The Wildkin’s Curse (25 page)

‘Never mind,' Merry murmured, ‘you can always say you had no idea about court fashion, being just a country bumpkin. Let your jaw hang slack and look a bit stupid . . . yes, just like that. That's perfect.'

Zed flashed him a look, half-irritated, half-amused, and muttered back, ‘It's lucky for you you've got a war wound, else I'd be teaching you some respect, squirt.'

Merry grinned at him, but did not flash back with a witty answer. He was looking pale, with the dark smudges under his eyes deeper than ever, and Zed wondered if he was finding it hard to sleep with the pain of his wounds.

‘You didn't need to come,' he said in a low voice. ‘I've got attendants enough. You should have stayed in bed and rested.'

‘And miss seeing the king? Not a chance,' Merry whispered back.

Like Zed, the king and the rest of the royal family had been in seclusion for the past three days, mourning Count Zygmunt's death. Now that the vigil was over, there was to be a great feast to commemorate the dead and to welcome the new heir, as was the usual custom. What was not usual was to have two royal deaths so close together. Zed realised that there would be a great deal of speculation and gossip about him, and he dreaded the meeting ahead.

‘I wish Mama and Papa were here,' he said to his sister as she came slowly out of her room, one hand to her tall conical hat. ‘I really don't like us being here with no-one but Zakary to advise us on how to get on.'

‘You know Papa is not permitted at court,' Priscilla said. ‘And Mama would not come without him. They thought we'd be safe enough with Uncle Ziggy.' Tears filled her eyes, and she dashed them away.

‘I'm not feeling particularly safe,' Zed admitted. ‘I'm glad we've got Aubin to look after us.'

‘Me too,' she answered in a small voice. ‘Zed, what if I should fall down the stairs? I can hardly walk in these shoes. And what if everyone laughs at me?'

‘Put a brave face on it,' he advised her. ‘Come on, chin up.'

Raising his own chin high, and trying to remember everything Zakary had ever told him about court etiquette, Zed walked into the royal throne room with a fair appearance of composure.

A herald blew a high note on his golden horn, and then the steward announced, in a deep, melancholy voice, ‘Lord Zedrin, the Count of Estelliana, and his sister, Lady Priscilla ziv Estaria.'

With Merry and Liliana a correct five paces behind them, and his guards on either side, Zed took Priscilla's cold and trembling hand in his, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and walked slowly and regally down the broad, sweeping stairs.

‘Try to pretend you've got
The Zephyr Book of Etiquette
balanced on your head,' Zed murmured to his sister and she smiled wanly.

The throne room was built of glass and boasted the most astonishing views out to the blue glitter of the ocean. Tall arched windows stood open to the breeze, alternating with arched silver mirrors that reflected back the view so that it seemed as if the hall was a ship upon the ocean, surrounded by blue on all sides. Thronged upon the polished silver floor were, it seemed, a thousand people, bowing and curtseying to him, all dressed in the darkest blood-red. Like poppies blown before a howling wind, the courtiers bent almost to the floor before swaying upright again once he and Priscilla had passed.

His throat dry, his palms damp, Zed inclined his head in response, first one way and then the other, being careful not to let his back bend at all. As crown prince of Ziva, he bowed to none except the king himself.

The closer he came to the throne at the end of the hall, set on a dais under a pale blue canopy, the more shallow became the obeisance made to him, as the rank of those in the crowd grew higher.

The clothes were extraordinary, making Zed feel very much like the country bumpkin his cousin professed him to be. Towering high heels studded with rubies, billowing breeches of pleated silk, skirts so wide the wearer could not have passed through the great double doors without turning sideways, conical hats so tall they looked like steeples, and chiffons and muslins so sheer they left nothing to the imagination.

Next to the throne was a cushioned litter where an enormously fat woman reclined, an obese pug dog nestled beside her. Both were dressed in matching red velvet gowns, the woman wearing the largest skirt Zed had ever seen. The pug wore little red velvet slippers on his four feet, identical to his mistress. Her prominent blue eyes bulged from her round flushed face, and she wore a very tall, elaborately curled white wig below a grotesque headdress made of crimson roses the size of cabbages.

