Power & Majesty (27 page)

‘Which of us is more powerful. That skyseed wiped me out, and you still have enough in you to hold on to your Lord form.’

‘No,’ said Ashiol. ‘You’re wrong, Velody. I didn’t drain all my powers into the cloud because you didn’t give me the chance. You poured yourself so damn fast into that claw of yours that I couldn’t keep up.’

She stared up at him. ‘What does that mean?’

It was hard to see facial expressions while dangling in midair, but she thought she saw a twist of a grin cross Ashiol’s mouth. ‘Means you’re better than me, demoiselle dressmaker.’

Before she could respond to that little piece of abject nonsense, Ashiol hauled her up into his arms and held her tightly around the ribcage as he lowered them both slowly to the ground.

For the first time, Velody was very much aware of the fact that they were both naked. It was hard to miss when you were holding each other this tightly. As soon as their feet touched the grass of the Gardens of Trajus Alysaundre, Ashiol opened his arms and released her so quickly that she almost fell over.

All eyes were on them. No, all eyes were on Velody. She stared defiantly back at the open curiosity of the Lords and Court, wishing her nipples were not so obviously hard.

Crane came to her rescue, holding out the crumpled black dress that she had cast aside. She pulled it on over her head, not caring about the effect that the sky mucus would have on the garment, only wanting to be clothed.

Macready came forward with her sandals and gave her a little smirk. She rolled her eyes at him, but was glad to pull her gaze away from the leering Creature Court long enough to slip the shoes onto her feet. Her wet, sticky hair slapped her back as she straightened up.

Were they waiting for her to say something? Her attention was caught by the fallen figure of Poet. He made
no sound, but his wide eyes showed that he was still, painfully, alive. The grass around him was soaked with his blood.

Velody cleared her throat. ‘I appreciate that I am of a great deal of interest to you all, but did any of you even
think
of helping him?’

As one, the Lords’ gaze switched to Ashiol.

‘They didn’t want to displease me,’ he said. ‘I caused the wounds and they don’t want to anger me by healing him. Even Dhynar, whom Poet called ally, didn’t dare make a move without my consent.’ He shot a mocking look at the Ferax Lord, who looked away. ‘The protocol in these instances is for the Lord’s courtesi to keep him alive until the King decides what to do with him, but Poet deliberately kept his courtesi away this nox. Bad luck for him.’

Velody turned on Ashiol. ‘You could heal him. You healed Crane. Why are you even hesitating?’

‘Crane received his injuries defending innocents—defending the home of a Creature King,’ said Ashiol.

‘Poet received his injuries from
you
!’ she said angrily. ‘You should fix this.’

‘Then what would be the point of making an example of him?’

Furious, Velody raised her hand to slap him, but he caught it quickly, squeezing her wrist so hard that it hurt.

‘If you won’t help him, then I will!’ she said. ‘It’s all about sharing blood, right? I’ll give him some of mine.’

Ashiol squeezed her wrist even harder. ‘You can’t. After draining yourself in the sky, you can’t afford to lose any blood. You’re vulnerable, Velody. There’s barely a whisper of active animor left in you right now.’

Velody threw her other hand at him, trying to prise herself loose. He held fast, but she snapped her teeth at him and he opened his hand in reflex. She skipped back out of range. ‘I’m still a Creature King, right? My blood will help him heal.’

‘Yes,’ Ashiol said reluctantly.

‘So don’t stop me helping him!’

‘This is the Lord who attacked you and your friend in the theatre. He allied with the Ferax Lord, Dhynar, who beat Crane to a pulp and scared your other friend half to death. Why would you want to help him?’

‘If I don’t, he might die,’ said Velody. She went to Poet. She was half-expecting Ashiol to make another try at physically stopping her, but he just watched with a strange look on his face as she knelt down beside Poet, pulling him into her arms. ‘I’m not entirely sure how to do this,’ she confessed, holding her wrist near his mouth. ‘I don’t have a knife.’

She glanced over her shoulder at the sentinels. Crane looked ashamed. Kelpie crossed her arms. Macready just slowly shook his head.

Velody took a deep breath. ‘You’ll have to bite,’ she said. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’

Poet was staring at her. A little blood ran from the corner of his mouth. His chin was stained with it. Slowly, as if every movement caused agony, he nodded his head. He was not strong enough to go all the way into Lord form, but his eyes gleamed red and his incisors slowly lengthened to a point.

