The Princess of Cortova (5 page)

Part Two

Development
—the moving of pieces to new positions where their mobility and activity are increased.

Trap
—a plan for tricking your opponent into making a losing move.

Day Two

8

It Gives Me the Shivers

THE GUEST COMPOUND OF
the summer palace looked like an ancient village, with many freestanding houses, all in the antique style. Every guest villa had four to six sleeping chambers, a dining porch, a sitting room, a service pantry, a water-cleaned privy that didn’t stink, a bathing room with a large pool fed by natural hot springs, and its own staff of slaves to see to the guests’ every need. The bedrooms were handsomely furnished, each with a large bowl of flowers on the table, a platter of fruit, and a jug of wine. And since all of them opened onto a private central garden, they were wonderfully airy and bright.

King Alaric’s villa was larger and more luxurious than the rest—though it was just as unremarkable from the outside, with its red-tile roof, white-plaster walls, and very little else besides a row of high, barred windows and the single entry door where Molly now stood, hesitating.

There was no telling who would answer her knock, though it would probably be Heptor Brochton. He was the senior knight on this journey, and his chief duty was to see to Alaric’s safety. He seemed to think this included keeping the wrong sort of people—that is to say, Molly—as far away from the king as possible.

Lord Brochton was of royal lineage, his grandfather having been the younger brother of old King Mortimer, making him a distant cousin of the king. He was naturally proud of this connection. But due to a cascading string of misfortunes, Heptor had been born the second son of the second son of a second son. And so, because of the law of primogeniture (which required that all lands and titles go to the eldest son so as not to break up great estates by dividing them with each subsequent generation), Heptor had inherited nothing at all but sharp wits, abundant courage, and a strong right arm. These he’d used to such advantage in the reign of King Godfrey the Lame that Heptor had won for himself the lands and fortune he’d been denied at birth. He was now so highly respected that only King Alaric and Lord Mayhew stood above him. Lord Brochton was rightfully proud of this as well.

But like many a self-made man, he was a terrible snob; and he had taken a particular dislike to Molly. He thought it unseemly that the king of Westria should allow such a common, ignorant girl into his circle of friends; and he did all he could to keep them apart.

Molly was quite aware of this, of course—Lord Brochton made no effort (except when the king was around) to hide his disdain—and it made her uncomfortable. So now as she knocked on the door to Alaric’s villa, she found herself hoping against hope that somehow, for some reason, Lord Brochton would be busy elsewhere and some other, kinder person would answer the door.

She heard the clump of boots growing louder as someone approached, and she cursed herself for a weakling as her heart slammed hard against her ribs.
Oh, for heaven’s sake,
she thought; what was the worst the man could do to her? Sneer? Curl his lip?

The door opened.

“Yes?” Lord Brochton said.

“I wish to have a word with the king,” she said.

“I’m afraid he’s occupied.”

“Then I’ll wait. You might want to
tell
him I’m waiting, though.”

This was a threat and not such a subtle one that Heptor couldn’t grasp it. Alaric had made it abundantly clear that Molly was his trusted friend and very important to their mission. To send her away, or keep her waiting needlessly, or in any way treat her with contempt would make the king very angry.

“Of course,” he said, still blocking the door and giving her a cold-eyed stare. “You can wait in the sitting room. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Then reluctantly he moved aside. She slid past him with all the dignity she could muster.

When Alaric, having been informed of her presence, came directly out into the atrium—with his doublet off and his shirt hanging loose (he’d been undressing)—Molly noticed with some satisfaction how deeply this wounded the knight. When the king then invited her into his chamber rather than meet with her in a public space, Heptor had to turn his head away to hide his disgust.

Alaric sent his servants out, then scooped up the various articles of clothing that were lying on one of the chairs and tossed them onto the bed.

“Sit,” he said, pulling over a second chair and setting it down beside hers. “I was hoping you’d come.”

“There’s a lot—”

“Yes, there is. Tell me what you think.”

“I don’t like it,” she said. “It gives me the shivers.”

“It gives me the shivers, too. I’d heard Gonzalo was a bit eccentric—wearing togas and all that. But I never expected a buffoon. Everything he said and did was peculiar, not at all appropriate or according to custom. And I rather think it was intentional. Did you notice how much he seemed to enjoy our discomfort? He was like some nasty little boy tearing wings off flies.”

Molly didn’t speak right away. She was still forming her thoughts.

“Yes,” she finally said. “It was impossible to miss how much he enjoyed it. And I agree that he did it on purpose—to confuse and disarm you so you’ll be at a disadvantage in discussing the terms. But Alaric, there’s something else.”

