Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (45 page)

“
This
?” Claire inquired, after a pause.

“This!” I repeated, gesturing vaguely to the two of us with the arm that wasn't caught between her back and the sofa. “All of... this.”

Whatever
this
was.

Claire was silent for so long that I was forced to lean back and look up at her. When I did, she laughed dryly, face displaying something that could only be described as mild horror.

“What?” I demanded, hands on her shoulders. One of her arms slipped down to the small of my back, and she brought a fist to her mouth, trying hold back her laughter. It didn't help.

“I apologise,” she said, pursing her lips together and laughing breathily through her nose. “I am only laughing at my own expense, I assure you. I had assumed that you would... well.”

Claire pulled me close and kissed my forehead, rendering it impossible to fume at her.

“Why would I have?”

“Why would you not have?” she asked, placing a hand against my face so that she could meet my gaze. She was beyond laughter now; she was looking at me in the same way that I must've been looking at her, and there was a simple sincerity worked into her expression.

She coloured, just a little, across the bridge of her nose.

I moved to kiss her, worried I was smiling too much to do so properly, until I pressed my lips to hers. Her arms tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against her, and as we kissed, I allowed myself to be happy. I stopped worrying about the castle and all it contained, stopped worrying about all that had unfolded in the past few weeks and hoped that for a moment, Claire would stop worrying about dragons.

Short minutes later, I found myself with my face buried in Claire's neck. She ran her fingers through my hair, humming softly, and everything that had brought us there no longer seemed real. My village, Felheim. The country beyond the city and the castle beyond the chamber. It felt as though Claire and I had been there forever, on that very sofa, because surely acknowledging the past would be enough to send me tumbling back into it.

“There's been no one else, hm?” Claire couldn't help but ask.

“Not really,” I said, but made an effort because Claire wasn't judgemental. She was only curious. “There were a few girls who came to the village when I was a healer, I guess, but that never really
went
anywhere. I've
liked
people, but I don't usually, um, I'm not always interested in...”

“The physical aspects of relationships?” Claire asked, gently finishing my sentence for me.

“Right. That is—I like
this
. I like kissing you!” I mumbled, tripping over my words. “I just don't always...”

“I understand what you're saying, Rowan,” Claire said, touching her nose to mine. “You'll let me know when it isn't one of those times, won't you?”

“Of course,” I said, nodding heavily.

“I do apologise if I've caught you off-guard, though, or acted in haste,” Claire said, chin rested atop my head. Before I could reply, she said, “Will you be attending the Phoenix Festival?”

“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to move an inch. “I might as well see what it's like in a city this big, right?”

“It's a festival celebrating the fall of necromancers. Are you certain you wish to subject yourself to such things?”

I shrugged against her.

“I hear those things most days. Besides, it's not like I haven't gone to the Phoenix Festival every year since I was born.”

I knew the sort of things I was likely to hear, but I wanted the Kastelirians to sing songs that were familiar to me, though the lyrics were twisted; I wanted their versions of the tales about the Bloodless Lands to conflict with my village's, for Isin to accuse the necromancers of different crimes. All so that I would know there was no truth to any of it. Their stories had been twisted like Kouris', and having no real basis, I couldn't repeat any of the history therein.

“Why
did
you choose the phoenix for your sigil?” I asked, peeking up at her. “You said it didn't have to do with necromancers, but that's all I've ever heard about them.”

I was sceptical, but Claire was eager to explain herself.

“The phoenixes never turned against necromancers. During the War, they fought on both sides of the battlefield. Just as necromancers and healers did, along with the rest of the humans. There are books written on the subject, hidden deep within castle vaults,” she said. “Were the phoenixes still alive, they would be deeply ashamed of how they have been remembered.”

“But the Phoenix Fire... the phoenixes razed the necromancers in Myros, and the necromancers killed the last of the phoenixes. Didn't they?”

I'd wanted to go to the Phoenix Festival in order to dismiss the stories of the Necromancy War, yet I was using what I'd overheard to argue my point.

