Dark Mist Rising (23 page)

The savages fell silent, and the boy singer paused. Then he began again, a song I had not heard. If before his voice had swelled with the chant, now it soared with an exuberant joy I had not thought that guttural language could express. This song had no words. It was pure sound, and yet in it there seemed to be both the trill of birds and the drumbeats of victory.

A single figure appeared in the doorway. Swiftly, as if he were borne on the music, the Young Chieftain crossed the hall towards the throne. He wore the same helmet, sleeveless fur tunic and boots as his captains, but the feathers of his short cape were every colour of every bird that ever existed, and the gold bands on his upper arms glittered with red jewels. I saw Lord Solek's features on a younger face, and Lord Solek's eyes, so blue that they looked like pieces of sky. The Young Chieftain had not his father's great height and muscled bulk, but he had the strength and health of a young man of twenty.

Without a moment's hesitation, he mounted the steps of the dais and sat on one of the thrones.

Behind me rose a groan, from everyone and no one. The savage soldiers tightened their grips on their knives. But not one courtier, adviser, or servant made another sound. I could only imagine how much pain must have gone into acquiring that restraint.

Now three girls appeared in the doorway. This was the first time I had ever seen any females of the savages, and for a moment astonishment overrode fear. The crowd behind me gasped.

They were very young, no more than thirteen or fourteen, and at first appeared to be naked. They were not, but the cloth that drifted around their barely budded bodies was so light and fine that it looked like mist. Their little pink nipples were visible through that thin drapery, and the pale hair of their sex. All three had hair so fair it seemed white, and the long unbound hair drifted around them as lightly as the transparent draperies. They seemed completely unafraid.

They moved forward, singing the same wordless song as the boy. It was as if the girls
floated
across the floor. When they were a quarter of the way to the dais, a tiny figure appeared in the doorway, following them. It was Princess Stephanie.

When I had seen her last, she was three years old. Now she was six, and scarcely larger than before. Always sickly, she looked as if her trembling frame could barely support all the jewels sewn on to her purple velvet gown. Her lank brown hair fell down her back. How much did she understand of what was happening?

The princess followed the singing, nearly naked girls who, compared to her, suddenly looked like mature women. Stephanie had none of her mother's boldness, nor her grandmother's dignity. She was a quaking little girl trying not to cry, and as she drew closer, pity flooded me for the fear in her huge grey eyes.

At the dais the girls stopped singing and sat gracefully on the steps. The princess climbed between them and sat on the second throne. Her feet in their jewelled slippers did not reach the floor.

Two old men stepped out from the group of advisers, Lord Rathbone and Lord Carstill. I knew them both from Queen Caroline's reign, when they had been not advisers but ordeals for her. The queen's fool witnesses much. Great landholders in the northern part of The Queendom, both had tried, and failed, to marry their sons to the widowed queen. Their sons were as stupid and untrustworthy as themselves. Over the generations, the blood had run thin. But those without intelligence may nonetheless have a kind of low cunning, and it was clear that my lords Rathbone and Carstill had sold their loyalty, bargained it to the Young Chieftain in exchange for position and power. They mounted the steps of the dais with confidence, smiling, and behind me in the crowd of courtiers ran a low hiss.

The Young Chieftain ignored it. He stood and took Stephanie's hand. She flinched. He pulled her to her feet. Lord Carstill, I remembered, was a cleric.

The marriage ceremony was brief, cut to its essential words, all poetry and joy gone. ‘Your Grace,' said Lord Carstill, smirking, ‘will you accept High Lord Tarek son of Solek son of Taryn as your husband?'

Stephanie nodded. The Young Chieftain pulled on her hand. She whispered, barely audible, ‘Y-yes.'

‘High Lord Tarek son of Solek son of Taryn, will you accept Princess Stephanie of The Queendom as your wife?'

‘Yes.' His voice was guttural but clear in the single word of a language not his own. His eyes – how could eyes be that blue? – glinted with determination. He did not look at his trembling bride but instead turned his gaze on the people of The Queendom, nobles and advisers and common folk alike, and the message of that blue stare was clear:
Do not challenge me
.

And no one did. Where was Lord Robert Hopewell, Lord Protector for the princess until she came of age? Once Lord Robert had raised an army in an attempt to save Queen Caroline – surely he would do the same for her daughter? He must be dead, along with any loyal others who had not been cowed or beaten or bribed into accepting this marriage, which was in violation not only of decency but of the customs of The Queendom since time began. The princess royal always married at seventeen. She was, unless her mother died earlier, crowned at thirty-five, when her mother abdicated. One woman must not rule too long, lest tyranny establish itself. Women, the life givers, ruled. Men, the defenders, protected that rule. That was the way of The Queendom, and the law of life itself. The only way Lord Robert would have failed in that law was if the Young Chieftain had killed him.

Tarek son of Solek son of Taryn, and now consort to the Princess Stephanie, stood grimly,. Never had two people looked less like a bridal couple. A frightened little girl and a savage warrior clad in feathers and fur, claiming what had been promised to his father.

All at once a cry ran through the crowd, and this time no one, neither nobles nor common folk, tried to stifle it. Another of the boy singers walked alone across the throne room. On a huge pillow he carried two crowns. One was a simple silver circlet. The other was the Crown of Glory.

Fashioned of heavy beaten gold, the Crown of Glory was set with jewels of every hue, a rainbow of the colours of every queen who had ruled The Queendom. Emeralds, sapphires, rubies, amethysts, diamonds. Onyx, beryl, opal, topaz. Jewels I could not name, neither the stone nor the colour. The Crown of Glory had been set on the head of every new queen on her thirty-fifth birthday, and thereafter worn only upon state occasions. I had last seen it on Queen Caroline's beautiful dark hair.

