Chapter 12

Valentyna broke her fast early and privately on the balcony of her bedchamber. she had changed rooms not so long ago. at first, after learning of Romen’s murder, she had wanted to cling to his memory, to remember every word, every smile, every touch they had shared together, so briefly, in her bedroom.

More recently, however, with her marriage looming, she had decided she must bury those memories and put aside anything that prompted their return. Hence the move into the new quarters. Her new room had been her mother’s. It was from her mother that she had inherited a taste for simple, fine things, and this chamber and its suite of rooms used natural light and space to achieve a sense of calm. And calm was what Valentyna needed right now. She was still deeply upset from the previous night’s events, and although not hungry after her fitful sleep and fretful awakening, she had adhered to her father’s long-held advice that bad news and bad moods were best dealt with on a full belly. Nevertheless, she had ordered only the lightest of meals, consisting of a small sugared roll, a single lightly boiled egg, a sliced pear, and a pot of dark, strong tea.

She had left the letter from Ylena unopened by the side of her tray until she had picked over the fruit and egg, neither of which she tasted, and downed her first cup of tea. Valentyna suspected the letter would contain an outpouring of beautifully crafted yet cringing apologies and hated the thought of reading them, let alone facing the woman who had so misread her affections. She was sure her face still burned from the combined horror and embarrassment of Ylena’s error, although Valentyna was uncertain whether this intense discomfort was for herself or on behalf of Wyl’s sister. Both probably, she thought glumly.

She poured a second cup of tea, this time with a slice of lemon instead of sweetening honey, and waited until she had sipped from its steaming contents before breaking the seal on the letter. It was a sharp surprise to discover that it was not even close to what she had imagined. A brief and succinct apology for what Ylena called her unforgivable behavior was followed by an equally concise confirmation that she was already on her way to Felrawthy. She specifically asked not to be followed, and urged the Queen to write immediately to Celimus with news that she was sending Wyl Thirsk’s sister as a token of her loyalty to the King of Morgravia.

The second half of the single sheet was softer in its intentions, if not in its words, and reminded Valentyna of things her father might say. Unlike her father, though, the words felt as though they had been written by someone not used to being openly affectionate, yet who cared deeply for her well-being. Frankly, Valentyna thought, drumming her fingers on her seat, Ylena simply did not know her well enough to write with such tender, albeit awkward, familiarity.

Tears stung her eyes and she hastily rubbed them away. She had not intended to cry, but weep she did, hating herself for these last days of such hysterical behavior. From Wyl’s description of his sister all that time ago, she had expected Ylena Thirsk to be a gentle, fragile sort of character. Despite hearing how she had overcome such enormous trauma, Valentyna had still been stunned by the confident and direct woman who had presented herself at the court of Briavel.

She put down the letter, picked up her cup, and let the steam from the tea warm her face, which felt chill from being outside on this still brisk spring morning. It struck Valentyna that Ylena had behaved in a fairly masculine fashion throughout her short time at Werryl. This had occurred to her well before the kiss, even before the supper; it had begun to resonate as early as their stroll in the gardens. Ylena had showed all the poise and upbringing of a noblewoman, but she appeared to think like a man. Valentyna prided herself on being an adept judge of character, but Ylena’s disposition was not easy to explain yet unusual enough to notice. At first she had thought she was imagining it, but during supper Ylena had taken over the conversation and led the discussion to Celimus and Cailech as though they were sitting in a war room.

She had heard her father conversing with his soldiers for too many years not to recognize the similarity of the situation.

That aside, she wondered about Ylena’s uncanny habit of pacing while she was thinking. That had rocked Valentyna only marginally less than the wretched kiss. The likeness to Romen was too painful to bear. Valentyna remembered how she had had to look away and how shallow her breathing had become as she watched Ylena. And then the worst part—that terrible incident in Ylena’s chamber. Valentyna blamed herself for it. Ylena had lost so much—parents, brother, husband, the family friend Gueryn le Gant. And then she had learned of the tragedy at Felrawthy. The emotions had all boiled over, presumably, and she had sought affection from someone who seemed to be offering it. Valentyna made an involuntary sound of disgust. And yet the explanation sounded too neat and tidy, as though she were contriving every excuse to explain the curiosity that was Ylena Thirsk.

