Grim, page 11
His face is a puzzle, its details snapping together into a new shape. Now he wears an indulgent smile. I almost expect him to give me a sugared date. Instead, he says, “This is true.”
“What?”
“The Haladians intermarry,” he says—as if I were confused on the facts, not horrified at his reaction. “And it does clarify the line of succession.”
“That’s hardly my point!”
Mildly, he asks, “Then what is?”
“He said it was time to keep the promise he made my mother! That I’ve bettered her!” My voice goes shrill, and I can’t help it.
Why is he so calm? How can he be so thoughtful? Eels writhe beneath my skin. They squirm in my belly; I’m disgusted to recount it. How can he simply blink at me?
“Merula,” he says. Now he clutches my hand, and I wish he wouldn’t. “Perhaps you’ve misunderstood. Your father’s a good man.”
“But this is wrong.”
“Different,” he counters. “Not our tradition, but perhaps a new one.”
Inwardly, I fall. The underworld opens to swallow me, but only on the inside. This body is cursed to stay in this world, where my court favorite is twisting all our customs to permit the impermissible.
Sapiens speaks on, as if I’d said nothing at all. “And he does have good judgment, dear. Look how many come on Hearing Days for his wisdom.”
I want to retort, And look how many come to his kitchens for scraps! Look how many widows his single war made! Look how many of us scurry and flee—look to the executioner’s house and its red-hot chair!
My lips won’t part. Words refuse to slip through them because now I understand. I’m less than the king, and the king is the law. It will always change to agree with him.
“Merula?”
Lest Sapiens run to my father and whisper all my words in his ears, I force a smile. It’s brittle as straw-made ice, but he doesn’t care. Neither do I. I nod, and turn his hand. He needs to be reassured.
“You’re right,” I concede. “I panicked.”
“It happens to all of us,” he replies.
His chambers aren’t as airy as mine. The windows are too small and too high. Perhaps if he hung from a perch in the ceiling, the air would move and we would breathe. We don’t; we can’t. We’re second to the king, after all.
Poor Sapiens. I’m still his favorite, but now I hate him. I don’t care if he dies in what comes next.
The dovecote at sunset is spectacular. Shaped like a beehive, the birdmaster washes it with new plaster each month. Its purity reflects the colors around it—at noon, the gold of the fields. Now it’s a ruby set in the sand.
There’s a silvery bird in each recess. There are hundreds of them, each named for their home post. Slowly, I circle, reading the tags.
The birds in the largest niches will fly to other nations. Those in the smallest will deliver to provinces in Flamen. Once I figure out the method, it’s easy to find the beast I seek.
Gently, I lift Lycea. He’s peculiar, bloodred spots beneath each eye, and what looks like soot streaks down his back. Bedraggled wings flutter when I turn him over, but he doesn’t bite. Warm and light, Lycea gazes at me. Waiting.
I slip a coiled note into the tube on his leg. Once it’s fixed, he animates. Claws flickering, he quivers. Twists his head. Waits more actively, and seems almost delighted when I turn and toss him to the winds.
Soon, he’s a speck and I sink to the ground to wait for my reply.
Sunset turns to twilight, and just as the moon rises, Lycea returns. He lands in his spot unerringly, but he doesn’t settle. Instead, he struts.
“Proud thing,” I mutter as I scramble toward him.
The note inside is the one I wrote. My handwriting fills one side of the scrap, cramped to fit the space. I’m almost embarrassed to read my words. Though I phrased them carefully and tried to ask for only a little aid, in the reading, it’s stark.
My father comes to my chamber at night. Now he wishes to marry me. I can’t speak against him, so I beg for sanctuary.
Your obedient servant,
Augusta Merula
On the reverse, the Queen of Lycea has written her response. Despite the narrow strip of parchment, her hand is elegant. Her letters loop in a foreign but familiar script.
Ask for an impossible bride-price to stay him. I suggest a gown made of sunlight. Write again.