Velody pressed her wrist to his mouth, preparing herself for a moment of pain. ‘Well, then.’

Poet stopped glowing. His eyes and teeth faded to normal. He moved his head slightly from side to side.

‘Why not?’ she demanded.

Gently, he leaned into her wrist and kissed it. Mumbled words came from his mouth so quietly that she could barely hear them.

‘I swear oath and allegiance to Velody as Power and Majesty, master of the Creature Court, King of Kings, overlord of all.’

‘Drink!’ she said in frustration, but Poet closed his eyes and once again shook his head slightly.

‘Stay close, sweetling,’ he whispered. ‘You’re going to need all the juice you can get.’

She could feel his animor building inside him, like a spirit preparing to flee a dead body.
I don’t want this,
she thought.
I don’t want this.

Poet was dragged roughly away from her. Velody gazed upwards, too exhausted to fight as Ashiol, glowing in Lord form, lifted Poet into his arms. With a growl, he extended his fingernail into a sharp, glowing white point and sliced at his own throat, holding Poet’s slack mouth to the welling blood.

Poet drank, his mouth coming greedily alive, sucking and biting hard into the wound, his skinny body clinging to Ashiol’s large muscular form like a spider.

Velody felt her whole body heave in revulsion.
What am I doing?
she thought desperately.
I was going to let him do that to me!
It was as if this whole crazy nox of battles and animor and excessive nudity, had finally driven her crazy.
I have to get out of here!

She crawled backwards on the grass, trying to put some distance between herself and the horrible sight of Ashiol feeding Poet his blood. As she moved, Ashiol’s eyes blazed down at her and she found herself caught in his gaze. He was saying something, but Velody was too dizzy and sickened to realise what until she recognised that the words were familiar.

‘I swear oath and allegiance to Velody as Power and Majesty, master of the Creature Court, King of Kings, overlord of all.’

Ashiol came down to Velody’s level, falling to his knees. He batted Poet away as if he were an annoying moth, and Poet rolled free on the grass, his face now sticky with Ash’s blood as well as his own. Poet’s torso was still a mess, bloodstained and bulging with scar tissue, but the stomach wound was no longer open.

Still thinking of escape, Velody pushed her unsteady way to her feet, only to find that everyone—every Lord
and all the courtesi of the Creature Court as well as the three sentinels—was on their knees. ‘What are you all doing?’ she demanded. Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her.

‘They are awaiting their turn to pledge allegiance to the new Power and Majesty,’ said Ashiol, thumbing blood from his neck. ‘And that would be you.’

‘You planned this!’ Velody yelled at him.

Ashiol laughed, an honest laugh that recognised the absurdity of the situation. ‘How in the seven hells could I possibly have planned all this?’

She whirled on the rest of them, glaring equally at the four standing Creature Lords and their servile courtesi. ‘I know I’m not welcome here, but guess what? I don’t want to be part of your crazy little gang with all the blood and the skybattles and the handbook of bloodthirsty etiquette. I just want to go home and be left alone.’

She shot a disgusted look over her shoulder at Ashiol. ‘You know what I’m capable of. I know all their faces now. If I see any of them within a hundred paces of my home, I will kill them. It probably won’t hurt, but it will be very, very fast.’

‘Let’s try her out,’ said an unexpected voice.

Velody whirled around, to meet the calm gaze of Priest, the Pigeon Lord. ‘
What?
’ she retorted.

‘To my mind, my dear, not wanting to be Power and Majesty makes you the sanest of all of us.’

‘That’s what I’ve been saying,’ said Ashiol.

‘You keep out of this,’ Velody threatened.

Priest turned to the others. ‘Livilla, Warlord, young Dhynar—you’ve all expressed doubts about our Ashiol being able to take up the mantle of dear, departed Garnet. Perhaps it’s time we tried something new. Something different.’

‘Is she up to it?’ said the Wolf Lord, Livilla.

‘We’ve seen how powerful she is,’ said Priest, pointing to the sky. ‘No doubt she’d be an asset up there. She’s equally
new to us all, which gives us an even chance of finding favour with her. And there’s a hint of self-sacrifice in the mix, very touching. I think we could do worse.’ He lowered his head and started speaking the words. ‘I swear oath and allegiance to Velody as Power and Majesty…’

Before he had reached the end, Dhynar was speaking the words too, and the Panther Lord, and even—after a longer, more sullen pause—the Wolf Lord. Their courtesi all chimed in at different times, making a rattling orchestral hum of words that Velody did not want to hear. She held her hands over her ears, hoping to block it all out.

