Shadowheart (114 page)

Chert could not help noticing that Brother Antimony looked uncomfortable, even troubled. As the boy tried to get down the stairs under Opal’s continued assault, hugging him and trying to hold his hands and several times almost toppling them both off the steep steps, Chert slowed until he was walking beside Antimony.

“Why the worried face?” he asked the monk as lightly as he could.

“Oh, it is nothing,” Antimony said. “It only troubled me that bad luck should have forced me to leave Beetledown behind just so I could carry Nickel to safety—that . . . that ...” He looked around as though Brother Nickel’s supporters might even be there, in the upper floors of the Tower of Summer. “That miserly, self-important creature. What a waste to lose little Beetledown instead of him!”

“The Elders’ plans are not always written clear,” Chert said.

“But then I was thinking about how Flint knew just where to be—just where to be! Of all the tunnels of the Mysteries, he knew just where Beetledown would be coming and where the owl would catch him ...” Antimony shook his head. “And I was thinking of that, and how he disappeared, and wondering how a mere boy could know such things . . . and then there he was! Standing directly in front of me on the stairs as if I had . . . as if I had conjured him up.”

Chert felt a bit of a chill, too—not the first that his adopted son’s actions had given him. “We have all had to get used to that. The boy . . . the boy is not like others.”

Antimony’s laugh was almost angry. “You are a wise man, Chert Blue Quartz, but that is far from the cleverest thing you’ve ever said. The boy is not like
any
other!”

“Chert!” Opal called back. “Did you hear what Flint said? You’re going to have an audience with the princess—and
I
will be going, too!”

“What? Flint, what are you talking about?”

“An audience with the princess and many others, in two days’ time,” the boy said. “It is very important, Papa Chert. You really must go.”

“With Princess Briony? And how did you hear of this?” he asked. “Did someone in the princess’ household tell you?”

“Oh, no,” he said, opening the door as they reached the bottommost floor. The late afternoon sun flooded in, so that for a moment Chert could not entirely make out the boy’s shape and he seemed something else, something unknown. “No,” Flint told him. “No one told me. I just thought of it.”

—from “A Child’s Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven”

 

 

 

The guards observed his expression with alarm, but he ignored them—it was not the guards who had earned his anger.

One of the maids let him in; he paced the antechamber until she returned and led him through into Briony’s retiring room. The princess had been writing a letter; as he came in she blotted it, rolled the parchment, and put it aside. The summer night was warm but Briony wore a heavy sleeping robe, perhaps for modesty’s sake. The rest of the maids were still dressed, which was a good thing considering Ferras Vansen’s plans.

“I must have some time to speak privily with Her Royal Highness,” he said. “Princess, will you send your attendants away? I apologize for the intrusion, but it is a matter of utmost urgency.”

She looked at him, trying to read his face. “Of course, Captain Vansen. Give them a moment to compose themselves. Ladies, I know that Duchess Merolanna sits up late these nights because she has trouble sleeping. You can find a fire and some company in her chambers.”

When they had all trooped out, whispering at this strange and sudden intrusion, Briony seated herself in a large chair and drew her feet up beneath her. “You have my attention, Captain Vansen.” She shook her head. “I will not be able to call you that much longer, will I? Soon the coronation will come, and the honors will be given ...”

“Hang that,” he said. “I care nothing for honors or titles. You know that.”

“Why such anger at me?” she asked. “I looked to you many times yesterday but all I saw was your frowning displeasure. You would not meet my eye.” For the first time her mask slipped a little and her voice shook. “I offered you my heart and my lips the night before. Why should that earn your scorn?”

He stood in front of her with fists clenching and unclenching. “Scorn? It was you who would not look at me! I tried to catch your eye when you first came and you stared at me as though you had never seen me before! As though you were so choked in shame you could not bear to show me even the kindness you show to the youngest stable boy, or even old Puzzle!”

Briony laughed, a sudden burst of merriment that caught him by surprise. “Puzzle! Gods, are you jealous of the jester because I kissed his head and gave him a couple of coppers? He is a century old if he is a day!”

