Shadow Queen Read online

  Another fact to tuck away against future need. I was like a starveling ferret kit, fossicking through a ransacked pantry for scraps.

  Then we waited and, whether I closed my eyes or not, I must have slept, somewhere deep inside, for I have no memory of those hours other than Amalia’s pale eyes hovering over me.

  The afternoon was bright but grey with cloud, and a cold wind licked around our ankles. Once again I stood on the midmost step of the upper courtyard’s stairway, in full view of those gathered there. Dieter wanted the binding to be as public as possible. The crowd consisted in large part of Gerlach’s men, some in their blank uniform and some not. They were easy to spot: not a one of them showed any confusion. Thin among their ranks were genuine citizens.

  Amalia stood by my right shoulder and Gerlach stood by Dieter’s left. This time we knelt before a real prester, the grey paving stones hard beneath my knees. This time I understood the prester’s speech, though I struggled to pick out the words over the drone of the wind. Somehow this more familiar ceremony seemed stranger than last night’s, which had been the real binding, tight and final. This one was simply for show, for others to witness the totality of Dieter’s ascension to what should have been my throne.

  As the ceremony unfolded around me I felt the first inklings of both my safety and my death, balanced each side upon the knife’s edge I would have to walk. When the prester had finished I wept, slick tears of grief and exhaustion that Amalia and Dieter clearly found distasteful. It was over, and yet it was only just begun.

  At the prester’s bidding I turned to Dieter and tied the ribbon about his throat. It looked well on him there, the strap of black. The ribbon he tied about my throat – his fingers surprisingly gentle – was the colour of red clay. It caught my tears and held them, cold and stiff. Dieter rose after fastening it, his hand on my shoulder keeping me on my knees.

  The prester did not look at me as he picked up the bronze circlet last worn by my grandmother. It had been in my family for eight generations. Now the prester slipped it on to Dieter’s head, and the obsidian stone of Turas gleamed from his brow.

  Noise rattled against the sky as the soldiers slapped swords against shields. As simple as that was his coronation.

  I had expected him to make more of it, to drive home his ascendancy. Instead he seemed content with the stone of Turas crowning him, me bound by his side. He even reached down a hand and helped me to stand.

  Fool that I was, I allowed myself to hope.

  SEVEN

  ALL EVENING WE sat presiding over the wedding feast. Cold roast meats, salted ham, smoked trout, cheeses old and new and, to wash it all down, copious quantities of the Turholm’s best mead. It all crossed my palate, though I barely tasted it.

  I had won my position and my reprieve, but the prospect of consummating our binding was already turning my stomach into a tight knot of acid. Only after would it truly be over. I could rest then.

  When dusk had washed to full dark, Dieter stood and pulled me to my feet. ‘Time to retire, I think.’

  As he ushered me out to a chorus of stamps and whistles from Gerlach’s men, Amalia’s expression sent a chill through my marrow.

  I walked beside Dieter in dazed silence, and he seemed content to let me be. At least, he didn’t taunt me.

  Our ever-present guards peeled away at the doors to Grandmother’s rooms, leaving us alone. Inside, the sitting room was lit only by the cherry glow of the fire in the hearth and a single lantern, set to burn so low a greasy smoke clouded its panes.

  I stopped in the middle of the room, unable to continue.

  Dieter smiled at my trembling, a snake’s smile. ‘I’d heard the Svanaten women were fearsome to behold. Certainly Helena had that reputation, as did your grandmother, in her day. Perhaps you were adopted?’

  ‘Mockery is the method of the craven,’ I retorted.

  My dignity, however it was cobbled together, neither disguised my fear nor dented his humour.

  ‘Kneel,’ he ordered, pointing to the hearth, where the bear-hide rug lapped up the fire’s glow. Then he turned away and disappeared into the bedchamber.

  I stood, unmoving, blanking my mind of what was to come by staring at the fire. It was a vain attempt to avoid conjuring visions of his return. His reappearance – still clothed, and carrying a fine tray of worked pine and bone inlay – was not what I’d imagined.

  He took one look at me and clicked his tongue in exasperation. ‘Stubborn.’