Cool hands encircled her wrists, pulling her hands away. Her first thought was that it was Ashiol, but the scent told her differently. Poet was on his feet, standing behind her, forcing her to hear the chaotic chorus of allegiance. ‘Listen to them,’ he said, his breath tickling in her ear. ‘These may well be the most important words you ever hear.’

Velody stood there, shivering in her black dress, waiting until the last of the Creature Court had finished saying the words that made them hers, and made her belong irretrievably to them. Poet’s arms were cool, but they offered a breath of comfort, something slightly real to hang on to.

‘I just know this is a truly bad idea,’ she said, when there was silence.

‘Don’t worry about it now,’ said Ashiol, sounding a long way away. ‘This is the easy part. Tomorrow is when it all starts getting difficult.’

I
sangell, First Lady of the Silver Seal and Duchessa d’Aufleur, loved her mother very much. At moments like these it was important to remember that fact, to prevent her from fulfilling the urge to pick up a steel fruit slice and stab her mother in the neck.

‘And then there’s the Leorgette boy,’ continued Eglantine, former Ducomtessa d’Aufleur. ‘Very young, of course, but they say he’s promising enough, and it would be easier for you to maintain control of a younger husband.’

‘Mama, he’s fourteen.’

‘Exactly. He’ll be so grateful to you for choosing him over all the others, he won’t interfere with the running of the city.’

Isangell sat as she always did, the tea table pulled close to her pretty floral settee so she could sit in comfort with her feet tucked under her. Her mother, in contrast, sat primly on a straight-backed chair in order to demonstrate how a well-brought-up lady should behave. It was morning, the first sunlit hour of the fourth day of Floralia, the day devoted to the household gods. Duty was something that Isangell was used to. It was better than tomorrow, when
marriages would be consummated all across the city and passion celebrated in all its forms.

‘I want a proclamation made,’ she said, buttering a thin triangle of toast.

Choosing to breakfast privately in her room instead of the ducal family dining hall had been her first decision as Duchessa. The most unhappy times of her childhood had been the meals in that large draughty room. Unfortunately, her mother had never taken the hint that Isangell preferred to spend the first hour of the day on her own.

‘A proclamation?’ repeated Eglantine, her teacup halting just short of her lips. ‘Oh, darling, you mean about Jordan Leorgette?’

‘No,’ Isangell said, shuddering at the thought of that lanky youth putting his hands on her. ‘About my marriage. I would like to formally announce that I will not choose my husband until I am twenty-one.’

Her mother blinked. ‘But that’s two years away.’

‘I know. It’s only sensible, Mama. It gives me the breathing space to make the right decision.’ Isangell had been thinking about this for a while now. ‘Take the upcoming Shadows Ball. If the Great Families think I might decide on a husband any day now, whomever I choose as my escort will be of huge political significance. If they know the decision is two years away, they’re less likely to create a civil war over who gets to be my dance partner.’

Eglantine looked dubious. ‘My darling, do you really think—’

‘In fact,’ Isangell said brightly, ‘I should send a letter to each Head of Family asking them to propose one candidate to be my husband. That immediately cuts the possibilities down to eleven. With two years at my disposal, I can give each of them equal time for escort duty to major festivals, to be seen with me and for me to get to know them. No one can say I haven’t been fair when I make my final decision, and I can be sure of making the best possible choice of husband.’

Eglantine was staring at her daughter as if she had suddenly grown two heads and bobbed the hair of both. ‘That all seems very…rational, darling.’

‘You mean cold. What did you expect, Mama? I was raised in this household.’

‘That’s cruel.’

‘Is it? You taught me about being a lady and flattering men. You taught me to be polite at all times, and to be seen to be modest and unthreatening. While you were doing that, Grandmama taught me how to rule.’ Isangell felt suddenly very sad. ‘When Grandpapa fell sick, she took on the role of Regenta like she was born to it. A woman can do things differently to a man because people expect less of her. They expect her to follow her heart and be sentimental and to let things like love and family and wistful little dreams affect her ability to make the tough choices. Between the two of you, you taught me that if a woman is polite and apologetic and ladylike at all times, she can get away with just about anything. I intend to make the Great Families damn well wait to find out which of their sons will be brought into this family, and I intend to choose the husband least likely to get in my way while I do my job.’

Isangell took a deep breath and sipped her cup of tea.

