Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (46 page)

“I never needed to read. I was a farmer, remember? My brother was always more than happy to read anything out loud, if I ever needed help.”

“Then why were you perusing these books?”

“... I was looking for pictures,” I admitted, feeling my face burn.

“Well! I should hardly believe it. An intelligent young woman like yourself, unable to read. That just goes to show, doesn't it, that you cannot judge a person by a single attribute alone,” Katja said decisively, pleased with herself for having concluded that I was worthy of consideration, despite my flaws. “Well, let's see here—ah.
The Everlasting Kingdom.
One of the better histories of Myros, actually.”

She flicked through a few pages of the book, humming to herself. I'd seen Michael do the same time and time again and expected to be there for hours, but Katja promptly snapped the book shut in her hand, placing it neatly atop the others.

“Did you know, one of the scholars here actually speaks Myrosi? Remarkable, isn't it? He's one of the few people left on Bosma who can do so. Certainly the only person in Kastelir.”

“What's the point in that?” I asked. “Who does he talk to?”

I'd thought it a perfectly reasonable question, but Katja chuckled to herself, covering her mouth with her fingertips to try holding the noise back. The corner of my mouth tugged into a frown, but Katja wasn't looking at me. A ripple of anger crossed her features, as though she was silently scolding herself for daring to laugh on such a day.

“Goodness, I really must return to the wake, mustn't I? My mother shall be worried sick—I dare say she might even wonder where I am,” Katja said wearily, gripping the arm of the sofa and pulling herself to her feet. “That is, unless you might... ”

I stared blankly at her, not certain what she wanted of me. The way she looked at me made me feel as though we'd been close friends for months, but as much as I wanted to help her through this difficult time, I couldn't go to the funeral. Death and death alone would be on people's minds, and in lingering on it, surely they'd
know
what I was, what I'd wanted to do.

“I'm sorry, Katja. I can't,” I said, not as firmly as I could've.

“Oh, Rowan, it'll be fine, honestly. I know you spoke with uncle. Why, I'd go as far as to say you knew him better than some of the lords and ladies and lieges who are supposedly grieving the loss of him,” Katja said, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet before I could protest. “There are close to a hundred guests in attendance; your presence shan't cause a problem, I assure you.”

Katja squeezed my hand and smiled at me as best she could, eyes stinging with tears once more. A strange sensation crept up my throat, a sickness with no source, and it took all that I had in me to shake my head.

“I—I don't have anything to wear,” I tried.

“That's what you were worried about? You ought to have said,” Katja said, brightening, taking my other hand in her own. “We'll find you something suitable, dear.”

“No.” I shook my head, pulling my hands free. Katja reached for them again, fingers wrapping around my wrists as the sickness in my throat tricked down to the pit of my stomach. “I'd much rather stay here, Katja.”

Katja's jaw tensed and disappointment became her. It wasn't until then that I appreciated how much taller she was than me; she stepped forward, grip tightening, tears threatening to spill over.

“When you came to me, Rowan, it was such a great comfort. I had thought that—well, that there was some connection between us, and that you might...” Katja said in a whisper, and my vision clouded and flashed with how unwell I felt. It was as though her fingers were irons bound around my wrists, but I couldn't bring myself to move, to pull away; it was her nature as a healer that was making me feel like this, something beyond her control, beyond her awareness. If I reacted, I'd be giving myself away. She'd know. I couldn't allow that. “You were going to say something, the other day. I couldn't fathom what, at the time, but now that I think about it, I—”

“Alright!” I yelped, prying my hands free the moment her grip relaxed. “I'll come with you, alright? Come on. Let's go.”

I was at the door when Katja coughed to reclaim my attention. Fingers on the handle, I turned, desperately hoping that she'd changed her mind.

But she only arched her brow and said, “Your clothes, Rowan. You can't very well turn up in something so colourful. Ah—I suppose you couldn't read the note I left on these for you, could you? Not that it stopped you from putting them to use, I see.”