She inclined her head to him, and he bent his head in response, guessing that this was Lady Vernisha, the king's niece, and mother of Lady Adora, the newly widowed wife of Prince Zander. He looked around for his third cousin, and saw Adora sitting on a cushioned stool at the foot of the dais. Zed had met her only once, soon after she had married Prince Zander, when the royal couple had made a year-long progression around Ziva, staying with all twelve of the counts in turn. She had been only fifteen, and a beautiful, laughing girl with fair hair to her feet and a way of poking fun at everything she saw, which had both embarrassed and charmed the nine-year-old Zed. She had kept up their friendship over the years with gifts and letters, though these had become more and more rare as the years had passed.

Her face was swathed in a crimson veil, so that it was difficult to see much of her face. All Zed could see beneath the veil was a thin white jaw, the powder so thickly laid on it was like a mask, with rouge in a red circle on her cheeks, and lips as red as an open wound. Her dress was the most lavish in the entire hall, her bodice so stiffly sewn with rubies and diamonds that Zed was sure she could not have bent to curtsey even if she had wanted to.

She inclined her head to Zed and Priscilla as they passed to kneel before the dais, but otherwise she was motionless.

Behind them, Merry and Liliana and all the soldiers prostrated themselves, their foreheads pressed so close to the floor that their breath misted its polished silver surface.

Zed did not dare raise his head. To his shame, he felt a trembling deep in the pit of his stomach, and he had to resist the urge to wipe his sweaty palms upon his breeches. After a long moment he saw a faint movement from within the shadows under the canopy, and a herald intoned, ‘You may rise.'

Zed got to his feet, feeling pins and needles in his legs from crouching for so long. He helped Priscilla up, then lifted his eyes for his first glimpse of the king.

He sat hunched on his throne, wrapped in so many rugs and shawls it was at first hard to distinguish his spidery shape within. King Zabrak was as pale as a maggot, as bald as a tortoise, and as wrinkled as a prune. His blue eyes were rheumy and faded, with heavy pouches hanging below. A few pale threads of hair hung down from his liver-spotted skull, floating above his jewel-embroidered collar like spiderwebs, while a long and wispy beard hung down past his lap.

On his bald head, the king wore a silver crown set with flashing diamonds and sapphires, framing a glittering blue diamond as big as a goose egg. The crown seemed so heavy the king could scarcely lift his head, his chin resting on his bony chest. On his fingers he wore long fingernail guards, forged of silver filigree set with jewels. The nails of his little fingers, however, were far too long for jewelled guards, growing down in two pale spirals past his knees and towards the floor. Zed stared at them in astonishment. The king surely could do nothing at all for himself without risk of breaking his nails. He could not feed himself, or dress himself, Zed thought, and felt a stir of pity amidst his revulsion and awe.

The king mumbled something, and a man dressed in a long white robe stepped forward. His eyes were ice-blue, and his ash-grey hair had been shaved close to his skull. His skin was unnaturally pale, as if it had been years since it last saw the sun, and two deep grooves ran from his nose down past the corners of his thin, colourless mouth. The grooves spoke of years of repressing the muscles about his mouth, so it seemed impossible that he could ever smile. The lines of his linen robe were simple and austere, pressed to an unnatural crispness.

A white panther stepped forward with him, held by a very short chain attached to a collar of glittering diamonds. It snarled at Zed, showing a red mouth, and its eyes glared an eerie blue. Zed had to stiffen his legs and back to stop himself from instinctively flinching. He was proud of Priscilla, who did not scream or shrink away in her usual theatrical way, but stood stiff and silent beside him.

‘I am Ambrozius, the court astronomer. I speak on behalf of His Majesty, King Zabrak of Ziva, who bids you welcome to Zarissa, Count Zedrin,' the man said, in a cold, inflectionless voice.

Zed had heard of the king's astronomer who was, rumour had it, also his spymaster.

‘He says it is indeed unfortunate that you should come at such a grievous time, when all the world is in mourning for his son, cut down in the prime of his life, cruelly slaughtered by radical insurgents who shall feel the weight of the king's wrath.' As the astronomer spoke, his ice-blue gaze moved slowly and deliberately from Zed's face to Priscilla's, then over their shoulder to the faces of their retinue. Zed's body prickled with nervous sweat. Would such sharp eyes notice that Liliana was both a girl and a wildkin? He wished he had been able to convince her to stay behind in their quarters, but she was as stubborn as a mule.