Fondly,
Regina Vatia
At first, I feel a pricking in my heart. She won’t take me; I must stay. I expected more of a queen. But logic explains it. To shelter me from my own father would be an act of war. No one would believe I was there by choice.
Like her handwriting, Vatia’s solution is elegant. She twists tradition to suit my cause. If I were to marry a lesser noble, I’d owe a price to my bride or groom. It’s symbolic, to equalize us.
In my chamber, a teak chest holds silks and goldspuns, a string of pearls as long as I am tall. I have gold beads and an ivory abacus, the deeds to two vineyards and one shipyard—that’s how much I would owe my mate, to make us equal.
Since my father is the king, he’ll owe me so much more than that. I believe he gave my mother a temple to Vara, four hundred sheep and every poppy in Flamen. People grumbled then that it still wasn’t enough.
Returning Lycea to his niche, I fold the note until it folds no more. Then I swallow it like a seed. Inside me, its idea grows.
When I walk into my chamber, I’m prepared.
“No one knew where you were,” my father accuses. He’s immaculate, a haircut and a shave today. He doesn’t stand. He sits on my bed, eyes following me as I move through the chamber.
I have to remind myself, he can’t see my thoughts. He doesn’t know the acid that eats through my belly. My expression is the truth, filtered through his filthy gaze. So I smile, but keep to my feet. “That’s ridiculous. I went to the dovecote.”
“Did you, now?”
“Yes,” I say. I stop in front of my mirror, putting my back to him. I toy with my hair to hide my trembling hands. I’m not lying, but my nerves betray me anyway. “I’m to be married. I wrote to Queen Vatia for her advice.”
Father’s trying to hide his nerves, too. His posture stiffens. “You have ladies of the court.”
Lightly, I laugh. “True. But they won’t be queens, will they?”
“You’ve been looking for a lot of advice today, Merula.” He stands, pulling his shoulders back. They pop, worn from old battles and hard chairs. “You spoke to Sapiens, as well.”
“To be certain none would stand in our way. I thought our laws might conflict.”
Heat sweeps through me, sweat rising on my hands. They turn clumsy, and I drop the comb in my hair. Hurrying to pick it up, I find my father has followed me down, as well. His scent invades me and my guts roil. Unsettled by the darkness of his eyes, I struggle to keep my false face. Holding out my hand, I wait for him to return my comb.
He clings to it. “And?”
“Nothing does,” I assure him. Since he doesn’t return my comb, I take it from him. Then I push away from him, swimming through the thick air in my chamber. I’ll play the part with words. Nothing more. Not my skin; it crawls. Especially when he laughs.
It’s a warm sound, delighted. The same laugh I heard when I did something particularly clever as a child. It runs through me now like a blade. Turning to him, I hold up a hand. “I’ve been considering my bride-price. I don’t want shipyards and orchards.”
Indulgently, my father rocks back on his heels. “What would you have, then?”
He has no idea how much I hate him right now. How much strength it takes to stand there and smile.
Inside, my mental body twists. It picks up the marble box on my vanity and brings it down on his head. Again, at the first sight of blood. Again, until he’s made paste and his face is obliterated.
My physical body remains serene. I twist my hair and pin it with the comb.
“I want a gown made of sunlight,” I tell him. “Not yellow. Not goldspun. Sunlight. And I don’t think you should come to my chambers until my bride-price is paid. I’ll need my ladies to help me prepare for our wedding night.”
My father, the king, agrees.
Two months pass. On Bread Day, I ride out with tributes for the people of Flamen, gifts of loaves to celebrate their hard work. Without their toil in the fields, we’d all go hungry. Fresh bread, salted and sweet, for everyone.
No one sings my mother’s ballad this time. My people whisper; I hear them as my carriage rolls through the streets.
“...doesn’t even look upset,” one says.
Another replies, “She always was too fond of him....”