  Carefully setting the tray on the couch, he walked over to me, gripped my shoulders and led me towards the hearth. My defiance didn’t extend to struggling; I’d just look a fool, and a weak one, and gain naught for it. So I allowed him to lead me until he pushed me to my knees on the bear-hide rug.

  ‘This will go much better for you if you hold silent and don’t move,’ he said, then, kneeling before me, he fetched the tray closer.

  It was a work of art in its own right, slivers of bone and crescents of silvery shells picking out strange patterns. Its surface bore a small ceramic bowl containing a dark ink or paste, a short-handled brush, and a scattering of bloodstones. Dieter plucked up the stones, their jade surface cracked through with splashes of old red. One he folded into my right hand, another into my left, then, with a flick of his fingers, he gestured for me to open my mouth.

  ‘Hold silent,’ he reminded me, then slipped a third stone – small and flat and cold – under my tongue.

  Reluctant and frightened, I closed my lips and tried to breathe calmly. With his gaze resting on me, he weighed a final stone in the palm of his hand before casting it deftly into the embers of the fire. He began to chant something, perhaps a polysyllabic word, perhaps a phrase. I didn’t recognise the language. Melodic and hypnotic, it spilled from his lips, and I fancied the stones sparked in my grip. A spreading tang like the taste of copper suffused my mouth.

  I became bewitched by the movement of his hands, which seemed to glow from within. I wanted to ask if he’d painted them but he pressed a silencing finger to my lips. With his other hand he picked up the brush and dipped it into the bowl of ink. The blackened tip drank in the uncertain light, releasing back no gleam or shine. I had time only to wonder if it would hurt before the wet tip caressed my brow. It was warm, but not so warm as to make me flinch.

  Right to left the brush moved, inscribing Dieter’s will. I couldn’t interpret the message he wrote me, wrote others about me. For some reason it didn’t matter. The whispering touch of the brush banished anger and fear. The paste was slick when it first touched my skin, but dried tight and gritty. The now-warm stones in my hands and under my tongue flickered and twitched with heat, sending a gentle lethargy creeping through my limbs and making my eyelids droop.

  When he stopped I didn’t react. A strange fog shrouded my mind. It must be the stones, I thought, though even that was a struggle.

  I had been right to think of the raven on my first sight of Dieter. The man had worked some hex on me, summoned a shadow to hold me. I tried in vain to uncurl my fingers, to part my lips and spit out the stone beneath my tongue.

  The tick as he replaced the brush on the tray freed me. I looked up, expecting him to be smiling in triumph, but instead he was sombre and quiet.

  Taking my right hand in his, he smoothed open my fingers. My palm was whole, unmarked – and empty. The stone had vanished. As if he’d granted permission, I could open my left hand and my lips now, too. The stones were also gone from them.

  ‘They’ve melted,’ Dieter said. ‘Into your blood.’

  ‘Stones can’t melt,’ I replied. The fog was lifting, but it left fear in its wake, stronger now than before.

  ‘Not in an ordinary fire,’ he said as, with one hand on my elbow, he helped me to my feet. ‘In one of my making, they can.’

  I didn’t want to believe him, but the stones were nowhere to be seen – and now I fancied their smooth green flavour threaded through my veins with every heartbeat.

  Dieter slid a small l
ooking-glass from the tray. I had never seen one so exquisite, without flaw or bubble or distortion, clear and sharp as summer sunlight. When he held it up, however, I ignored the glass in favour of what it displayed.

  He had worked three strange characters onto my forehead with the black paste.

  ‘Emet,’ he said, tracing them out. ‘It means truth.’ He didn’t say what language he had used, but it was none I recognised. From the direction of Dieter’s fingers, as he traced the word, the written form was clearly scribed right to left, which made the language foreign indeed.

  I met his gaze in the sliver of mirror, surprised. ‘That’s your spell? Truth?’

  This brought back his snake’s smile and, with two fingers, he covered the rightmost character. ‘Meit,’ he said. ‘Death.’

  His words stole any response I might have made.

  ‘I own you, Matilde,’ he said. ‘I’ve bound you as one binds a golem. Whenever I want, I can turn you into lifeless clay, simply by erasing this one little mark from your pretty brow.’

  The trap was sprung now, with me inside it – and no guarantee I’d survive. In fact, there was almost every chance I wouldn’t.

