Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 (24 page)

And when her brother shrugged, she felt a little like a queen. She looked Hafgrim over closely as they climbed the central stair, and suddenly felt a little ashamed, though her brother remained silent.

Regardless of my desires, he will be expected to wage wars I will not,
Adria thought.
I may be as capable as he, but Rodham is right. Hafgrim will have to learn to take care of himself.

She expected a reproach when Hafgrim turned and spoke again, but it was not what came.

“Adria…” Hafgrim asked. “Where did you learn chess?”

She had wondered, many times, why she and Hafgrim had rarely visited their father together, at least in private, and why Father had never taught Hafgrim the game. It was with some surprise that she realized the likely truth — that her father probably never saw Hafgrim in private at all. He had never once spoken of it.

“I learn all sorts of things from books,” Adria half-lied, a little to her own surprise. Then she smiled, teasing, “You should try reading sometime, when you’re not busy bloodying knuckles in the courtyard.”

She struck just the right tone, and Hafgrim took it as she intended. “Well, someone’s going to have to duel your more unworthy suitors. It wouldn’t do for you to pummel them yourself.”

“Yes, I think that’s in an etiquette book somewhere,” she nodded, sighing.

They parted at the top of a stair, returning to their separate quarters for separate lessons. She never spoke of chess to her brother again, and he never again asked.

Twyla was Adria’s only real window to the world beyond the citadel, and fortunately Twyla enjoyed talking as much as Adria enjoyed listening. She spoke of the city, mostly, for this was where she lived with her mother, and on the days her mother did not serve Adria and the household, they sold bread in a market stall. Here they had much opportunity to learn the news of Heiland and beyond from travelers and visitors to the city.

“Do you hear any word of the Wilding Ghosts?” Adria asked, redirecting Twyla from her usual unfocused storytelling.

“Mother sometimes asks those from the south about them, where the forests are still wild.”

“And what do they say?” Adria asked. “Do they truly steal children?”

“Sometimes,” Twyla said thoughtfully. “Or so they say. And often, the ghosts’ll replace a stolen child with one of their own, and they grow up charmed, and speak to angels.”

Adria wasn’t certain this was the kind of story she was hoping for.

“My uncle used to say that the children of his lands were whisked away by ghosts. He never said anything about them being replaced, and he blamed the whole affair on a dragon. Certainly, he considered me foolish to believe such nonsense.”

Twyla shook her head. “I don’t know anything about dragons.”

“No…” Adria frowned, hesitating. “But… do you know anything of my uncle?”

Twyla grew still and bit her lip. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

Adria frowned. “Why not? And who says?”

She shrugged. “Mother. She doesn’t like wars.”

It was Adria’s turn to grow still, thoughtful, and fearful. She knew Twyla’s moods, knew she did not want to hide things from Adria. They were as close as either of them had to sisters. If Adria asked her the right questions, Twyla would answer, and would not think of it as disobeying her mother.

“My uncle went to war?” Adria tried to sound nonchalant in her tone. It was not too difficult. She knew that wars were terrible affairs, but she had grown up with them as a common occurrence.

Twyla nodded.

“Yes, such things happen,” Adria said, trying to put Twyla at greater ease. “It is said we will have peace one day, when the One-Who-Will-Come brings the final war. Father and uncle have brought such order to Heiland. When I am old enough, I shall help them with other nations.”

But this was too much… it allowed Twyla to change the subject. “Mother says that wars bring nothing good, that it often only means a new face is on the coins we’ll never see.”

Twyla was getting rather good at quoting her mother’s words precisely. And she always believed them. This gave Adria an idea, and she went to a small chest she kept in her bedroom, and brought the coin inside it to Twyla.

“Here,” Adria said, placing it in her hand. “This is my father’s coin.”

“Is it gold?” Twyla asked, in wonder. It was obvious she had never seen one, or at least not close enough to examine, much less touch.

“It is,” Adria nodded.

“It’s bigger than any coin I’ve seen.” Twyla felt the engraved face of King Ebenhardt, and turned it over to do the same with his star emblem.

Adria nodded. She had read books which showed coins from all the countries she knew, and of all of them, her father’s gold Crown was the largest.

Twyla smiled, and handed the coin back to her.

“No, keep it,” Adria insisted, using her most royal voice. “You have both served me well, and I should like you to have it.”

“I can’t,” Twyla said, shaking her head and frowning.

Adria sighed and crossed her arms. “And why ever not?”

Twyla blinked. “Highness, everyone will think I have stolen it.”

“Oh…” Adria said after a moment, feeling a little stupid.

Twyla smiled and took Adria’s hand in her own. “Thank you anyway, Your Highness. I am obliged.”

Adria regretted adopting her own formality, now that it was returned. “Oh Twyla, you are so like a sister to me, and the only person I can talk to who knows the world outside this tower. I love you as I do my brother, and my father, and my uncle. I have so little family.”

Twyla nodded, her eyes downcast, guilty.

“Adria,” she began, still hesitant, but now with a different tone. She had determined to disobey her mother, and yet she was afraid anyway.

“Tell me, Twyla,” Adria whispered, now fearing the worst. “Has my uncle died in this war?”

