A Throne of Swans Read online

  Panic rises in my chest as the prince watches me, head tilted, as if he is determined to force me to answer.

  ‘May I have something to drink? It’s very warm in here.’

  Aron clicks his fingers at the nearest servant. ‘Iced cloudberry tonic for Her Grace.’ After a few moments she returns with a silver goblet. The liquid inside is cold, fragrant and slightly herby; a pleasant antidote to the soporific effect of the wine. My cousin is still silent.

  ‘My father wished me to come to court,’ I lie. ‘And if my uncle truly thought I was flightless, then it is just as well that I have proved I am not.’

  Aron purses his lips. ‘You’ve proved you’re not flightless. You haven’t yet proved you can fly. I wouldn’t count your cygnets before they’ve hatched, cousin. You might still be disinherited.’

  I grit my teeth, repressing the urge to pay the prince back for his needling by kicking him. But I can’t resist trying to wipe the smirk from his face. ‘And you would know all about that, of course. Tell me, cousin, did your father think about challenging the Decrees? Looking for a way around them? Or did he allow you to be cut out of the succession without so much as a second thought?’

  For a moment Aron’s cheeks flush, and he narrows his green eyes. But his scowl dissolves into laughter. ‘A nice try, Protector. But I lost my arm two years ago. There aren’t many insults I haven’t already heard. Still, if you think of some new way of abusing me …’ He half shrugs. ‘The Elders spoke, and the Decrees are what they are.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, Your Highness.’ I sigh; there was just a trace of bitterness in his voice. Just enough to make me feel ashamed. ‘Have you found any other exercise you enjoy, instead of flying? I started to ride, after my mother’s death. It took me a long time to train a horse to carry me, but it was worth it. I have –’ An enormous yawn swallows the end of my sentence. ‘Forgive me; it’s several nights since I’ve slept in a proper bed.’

  ‘You were saying, you have a horse in the stables, named Henga.’ Aron smiles slightly. ‘There are no secrets in the Silver Citadel, Aderyn. And yes, I ride too. We will ride out together, once you’ve had a chance to settle in. But for now –’ Aron looks over my shoulder and his lips twist into something like a sneer – ‘Rookwood is trying to attract your attention. I hope your choice of horse is better than your choice of adviser.’ He rises and inclines his head – his eyes not leaving mine – before disappearing through the door onto the terrace.

  One of the black-and-silver-clad servants is bowing to me. ‘Lord Rookwood wishes to approach Your Grace.’

  The request makes me want to laugh, but I nod, trying to look dignified, and wait until the servant has walked Lucien to the sofa and gone away again.

  ‘Good evening, my lord. Did you enjoy the banquet?’

  My clerk sits down without waiting to be asked. ‘Why didn’t you send for me? You know very well I can’t enter this part of the gallery without permission from you or somebody else.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know when you didn’t tell me?’

  Lucien sniffs and crosses his arms. ‘You look haggard.’

  I raise an eyebrow, staring at the dark shadows beneath his eyes. ‘I’m sure I’m not the only one. Are we allowed to leave?’

  To my relief, he nods. Once I’ve bid goodnight to my uncle – he is deep in conversation and waves his hand at me vaguely – I am free to go.

  Lucien accompanies me out of the gallery. There are Dark Guards stationed at intervals along the corridors, and servants going back and forth between rooms, so I wait until we are in my apartments to tell him what Aron said. He dismisses it.

  ‘He enjoys making people squirm, but he’s telling us nothing we didn’t already know.’ From the corner of his eye he glances at me. ‘My father and I have both spoken to you about the risks you face here, Your Grace. Aron uses his tongue as a weapon, but he doesn’t have any real power, not any more. And he’s nothing like his father.’

  ‘He seems to dislike almost everyone.’ I look up at Lucien to see the effect of my words. ‘He definitely doesn’t like you.’

