Shadowforged (Light & Shadow) (21 page)

Miriel met my eyes, and I saw that she understood the feelings I could hardly understand myself. She knew how much it hurt for me to hide things from Roine, from Temar, and she knew how it hurt to become the shadow I had hoped I would never be. She would never apologize for asking me to give up my innocence, give up those I loved—no, Miriel reckoned that worth the cost. But she understood the price I paid, and she was fair enough that she would not shrink from giving up something equally precious. At last, she nodded again, and I tried to smile at her.

“Do not think of him,” I advised her. “You have to give him up. You only have to bear it for another month, that is all—when you’re married, he will go. He will go off questing, or go run an estate. Let him go, then. And this will fade.”

“Will it?” She was not angry anymore. She looked lost. She wanted to believe me. I bit my lip and nodded, hoping beyond hope that I was right, and at last she whispered, “I understand. I will give him up.” I gave a sigh of relief, but it was too soon. She nodded to me, regally. “Go summon him, then. I will seek his advice.”

“But you said—“

“I said I would give him up. But we need this information.” Her voice sharpened. “Can you think of anyone else that has it? Anyone we can trust?” Finally, regretfully, I shook my head, and she nodded. “Then go. Summon him to me before I lose my resolve to be cold to him.”

I went.

Miriel was cold, indeed, when Wilhelm arrived. She bade him be seated, and then she paced, her voice clear but her face turned away. I alone knew that she could not bear to see his eyes when she asked him how she could better enchant the King. Wilhelm himself looked stricken—he doubted her love for him, and he yearned for it. Even as I would not wish him pain, I hoped that he might doubt for a little longer. If Miriel could only keep him here, caught between hope and doubt, she could use his knowledge, but if either doubt or hope won out…Wilhelm was as passionate as Miriel. Who could say what he might do?

“My Lady, his Grace much admires the Lady Marie,” Wilhelm offered. “His mother, the Dowager Queen, Gods save her, has much remarked upon Lady Marie’s…pleasant… nature.”

“Pleasant,” Miriel repeated. She had not moved from where was she standing, staring out the window, but her shoulders were rigid. I could see her anger rising.

“Not that you are not pleasant,” Wilhelm hastened to assure her. He started to rise, to go to her, and then caught sight of my stare. I shook my head, and he sat down, slowly. “My Lady, everyone knows that the Lady Marie has no opinions on statecraft. She is well-taught, but she does not share her own thoughts. She speaks only of embroidery and—“ He broke off as Miriel turned to him at last. Her eyes were cold and hard.

“Indeed,” she said. “I see what I must do. Thank you for your advice.” She stared at him for a moment, then turned back to the window. “You can go,” she said, over her shoulder, and Wilhelm’s eyes widened. He had never seen her like this before—no yearning glances, no sweet smiles. He hesitated, but she did not turn back to him, and eventually he left, giving an awkward bow to her back, and a nod to me.

When the door closed behind him, Miriel turned to look at me. Her face was screwed up with determination.

“That was good, right?” Her hands were balled up.

“It was.” I nodded and stepped closer, and she swallowed. “It’s not for much longer,” I assured her, and she looked away.

“Yes,” she agreed, in a small voice.

Chapter 21

Miriel was pleasant. She was sweet, she was kind, she rarely raised her voice except to laugh at the King’s jests. She hung on his every word. Most importantly, she never debated him as she once had. She was still clever, citing old philosophers or court sages, but she never pitted herself against Garad—her lively conversation was always, always in agreement with him.

As he grew more and more irate at the letters from Jacces, and convinced that he must send troops to restore order, Miriel never once wavered in her agreement with him. Even I, who knew her the best of anyone, never saw her eyes flash, and never heard the strain in her tone. She could not have been a more devoted ally—whatever he wished to hear, he heard it from her lips.

It was only barely enough for her to keep him, for the thing she feared had come to pass: Garad’s interest was wavering. Had the marriage treaty not been signed, he would have been slipping away from her; but then, had the marriage treaty not been signed, he would not have been so irritated with her. Having stood defiant against his guardians, his mother, and the Council to pick Miriel for love, Garad was now determined that each of them should see Miriel as the perfect match, and it was a futile effort. Queen, Guardian, and Council alike were determined to stop the folly of this ill-advised betrothal, and whenever Garad found that they did not yet love Miriel, the blame fell on her shoulders.

Once, I had thought Miriel foolish to worry so, but her detractors were always working to persuade Garad to break his word. I do not know what sly words Guy de la Marque poured into the King’s ear, or what impassioned pleas the Dowager Queen might have made. All I know is that, in those weeks before the marriage, the King was alert, as he had never been before, for imperfection and impropriety in his betrothed. Miriel could be charming and well-mannered, yes—even deferential. But she could not rival Marie de la Marque’s birth, or Linnea Torstensson’s, or Maeve of Orleans,’ and he punished her for it, snapping criticisms of everything she said and did. If he had been any other man, or perhaps if she had been a princess born, she could have shaken some sense into him; he was the King, no one could do such a thing. No one had ever said no to him, not even his mother—her bright, sickly child had outlived his childhood, and now no one knew how to control him.

