Traitor's Masque (39 page)

“Do you need to tell me anyway?”

Trystan started to shake her head. She had hoped fervently that no one would ever find out how foolish she had been. But this was Vianne. Who had been, Trystan now realized, far more of a mother to her than Malisse had ever even attempted to be. There was a very large part of her that wanted to tell the cook everything. But first…

“Vianne, how long have you known? About my parents?”

“What about them, child?” Vianne looked wary.

“That they weren’t married.”

Vianne’s expression sharpened momentarily. “Who told you that?” Her tone was level but harsh.

“Lady Westerby,” Trystan admitted. “She said she’s always known. But if she knew, then Malisse must have known. And if she has been convinced all these years that I am a bastard, why has she never rubbed my face in it?”

Vianne froze. Thoughtfully. Her eyes narrowed. “And why did Lady Westerby seem to think the subject of your parentage was a fit one for conversation?”

Trystan squirmed in her chair. “I may have overheard her talking about it. With someone else.”

Vianne’s expression grew even more stern. “I hardly know which disturbs me more: that you were so lost to propriety as to eavesdrop or that Lady Westerby was discussing your mother with a stranger.”

“My mother?” Trystan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Vianne, they didn’t say anything about my mother except that she wasn’t married to my father.” It was Trystan’s turn to look suspicious. “Vianne, if you know something, why won’t you tell me?”

Vianne had the grace to look a trifle uncomfortable. “Your father was very firm on that subject, child. No one was allowed to speak of it.”

“My father is dead, Vianne.” Trystan was no longer concerned with avoiding that fact. “And I’m becoming convinced that he was hiding a great deal from me.” Vianne said nothing.

“Vianne, I know he didn’t love me. At least, not enough.” The older woman looked at her in surprise. “If you are afraid that I might not have the strength to face the truth, let me assure you that I have lately faced a number of uncomfortable truths.” She tried a watery smile. “And I’m neither dead nor run mad, so please don’t hold back on my account.”

Vianne shook her head, an odd sort of pain in her eyes. “I’m not certain I should, child. There’s so much…” She did not go on.

Trystan huffed in frustration. This was a useless conversation. And not the one she had come here to have.

“Vianne,” she said suddenly, “can I stay here? With you?”

Vianne’s eyebrows shot up. “I do not have guests, child,” she answered, clearly surprised, “and I believe you have a home. Besides, I’m fairly certain your stepmother will be upset when she realizes you are no longer at Westhaven.”

“Er, yes,” Trystan muttered. “About that…”

It seemed to suddenly occur to Vianne to question her appearance. “Trystan, child, did you walk here all the way from Westhaven?” She sounded rather shocked. When Trystan didn’t answer, she tried again. “Does Lady Westerby know where you are?”

Trystan thought for a moment, but shook her head. “I doubt,” she answered slowly, “that Lady Westerby will be very concerned with my whereabouts after tonight.”

After another period of silence, Vianne seated herself firmly in the only other chair in the room. “Well, child? Are we going to be here all night or are you going to explain yourself?”

Heaving a rather uncomfortable sigh, Trystan leaned back in her chair and looked at Vianne. And for some reason thought of Larissa Felton. Who would have no trouble at all explaining even a story as crazy as Trystan’s…

“Would you believe that I went to the masqued ball as Lady Westerby’s cousin Elaine because Lady Westerby asked me to carry a message in exchange for a house of my own? But really she just meant me to be a spy, because she wanted me to betray Prince Ramsey, but when I got there I found out that I knew him.” Vianne very loudly said nothing. “He didn’t recognize me with my masque on, and I had to fill out that silly application and pretend I wanted to marry him like all the other girls, and we danced once, only I sprained my ankle so I couldn’t go to the garden party, and when he asked me back to talk about marriage, I overheard Lady Westerby talking to Lord Fellton about how they poisoned the king and meant to murder her cousin so that I could marry Prince Ramsey because I’m illegitimate and then Prince Rowan could be king instead.” Vianne’s silence grew more ominous. “And then I went to the castle to meet with Prince Ramsey so I could tell him everything even if it meant I had to live with Malisse forever but they had already found Elaine and he thought I meant for her to be murdered so I could marry him and now everyone thinks I’m a traitor and a murderess and he will never speak to me again. At least, he wouldn’t, but he didn’t see my face so he doesn’t know who he’s not speaking to.” A pause. “And Lady Westerby is probably going to be arrested for treason.”

Trystan let out a long breath as she finished, completely perplexed as to how Larissa managed to talk like that
all the time
! It was useful though. All of those painful events had been relayed without any further blubbering. It was a relief, to have said it all out loud. To feel as though she was no longer the only one carrying around so many dreadful secrets.

She glanced at Vianne, who was looking a bit as though she’d been struck over the head with one of her own frying pans.

“I’m sorry, child, but…”

Trystan nodded encouragingly. No doubt more than one point in that recitation had proved confusing.

“Did you say you knew Prince Ramsey?”

It was Trystan’s turn to look surprised. Out of that entire convoluted mess, the one thing Vianne had fixated on was her relationship with the prince?

“Ah, yes,” she answered, blushing slightly. “I didn’t realize it was him until the night of the ball. We met several times, while I was riding.”

Vianne looked scandalized. “Little wonder he didn’t recognize you, the way you dress those mornings. Did you ever… talk to him?”

Again feeling a bit awkward, Trystan nodded. “I didn’t mean to, but we kept running into each other. The last time…” She squirmed. “That time may have been on purpose.”

Vianne fixed her with an odd stare. “Then there was something between you?”