  My clerk shrugs. ‘There’s no particular reason why he should. Though truly, I pity him.’ Lucien is frowning, his gaze clearly fixed on some scene playing out in his head, and I wonder what exactly he is remembering. ‘Try to be pleasant to him, if you can. The purpose for which Aron was raised has been taken away from him. And a flightless noble is –’ He breaks off, blushing.

  A flightless noble is an object of scorn. A source of shame. I know that is what he was going to say.

  Under the weight of my stare, Lucien tries to make a recovery. ‘As a flightless noble, Aron is in danger. He survives – is tolerated – because he is still a prince. But he is no longer relevant. It can’t be easy for him to have you here.’ He opens the door to leave.

  ‘He wants me to go riding with him. There’s no harm in that, is there?’

  Irritation flickers across Lucien’s face. ‘Of course not. And there’s no need for you to seek my approval for such things: as long as your leisure activities don’t take up all your time, you may do as you wish.’

  He’s talking to me as if I’m a child again. ‘I’m not an idiot, my lord. Do you know how many hundredweight of wood Atratys exports to the other dominions each year? Or the cost of the machinery we are importing from Ryska to support our iron-mining industry? Because I do.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But it’s late to be discussing mining. You should go to sleep.’

  I grit my teeth. ‘So should you, Lord Rookwood. Send Letya to me.’ I slam the door on him. The effect is a little spoiled by my train getting caught, and by my having to open the door again to free it. But it doesn’t matter. Lucien is already gone.

  I’m soon in bed. It’s comfortable – a soft mattress, lavender-scented linen – but I would give almost anything to be back at Merl right now. Left alone, I run over Aron’s words in my head. His comments about me having to fly, and about the king’s desire for Atratys … whatever Lucien says, the prince could hardly have chosen a better way to scare me.

  The diptych that Lancelin gave me is on the table next to the bed. I pick it up and study it, and my anxiety about the future is swallowed up in a surge of longing for the past: for my parents, and my home.

  But my home won’t help me now. I grip the frame tighter, forcing myself to remember not the happy cocoon of my early childhood, but my mother’s broken body lying where she fell on the causeway at Merl. My father’s screams of grief and rage when he found us there. To remember why I am here.

  Anger displaces my longing. I’m convinced that the answers I’m seeking lie here at the Citadel, the beating heart of the kingdom. I’m not leaving until I’ve found them.

  Over the next few days, I begin to wonder why Lucien mentioned leisure activities, since the schedule he organises leaves me no time to myself at all. Each day is taken up with endless meetings: with wardens, controllers, governors, lords and ladies of this, that and the other. I smile and try to be charming, to promise much – in terms of trade and so on – while actually agreeing to very little. Some of the people knew my father, or mother, or both, so I try to steer the conversations, to discover who were my mother’s friends, who were her enemies. But Lucien ruthlessly puts a stop to such recollections: ‘Her Grace finds it difficult to talk about her parents, given her recent loss – you understand, of course.’ And so my visitors nod and move on to less personal topics.

  Each evening is much the same as my first: three hours of having to make conversation with the same people I made conversation with the night before, trying to ignore the false compliments and insinuations of the men competing to become my husband. Lucien seems to enjoy his evenings more. When I catch sight of him, seated at one of the lower tables, he always seems to be smiling or chatting happily with someone, and after dinner he often spends time with Lady Nyssa, the heir to the Dominion of Lancorphys. He smiles at her too.

  Each night, after Lety
a thinks I’m tucked up in bed, I get up again and try to transform.

  I haven’t been able to stop worrying about what Aron said: I’ve proved I’m not flightless, but not that I can fly. There’s some part of me that begins to hope, as the days go on, that I won’t ever have to prove it. But still, I’m afraid. So each night I take off my nightgown and try to relax enough to shift my shape. And each night I fail. I just end up reliving the afternoon that my mother died: the ache in my wings as we tried to escape, the slash of talons along my spine. But I never get past it.