Twyla shook her head and looked up, perhaps a bit relieved. “No… he is… exiled.”

“Exiled?” Adria said, with slight disbelief, until she remembered her last meeting with her uncle, the discomfort between him and her father. “Oh… I see.”

Twyla nodded, frowning, uncertain but hopeful she might say no more.

“My uncle did not battle alongside my father. My uncle warred against my father.”

Twyla nodded sadly.

“And... Uncle lost.”

Again, Twyla nodded, and Adria nodded along with her.

“Do you...” Adria fumbled, now trying to keep her breath and hands steady, to hold back tears. “Where did he go?”

Twyla only shrugged, unknowing. Adria’s thoughts had already raced ahead on their own, across a map of the world like a chessboard, through Somana and the Northlands and Kelmantium... and then she almost smiled, despite the sadness of Twyla’s revelations.

No
... Adria realized. 
He has followed all the children and their ghosts, to where the dragon can never find him.

Adria returned her father’s Crown to its chest, sighed and brightened herself a little, and they spoke no more of this.

Kaye always left a set of clothing for Twyla in Adria’s apartments “in case of any mishaps,” she said, though she never specified what these might be, and thus far Twyla had never needed to take advantage of them.

So one Holy day Adria took advantage of them herself.

Normally she was left alone on these days, save when there was a feast or some ceremonial observance on the part of the Sisterhood which Adria was obliged to attend. Mostly, she used these occasional days to read, in bed or in her oriel, without even bothering to dress.

But today she dressed, and it was fitting not having a servant’s help to dress in servants’ clothing. She had to hold her polished silver mirror herself, tilting it about to see as much of herself as she could. It was by no means a perfect braid, and the skirts fit a little more loosely on her than on Twyla, but these were plain enough that few were likely to look too closely.

It was just after her breakfast tray had been taken, hours until the midday meal. Adria worried for a moment that Hafgrim might call upon her, or she might be summoned to her father’s study, but her brother had been out of sorts for days now, and Father, by all accounts, had been called away on diplomatic matters.

It was warm enough, with no fire to worry about, and so Adria slipped from her rooms and down the servant stair, where guards were unlikely to go.

Adria had often enjoyed watching the Knights in the yard more then the noble boys, though she could make out little detail from the distance of her oriel window. But in their rows and columns, they seemed the very living image of chess.

As she climbed out the keep’s sally port and onto the small landing at the edge of the bailey, the Knights were arrayed in just such a pattern as they drilled.

Today it was spears, and as Adria made her way along the wall which led to the yard kitchens, she watched the soldiers build their own walls with their shields, in triplicate, their spears held between at ready to breech an enemy’s line.

When they fell into line, their boots, arms, and voices gave such a shout that it made Adria start, with something close to fear, and something close to joy.

Another servant approached from the kitchens. Adria lowered her hooded head to avoid his notice, and he passed without concern.

The Knights pivoted to form a column, and the butts of their spears clashed upon the stone tiles.

Adria neared the kitchens, now rather uncertain of her plan, but unwilling to turn back just yet.

There was nearly as much noise coming from the kitchens as from the yard, as servants handled the crockery and dishware left to clean from breakfast. A bird called, and Adria was surprised to see that it was neither a hawk nor a dove, but a raven which stood upon one corner of the tiled kitchen roof, just where it curved to funnel the rain into a large clay basin.

Adria tilted her head, half lowering her hood, fascinated by the black-violet pinions of the crow.

She barely sidestepped as a large dark-headed serving maid exited the kitchen doorway to empty a tub of dirty water.

Adria stepped back, and again, as the brackish water filled the space between cobbles, trying to soak her stolen skirts.

“Speakin’ to crows is poor luck,” the red-faced woman said. “And what be your course, young hafslip?”

Adria blinked dumbly, not fully understanding the woman’s words, and only just realizing her hood had fallen completely.

The woman waited only a heartbeat before following, “Speak up… we all have work, nae?”

“Ahm… Aye, Mum…” Adria stammered, trying to sound as much like one of her servants as she could. “Apologies.”

“Who are you, then, mystery girl? And where are you on about?”

Adria curtsied, half stepping again away from the dirty water upon the path, and the woman narrowed her eyes and smirked as Adria continued. “If it pleases ye, Ma’am… I am… Maid Kaye’s youngest… cousin’s… niece?”

Adria could not help but end as a question, the lie having taken so many steps.

“I am… seeing to the keep a bit while my…” here she stumbled. “While my aunt is at holiday.”

“And ye’s as likely to be coming as going, reckon?”

Adria blinked, looking from the woman, to the crow, to the water at her feet. Finally, Adria smiled and nodded.

The woman rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Not your usual job, then, is it?”

Adria shook her head.

“Best be on about it then, lass.” The woman turned back to the kitchen doorway. “And best tell Kaye her great grand cousin niece is as likely to embarrass us all in the towers as to dirty her shiny slippers.”

Adria backed away again, hiking up her skirts, and only then realized that she had worn her own slippers rather than Twyla’s.

Adria considered the conversation, looking past the kitchens to the High Temple of the Sisterhood, and then to the citadel’s gateway and the city beyond.

With a long sigh, she turned back to the keep, marching home to the shouts of soldiery and the cries of the crow.