Thankfully, the carriage rolls on. I feel slapped. How could they believe this is my design? Don’t they have fathers? Can’t they imagine my horror? Irrationally, I want to send the guards to clamp irons on them. To drag them down to the dark places beneath the castle. It’s spoiled, childish thinking. Proof that I have a monster inside me; that I’m my father’s daughter, after all.
“Bless, Augusta,” a woman murmurs. Then she ticks her tongue, and that speaks, as well. A shame, a shame, it says.
Another shakes her head. She takes the bread with her fingertips, careful not to touch mine. They’re not usually careful. Usually, I shake hands and kiss them, and thank them for coming to see me. Sometimes, people thrust babies into my arms. A kiss from a princess means good luck the whole year through.
Not now. No one raises their gaze to mine. As I hand out loaves, they reply with muttered thanks. The village streets seem impossibly long today. Unnatural quiet follows me. Though they try for subtlety, I see the people of Flamen. My people—I see them hide their children.
By the time we turn down the market row, my eyes burn with tears. My chest grows tight, aching with each restrained breath. If I take a full one, I’ll dissolve. The wind refuses to howl today. A blue sky stretches forth, an unmarked canopy. It’s cruel is what it is. The day mocks me with its perfection.
Then, at the last stop, one woman comes forth. Her wide hips swing, rocking the baby that she carries. Ignoring the rest of the crowd, she cuts through them and comes right to my carriage door. Her chin high, her onyx eyes glitter when they meet mine. “Augusta Merula, bless.”
“Bless you,” I reply. I leap on this scrap of kindness, offering her a loaf, and the baby on her hip a sweet roll. Those are usually mine, but I’ve had no appetite for them today.
The woman catches my wrist. “A kiss for my babe?”
Leaning over the side, I brush my lips on the child’s cheek and I shiver when the woman speaks into my ear. It’s a whisper that could cut her down. Warm, it skates across my cheek and I nod gratefully as I right myself. I don’t dare say anything aloud; she’s risked too much today already.
But as the carriage carries me back to the palace, I repeat her words with my inner voice. Again and again, I say them; they become a prayer. Not the usual kind, sweetened with incense and fatted lambs. The gods haven’t listened. This is a prayer for myself.
“You’re not alone.”
* * *
The gown is made of sunlight.
It took the better part of a year, but Father presents it to me at breakfast. In front of the courtiers, who are both fascinated and disgusted by the display. They don’t need to go to country fairs to see two-headed calves and claw-fingered ladies. I’m their wonder, conveniently located within the wealth of the palace. They don’t even have to change their clothes.
“How did you do it?” I ask.
My father laughs, amused. “Magic. Favors. What does it matter?”
I want to scream, but I can’t, and I don’t. Panic claims me. I never expected him to accomplish the bride-price. It was an impossible thing, but when you have an entire nation in your hands, I suppose impossible is a little easier.
“It’s perfect,” I say. What will I say next? My breakfast rises into my throat; what will I do if he tries to seal it with a kiss? Horror lines my flesh. If it were acidic, my skin would slip right off. I’d be nothing but raw muscle and blood, and maybe that would deter him.
Proud, he holds the gown aloft. Its delicate threads don’t glow. Glowing implies that it’s soaked up something else’s light. They illume, casting golden morning sunlight throughout the room. When the fabric shifts, it sings. A song of morning, of wind in trees and birds awakening.
Suddenly, I wonder how much it’s worth. Magic like that must come at a high price—it was meant to equalize me to a king. I laugh and clap, a bit of hysteria to it, but no one notices. They’re dazzled by the light dappling their faces.
I say, “It’s perfect, exactly what I wanted.” I even put a fond, staying hand on my father’s shoulder. “But I’m to be the queen, so of course I need a stola made of moonlight.”
“What?” my father yelps.
The courtiers hoot and whistle. What a delightful game this is to them. But emboldened, I trace my fingers over my hair. Magic is a slow, rare thing these days. It took four seasons to enchant a gown; perhaps two more for a stola. I need more time than that, so I add, “And a palla made of starlight.”