“The phoenixes fell in numbers a long time before any war began. History would like to paint phoenixes and necromancers as natural enemies, when in truth, the two worked side by side for as long as Myros stood. They were paired together, as Priests of Isjin,” Claire said, and I wondered where this truth had been, all throughout my life. “If anything, the extinction of the phoenixes can be put down to the foolish notion that their meat would provide immortality, or at least longevity.”

Again, it wasn't what I'd heard. The phoenixes died out because necromancers found a way to stop them from reviving themselves; they flocked to Myros in the thousands, at the height of the war, and sacrificed themselves in order to give our ancestors a chance to flee the Bloodless Lands. I wanted to believe her, I truly did, but I couldn't shake off what I'd known all my life.

“So you chose the phoenix for your sigil because...?”

“Because I wanted somebody to represent them better than others were. I do not profess to know everything about phoenixes, but they caught my interest from a young age, and Queen Aren would always present me with gifts pertaining to them. Books, mostly. A dragon-bone knife with phoenixes carved into it, when I was knighted,” she said, voice becoming distant. “I took my name from one of the women who wrote on phoenixes, actually.”

“Really? You chose your name for yourself, as well?”

“Indeed. I had no desire to use the name of my birth parents, nor did I wish to take the royal family's name, lest it put me at an unfair advantage,” she said. “And so I picked a name for myself. I was young, at the time. Barely thirteen. But I believe it has come to suit me.”

I'd always been a Northwood. My father had taken the name from my late mother, and once upon a time, the Northwoods had been spoken of warmly. I couldn't imagine not having that sense of stability to ground me all my life, something that marked my place in the world. In spite of that, I could tell it was important to Claire that she'd been allowed to choose her own name, to earn her own place within Thule.

“I called you
Sir Ightham
for long enough, didn't I?” I said, grinning. “I think it suits you just fine, Sir.”

Claire scowled, jabbing her fingers against my sides.

“Hearing you call me that sounds wrong,” Claire said, pushing herself up with her palms and sitting with her back against the arm of the sofa. “If you do wish to go to the Phoenix Festival, I shall endeavour to come with you. I've little doubt that King Atthis and Queen Kidira shall wish to keep me busy, especially considering the lack of results Akela and I have managed to procure, but Kouris, perhaps, will be able to convince King Atthis to allow me an hour or two to myself.”

I brought my knees to my chest and leant against her, nose pressed to the line of her jaw. In that moment, the Phoenix Festival wasn't about necromancers, wasn't about what people thought my kin had done. It was about songs that meant nothing, words that were lost to the air, and only the high spirits of the festival goers remained. It was about the colours and cheer, the food cooked out in the streets, and the long days of late spring, sun never seeming to set, tavern doors never closing.

“I'd like that,” I said.

If I started to doubt myself, started to believe that there was some truth in the songs they sung, I could look to Claire to ground myself.

“Come,” Claire said, reluctantly prying herself from between me and the arm. “I expect I shall be fetched within an hour or two. Let us find something to eat before then.”

I didn't attend King Jonas' funeral. Bells tolled from sunrise till noon, within the castle and throughout Isin, and from my window, I saw crowds gather around the castle gates. No doubt most of them were more curious than grief-stricken, and the distance between us made the onlookers seem more quietly thoughtful than they truly were. The guards dealt with any who stepped out of line, and I saw as much of the procession as the Isiners at the gate did.

Although I remained confined to my room, I had been longing for the funeral, in a way. Once King Jonas was in his coffin, in the ground, that was it; it was done. In the few days that had passed, I came to realise that I couldn't do anything for him, and though it wasn't fair, or right, it was the way things had to be.

The castle's unusual silence left me restless. An assortment of clothing had been left in my room, with a note atop that I assumed said I was free to rifle through the pile, and a handful of servants had fallen into the habit of knocking at my door and asking if I needed anything, anything at all.

That was Kouris' doing, no doubt. Whenever I required something, food or otherwise, I always scrambled over myself in an effort to make what I was saying sound as much like a request as was possible. I wasn't sure whether it was more awkward for me or the servants when they bowed their heads and called me
miss
.

