the back of the sofa tightly with one hand. ‘So who else might I be sold to?’

  ‘Well –’ Aron scans the room, counting on his fingers – ‘of the five other dominions, you’ve met Patrus of Brithys. Olorys will be inherited by Siegfried Redwing. A brainless beauty, at least according to my father, but even if you want him you can’t have him: he’s betrothed to my sister. Grayling Wren is twenty and will inherit Fenian –’ he points at a slightly stooped young man hovering near the musicians – ‘but it’s a poor dominion, and his father is a wastrel. He probably can’t afford you. Lancorphys will be inherited by Nyssa, Lady Swifting – the woman on the other side of me at dinner. Nyssa is a chatterbox, though amusing in small doses. But even if you did like her,’ Aron continues, ‘Protectors have to marry so as to allow the possibility of producing children. Whatever your personal inclinations might be.’ He shoots me a questioning look, which I ignore. ‘And then there is Dacia. Protector Arden fancies himself a military genius, and he’s already married. Still, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if his rather unattractive wife met with an unfortunate accident now that he’s seen you.’ He pauses, observing my face. ‘Wishing you had stayed at home in Atratys, cousin?’