Trystan groaned and put her face in her hands. “No! Yes… it doesn’t matter!” She glared at Vianne, not really ready to revisit this yet. “Even if it were possible for a prince to have feelings for a girl who rides around the woods alone looking like a stablehand, he never knew who I was. I only told him my name is Embrie. He doesn’t know the girl he met while riding is the same one who betrayed him, and he must never find out, which he will if he ever sees me again!”

Vianne was silent again for a long time.

“You may stay,” she answered eventually. “For tonight. After that, your stepmother will need to be informed of your whereabouts.” Trystan jumped up to thank her, but Vianne fended her off. “Don’t thank me yet, child.” The look she turned on Trystan was rather grave. “We will speak tomorrow of this story of yours. And of other things.”

Sobered, Trystan nodded. There would no doubt be more than a few “other things” to talk about.

Vianne led her to a tiny room just off the kitchen, which, not surprisingly, looked unused. There was a narrow bed, a washstand, and a chest tucked into the corner. The cook rummaged in the chest for a moment and came up holding a nightdress, which actually looked very near Trystan’s size. She also produced a blue blouse and faded brown overdress, which likewise appeared very much smaller than anything Vianne had ever worn. Trystan accepted them with thanks.

“Vianne, whose were these?” Her question was merely curious but Vianne slammed the lid of the chest with a frown.

“We will talk tomorrow, child.”

Feeling chastised, Trystan bid her a good night.

After Vianne shut the door and returned to her own bed, Trystan realized once again how utterly exhausted she was. Her feet ached, her head ached, and she could think of nothing better than burrowing under the blankets and letting it all go away. But as she began to remove her dress, she suddenly remembered that she had carried her horse with her when she left Lady Isaura’s that evening.

Perpetually afraid of losing her keepsake either to carelessness or washing day, Trystan reached into her pocket to retrieve it. Withdrew her hand, empty. Reached into the other pocket. By now feeling a bit frantic, Trystan turned both pockets inside out, only to discover a sizeable rent in one. The horse must have fallen out shortly after she put it in. Which meant… it was probably sitting on the floor of her room at Westhaven.

Trystan tried to be practical. She knew very well the possible consequences of returning to Westhaven, now or ever. But she found the loss of that tiny bit of stone to be inexplicably devastating, to the point that she almost felt like crying again, which was ridiculous. There could not possibly be any tears left in her body. She rather hoped to reach the decrepit age of thirty before weeping that copiously ever again.

But she simply could not face another loss. It was as though her friends had been taken from her a second time. And those memories of Donevan… She slammed the door on that thought as hard as she could. Perhaps someday she would remember that moment without pain, but she doubted it.

As silently as possible, Trystan dressed once more, but this time in the outfit provided by Vianne. It fit her reasonably well and had the added benefit of being clean. Afterwards, she sat on her bed, and waited until she was reasonably certain Vianne would be asleep. Then she crept into the kitchen. Rummaging around with a silent apology to her hostess, she eventually found a worn bit of paper with a recipe on one side. Turning it over, she fetched a bit of charcoal from the hearth and wrote Vianne a hasty note, telling her where she had gone, in case she woke before Trystan returned. Then, not without a groan for her blistered feet, she put her boots back on, fetched her cloak and slipped out the door. With luck, she would be back before dawn.

For some time after she left him there, Ramsey could not bring himself to leave the balcony. He had no desire to face what he had learned. It was not what he had learned about his people, or even his brother, that distressed him the most, although they waited close at hand.

He could not bear to face what he had learned about himself. That he could be every bit as cruel and cold as Rowan. There was no shortage of excuses for his behavior. What the girl had done was terrible, even if he believed her story. There was the strain of realizing his brother was a murderer. The pain of knowing that his father was dying. Righteous anger at what had been done to Elaine. He had been deceived, it was true. His reasoning had even been sound. But none of it could excuse his behavior. None of it would wipe from his memory the moment that he had heard his brother’s voice, his brother’s cruel words, coming from his own lips.

What he had told Lizbet had become prophetic. He was capable of horrors as great as any Rowan could imagine. It was, perhaps, only a lifetime of his own scars that had kept him from inflicting them on others. Until tonight.

He stood there, begging the darkness for absolution, but it gave him nothing. No forgiveness, no answers, no courage. Only the memory of a voice, telling him that he would not always get to choose who would be hurt and who would not. It had been true, for so many. For his father and for Elaine. Even for Hester, whose estrangement from her parents might have been prevented. All for the sake of what was, in the end, a rather ugly hat. And a not very comfortable chair.

But there was one person that he, Ramsey, had chosen to hurt. Whether she deserved it or not, he had deliberately inflicted pain and he would never be able to remember it without despising himself. Perhaps his punishment would be just. Without her name, he would never be able to find her. Never be able to apologize. Never be forgiven. By her, or by himself.

In that moment, he was almost tempted to abdicate. Turn the crown over to Rowan, put a stop to the madness by giving way to their demands. He would not be forced to deal with any of the ugliness waiting for him the moment he left that balcony. He could walk away, find Embrie, and live happily ever after in a cottage somewhere far, far away from court and all of its sordid complications. In his head, he heard Lizbet, urging him to make his own choices, for his own reasons, not because of who his brother had forced him to be. Sober, responsible, reliable. What would he do, what would he choose, if there was no Rowan? If the kingdom was safe? If his father was well? What life would he want, if he could change his destiny?

To his surprise, Ramsey realized almost in that same moment that he wouldn’t change a thing. Whatever forces had shaped him, whatever regrets he may have had, they no longer mattered.

He was a prince, destined to be king, with all of the wearisome burdens that entailed. And for the first time in his life, he accepted them. Welcomed them. Gave himself fully to the demands of his life, not because they had been thrust upon him unwilling, but because he chose them for himself. He could be a capable king, if not always a wise one. But only if he stopped whining and sat in his father’s chair like a man who belonged there.