That morning, I had hot water and clean cloths brought to my room. Sunlight struck the tiled area in front of the basin, so I didn't worry too much about where I dripped. I scrubbed myself down in earnest, catching my reflection in the mirror by chance. I paused, turning my head towards it. I had been smiling to myself, but that didn't last long; my scars were still there, under my clothing, no matter how I tried to hide them.

They were more grotesque than ever, bathed in light as I was, colours clashing together. They spread out from my stomach, across my ribs and up my back. There was no turning away from them, and when I ran my fingers over the gnarled edges and contours, I knew there was no closing my eyes to them, either.

My mood matched the atmosphere of the castle. I slapped my palm against the mirror, more frustration than force behind the movement, and it shook in its frame as I scrambled to hide inside a shirt.

I distracted myself by pulling books off the shelves and flicking through them, trying to find pictures, but it was to no avail. They were all full of the same: words and words, over and over, endlessly repeating themselves. I stared at the pages as though some meaning would work its way into my mind, but book after book turned out to be useless.

It was a relief when someone knocked at my chamber. I hurried to unlatch the door, supposing one of the servants wanted to know if I was ready for lunch, and found Katja standing on the other side. She seemed dizzy, though not about to stumble, eyes misted red, cheeks blotched.

“Are you alright, Katja?” I asked, holding out a hand for her to take. I led her to the sofa, doubting that she wanted me to ask why she wasn't at King Jonas' funeral. “Do you need anything?”

“Water, if you wouldn't mind terribly,” she murmured weakly, forehead rested against the heel of her palm. I rushed over to collect the pitcher of water from the basin, and Katja's voice rose as I went. “I am sorry to bother you like this, Rowan. Oh—just look at me! I'm afraid this horrid white
thing
makes me look far ghastlier than I feel, in spite of all today holds.”

The
thing
in question was a beautifully simple funeral dress, but the fact that it was white was the only similarity it bore to anything I'd seen worn in my village.

“I simply had to get out of there, if only for a moment. The funeral is over and the guests are moving onto the wake, but the only people willing to engage in conversation with me are intent on feeling awful on my behalf, and the guards do little more than nod and say
milady.
I had thought you might—well, I shouldn't like to presume, but...”

“It's fine, Katja,” I assured her, handing her a glass of water and taking a seat. “King Jonas, he's been buried, then?”

“Buried? Oh, goodness, no. There's a crypt beneath the castle, fit for royalty. His coffin will be placed there, forever on display, that we might make ourselves all the more miserable whenever we're moved by guilt to visit him,” Katja said, placing the glass on the low table without taking a single sip.

Sighing, Katja leant against the sofa, head titled back. She closed her eyes and I didn't say a word, thinking that the relative peace of my chamber was what she needed. I was considerably less relaxed than she was; I kept expecting a guard to burst through the door, ordered by Queen Kidira to find where her daughter had disappeared to.

“I really don't mean to keep you from your affairs, dear. What were you doing before I so rudely intruded?”

I gestured over to the pile of books I'd flipped through, willing to answer any of Katja's questions, so long as it served as a distraction for her.

“Just looking through those for something to do. It's really no intrusion.”

“Ah.” Katja straightened in her seat as though she'd been blind to the books, until I'd pointed them out. “Would you be so kind as to read something to me? Any of the books shall do; I hardly care for the material, at this very moment.”

“I can't,” I said, wincing. “Sorry.”

“You can't what?”

“I can't read,” I blurted out, finding something shameful in it, for the way Katja stared at me, mouth agape. “I've—I've never been able to.”

“My word. Why ever not?” she asked, leaning towards me. She looked as though she wanted to place a hand against my forehead in order to ensure I wasn't at the mercy of some fever. “Did nobody think to teach you? However do you manage?”

The questions rushed out of her, and though I was glad I'd taken her mind off her grief, I shuffled in my seat at the bewilderment I'd drawn out of her. While I knew she had no intention of being callous, her shock served to make everything she said blunt, and I did what I could to tell myself that her way of life had made her naïve to the way most of the people in her country lived.