‘I see,’ said Eglantine in a stiff voice. ‘Well, my darling, it seems as if you know what you are doing.’

‘Yes, Mama, I think I do.’

‘Have you thought about your heir in the meantime?’

Isangell was surprised. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘People die, Isangell,’ said her mother. ‘You are young and healthy and you probably imagine you will live forever, but accidents happen. Have you given any thought as to who would inherit if an accident or sudden illness took you from us?’

Once again, Isangell had to remind herself that she loved her mother and that she did not want to hit her over the head with a tea tray. She had been working on that speech for days and it had barely raised an eyebrow.

‘Mother, you know the line of succession as well as anyone. Aunt Augusta may have given up her claim to Aufleur when she remarried, but she has a surfeit of sons, who are either adults or closer to coming of age than any babe I might conceive in the next two years.’

‘Minor nobility from a rural barony,’ Eglantine said through thin lips.

‘Descended directly from the last Duc d’Aufleur,’ Isangell shot back. ‘And this isn’t the point you’re getting at, so why waste time on it? You would be quite happy for any of my country cousins to be my heir if it meant that I had disinherited their elder half-brother.’

Eglantine did not deny it. ‘The man is mad, darling. After that display at the Floralia parade, how can you possibly think otherwise?’

‘I don’t know what happened that day, Mama, and neither do you. Perhaps he
does
suffer from Grandpapa’s complaint. Believe me, I do not intend to inflict another mad Duc on this city. But I will not make hasty decisions about Ashiol’s future without at least speaking to him.’

‘If the decision were taken out of your hands…’

‘You wish me to declare you as my executor,’ Isangell said in a quiet voice. ‘I’m sorry, Mama, I won’t do it. I know you believe that you know what is best for Aufleur, but you were not even born in Ammoria. Believe me when I say that I have made adequate provisions for the future of Aufleur in the event of my sudden death. The clerks have the name of my executor.’

‘Augusta,’ said Eglantine sourly.

Isangell smiled a little sadly. ‘I thought my aunt was the best person to decide which of her children would make the best Duc d’Aufleur. Or Duchessa even—we mustn’t forget little Pip.’

‘Your mind can’t be changed on this,’ said Eglantine, not bothering to make it a question. She was beaten and she knew it.

‘I have ensured that Ashiol will be kept from the line of
succession if he is not sane enough to rule. Don’t you think a mother is best placed to judge the sanity of her son?’

‘But the world still believes he is your direct heir,’ protested Eglantine. ‘And after Floralia, they all think him mad.’

‘Actually, they don’t.’ Isangell was quite pleased with how she had managed this part. ‘I’m sure a few of them do, but such rumours will always be with us. I sent out an announcement after the parade that the Ducomte has been suffering from extreme head pains, and that the bright sunlight brought on an attack. Our physicians are hard at work to find a cure, apparently.’ She set her teacup down. ‘Oh, and Mama? I would appreciate it if you asked me first next time you decide to instruct my lictors to hunt my cousin down like a dog in the streets. I countermanded your order, of course. Ashiol will come to me when he is ready.’

Eglantine gave her daughter a look of blank hatred. ‘He doesn’t deserve to be protected by you, Isangell.’

‘I’m the Duchessa,’ her daughter said simply. ‘Protecting people is exactly what I am here to do.’

That, at least, was enough to make Eglantine leave the room, rustling her old-fashioned skirts loudly to express her extreme disapproval. It was taking more and more provocation to achieve that these days.

Isangell poured herself a second cup, relishing the fact that she had perhaps twenty whole minutes before her maids returned to dress her formally for the day.

‘As for you,’ she said aloud after a long blissful minute, ‘have I ever told you how much I dislike being eavesdropped on?’

The curtains at the back of her sitting room moved slowly aside, revealing an abashed Ashiol. He looked like hells. His arms were scratched and torn, and he was clad in the half-shredded remains of a black shirt and leather breeches. His feet were bare, so scratched and swollen that it made Isangell wince to look at them.

‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked.

‘My curtains have been known to smell of orange blossom and freshly laundered linen, but rarely of sweat and leather. Luckily my mother has almost no sense of smell.’ Isangell poured cream into her second cup of tea and held it out to him. ‘Here, you need this more than I do.’

‘Thanks.’ He moved towards her, limping a little, and sat beside her.

‘Do I even want to know?’ she asked.

‘Doubt it.’