Far more likely, the practical voice in Valentyna’s head suggested, the girl had a liking for women. But even that did not make sense. A woman who wanted to lie with other women surely did not have a male childhood sweetheart; nor did she marry that man as soon as they were both old enough. When Wyl Thirsk had told her and Valor about Alyd Donal’s death, he had also described the great love between Alyd and his Ylena.

Valentyna closed her eyes in frustration. And then the nagging thought, which had called from the edges of her mind almost since Ylena’s arrival, filtered to the top of her consciousness and set a new and chilling problem before her. Ylena’s handkerchief—the one she had handed Valentyna when she had wept in the garden—was the same linen that she herself had given to Romen! How could Ylena possibly own it?

The Queen put down her cup, stood, and leaned against the balcony railing. Was she imagining things?

No! It was her own handkerchief. She had even mentioned it to Elspyth at Aleda’s funeral. Elspyth had been weeping for Aleda and Valentyna had put an arm around her petite companion and handed her a beautiful square of embroidered linen. She closed her eyes to remember the words she had shared with her friend: I gave Romen an identical kerchief, she had whispered. You keep this. Now both my best friends own one.

She repeated the words in her mind as she gazed down onto Werryl Bridge and its endless stream of activity. Romen had died in a brothel in Briavel, and Ylena’s only contact with him had occurred between Pearlis and Rittylworth, she calculated. Then they had parted, and as she understood it, they had not seen each other again before he died. Valentyna had given Romen the handkerchief long after he had left Morgravia and the Razors, and he had lived the rest of his numbered days in Briavel.

A new thought struck the Queen. Perhaps that hateful woman, Hildyth, had stolen it from him. But why take a square of meaningless linen? And even if she had stolen it from Romen at the Forbidden Fruit, how could Ylena now have it in her possession?

Wyl, Romen, Ylena, and Hildyth—what did they have in common? Why was she even linking them in her mind? Wyl and Ylena were related; that one was obvious. Romen and Wyl had fought together in vain to save her father and had certainly saved her. Romen had rescued Ylena, keeping a promise to her dead brother, Wyl. And Hildyth? Hildyth was connected only to the man Valentyna had loved, through death—a blade in the heart.

But no. There was another link, was there not? She shook her head in a futile attempt at denial, but it whispered through her raging thoughts. A shining, clear notion that traveled brightly through the maelstrom of her mind and landed as sharply and painfully as an arrow. A notion that had been voiced by two separate people: Fynch subtly, and Elspyth more insistently.

Fynch had claimed that he believed Wyl and Romen were of one mind. Valentyna was immediately reminded of Knave and the talk of magic that swirled about the dog. She recalled Fynch’s confusion when Wyl’s cantankerous dog had taken so easily to Romen, and how Romen had called out the dog’s name in Stoneheart, though he had never met Knave before. Even more baffling for Fynch was how playfully Knave had greeted the stranger. The Queen remembered Fynch describing how Wyl’s eyes had changed color at the witch burning—more talk of magic she had ignored. And then along came Elspyth with similar murmurings. She had urged Valentyna to accept the notion of reincarnation, all but saying that she too believed Wyl somehow resonated within Romen, and that the Queen’s beloved might well be spiritually present in a new person—a woman, even. Wyl…Romen… Ylena.

Valentyna startled herself by being sick, turning just in time to avoid soiling her clothes. She sank to the floor of the balcony, upending the crockery on the tray, and gave way to deep, dry sobs. Nothing made sense anymore.

She remained curled on the balcony until the cold and the smell of her vomit brought her back to the present and the one stark reality she could not escape: marriage to Celimus. Today was the all-important fitting for her gown. She must attend to her toilet, and tolerate the seamstresses’ chatter and annoying pins and requests. The time between now and the night when the King of Morgravia would legally bed her could be counted on her fingers.