So when the King commented critically on Miriel’s gown, or her jewels, she could only apologize. When he spoke of his grand alliance with Dusan, she could not disclaim that the tensions with Kasimir were as bad as they had ever been, his spies gathering evidence of assassination plots and warmongering raids on the Voltur mountains; she agreed that Garad had led the country to peace. When he spoke of the rebellion, of rooting out the insurgents and hanging them in the marketplaces, Miriel only nodded and concurred. If she wished to get herself on the throne, she could do no less.

Her only comfort was the friendship of Wilhelm, and even if I knew that such friendship was to tempt fate, it would have taken a heart of stone to deny her the only joy she had in the world. Her burning belief in the rebellion, and her desire to escape her uncle’s tyranny, were poor comfort—and whatever we shared, it was underscored, always, by ambition. We kept each other to the difficult path we had chosen, and we lent each other strength, not comfort. And so, as Miriel’s resolve to be cold to him failed, I could not bring myself to remind her of her duty as harshly as I had before.

As Miriel feared that the King’s love waned in the face of regret, it was Wilhelm who could comfort her. It was Wilhelm who kept the King steady by singing Miriel’s praises to the court, and Wilhelm who provided her with updates on the King. When she read his letters, I could see the tension melt out of her shoulders. More than I could, it was Wilhelm who could convince Miriel that even if the first flush of love faded, even as the King was forced to defend his choices every day, his heart yet belonged to Miriel. And, more than I, it was Wilhelm who could plot with Miriel on how best to turn the King’s mind to the rebellion, even as she struggled to keep his affections.

“You cannot truly doubt him,” I said to Miriel one night, as she undressed. “Wilhelm is right—the King loves you still, he defied Guy de la Marque for you today without pause.”

There had been an explosive Council meeting before dinner, where de la Marque had accused the Duke of using Miriel to seduce the King, so that the Celys family might rise above their station. At such a chillingly accurate accusation, the Duke had only laughed and entertained the Councilors by recounting how surprised he had been to learn of the King’s infatuation with Miriel. With the King laughing, as well, de la Marque’s supporters had chosen to sit silently rather than come to de la Marque’s defense. Even the truth, it seemed, would not sway the King from Miriel.

“And he is honorable,” Miriel said, biting her lip. “He gave his word in front of all the court. If I keep faith with him, then he will keep faith with me. And then…” She trailed off and looked down. I knew what then: then she would spend the rest of her life walking the same fine line of enchanting the court and holding the heart of a man she did not love, forever wondering what might have been if she had given up her ambitions for Wilhelm. That her uncle would have had her killed would be of no consequence to her heart; she would spend each day imagining the ways she and Wilhelm might have escaped, or persuaded the King to let them marry.

Miriel’s thoughts must have run nearly parallel to my own, for she said, “At least I will be free.” Her maidservant would not understand, but I did. This was Miriel’s great gamble, the goal she had had before she discovered the rebellion: become Queen, and she was free of her uncle forever. Becoming a Queen was the only way that Miriel could ever have a fighting chance against those factions that tried to use her as a pawn.

Miriel and I had both reckoned that this was the only way to keep her above the fray, and Miriel knew now that this was her chance to help the rebellion as well. In the aftermath of an attempt on our lives, our horror fresh and our instinct high, we had banded together and reckoned the bargain worth making. It had seemed a better deal then than it did now, living each day with the constant wear of vigilance and uncertainty.

And so, when Miriel asked me to arrange a meeting between her and Wilhelm, alone, I did not deny her request as I should have done. It was the week before the wedding, and Miriel had endured countless hours of being fitted for elaborate gowns that would overwhelm her tiny frame, being stuck with pins and criticized by the Dowager Queen—who oversaw the preparations—for her lack of figure. When she was not being pulled about like a doll, she must endure countless lectures from the Duke regarding his views on any number of subjects. Miriel had just returned from one of these.

“Another lecture. So that I will know what to say if the King decides to speak of grain shortages on our wedding night,” she said acidly. I stifled a laugh, but I frowned at her face. I could see her exhaustion, and it was a mirror of my own. It required twice as much vigilance and three times as much sneakiness to keep watch over Miriel now. With so many people watching her, I must be careful that no one noticed me. I, too, was worn down with work and worry.

“Please,” Miriel said, “I must see Wilhelm.” Seeing the exhaustion in her eyes, I did not even argue. I sent a page running to give a note to another page, to take a note to one of Wilhelm’s servants. By now, the matter of a clandestine meeting was hardly difficult for me.

The meeting was all wrong from the start. A servant with any sense would have invented some pretext to haul Miriel away, but I, bone-weary myself, did not heed my own instincts. No matter how many times I chided myself for my stupidity in the days that followed, at the time I only stood and watched them. They stood a few feet apart, awkwardly, but anyone could have seen that they yearned toward each other. The artful show that Miriel put on, the way she could convince the watching court that the air fairly crackled between her and Garad, was not necessary here. They were head over heels in love, and yet their conversation was a marvel of stilted formality.