  By the time we’ve been two weeks at the Citadel, I’m exhausted. But finally my opportunity comes: an Ember Day, a day of abstinence and contemplation. A day, importantly, on which no business may be conducted. A day off. Tired as I am, I force myself out of bed early, consult the sketched layout of the castle that Lucien had made for me, and make my way to the library.

  Clutched in my hand is a slip of paper that I found among my father’s things after he died. There’s not much on it, just a name and an address in my father’s handwriting: Deeks (?) Flayfeather, Crowsnest Court, off Long Ship Street, Lower Farne. I failed to find any reference to a Flayfeather family in our library back home, but I’m hoping for something more here, in the capital of the kingdom, in the castle where my father grew up. The paper was in among letters he’d written seeking information regarding my mother’s murder – before he stopped looking. Maybe that means it’s important.

  The library is empty when I arrive. Or mostly empty: I can make out the scratch of pen on paper coming from some nook or other, but the sound is too distant for me to worry about. I begin searching for the catalogue books. I’ve read that some libraries outside of Solanum organise their contents by subject. But here in the kingdom, family is everything. History, science, discovery – each event is related back to the people involved. When I reach the catalogues, chained to their shelves, there are five thick volumes for the letter ‘F’. I drag the right volume onto the nearest reading desk and begin scanning the pages. The lists of names are handwritten in cramped letters, but eventually I find what I’m looking for: FLAYFEATHER: minor branch of House of Accipta Olorys. See ACCIPTA: Raptor War; ACCIPTA: mercenaries …

  The entry goes on, but I don’t bother to read the rest. I don’t need to. Members of the House of Accipta were able to transform into hawks.

  Hawks. To know after all these years that I hadn’t misidentified our attackers, that I wasn’t somehow to blame for my father’s failure to find them … I glance down at the slip of paper, blinking away the tears that have sprung into my eyes. My hands are shaking. Is the name I’m looking at that of one of my mother’s killers?

  ‘May I help you, my lady?’

  I spin around, crumpling the piece of paper quickly into my fist. A soberly dressed woman, a book in one hand, a pen in the other, is watching me narrowly. ‘May I help you?’ she repeats. ‘I am the chronicler here.’

  I see now that she has the same ink-stained fingertips as our chronicler back in Merl, but this woman’s pinkish-grey hair marks her as a member of a dove or pigeon family.

  ‘I’m looking for recent family chronicles. The last twenty years or so.’

  ‘Of course.’ She bows and begins leading me to some large bookcases in the far corner of the room. ‘We have up-to-date chronicles for all the leading families. All branches of Cygnus, naturally, and Ardrieda, Corvus –’

  ‘What about Accipta?’

  In the silence that follows my question the wind whispers around the castle. I remember the whispering wing-beats of the hawks, and shiver.

  ‘In the last twenty years? I think not, my lady. That house was destroyed in the War of the Raptors. Their chronicles ended more than two hundred years ago now.’

  ‘But surely, the children –’

  ‘No.’ She points at a section of shelves. ‘All our records on the war, including eyewitness accounts, are here. Accipta and Aquila and almost all related families were entirely wiped out. Anything else you hear is just scurrilous rumour.’ Her tone suggests personal affront. ‘History books don’t lie, my lady.’

  I want to point out that surely that depends on who is writing them. But the chronicler’s gaze has strayed to the Protector’s ring on my left hand, and her eyes widen as she realises who I am. So I incline my head in thanks and make my escape, anxious to avoid any questions.

  I consider returning to my rooms. I’m going to head into the city, to try to find the address on the paper. Maybe find this Flayfeather too. I’d be more comfortable with my mother’s dagger in my belt. But either Letya or Lucien or both of them might be waiting for me in my apartment. Lucien would doubtless pry into my reasons for leaving the Citadel, or try to forbid me to leave. Letya would probably want to go with me. But taking a risk myself is one thing; I’m not going to put my friend in danger. Instead I make my way alone towards the main entrance of the castle. I haven’t got far before someone calls my name.