Simultaneously revealing herself as my benefactor and digging through the clothes I'd left spread out across one of the armchairs, Katja managed to produce something that was suitable enough, she supposed. She handed me a white shirt and told me to change into it, back to me. I hesitated, clutching the shirt between unsteady fingers, but didn't ask her to leave the room. Instead, I changed as quickly as I could, not about to demand anything of her. Not today. She wasn't herself; she was as shaken as I was.

Katja insisted on brushing my hair before we left, and was particularly ruthless, when it came to any tangles. Deeming me moderately presentable, Katja took my arm, and I put any lingering discomfort down to my reluctance to attend the wake.

The wake itself took place in one of the first parts of the castle I'd spent any real amount of time within, but I scarcely recognised the place. The banquet hall was awash in candlelight, revealing the room to be bigger than I'd imagined, and though the table still resided in the middle, dozens of armchairs had been brought out for the dozens of guests. Some of them huddled together, while others wished to mourn or eat in private, all of them draped in white finery.

Katja tilted her head at Queen Kidira, who sat in the far corner. She scowled at Katja, but I imagined it was only because she had been worried. If an assassin could strike down a King, then her daughter could hardly be considered safe, either. The look she shot me, however, was what it was. Akela stood behind the Queen, back straight, spear in hand, and I half-expected Queen Kidira to send her my way and have me escorted out of the hall.

“Let's take a seat, shall we?” Katja asked, tugging me towards a cluster of chairs. Some of them were placed back-to-back, and I took the lead so that I could seat myself in the chair that Kouris' horns jutted over the top of. “There—much better. Now I do not feel as though I ought to be seeking people out.”

I was glad that Katja didn't feel compelled to make rounds of the hall. No one looked at me as I came in, and no one cared who I was; they certainly hadn't whispered
necromancer
behind my back. Still, I felt safer for sitting, hidden from half of the hall.

There was no shortage of food and drink spread out across the table, and I wondered if a glass of wine would calm me further. Ultimately, I decided there were too many people to weave my way around, too many people to stop me and ask how I knew King Jonas, and so I decided to forgo drink, unless Katja felt compelled to fetch them for us.

A portrait of King Jonas hung in the centre of the room. People gathered around it, gesturing to it as they sipped on their wine, all of them nodding solemnly. A murmur of conversation filled the hall, and at once it was too little and too much. It didn't rise above the deep, sorrowful sounds the band drew out of stringed instruments on the balcony above, nor was it drowned out by the music.

“That's Sir Ightham, is it?” Katja asked, leaning towards me.

My eyes darted across the room, following her gaze. I'd failed to pick Claire out of the crowd, and for good reason. She stood with her back to the wall, mirroring Akela in all ways, down to the spear in her hand and the Kastelirian armour she wore.

“That's her,” I replied, convinced that I shouldn't have been seeing Claire like that. Her reward for coming this far, for giving up all she had, was to be dressed in another nation's armour; I did not imagine she felt any pride in the colours she wore.

“Not exactly what I was expecting,” Katja remarked. “But I should like to speak to her regardless.”

A few feet away, a group of scholars far too young to sit on the throne were discussing the effect choosing a new ruler would have on the economy, while others were wondering out loud whether choosing a new Sovereign from what had once been the Old West was truly in the spirit of what Kastelir was supposed to stand for.

I listened to them idly, attention drawn away by the sound of King Atthis' voice. Without horns to give him away – or, indeed, antlers – I hadn't known he was there, and though I didn't mean to eavesdrop, it was hard not to overhear him.

“You have been silent for half an hour or more,” the King commented. “Something weighs upon your mind.”

“We have just laid Jonas to rest in the crypt,” Kouris replied gruffly. “Of course
something weights upon my mind
.”

People came and went, offering Katja their condolences, but to them, I was invisible. While Katja was subjected to tale after tale revolving around the more memorable parts of King Jonas' life and reign, I had nothing to distract myself from the conversation unfolding behind me.

“And for twenty-seven years, you too rested in an empty crypt,” King Atthis said.

“Then Jonas' life has been exchanged for my own. Is that it?”

“No, No. Do not give me
that
look, Kouris. This would've happened, were you here or otherwise.”