Vansen hated being laughed at; he would rather have been back in the depths of the Mysteries being strangled by the autarch himself than to have this woman, whom he loved so much his heart ached when he was away from her, laugh at him that way. “You mock me, my lady. You mock your servant because he is nothing more than that—a servant. Your pardon. I was foolish to think I could be anything more.” He turned and walked stiffly toward the door, his head like a windy night full of blowing leaves.

“Wait.”

He stopped. She was his sovereign, after all.

“Turn and face me, Captain. It is not proper to stand with your backside to your queen.”

Vansen turned. “With respect, Highness, you are not the queen yet.”

Her eyes were red, but she was fighting not to laugh, which confused Ferras Vansen mightily. “Merciful Zoria, you were right, Captain Vansen. You
are
a fool!”

“Then if my ruler has no further need of me,” he said loudly, “perhaps she will be so kind as to release me ...”

“Gods in heaven, Vansen, what is wrong with you?” She put her pale feet on the floor and stood up, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Release you? Are you truly upset with me because I would not gaze at you lovingly in front of all my subjects, in front of Prince Eneas and the new autarch? What do you want, man?”

“A sign.” He did his best to calm himself. He had a sudden vision of Briony’s ladies standing in the hallway with the guards, all of them listening at the door. “Some small sign that the other night meant . . . something.”

Now she came toward him, spreading her arms. “Meant something? Oh, sweet Heaven, how can you ask? Does
this
mean something?” And as she pressed herself against him her robe fell open and he felt the length of her whole and warm, with only a thin cotton nightdress separating him from her flesh.

He pulled her close and for a long time only held her, squeezing until she could barely find her breath. “Oh, gods, I hunger for you, Briony. I am no poet, no courtier. I have never loved like this before and I do not know the rules of the game! I was frightened because I saw nothing in your eyes. It was as though . . . I could not ...” He shook his head and buried his face in her golden hair, which was still so short he could feel the skin of her neck hot against his cheek. “It was as though everything else we had together . . . had been a lie.”

“Fool, dear fool. I am soon to be a queen. I cannot show people my thoughts in the construction of my face. I would be dead today if I could not hide my feeling from others.”

“But there are no others here now,” he said, and lifted her chin until he could look into her face, the face he had been able to see only in memory for so long; for a moment it all seemed a dream again, but the feel of her reassured him. “No others. No one but us.”

“Then you will see what our love is truly made of,” she said, and brought her lips to his.

 

“Are you well, my love?”

She stirred. “Well, indeed. A little pain, that’s all. They say the first time is always that way.” She smiled. “You are my man now, forever and ever—the only husband I will ever have, even if a temple never hears our vows. Do you know that?”

“I would be nothing else.” He traced circles on the skin of her belly, but could not do so for more than a moment before the urge to kiss her there became overwhelming.

“Stop!” Briony said, laughing. “We cannot! Just think of my ladies-in-waiting, who will be spreading this story all over Southmarch tomorrow morning if I do not bring them back from Merolanna’s rooms before midnight.”

“I told them it was a matter of grave importance,” he said. “Did I lie?”

She smacked at his head and then rolled over so she could kiss him. “Oh, I wish we could be like this forever, Vansen.”

“My first name is Ferras,” he told her, almost shyly.

“Do you think I don’t know?” She laughed again. “I know everything about you that I could discover. At first because I thought you the worst man ever. Later . . . well, my feelings changed . . . or at least became clearer.” She looked at him, her face suddenly earnest. “Would you prefer I call you by your first name?”

“I don’t care which you choose as long as you speak it with that look in your eyes, always,” he said.

She rolled onto her back. “But I can’t, you know. Not in front of others. You know that, don’t you? Please say that you do.”

“I suppose,” he said. “But how can you love someone so much lower than yourself, that you must hide that love from everyone?”

“Foolish Captain Vansen! I could make you a noble in an instant. I
will
make you a noble—otherwise, you cannot be my lord constable. But even so, the way we feel for each other must stay a close-held secret.”