Valentyna collected her shattered wits, put all thoughts of reincarnation and magic to the back of her mind, and steeled herself for her regal duties in the coming days. Forging peace was all she would permit herself to focus upon. She had a war to prevent and a wedding to prepare for. She would do as Ylena Thirsk suggested and write a letter of appeasement to King Celimus using Ylena as barter. She might as well, now that Ylena had made her sacrifice.

Crys had risen later than Valentyna but read his letter before he dressed. Wyl suggested two options for him to consider. The first was that he try to catch up with Elspyth, who Wyl felt was on a foolhardy mission, although he did not believe she was in any immediate danger. Both he and Crys felt protective toward Elspyth and it was only right that, with so few allies, they all look out for one another. Failing this, he suggested Crys don a disguise and infiltrate Pearlis, particularly the Legion, spreading the word of Celimus’s betrayal of Jeryb and his family. Wyl listed a few names of reliable men Crys should single out in particular. He was to tell them about the treatment of Ylena and Alyd as well. Take the head of your brother, he urged; give them proof. Crys was to be patient, though. He was to avoid doing anything rash and to encourage a similar self-control in any angry Legionnaires. Wyl asked him to lie low among the Legion until Wyl himself somehow got word to him. He reinforced the point that Crys was not to even hint at the truth should the Queen ask questions about Ylena. He signed off, wishing Crys luck and hoping that they would meet again soon. He added a note to Crys to remember the password, for he could not promise he would return as Ylena.

Crys smiled grimly at the postscript. Any stranger could walk up to him in the future and claim to be Wyl. How frightening it must be for him, he thought as he turned his mind to departure. Frankly, he would be glad to be on the move again, doing something constructive. He would leave today—this morning, in fact—and was sure the Queen would quietly sigh with relief when he did so.

Valentyna gritted her teeth and got through the gown fitting. As she had expected, the seamstress and her assistants tittered around her for almost an hour. Sadly, they did not poke her with a single pin, which might have at least given her an excuse to vent some of the frustration she was feeling. Somehow she found a smile when they stood beaming at their finished creation.

She had demanded simplicity, and simplicity she had been given. Madam Eltor was used to Valentyna’s likes and dislikes, having designed gowns for the new Queen since she was old enough to attend formal engagements, but this time the dressmaker had surpassed herself. The gown had long, clean lines in a fabric that fell so beautifully into its natural folds that it took even the designer’s breath away when she saw it hanging on Valentyna’s elegant body.

“You’re a woman now,” she had whispered to Valentyna, whose eyebrows had raised slightly when she saw the plunging neckline. It revealed not only the shapely top of her arms but displayed the flawless creamy expanse of her chest, fabric meeting flesh just before any cleavage might show.

“You will have to be sewn in, of course, my dear,” Madam Eltor warned through the pins in her mouth.

Having known the Queen since childhood, the dressmaker had long ago been excused from the formality of using Valentyna’s titles. “It’s the only way we’ll get this perfect fit across your bust.” Valentyna nodded distractedly. “Finished now?”

“No,” came the reply. “Be still, child,” and the Queen of Briavel could not hide the ghost of a grin at the reprimand Madam Eltor had been giving for so many years now they had both lost count.

The gown’s only adornment was a tiny row of pearls sewn along the neckline and around the cuffs, which ended three-quarters of the way down Valentyna’s long arms.

“I’ll wager all of Morgravia and Briavel will be wearing this new length and slim sleeve by summer’s close, your highness,” one of the assistants commented eagerly.

Valentyna and Madam Eltor shared a glance in the mirror. They had been setting new fashion trends in Briavel for years, despite Valentyna’s lack of interest in her wardrobe.

“Would you like to see it with the veil?” Madam Eltor inquired, already knowing the answer.

“Not today, Margyt,” Valentyna begged. “Next time, I promise. Right now I have some urgent things to attend to and a realm to run.” She gave the older woman a beseeching grin.

The seamstress nodded, a look of long-suffering patience on her face. “Next time, then,” she said kindly, adding firmly: “Which, your highness, will be in four days. Be warned.” Valentyna groaned. “Thank you. everyone,” she said, wriggling hastily out of the dress.