  With a light clasp of my hands he raised me to my feet. The slight, slippery burn of his brand, still fresh on my brow, was cause enough for fear. The knowing look in his eyes as he measured my reactions gave me cause for more alarm. When his hand dropped mine, I shivered, wondering where I would next feel his touch.

  He turned to tidying his tray. ‘You should get some sleep,’ he said. ‘If you can. Tomorrow will likely be another long day.’

  I tried to twine my shaking hands together, but their clumsiness made me slow.

  Dieter, straightening up with the tray, didn’t comment. He’d noticed, though – the man missed nothing.

  A single hard tap at the door preceded Gerlach’s entrance. I whipped my head to the side and down, hoping the inadequate light would hide the shameful branding, but Gerlach only glanced at me in passing. His focus was on Dieter. ‘All is ready,’ he said. ‘We depart at your word.’

  Remembering their earlier conversation of horses and provisions and distances, he must be talking of the Aestival progression. Grandmother and I had planned to depart today; now Dieter was Duethin, and the duty of visiting vassals fell to him.

  A duty he did not intend me to share, I realised as soon as he turned my way.

  ‘Go,’ said Dieter. ‘I’ll send Mali in to keep you company.’

  ‘No,’ I said, too quickly. Then, summoning a calmer voice, I added, ‘I’d rather be alone.’

  He glanced at Gerlach, who nodded to confirm I would be well guarded – unable to escape.

  ‘If that’s what you prefer,’ he said, handing me the tray. ‘Put this away for me, would you? Oh, and just before Gerlach walked in …?’ He winked. ‘Hold that thought.’

  My stomach flipped, causing the implements to rattle on the tray. Chuckling, Dieter left, his and Gerlach’s footsteps gradually fading into the distance until only my ragged breath and the faint pop of the embers in the grate disturbed the silence.

  For the first time since Aestival prayers, I was alone, and free of the prospect of imminent death.

  With aching care I knelt and edged the tray onto the bear-hide rug. I couldn’t uncurl my fingers from the rim, though the rattle my trembling caused threatened to upend the bowl. A creeping sensation travelled downwards from my scalp, as if my flesh were trying to pull free of my bones.

  Prying my fingers from the tray, silencing it, I curled forward around the pain in my middle until my forehead touched the soft hide. My lungs were knotted tight as a petrified trunk, and the pressure in my head increased with every pound of my pulse.

  Slowly, like dissolving, the tears came and I cried for my dead, for my kin and my court. I cried for Grandmother, and for myself: bereft, trapped, and as nigh to helpless as made no difference.

  I had bargained with a man more powerful than I – and lost.

  EIGHT

  I DON’T KNOW how long I lay there. I only remember flashes of consciousness – glancing at the fire now and then, waking at one point to find myself lying on my side, another time poking half-heartedly at the embers, then shoving too much kindling on them and snuffing them.

  When I wasn’t sleeping I was crying, dredging up yet more tears long after salt had scoured my eyes and cheeks raw. There were lulls when I thought myself spent – only to find the tears rising once more.

  Sometime in the pre-dawn the grey night became too cold to withstand any longer. Every joint creaked as I levered myself upright from the frigid floor, my shoulder aching. The fire was dead, the hearthstones cold. Dieter’s tray lay abandoned nearby, the brush stiff with dried ink, the ink crusted on the surface of its bowl. Surely there must be a way to reverse his arcana? I thought wildly.

  If there is, he’ll not have trusted you with it, came Grandmother’s voice. Whatever help you need, you won’t find it in last night’s discarded workings.

  Stiff and aching, I struggled to my feet, leaving the tray where it lay. First I needed to wash. I hobbled to the door on an ankle protesting any movement, my feet prickling with pins and needles. The guards turned sharp-eyed faces towards me as I cracked open the door.

  ‘Fetch me a tub and washwater.’ I pitched it as a command, pulling back into the room and latching the door before they could reply in the negative. If I wanted to establish a habit of obedience, best to start as I meant to go on.

  It worked. Within half an hour I had a tub and water, hauled in by a soldier who cast me speculative glances when he dared. I’d used the intervening time to find fresh clothes, an unadorned kirtle and gown that Grandmother had favoured for those rare hours when all her official duties were done and she was free to relax. Though they didn’t fit well – she had a stouter build than I – the shabbiness was comforting.