Standing beside her bridegroom, Stephanie began to cry. The Young Chieftain said something sharp, and her sobs stopped. But silent tears continued to roll down her thin cheeks.

A woman broke from the crowd and ran towards the dais. Not a lady-in-waiting, not a courtier, not an adviser, not anyone of the nobility, who should have had their princess's welfare as their first duty. This was a stout middle-aged woman in white apron and stiff little cap with white lappets: a nursemaid. Before she could reach the steps, two savage soldiers caught her and dragged her behind the dais.

‘Nana!' the princess cried.

One of the ladies-in-waiting spoke loudly, clearly, in defiance of whatever threats had been made earlier: ‘It is all right, Your Grace. They will not hurt your nana. I will see to her now. Just stay a little while longer, my dear.' The lady walked with defiant dignity after the two savages. She did not run. She did not look at the Young Chieftain. But her purple satin skirts rustled and her head was held high, without trembling at whatever retaliation might come.

Well done, Lady Margaret
.

There was no retaliation. The Young Chieftain made a slight gesture with his hand, and no soldier seized Lady Margaret. All this while the boy singer with the two crowns had continued to advance across the throne room. Now he reached the steps of the dais and knelt. When he rose again, I saw under the red dye his strong resemblance to the Young Chieftain. This was a young brother or cousin, a prince in his own right, chosen to crown Stephanie in lieu of the lords of The Queendom who should have done it. And still the crowd in the throne room did not protest. What punishment had they been threatened with if this premature crowning of their little princess did not proceed a-right? Whatever it was, only Lady Margaret had defied it, and she in only a small way.

Tears still rolled down Stephanie's face. Her skinny little neck did not look strong enough to support the Crown of Glory. The red-dyed prince carried the crown up the steps. The first singer burst again into that wordless, weirdly beautiful song of victory. Princess Stephanie bent her neck.

And the savage prince placed the Crown of Glory upon the head of the Young Chieftain.

A moment of long terrible silence while people struggled to believe what they had just seen. And then the crowd broke.

Courtiers reached for the swords that were not by their sides. Ladies screamed insults. The common folk broke ranks and rushed at the dais, murder in their eyes. The savages were ready for them, and the soldiers were armed. From the left side of the room they sprang towards the attackers. The Young Chieftain drew the knife at his belt.

I saw that knife plunge into the heart of the gardener who reached the dais first. I saw a savage's cudgel come down on the head of a courtier fighting to get to the princess. I saw blood on the throne room floor. Then I saw no more because a savage soldier dragged me behind the dais and through the same door through which Stephanie's nursemaid had been taken. I struggled and shouted, but I was bound and one-handed, and he handled me as easily as if it were I who were six years old. The door was yanked closed behind us and I heard no more of the revolt in the throne room. A revolt that I, and everyone else, knew would be futile.

The soldier opened another door, thrust me inside and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. I was in a small guardroom, now stripped of all weapons, with one barred window set high in the wall, and with me were the nursemaid and Lady Margaret.

‘No. Not any more.' As if that mattered now!

‘Roger the avenger then.' She smiled thinly, as if knowing that her words could be taken two ways. By bringing back the Blue army from the Country of the Dead, I had broken Solek's power over the palace and avenged The Queendom. But that Blue army had also killed the Greens allied with Solek, and then the Blues had proved only ‘magic illusions' that had vanished. Everyone in the palace had been related to soldiers in one army or the other. So I had killed them all, avenging myself on Queen Caroline even as I rescued Maggie. You could view events either way, but most people cannot hold in their minds two views at once. Lady Margaret was one of the few who could. I saw in her eyes that I was, all at the same time, a rescuer, a murderer, a deceiver, a witch and still and always the queen's fool.

The nurse, whom I did not know and who did not know me, cried, ‘What of the princess? What is happening? Did they dare crown her?'

‘No. They crowned the Young Chieftain.'

Both women gaped at me. The nursemaid gasped,

‘With the
Crown of Glory
?'

‘Yes.'

The nurse began to curse, a string of foul oaths more to be expected from a bargeman than from a maid of nursery. Lady Margaret stood motionless for a long moment. Then, always practical, she drew tiny embroid-ery scissors from the pocket of her gown and sawed laboriously through my bonds, pausing only a second when she first saw the stump of my right wrist.

‘Roger, what else can you tell us?'

‘When the savages crowned the Young Chieftain, the palace folk rioted. There was ... there was bloodshed. I don't know how bad it became. But it cannot last long. None of our people are armed.'

‘They are not your people,' Lady Margaret said tartly.

‘You forfeited that right, I think.'

‘No,' I said, ‘I did not. And you, you must remember, helped me do what I did.'

‘I did not know your intent. And I will not dispute with you now, when both of us are probably going to die. But, Nana,' she said, turning to the nurse, ‘I think you will be safe. The Young Chieftain has no women with him except those naked whores, and he will not want to be bothered with the care of a child on the long journey over the mountains. He will need you.'

This was much more information than I had had until now. The savages were going to take a princess royal away from The Queendom? No princess or queen ever left her own queendom except once, during her betrothal journey, to inspect the lands brought to her by her consort. But no one could expect a six-year-old to inspect anything intelligently. Nor did I expect the Young Chieftain to return Princess Stephanie – now Queen Stephanie, if the riot in the throne room had ceased long enough to crown her – to The Queendom. She would be a prisoner in that far western land that none of us had ever seen.