“Something more than that?”

She nodded. “That business about the summer palace having no great hall and his dining porch only accommodating nine, so unfortunately there will be no banquet—”

“That was a boldfaced lie, you know. He holds banquets here all the time—outdoors, on some terrace that overlooks a garden. That’s what I’ve heard.”

“My very point, Alaric. He knows you have spies, same as he does. He knows you know he’s spinning a tale, which means he
meant
to insult you. And more troubling still, this ‘intimate little dinner’ to which you can only bring two guests while the rest of your party must stay behind and eat in the guest quarters—”

“Incredibly rude.”

“No, no, Alaric—
think
! It means you can only bring two of your knights. You’ll be in a small space, under his control, practically alone—and then, and then—” She got up from her chair and went over to the bed, where a beautiful toga and mantle lay in the tangle of clothes. “He gives us these ridiculous costumes like his ancestors used to wear—”

“I told you; it’s the custom here.”

“I know. And they’re exquisite, even mine. I’m sure they cost him a fortune. But look at this thing! It’s as light as a spider’s web and will offer you just as much protection. You might as well go naked to his little dinner.”

“I see.”

She dropped the toga and returned to her seat.

“Alaric,” she said, “I’ll only ask this once, then I’ll never mention it again: Couldn’t we just leave—right now, this afternoon? Go back to Westria and find some
other
princess to get you an heir, and trust Lord Mayhew to go on strengthening your forces and keeping you safe from Reynard’s—”

“No.”

“You feel safe here? You trust King Gonzalo with your life?”

“You promised not to mention it again.”

“I’m not done mentioning it the first time.”

“All right then, finish. Tell my why, after all our planning and considering everything we stand to gain here, you think we should turn tail and run. Have you seen a vision that portends my death?”

She paused. It would be such an easy and convenient lie. But she couldn’t do it. “No,” she said. “Not exactly.”

“Not even another visit from the cat?”

“Well, yes. But there was nothing—”

“What did he say?”

She sighed. “That in the game of chess, the queen is the most powerful piece on the board.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Not helpful. But Alaric, sometimes I know things in a general way—not spelled out clearly in a vision but powerfully strong all the same. And I’ve been feeling this terrible dread. I told you about it on the ship, remember? Only now that we’re actually here—” She balled her hands into fists and pressed them together, her body tense with the effort to find words to describe it. “It’s worse, Alaric. I feel death. I feel loss. It’s overwhelming, and it’s real.”

He sat back in his chair and took his time before responding.

“Molly, I’ve been thinking about what we discussed before, about how Gonzalo might already have made an arrangement with Reynard, one that includes my death. That troubled me a lot at first. But then I thought about it some more and decided it didn’t make sense.

“Now, to answer to your question of a moment ago,
of course
I don’t trust King Gonzalo—except to act in his own interest. And if I were killed, Reynard would inherit Westria and combine it with Austlind into one immensely powerful kingdom, right on the northern border of Cortova. That wouldn’t benefit Gonzalo; it would turn Reynard into a threat. Don’t you see? Whatever we have to fear from him, it most certainly isn’t my death.”

“It sounds reasonable. But it’s not what I’m feeling. I’m feeling death.”

“As you said. But I can’t do it, Molly; I’m sorry. I can’t just turn around and leave. I’d look a fool, and I’d lose my chance, and I’d be a laughingstock—”

“Oh, you’re impossible.”

He shrugged.

“Look—you brought me here to advise you, claiming to trust my Gift. That being the case, then my foreboding ought to balance out your logic. So be careful tonight. Keep your wits about you, and for heaven’s sake, bring your best knights. Brochton for sure, plus Merrywell. Or maybe Janson.”

“No. I want you and Tobias.”

“Why, Alaric? That’s insane!”

“Because if you’re right, if danger is approaching, then a timely warning from you will be of far more use to me than a couple of knights who’ve left their swords behind, as courtesy demands.”

“Then bring me
and
Lord Brochton.”

“You know I can’t do that. It wouldn’t look right.”

“In case you weren’t aware of it, Alaric, being a king doesn’t make you immortal.”

“I had heard that, but I dismissed it as an ugly rumor.”

“At least forget the toga and wear your doublet, with chain mail underneath.”

“That would offend my host.”

“God’s breath but you’re stubborn! Will you bring the cup?”

“No. Not yet. I want to get the lay of the land first, see what other surprises the good Gonzalo has in store for us. I wouldn’t put it past him not to bring the princess at all.”

“Surely—”

“I’ll grant it’s unlikely, but no more so than having us to dinner in the palace kitchen.”