“Flowers?” Madam Eltor asked.

The Queen sighed. “It is in hand. Your colleague Madam Pern is designing open creamy white roses and fairy’s breath for the posy and a wreath of white buds for my head,” she answered. “I’d prefer lavender.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Madam Eltor commented, quite used to Valentyna’s contrariness. “The white buds will echo the pearls and enhance the Stone of Briavel, which I presume you’ll wear?” Valentyna nodded. She had to admit the gown suited her, with its sleek look and sharp lines. She was not one for the rounded, softer look many of the court women preferred. The Queen liked the way her dressmaker had echoed her slightly masculine edge in the sharp plunge of the gown’s neckline, and the lack of affectation and adornment made her feel she could almost get away with wearing her riding boots beneath it. She smiled inwardly. Her people graciously accepted her tomboyish ness without reading all manner of sinister connotations into it—why could she not accept Ylena’s masculine contradictions?

“Because it doesn’t add up,” she argued.

“I beg your pardon, dear?” Madam Eltor said, the wedding gown held reverently across her outstretched arms, ready to be placed into clean muslin for the journey back to her chambers in Werryl.

“Nothing,” Valentyna murmured, embarrassed to realize that she had spoken her last thought aloud.

“Thank you, Margyt. I’ll see you soon.” She saw the seamstress and her chittering assistants to the door and called for a page.

“Find me Stewyt, please, Ross, and also summon the Duke of Felrawthy to a meeting in my solar. I will see him in an hour.”

The boy bowed and ran off on his errands. Valentyna hurriedly tied back her hair. She wished she could wear it just like this at her wedding—combed off her face and plaited. She pulled at wisps she had not quite managed to incorporate into the main plait, then made a sound of disgust at their waywardness and left them alone. A soft knock heralded the page.

“Stewyt, thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing low. “How may I help?”

Stewyt often unnerved her with his mature manner. Talking with him often felt like speaking to Krell or someone of similar age and ilk. She saw that Stewyt would make a fine chancellor in years to come; he encompassed all the right qualities, from discretion to intense curiosity about everyone and everything. He was a superb listener and rarely needed to have anything repeated.

She cleared her throat and her thoughts. “I wanted to talk to you about Lady Ylena.”

“Yes, your highness. You received her note, I presume?”

“I did, thank you. But you didn’t deliver it. I was given it with my breakfast tray.”

“That’s right, your majesty. Lady Ylena did not want you disturbed last night. She told me the contents of the letter were of no immediate import and I was to ensure both were delivered this morning.”

“Both letters?”

“The other was for the Duke of Felrawthy,” Stewyt qualified. “Is there something wrong, your majesty?”

“No, not at all. I’ve been informed that Lady Ylena left the palace during the night. Did she seem upset when you saw her?”

Stewyt frowned. “No, your highness. She was very alert, as I recall, and somewhat intense, if I might hazard that thought.”

Stewyt looked as though he had more to say. Valentyna nodded, impressed as always by his composure.

“Is there more?”

“Forgive me, your majesty, but I took the liberty of watching Lady Ylena.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I felt her manner was a trifle odd. She went to some trouble to impress upon me how tired she was and in need of sleep, yet throughout our conversation she struck me as being very much awake and caught up by a sense of urgency.”

“And you were right, of course,” Valentyna prompted.

“Yes,” the lad said, not meaning to sound smug. “I set off on my errand as requested but doubled back, just to see if my instincts were right. Chancellor Krell taught me to follow my instincts, your highness,” he added. “I watched Lady Ylena hurry out of her chamber.”

“She did mention in her letter to me that she intended to depart last night,” Valentyna replied, determined that this lad should not think Ylena was up to any mischief. She could not have gossip of that kind going the rounds and providing any future ammunition. “You recall, Stewyt, I asked you to keep her presence between ourselves, which is why I handpicked you as her page.” He nodded solemnly. “I have told no one of her presence, your highness.”

“Did anything else occur that you think is worth mentioning?”

“Well…” The page sounded uncomfortable.

“Yes?”