There was a long silence. Zed said hurriedly, bobbing his head, ‘Yes, thank you, Your Majesty.' He hoped that was the right thing to do. Or should he have asked Ambrozius to thank the king on his behalf?

The king coughed and coughed into a red silk handkerchief. When he raised his face, it was flushed and sweating, and the rims of his eyes were scarlet. The crown had slipped a little sideways, and he lifted a trembling hand to push it straight again. He mumbled something else, and Ambrozius listened courteously, then turned to face Zed again.

‘The king says that he sees you are young and tall and strong. He has heard you fought off a dozen men and killed them all. He says he is glad to see not all of the Ziv are grown weak and milky-blooded.'

The panther snarled and strained against the chain, looking hungry. The astronomer thinned his lips and awaited a reply.

Zed did not know what to say. He bent his head and said, ‘The king is too kind.'

A voice whispered from the swaddle of shawls, then Ambrozius said, ‘The king says he shall set you a sacred task, Zedrin ziv Estaria. Bring him the head of the Hag and he will give you the hand of his granddaughter, the crown princess, in marriage.'

A disturbance ran over the crowd. A thousand fans fluttered as courtiers hid their faces and their words. Zed was frozen, unable to move. He hoped his face showed none of his shock and distress. Could the king really want him to murder Mags, his best friend's mother, his own parents' best friend? He could not think what to say or how to react. High heels clattered and Zakary was suddenly beside Zed, bowing low to the ground with an elaborate sweep of his red-feathered hat.

‘Your most high and honourable Majesty,' he said unctuously, ‘forgive me my intrusion, but my dear cousin is newly arrived from the country and still, no doubt, stupefied with grief over the cruel assassination of his uncle. Indeed, I too still suffer the most dreadful heart palpitations . . .'

The bundle of shawls muttered angrily.

Zakary fluttered his fan frantically. ‘You will not wish to hear of
my
trials, though. I fear that I must have somehow misheard you, or misunderstood you, worn out and frazzled as I am after the fatigue of our dreadful, dreadful journey.' He pressed one hand to his heart. ‘Did I just hear you say . . .
crown princess
?'

‘That is what I said.' The king's voice, though weak and hoarse, was filled with malice.

‘But, Your Majesty . . . surely you cannot mean to allow a woman . . . a mere girl . . . a half-breed . . .' Zakary could scarcely speak, so great was his dismay.

‘The king is pleased to announce a further amendment to the law. In order to ensure that our noble king's superior bloodline does not perish, he is declaring his granddaughter his heir, as long as she swears to submit herself to marrying and being mastered by one of the starborn, to ensure the continuance of the great house of ziv Zitaraz,' the astronomer said smoothly.

Gasps could be heard all over the vast throne room, and a rising mutter of shock and outrage. Zed could not reply, he was so surprised and, for a moment, disappointed. He had taken it for granted that he would be declared the new crown prince. Although he had dreaded the announcement, he still felt taken aback and even indignant to have the law changed on what seemed little more than an old man's whim.
I should've been warned,
he thought.
At least, had the matter discussed with me in private. It's humiliating to be told I'm not the new crown prince in front of a crowd of a thousand people. How am I meant to react? Should I protest?

Zakary had no hesitation. ‘But, Your Majesty! Only if there are no surviving male heirs! What of Zedrin? What of myself? Oh, surely you cannot be serious!'

‘Whoever brings me the head of the Hag may marry my granddaughter with my blessing and, once I am dead, share the crown and the throne with her,' the king said, his thin lips lifting in a strange, cruel smile. ‘Somehow, Zakary, I do not think it will be you.'

‘S
O, DO YOU INTEND TO DO AS HE BIDS AND MURDER MY MOTHER?'
Merry hissed as soon as they had retreated from the throne room.

‘Shhh!' Zed urged, looking about him. He caught Merry's arm and drew him through an archway and into the inner bailey. Liliana went with them and, when Aubin tried to follow her, said in a shocked voice, ‘Should you not be guarding my lady?'