“Not the kitchen.”

“You take my meaning. And I certainly don’t want to come bearing a gift for the princess only to have her father take it instead, promising to give it to her on the morrow.”

“You’re right. He might take a fancy to it and keep it for himself—you know, for enjoying a nice little cup of chilled wine on a hot afternoon.”

“Heaven help us, Molly—what a hideous thought! Do you suppose I would then have to marry horrible old King Gonzalo?”

Suddenly it all seemed terribly funny and they laughed till they were almost sick. It felt good. It broke the tension.

But after a while, when Alaric had regained his kingly composure, Molly went on laughing, unable to control herself. The laughter just kept coming, wave after wave of it, till her face was red and her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Molly, stop,” Alaric said then, his voice sharp.

But she couldn’t. She slipped off the chair and onto the floor, where she knelt, her face buried in her hands. Still the laughter came in spasms, only now its character had changed. It was as if a dam inside her had given way, and all the emotions that had been building up inside were pouring out. She felt lighter for having shed them, so light that she was half afraid she’d float away. But Alaric was holding her now, keeping her connected to the earth—though his arms gripped her rather too fiercely, as if he were restraining a wild and dangerous beast or a madwoman having a fit.

Finally she went limp, the laughter gone. But still they remained as they were: on the floor, Molly in his arms—except that now he held her gently, as a lover would, his head leaning against her neck, his hand stoking her hair.

And then she was crying.

And then it was over.

9

A Very Deep Game

SHORTLY AFTER SUNSET, SLAVES
bearing lamps came to Alaric’s villa to escort him and his companions to dinner. They formed a tight little procession, with two slaves in front and two behind to light their way, and the three of them in the middle. Alaric went ahead, looking quite handsome in his beautiful toga—handsome, small, and defenseless. Molly and Tobias followed close behind. All of them were as watchful as cats.

The palace, like most royal residences, was fortified with both an inner and an outer curtain wall. The outer wall was extensive, enclosing everything from the stables and craftsmen’s workshops to the fishpond, the brewer’s yard, and the guest compound. The much smaller inner wall protected the king’s domain.

When the procession arrived at this inner wall, the gate was already open, a guard on either side standing at attention. But as soon as they’d passed through, it was shut behind them, its great iron bolt thrown with a harsh, metallic
clang
. The sound made Molly’s skin crawl. It was a dark reminder that walls weren’t just for keeping enemies out. Sometimes walls were for keeping people in.

They continued along a series of covered walkways lit by torches on the walls, turning first one way, then another, until finally they reached a large courtyard garden. This Molly recognized. They’d been there earlier in the day, shortly after they’d arrived. But it had looked completely different then.

Candles now lined the paths and marked the edge of the pool, while the rest of the garden, with its wealth of flowers and ornamental shrubs, lay shrouded in darkness. And the dining porch, which she hadn’t even noticed before, was ablaze with little lamps—the light glinting off the gold frames of the dining couches, casting its warm glow over the ancient frescoes on the walls, picking up the sheen of purple silk cushions, and spilling out onto the walkway beyond, right to the garden’s edge.

Suddenly Alaric came to a halt and froze in a defensive posture: leaning forward, his hands slightly raised and away from his sides as if ready to draw a sword that wasn’t there. At the same moment, Molly felt his fear pass over her like an icy draft from an open door. What had he seen that had caused him such alarm?

She squinted intently at the room—searching, searching—but nothing seemed the least bit threatening. The other six diners were already there, sitting on the benchlike couches: three and three, across from one another. And a few servants were bustling about, making last-minute preparations. But that was all.

Then something told her to look at the diners themselves.

From left to right she scanned the faces. First couch: a young boy, next to him King Gonzalo, and then the princess. Middle couch: empty, waiting for them. Third couch: older boy, vaguely familiar . . .

And then, for the second time that night, she felt the little hairs rise all over her skin. Because the next face she came to was more than vaguely familiar. It belonged to King Reynard of Austlind.

Tobias had spotted him too. He gasped and grabbed Molly’s arm.

“I know,” she whispered. Her mind was racing now, trying to put all the pieces together but finding that they didn’t quite fit. Because if Alaric was wrong and the two kings really
were
colluding to murder him—maybe the plan was to split Westria between them—why show their hand so openly? It was careless and sloppy. And that didn’t sound like Reynard.

Unless he had insisted on being there so he could watch his cousin die. Now,
that
Molly could believe. Because Alaric had been the innocent cause of the most shameful, humiliating failure of King Reynard’s life.