“She—” He stopped, and started again. “On her way past your portrait on the first landing, your highness, she paused…rather deliberately.”

“And?” Valentyna queried, not understanding the boy’s hesitation.

“She touched it, your majesty. Touched your…er, your breast, your highness.” Valentyna felt a new thrill of alarm. “Did she say anything?”

“She murmured a farewell to you, your highness. In all truth, I would say that she was trying to reach your face but wasn’t tall enough.”

“I see. Thank you, Stewyt.” The Queen quickly dismissed the page, following him out of her chamber and heading to her solar to meet with Crys Donal.

He was waiting for her. “Good morning, your majesty,” he said, and bowed.

“Crys, you look readied for travel,” she said, noting the cloak as she walked toward him, and surprised him with a brief kiss.

He blushed. “Yes, your highness, I’ve decided to leave. I think it’s only right, what with your troubles with the Legion and so on. I know I’m a thorn in your side and I agree with Ylena that I can probably be of more use back in Morgravia, being a thorn in the King’s side.” He grinned but it looked hollow.

“You’ve spoken with Ylena about this?” the Queen asked, surprised.

“No. She sent me a letter which I received this morning. She suggested I infiltrate the Legion and start spreading news of the slaughter at Tenterdyn to help turn the army against their king, your majesty.”

“Is that her plan?”

Crys shook his head. “I don’t know what her plan is, your highness.” Valentyna sat down in her favorite window seat with her back to her guest so he did not have to look at her in the eye. “Crys, since when did the Duke of Felrawthy—or any Duke of Morgravia, for that matter—take orders from a young noblewoman?”

There was a difficult pause, as she had anticipated, and then an equally awkward laugh. “Your majesty, Ylena Thirsk is no ordinary noblewoman. The surname alone tells you the stock she comes from.” He was going to say more, but she cut him off. “The fact that she is the daughter of the famous Fergys Thirsk and sister to the revered Wyl Thirsk does not necessarily make her a military strategist, though, does it? I would have thought a woman like Ylena would have been taught to embroider beautifully and make polite conversation with strangers while making an elegant tour of a room, not the art of warfare.”

“Just like you, your highness.” Crys immediately regretted his gentle sarcasm as Valentyna turned to fix him with a stare. “Forgive me, your majesty, I meant no insult. I admire you tremendously for the dazzling way you balance being a beautiful woman and a strong ruler. It’s not easy, your highness; anyone with half a brain can see that such skill requires both a feminine and a masculine side.” Valentyna dug deep and found a smile to show no offense had been taken—it was obvious that Crys was genuine in his praise, although just as obvious that he was protecting Ylena. “I don’t know, Crys. I was under the impression that Ylena was a gentle, pampered young woman.”

“Which she was, I’m sure, your highness. But plenty has happened to change that, and they do say blood will win out.”

“They do indeed,” Valentyna said cryptically. “If you’ll forgive my digging into a painful subject—her relationship with Alyd, did you know much about it?”

“Only that they were madly in love. His letters were filled with his adoration of both Thirsks. They were his family during his time in the south. What’s troubling you, your highness?” She struggled. Could she tell him? She needed to share her secret with someone and Crys was as reliable as any of her own counsel. “You don’t think she had leanings toward women, do you?” The Duke looked shocked. “Ylena? No! Whatever gave you that idea?” Valentyna made a face. “Oh, just something that happened last night between us. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Except we are,” he said, grinning, understanding what must have occurred. That would now explain why Wyl had fled in the night. “No, Ylena used to write to us as well, your highness, and she was intensely in love with Alyd. It was all she could do to talk about anything other than him, their marriage, and children.

They were planning a large brood.”

“So they wanted babies immediately?”

“Oh yes, even Alyd said they would begin a family as soon as they could.” He laughed. “They even married before we expected—couldn’t wait for us.”

Valentyna shook her head, baffled, recalling Ylena’s confusion when she had mentioned pregnancy.

“Well, she’s not pregnant, I can vouch for that. It’s why she left the table so suddenly—her monthly flux had arrived.”

Crys tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh at the thought of Wyl dealing with women’s ailments.