I think my father realizes that I’m putting him off. I think this is the exact moment when he realizes that I’m not eager to be his bride. Still, it’s also when he understands that I’ve played him well.
If I’d asked for more in private, it would have been easy to say no. Now he has no choice—exactly what he gets for presenting the gown in public. We both know the rules of saving face; it’s impossible to decline with an audience.
The crowd quiets when he raises his hands. How their faces shine, cheeks blushed and lips pink with delight. Their attention darts, from me to him, back again. It’s a match of fascination to them.
Picking up his goblet, my father raises it to me. There’s a silvered light in his eyes. It’s sharp, a blade made of his gaze. “To Augusta Merula, who already rules me. It will be done.”
I raise my cup, and close my ears to the courtiers’ roars of delight.
After breakfast, poor Sapiens has to run to catch me. I might have slowed for him once. Not anymore. Even his voice irritates me. It scratches and scrabbles senselessly, and I would shake it off if I could.
Out of breath, he finally catches me. “Merula, I was calling.”
“I’m sorry. I’m distracted this morning.”
He doesn’t dare call me a liar. I’m a princess and, apparently, soon to be queen. His tread must fall lighter than ever around me. That, I like. It’s a petty revenge, and all I have except for my prayer. I’m not alone, I tell myself. I hear the woman’s words again, feel the warmth of her lips to my cheek. I’m not alone.
Sapiens smooths a hand over his thin silvery hair. He twitches, his smile succeeding and failing by turns. “I wanted to discuss the succession with you again.”
As if this were normal. As if he hadn’t bent the law to make this travesty, so Flamen no longer has an heir. Shame lowers my voice. This marriage may be all but fact, but I don’t want to admit it, not yet.
The gown of sunlight kept my father from my chamber for a year. I might have two more now; I can make a better plan. I can decide I’m ready to dash my head on the flagstones beneath my windows.
“I think that’s hardly my problem,” I tell Sapiens. “The Haladians marry siblings, which neatly solved it. But we have a new tradition, don’t we?”
Sapiens frowns. “Are you speaking against the king?”
“Of course not,” I reply. “But it’s not my place to make law. Or uphold it.”
Plainly, I’ve angered him. The tip of his nose grows red; his cheeks splotch with a flush, too. Still, he insists on walking with me. He presses forward, because what else can he do? This is his mess, and now he has to make it legal. “The council and I have spoken at length on the matter.”
“Oh, good.”
“We think it best that you take a fosterling as your heir. The council is split on the details. Half think a noble-born child should become your heir. It would certainly cement alliances, and give the council incentive to support your court.”
I don’t reply. I don’t care who supports this court anymore.
“The other half believe,” Sapiens says, trying to reach for my hand, “that an orphan fosterling is more ideal. It will warm the people’s hearts. We rule only at the mercy and kindness of the people’s affections, after all.”
Pursing my lips, I say, “That won’t do. Am I not marrying my father to strengthen our right to rule?”
“Yes, certainly,” he replies. Then he waits, as if I might volunteer a solution for him.
My ugly inner self urges me to slap him. No, to punch him, because a slap won’t draw blood. Instead, I open his flesh with the sweetest smile, and a question. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t bear my own heir? I’m young. Surely I’m strong enough to have a nursery full of babies.”
The color drains from Sapiens. Now the cloud in his eyes seems ever paler. It’s perhaps cruel to delight in his discomfort, but I do. I enjoy every moment that he squirms in my presence. Every second it takes him to shape his mouth, and find the words to admit two things: making me marry my father is an abomination, and he is complicit in it.
“Of course you are,” he says, then falters.
“But?”
But what? I wonder. But we understand you might have terrible, damaged children? That you can’t mate a sire to a child without creating monsters? That we might be very lucky to have an heir who is only physically malformed and mostly cognizant? Oh, all those things. I know exactly why the council wants me to adopt an heir.