It had been some time after the night of the wolves. The royal family of Westria had all been slain—except for Alaric, who had disappeared and was presumed to have drowned in the course of his escape. So Reynard had declared the prince dead, claimed the throne on legitimate grounds, and was already planning his coronation when along came Alaric, very much alive, riding down that hill to the walls of Dethemere Castle, followed by half the kingdom. And there he’d stood—just a boy, really, all of sixteen, with unkempt hair and slept-in clothes, his handsome face glowing like the sun—calling up to his cousin on the ramparts, asking Reynard to open the gates and acknowledge him as the rightful king of Westria.

Reynard had laughed.

It was Molly who’d given Alaric the idea that had sent his cousin packing. It had been clever, and it had worked. But that victory had come at a heavy price because Reynard, like any wounded animal, was far more dangerous now. For a proud man to have been bested by a boy young enough to be his own son, to have been frightened away by some story about a family curse so that he’d run home to Austlind with his tail between his legs—oh, how that must have chafed at his spirit this past eighteen months and more. How deep and bitter must his hatred have grown!

Yes, Reynard would want to be there to see the knife go in. He might even wish to do the deed himself.

“Your Grace?” It was one of the slaves, who didn’t understand why they had stopped. “Please, won’t you come? My lord King Gonzalo is waiting.”

“Of course,” Alaric said.

As they emerged from the darkness of the garden into the light from the porch, Gonzalo leaped up from his couch and came out to greet them, his arms outstretched like a fond uncle.

“Welcome, welcome!” he cried. “Isn’t this a grand evening? Come—join the party!”

But Molly wasn’t paying attention to their host; she was still staring at Reynard—and so she saw the look of horror cross his face. That’s when the pieces finally fell into place, and everything made sense: Reynard wasn’t in collusion with King Gonzalo; he
hadn’t even known
Alaric was coming! The king of Cortova had brought them both there to
compete
for the prize—sort of an auction, with the princess and the alliance going to the highest bidder.

Gonzalo was making introductions now, as smoothly and graciously as if he actually liked them and really expected them to like each other.

“Son,” he said to the handsome boy who sat on the end of the couch, furiously kicking his legs back and forth. “Stand up. That’s it. I want you to meet King Alaric of Westria. This is my son, Prince Castor.”

The boy nodded in an offhand way; it was hardly a bow at all—certainly not what was appropriate when greeting a king. At the same time he did something disdainful with his nose: flaring the nostrils as if he detected a stink. Watching this, Molly felt herself drawn back to her childhood on the streets, and her hackles went up as they always had when she was challenged by a bully. In those days she’d have used her fists. Now she just squinted her eyes at the child, slightly baring her upper teeth. He saw it and blinked with surprise.

“And this lovely creature—I’m sure you’ve already guessed—is my daughter, Princess Elizabetta. Of course you know King Reynard and Prince Rupert, though perhaps not Lord Wroxton, the king’s friend.” (He was actually the king’s bodyguard, but it would have been rude to state the obvious.) “And I believe this is Lady Marguerite and her husband, Lord Worthington?”

“Not husband,” Alaric corrected. “They are only betrothed.”

“Ah. My mistake. Not yet married. Well, who knows? Perhaps a double wedding is in the stars!”

It hadn’t been “his mistake,” of course. It had been quite intentional. And Molly had the feeling it was meant to wound—though what Gonzalo hoped to accomplish by it was impossible to guess. Maybe it had just been a lead-in for the remark about the “double wedding,” in which the identity of the
other
couple was yet to be determined. A bit subtler and more elegant than “Let the games begin!”

Gonzalo now returned to his couch and proceeded to make himself comfortable: reclining at an angle, turned halfway on his side, one arm draped over a large silk bolster. The others waited till the king was settled, then followed suit.

Alaric had been placed at the end of the middle couch, directly beside the princess. This seemed such a blatant mark of favor that Molly shot a glance at Reynard to see how he was taking it. But she learned nothing. His face was a blank. So she turned her attention back to Alaric.

He and the princess were deep in conversation. She was leaning in toward him, her face transformed by a radiant smile, her eyes bright with interest. Then, in a flash, her expression altered, as though the clouds had moved in and obscured the sun. She reached over and took Alaric’s hand in a consoling sort of way.

“I know,” Molly heard her say in a voice that was soft and deep. “I know.”

The princess gave Alaric’s hand a squeeze, then released it. Molly watched, fascinated, as the sun slowly began to emerge from the clouds once again.

“I was glad when Father told me that you had . . . enquired about me. I . . .” She blushed and glanced down, then looked shyly up again.