“I can’t imagine what’s so amusing, Crys,” Valentyna said in a vaguely injured tone.

“There is nothing funny, your highness. My apologies.”

Valentyna was sure he knew more than he was telling her, but she could not fathom what. “Is there anything else you know that could help me, Crys? Please, I feel like I’m navigating through a quagmire.” He gave her a look of tender sympathy. “Your highness, Ylena is true to you. After all that Celimus has perpetrated on her family and the family she married into, her loyalties have changed. We all love Morgravia, but we would rather fight on the side of Briavel as long as King Celimus sits Morgravia’s throne.” He surprised her by going down on one knee. “You can trust me and you can trust Ylena. She is fearlessly casting herself into the lion’s den. Whether Celimus has her killed or not, it doesn’t matter—we will never see Ylena again, that much I can assure you.” The last was said bitterly.

Valentyna reached to touch his bowed head, moved by what he had said. “Oh, Crys, I don’t want her death on my hands.”

“She has nothing else to give. Your highness, Ylena doesn’t want to live anymore—can’t you see that?

That is why she can give it up so recklessly for someone she loves.” He felt he had gone too far in mentioning the word “love,” and Valentyna’s anguished response confirmed it.

“I don’t want her love, Crys!” The Queen was shocked by the pain that moved across the Duke’s open face at her words.

“Then take her sacrifice graciously and use it for your own ends, as she asks.”

“I don’t even understand her intentions in going to Felrawthy,” Valentyna replied bitterly.

Crys stood. “I imagine she means to disrupt those talks in the north,” he said. “And somehow bargain for the deployment of the Legion back to Pearlis so your people can breathe easily again and get on with celebrating a royal wedding.” He took her hand. “And about the wedding—I don’t think you can escape that, your majesty, but you can demand equality. You can influence how this new era for Morgravia and Briavel will be felt by people. Believe me, if we can find a way to overthrow Celimus, we will, but you must proceed with this marriage.”

She had heard it before from others and given herself the same sound advice. It was time she got on with living it now. “You’re right. No doubt we shall see each other in Pearlis.”

“I might not go straight to the Morgravian capital, your highness,” Crys said, as if the decision had only just arrived in his mind.

“Not Felrawthy?” she asked, fear in her tone.

“No, that will have to wait, your highness. The time to seize back my family estate is not yet ripe. I’ve actually been thinking about Elspyth.”

Relief softened Valentyna’s expression. “You’re going after her?”

“I think I should. She’s a resilient woman and knows her mind, but she’s still only a girl alone in a strange realm with no weapons or protection—”

“Heading off into the Razor Kingdom to rescue a prisoner of its king,” the Queen finished, shaking her head. “I’m glad, Crys. Thank you.”

The Duke shrugged. “Elspyth was good to me when I needed to be reminded who I was and what needed to be done. If not for her insistence, I would have gone tearing back to Tenterdyn.”

“And lost your own life, and Felrawthy would have lost its duke.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “She saved me from my own stupidity and anger.”

“Well, you still have every right to be angry, to want vengeance, Crys, and because of Elspyth’s advice, you might yet get it.”

He sensed the sorrow behind her encouraging words. “I’m sorry that you don’t have the same opportunity, your highness.”

She forced a small smile. “Oh, I’ll find my own way.”

Crys knew as well as she did that her comment was mere bravado, but he returned her smile with a squeeze of her hand.

“How will you follow her?” Valentyna asked, changing the subject.

“I’ll start with Liryk, I suppose. I suspect your commander is rather gratified that Elspyth is out of your life, your highness”—he grinned as she nodded conspiratorially—“but he might help by asking his guards if they saw her leave.”

“What good will that do?”

“Well, I imagine Elspyth was in a hurry to leave Werryl. That being the case, I believe she might have hitched a ride with someone.” He shrugged. “It might help me follow her, that’s all.” The Queen nodded. “Be safe, Crys. We shall meet again soon, I hope.” He kissed her hand with feeling, and then the last of her allies left the Briavellian monarch to her loneliness and bleak thoughts.