She looked at him for a long while, taking in everything while he drank the tea in two or three gulps. Wordlessly, she pushed the remains of the toast and fruit towards him, and he attacked it with military precision.

‘I could ring for more breakfast, if you like,’ she said.

‘I don’t want anyone to know I’m back.’

‘Ashiol, you live here. This is your home.’

‘No. It really isn’t.’ He lay back against the settee, resting his shoulders on the soft cushions. ‘I’m sorry, gosling. This isn’t how I wanted this to turn out for either of us.’

She moved to the chair so he could stretch his legs out. ‘I thought you were going to be my knight in shining armour,’ she said. ‘You were supposed to stand at my side and glare at my mother and give me the strength to make the hard decisions. That was the plan, wasn’t it?’

‘That was the plan,’ he agreed, closing his eyes.

‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come back to Aufleur. It’s happening all over again, isn’t it? The gangs—’

‘They’re not gangs,’ he snapped, then reconsidered. ‘Oh, hells, maybe they are. I thought I could come and be the Ducomte without all that street mess, gosling. I really thought I could do it, or I wouldn’t have inflicted myself on you. But things changed.’

‘At the Floralia parade.’

‘Yes.’ He gazed at her for a moment with his very dark eyes. ‘I’m sorry about your dress.’

‘It would have wilted anyway.’

‘Then I’m sorry about the public humiliation.’

‘Apology accepted.’

He looked so exhausted lying there on her floral cushions. There was something else, as well. ‘You’re glowing,’ she said, tilting her head at him.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘No—there’s something about you. A strength you didn’t have when you turned up on the Palazzo threshold a few days ago.’

‘Yes.’ There was something almost childish about the expression on his face, a mixture of guilt and enthusiasm. ‘I lost part of myself before I left Aufleur the last time.’

‘And now it’s back?’

‘Back with a vengeance. But it comes with responsibilities…’

Isangell slid forward, from the chair to the carpet, pushing her hand into his. ‘You’re not going to be here,’ she said. ‘When I need someone to rant at about my mother, or to help me decide which treaty to sign, or to pick which useless noble I should marry and bear children to, you’re just not going to be here for me.’

‘Nope,’ he said, tracing the back of her hand with his finger. ‘Whenever you really need me, I’ll be somewhere else.’

‘But you’ll turn up like a bad smell whenever it’s least convenient, when I’m truly busy, or when I just don’t
want
a big brother cousin beating down my door and making his opinion heard.’

‘It’s the least I can do, really.’

‘If you can keep yourself alive, I’ll take what I can get.’ She squeezed his hand, then let go. ‘I don’t think I ever will understand why you need to be with them rather than us.’

‘I’m a better person there than I am here,’ he said, watching her through half-lidded eyes. ‘I can do more for this city you love so much. And…they need me. You don’t, Isangell, you really don’t. You’re strong without me.’

‘Am I now?’

‘You were taught by the best. Just try and stay alive for another decade or two, will you? I would make a very bad Duc.’

‘Well, we
all
know that.’ Isangell watched him relax into the cushions, a rare sight. ‘Ashiol?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Did you like my Floralia dress?’

‘Very pretty,’ he mumbled. ‘Just like you.’

‘I was thinking of getting that dressmaker to make me something spectacular for the summer solstice—she’s very good.’

‘She’d like you. You’d like her too, I think.’

Isangell was losing track. ‘Who would I like, Ashiol?’

He opened his dark eyes for one more brief moment before closing them with an air of deep finality. ‘My King.’

That made no sense, but she was used to nonsense from Ashiol.

When his breathing slowed into deep sleep, Isangell got to her feet and rang for her maids. They were all quiet, blank-faced demoiselles, hand-picked by her mother. Isangell had tried learning their names, but they just stared at her when she made an effort at conversation. Today, she didn’t bother. ‘There’s a lunch with the Edoran ambassador, but I’ll dress for that later,’ she said to the expressionless mass in morning dresses. ‘Just a day frock for now, and send for my steward and his scribe to attend me in the library. I have some proclamations to send to the Heads of the Great Families.’

‘Yes, high and brightness.’ The maids moved around her in their coordinated routine. One bent over the tea table to clear the tray, and covered her reaction to the snoring nobleman in torn black leather sprawled on the Duchessa’s pretty floral settee.

‘The Ducomte will need a change of clothes and some more breakfast when he wakes up,’ Isangell tossed over her shoulder as she headed for her dressing room. ‘If someone
could be here to remind him where his own rooms are, that would be wonderful.’