“I was afraid that the very idea of a connection with me might be painful for you.”

“It was. It . . . it still is, a little.” She smiled sheepishly. “But at the same time, I know you understand my feelings in a way that others could not. We shared the same tragedy—though of course it was worse for you, as he was your brother.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Edmund was terribly fond of you, you know, so eager for us to meet and like each other. He said—What was it? Let me think—that you were one of the few people in the world he trusted without question. He said you were doggedly loyal to those you loved and loyal to your ideals—though perhaps a little too saintly.”

Alaric laughed. “
Saintly
—oh, my! I’m afraid my brother was wrong about that. I was a self-righteous little prig, if you want to know the truth. I do hope I’ve grown out of it by now.”

“I hope so too,” she said, raising her brows and grinning.

A little girl now came into the dining porch dressed in sky-blue silk and carrying a basket in her hands. With the delicate grace of a tiny dancer, she scattered rose petals onto the tables, then quietly tiptoed away.

Moments later there came a blast of trumpets as the slaves brought in the basin, the ewer, and the towels. As at any banquet in any great hall, they went first to the king, who held his hands above the bowl as perfumed water was poured over them, then dried them with a fine linen cloth. Likewise, according to rank, the rest of the royal family and their guests did the same.

And then the little sprite was back again, silver bells in each of her hands. She tinkled them sweetly as she led a procession of waiters into the room. They held their golden platters high, like offerings to the gods; and the dining porch was filled with an incense of cinnamon, cardamom, turmeric, and cloves.

Rich and elaborate dishes were expected at a royal dinner, but these were exotic and new. They came bathed in sauces that bit the tongue and excited the senses. They whispered of faraway lands: of camel caravans laden with silks and spices making their way across scorching desert sands, and of colorful markets bustling with noise and color, where men wore turbans and mangoes were sold, and pomegranates, coconuts, and dates.

This was to be a culinary tour of the world, a reminder that Cortova was not some insular, landlocked kingdom. Gonzalo practically owned the Southern Sea. The world lay at his feet within easy reach of his famous fleet of trading ships. And an alliance with all that wealth and power was theirs to gain or lose.

Molly thought yet again that they’d best not underestimate this man. He played a subtle game, and he played it very well. Nothing would ever be as simple as it seemed.

“Do you hunt?” the princess asked, her voice very soft now. The buzz of conversation had dropped since the food came in.

“On occasion,” Alaric said. “I’m no sportsman, but I’m rather good with a bow. You’d never think it to look at me.” Then, with a wicked grin, “My cousin Reynard deserves all the credit. I was fostered with him as a boy and was trained by his master of arms.”

“I was aware of that, yes.” The princess pinched her lips and met his wicked smile with one of her own. “I suppose this is all rather awkward for you.”

“You might say that.”

“Well, you’ll have a chance to show your prowess very soon. Father has arranged a hunt for later in the week.”

“Will you be riding out?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Then I shouldn’t have boasted. Now I’ll have to prove myself.”

“Indeed you will. I promise to stare at you constantly and make you nervous.”

Molly smiled down at her hands, finding that she rather liked this princess and noting with some satisfaction that things were going remarkably well. Not only had they not been murdered, which was certainly a relief, but Alaric seemed to be running well ahead of poor Prince Rupert in the race to win the princess’s heart.

Everything they’d done this past year and more had been leading up to this very moment. And suddenly it felt very real. The princess wasn’t just some prize to be won; she was an actual flesh-and-blood girl. And if everything went as planned, she would soon be Alaric’s wife. She would share his bed, give him sons, and rule the kingdom at his side. She’d become his dearest friend, privy to his most intimate secrets. And she’d be his helpmate, too, sharing the burdens of office he had heretofore carried alone. Alaric, having expected nothing beyond the usual royal marriage—which would bring him an alliance and, with any luck, an heir—would be overcome with gratitude that such a treasure should be his. Doubly bound by the harmony of their natures and the magic of the Loving Cup, they would grow closer and fonder as each day passed till at last they’d achieved that rarest of feelings: a truly perfect love.

It was more than she could possibly have hoped—for Alaric and for Westria. It would be a real, rays-of-sunlight-streaming-from-the-clouds, swelling-music, showering-apple-blossoms kind of happy ending.

“Lady Marguerite?”

The words drifted into Molly’s consciousness like a leaf blown by the wind. She looked up and saw that the waiters had cleared away the platters and were now setting down little silver cups filled with iced fruit. And the princess was gazing expectantly at Molly with one of those radiant smiles that she had heretofore reserved for Alaric.