Kouris grunted, and a long pause followed. The lull in conversation was only interrupted by a third voice, one I didn't recognise. It was nothing of interest; a servant scurried over to ask if more wine ought to be brought up, and King Atthis dismissed him quickly, saying he wasn't to be bothered with such trivial matters for the rest of the day. The servant left, but minutes passed before either of them spoke another word.

“It's Kidira, isn't it?” Atthis asked. When Kouris gave no reply, he said, “You know that you may speak freely around me.”

“... it's Kidira. Of course it's Kidira—it's always been her, and yet she looks right through me. Won't speak a word to me. It's as though I'm not even here; like I'm still back in Canth. If she doesn't look at me soon, doesn't speak to me, then I will know I
am
a ghost, dead these last twenty-seven years after all.”

The woman who'd been speaking with Katja left her with the assurance that she was there for her, should she ever need someone to talk to, and without anyone vying for her attention, Katja caught the last of what Kouris said. She frowned, sympathetic, but gave the impression that she'd just as soon roll her eyes at her mother.

Kouris' words carried the ache she felt into my bones themselves. If only she'd tell Queen Kidira what had truly happened. It'd never excuse all that she'd done, the years she'd been absent, but it would at least start to make sense of what had happened. Surely that would mean
something
to Queen Kidira.

“What did you expect, Kouris? Did you expect to return, and for everything to be as it once was? Kidira is not the woman you left widowed. For twenty-seven years, she ensured that your memory was respected—she named her
daughter
after you. She felt nothing but pride when she spoke of you, believing you had faced your past and atoned for it; and then she discovers that you have merely run from Kastelir. From
her
. How is she supposed to begin processing all that?”

“I had no choice. You know I didn't. I even asked her to go with me, but her duty was to Kastelir, and I understood that. I respected that. I had
no choice
,” she hissed, doing what she could to keep her voice down. “If I wasn't dead, Kastelir would've fallen apart in years. You think I haven't spent each and every day thinking of her? Praying at Canthian temples to those long gone gods of yours for a reason to come back here? I exiled myself from Kastelir, from Kidira. Thought it was better if I let her think me dead. Thought she might move on—find a way to be happy.”

“Come now. You know Kidira will never be happy until every violent thought in her Kingdom turns to ash and not a single Kastelirian goes hungry. Do not think she has been alone these twenty-seven years, either,” Atthis said sternly, and I dared to look across the room at Queen Kidira, certain she could feel my eyes on her. People drifted towards her, and she greeted them civilly, never intentionally seeking anyone out. All the while, Akela stood behind her, back straight, chin raised. “You expected too much of her, Kouris, and not enough of yourself. You swore vows and broke them the moment the past came knocking at your door; do not be surprised if it takes another twenty-seven years for her to set eyes on you again.”

The words smarted. Over the back of the chair, I saw Kouris' horns bow forward.

“It's funny. I really thought I was doing her a favour—or I convinced myself I did, to make leaving easier. Not that there was anything
easy
about it, trust me. But I always felt like there was some part of Kidira, buried away, that made her resent herself for loving me. Look at what I was, what I did. Kidira, she could bring nations to bow without sticking a blade through anyone.”

The words came out thickly, difficult for Kouris to form, and no easier for Katja and I to overhear. We looked away from each other, both hoping that the conversation wouldn't pick back up, and from the corner of my eye I saw Katja staring at her hands with the same sort of intensity that had turned her eyes dark days ago. She was stricken by some shade of guilt, having taken her mother's loss so lightly.

We were saved from wrapping ourselves up in the concept of twenty-seven years, in all that could be done, and the way people changed, but didn't change, by a balding man in a long, loose thawb. He swooped over, bowing down to take one of Katja's hands between both of his own.

“Lady Kouris! How it pains me to have to meet under such circumstances,” he said, tone a tad dramatic, in spite of the sincerity lacing his voice. “Would that I were able to congratulate you on the news of your recent engagement without such a tragedy overshadowing it.”

“Lord Adiur,” Katja said, smiling as much as seemed to be permitted at a wake. “I've had the pleasure of your friendship for long enough to feel the full effects of your well-wishes without you having to voice them. Please, don't trouble yourself. My spirits are eased to see you here. And your good wife, is she with you—?”