  One task at a time, I used the daily rituals of living to block out my grief. Afterwards I waited, braced for changes, prepared for some further disaster, for Dieter to return or his sister to arrive – for it all to be over. But I knew what Grandmother would say, dead though she might be: There’s a difference between biding your time and cowering in a closet. A Duethin doesn’t cower, Matilde.

  Even if she’d given her crown to keep her life? I asked silently. Even if she’d been bound and branded by her husband?

  But I knew what answer the formidable Beata would have made: Even so.

  I set myself to the task of hiding Dieter’s brand. It was bad enough I’d wed him and publicly acknowledged his power – there was no need to sport his mark as if I were livestock.

  A suitable length of linen was easy enough to find, and soon I had a makeshift veil covering my head and brow and knotted at my nape. It wasn’t a high-born image I presented, my head bound like a common field thrall, but the marks didn’t show through the stiff, creamy fabric.

  I headed towards the doors, pausing to wipe my palms on my skirts before stepping out. The guards swung towards me, faces as bland as the flat of a blade.

  ‘My lady is going somewhere?’ one asked. He had hooded eyes, one more heavily lidded than the other, and he leant on his stave as if it were supporting him. A streak of white from temple to crown spoke of an old scalp wound.

  ‘Astute,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mathis, my lady.’ If his tone hadn’t been so phlegmatic, I might have suspected him of laughing at me. ‘His is Gunther.’

  ‘Well, Mathis, I’m going to inspect the palace.’ I wouldn’t escape an escort, I knew that much. Lies now would only cause trouble later. ‘I need to know what damage has been done.’

  His left eyelid twitched. ‘My lord’s men did not pillage or plunder,’ he said.

  An image of the soldier pawing Helena for trinkets flashed into my mind.

  ‘More than halls and mortar can be damaged, and more than sculptures and idols can be plundered,’ I replied.

  He acknowledged this point with a
nother twitch. ‘The palace is secure, my lady, but it’s not necessarily safe to wander about.’

  I fixed him with my best imitation of Grandmother’s stare. ‘If I were in the habit of avoiding dangerous pastimes, I would not now be your lord’s wife.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, shifting his grip on his stave.

  They fell in on either side of me, barely a half-pace behind – prisoners were accorded more space. It didn’t matter, I reminded myself. All the better to maintain the ruse of my defeat.

  As it transpired, Mathis had spoken truly. Barring an occasional spill of blood, and nicks and chips in the facing of the walls at odd spots in the corridors, the Turholm was physically intact. The idols stood undisturbed in their niches. Even the various statues of Tamor had suffered no damage – surprising given Amalia’s vehemence, which Dieter’s men might reasonably be expected to share. In fact, judging by the petals and cut glass gathered at the various statues’ feet, they’d received further prayers overnight. All the daughters of Turas had received devotions, but the ravens in particular, their eyes of jet alive in the carved ebony figures, stood over a tumbled hoard of offerings.

  When death stalked the corridors and spared you, it paid to be grateful.

  The offerings were the first hint of the emotional damage wrought by the violence. All the rooms in the living quarters stood open, most of them featuring shifted furniture and wardrobe doors hanging open – the result of a search for concealed exits, or perhaps seeking those in hiding. Thralls still crept about their duties, but they wore a haunted and hunched look. Not a one failed to scowl, turn away, or spit at the sight of me.

  Soldiers in Dieter’s blank livery were everywhere: the living quarters, the rooms of state, the courtyards, the stables, even the sties and fields sported a handful of the plain steel-grey tunics. Their unfamiliar faces, flat and wary, sapped any sense of home I might otherwise have found in the subdued and depopulated palace.

  Stopping in a window embrasure, I watched those at practice with staves in the courtyard. It was no wonder he’d overrun us with ease. But how had he gathered such a number of swords? There were too many possible answers. Some of the men might be mercenaries. Maybe Gerlach had bought them – the man was not a normal soldier, with the light of learning in his eye and his presterly past. Or perhaps Dieter had acquired troops from wherever he’d learnt his arcana.