“Is he still determined, then?” Miriel asked, and Wilhelm nodded. When Jacces’ letters resumed, Garad had been quite as enraged as Miriel had feared, and she had begged Wilhelm to put aside his habitual caution and speak for leniency. Apparently, he did not have Miriel’s silver tongue.

“I told him that his legacy would be enough to crush Jacces and his philosophy,” he said helplessly. “And he told me that the rebellion is a rot at the heart of Heddred, and he must root it out before it spreads.”

“A rot!” Miriel curled her hands into fists.

“We have to be patient,” Wilhelm advised her, and I raised my eyebrows. As well as tell Miriel to grow wings and fly. Indeed, she flared up.

“How can I be patient?” she demanded. “There’s no
time
to be patient if he’s going to send my uncle. You must do something!”

“What
can
we do?” he asked practically, and she nearly sneered at him, beloved though he was to her. She drew herself up.

“I made myself from nothing into a queen in waiting,” she asserted. “I can set my will to this, too. And you are no less intelligent than I.”

“Perhaps you could tell him that you do not want your wedding overshadowed by bloodshed,” he suggested, and she shook her head violently.

“
I
cannot say anything until I have a crown on my head and I am carrying his heir,” she said flatly. He winced at the thought, but she did not stop. She went on, her little scowl the only sign of her determination and her own pain. “Until then, it only you we can trust to speak for them.” He shook his head, but she held out her hands, pleading. “I know that you have lived your life in the shadow of the throne, but please, surely you can risk this for the rebellion? If not, for love of me?”

“For love of you, I must speak of a rebellion the King despises so that
you
can have a clear path to his bed,” Wilhelm said bitterly, and Miriel hesitated, then nodded.

“I should hope that you would not hesitate to ask the same of me,” she said softly. “I do not ask anything of you that I do not ask of myself, every day. Just as you must give me up, so I must give you up, so that I can advise the King and guide Heddred to a better future.”

“You seem happy enough about it,” he shot back, and she went as pale as if he had slapped her. Neither of them could bear the other’s pain; and, more the pity, they could only take their hurt out on each other.

“I am not happy,” Miriel said fiercely. “I am not, I swear it. On my honor, Wilhelm, I gave you up because we would never have been allowed to marry—my uncle would have killed me for it. I thought my love for you was nothing but infatuation, I swear I thought that it would fade, for us both. And now that the King wants me, there is no way out for us.”

“There is,” he said urgently. “You fear his love is slipping away, Miriel—then let it go. We will go away together, anywhere. We can help the rebellion. Anything you wish.” For a moment, she was going to say yes. I saw it in her eyes. She was torn, but at last she shook her head, resolute. It was too great a change, she was too uncertain.

“Neither of us would survive it. Your family and mine would be shamed, your friend would be shamed. And is there any better way to help the rebellion than to have the King’s heart, and turn him slowly to the rebellion? I would know all of his plans, I could have given them information no one else would know. Can you think of any place better for me to be?”

She waited until, slowly, he shook his head.

“You said this cause was your own,” Miriel reminded him. “Should the good of the Kingdom mean less to us than our own happiness?” Again, defeated, he shook his head. “Then you know what we must do,” she said, and he nodded.

“I don’t know how I’ll bear it,” he said, his voice choked, “to see you marry him.”

“Or I—to do so,” Miriel responded, with a flash of wry humor. She sobered almost at once. “But I must find the strength.”

There was a pause; it would have been long enough for me to stand, make a noise, break the spell. But I did nothing, and as if in a dream, they moved towards each other. He bent his head and she stood up on the tips of her toes to meet his mouth. I averted my eyes courteously, and so I only heard only a gasp from Miriel and a cry from Wilhelm as the door to the cellar creaked open.

“Very interesting,” said Garad.

I turned my head sharply, and I was on my feet in a moment. He held a hand out to me, commanding, and I stopped. He was my monarch—but Miriel was my Lady. I could not bring myself to lift arms against this man, but, confident that he would not, could not, stop me, I walked slowly to her side, my hands out to show I meant him no harm. He followed me with his eyes.

“Your Grace,” Miriel whispered, and his eyes flashed.

“No,” he pronounced. “Do not speak.” His face was cold and hard. “I can hardly believe what I saw with my own eyes. Do you know, my mother warned me of this, and I argued with her. She told me that your low breeding would show, and I told her that you were the finest of the ladies at court. And now, I see that she was right.” His face twisted. “You have betrayed me.”

“Your Grace, the fault is mine alone,” Wilhelm said. Miriel’s face went blank; having exhorted him to take a risk for the rebellion, she was now forced to watch him try. “I have always admired the Lady, and I see now that while I believed she might feel the same, she was trying only to—“