  ‘Aderyn! Cousin …’

  It’s Odette. She hurries down the steps, dressed in white as usual, her silk skirts billowing behind her. But before she reaches me she stops short, seeming suddenly shy.

  ‘I just wondered, cousin, whether you are on your way to the sanctuary?’ She gestures to the cloak I’m wearing. ‘I was going to go with Aron, but he is … he is not in good spirits today.’ She looks at me a little anxiously.

  ‘Um … I’m not going to the sanctuary, not yet. But I’ll go with you later, if you’d like.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She falls into step beside me. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out for a walk. Into the city.’

  ‘The city?’ Her voice rises in surprise. ‘But why?’

  ‘Well … my father grew up here. He told me about some places he used to visit, so I thought I would try to find them.’ A complete lie, but Odette seems to accept it. ‘Do you know where Long Ship Street is? It’s in Lower Farne –’

  My cousin is already shaking her head. ‘No. I’ve never been into any part of the city.’ She glances at me and blushes faintly (though I’m trying to conceal my astonishment). ‘I wasn’t supposed to be queen, you see. So learning about the kingdom, and the flightless and so on … it never seemed important. And I’m not like Aron; I hate politics, and studying papers, and having to make decisions.’ Lowering her voice, she leans towards me. ‘I know there are things wrong, in the kingdom. But I don’t know how to fix them. My husband will though. I hope.’ Her colour deepens. ‘Have you heard I’m to be married, cousin? To Lord Siegfried.’ She grins suddenly. ‘I don’t know yet how much we have in common, but I shall enjoy looking at him. He’s amazingly handsome.’

  ‘Is he? I’m glad for you.’ I’m not sure what else to say. We part in the main hall, and I take the staircase down to the courtyards behind the castle, to the stables and the delivery yards. From there, I make my escape into the city.

  The broad, paved roads of Upper Farne are pleasant enough, filled with the sturdy stone mansions of lower-ranking nobles and wealthy merchants. There are gardens and trees, and I walk along more than one bustling shopping street. Still, I can’t enjoy my freedom from the Citadel. There are Dark Guards here too, stationed on corners or patrolling the arcaded avenues. None of them seems to pay me any attention, but I put up the hood of my cloak and hurry onward, downward.

  Gradually, the city around me changes. The roads become narrow lanes, many with open drains running down the centre, stinking and buzzing with flies. The buildings are of wood instead of stone, jammed together, and so tall that they block out much of the sky. I can no longer see the Citadel, and I begin to lose my sense of direction. There are no guards here, but lots of people. Ill-dressed, ill-shod – ill-fed, by the looks of them. I have to start asking for help to find my way. Those I approach reply helpfully enough, but they stare at me as though they’re not really sure who – or what – I am. I press on. I have the feeling that I’m being watched.

  Eventually I reach what one smallish b
oy tells me is Long Ship Street; there is no street name that I can see, but the inn at the corner of the road is called ‘The Long Ship’, according to its painted sign. I make my way past a few dingy shops, their wares – not-so-fresh fish, tallow candles, an assortment of pawned items – displayed on rickety tables. The rest of the street, as it twists its way down to the shore of the fjord, seems to be made up of badly maintained tenements erected around tiny, dank courtyards. There are piles of rubbish everywhere.

  An elderly-looking woman is sitting nearby on the steps of one building, staring at me.

  ‘Would you be able to show me where Crowsnest Court is?’

  She doesn’t answer. But there’s no one else nearby. I check my pockets – wishing I’d thought to bring more money with me – and show her a silver half-sovereign. ‘I said –’

  ‘I heard. And I might.’ Her gaze switches to the coin in my hand. ‘Yes, I might.’

  Once I’ve dropped the coin into her palm, careful not to touch her, she gets up, beckons to me and begins to walk further along the street.