Traitor's Masque (53 page)

Trystan stared after her, then turned to Hoskins, whose expression could only be called a smirk. He shrugged, but said nothing. Apparently she was on her own in deciphering the mystery of her stepmother’s behavior. Perhaps Vianne would know, and Trystan would ask her, but first, that bath. No doubt Hoskins would spread the news of her return far faster than she could do so herself anyway.

Trystan made her way up to her room, grimacing as tortured muscles protested the long flight of stairs. She thought it seemed as though her stepsisters’ doors shut abruptly as she approached, but it seemed ridiculous to suppose they might be spying on her.

Her room, to her relief, was just as she had left it. At least it appeared to be, until she opened her closet, hoping to find some clean clothes. She found rather more than she’d bargained for. An entire row of unfamiliar dresses hung there, plus four pairs of what looked like new slippers placed neatly on a shelf. They appeared to be her size, but that was absurd. Had Malisse acquired a guest in her absence? And why would she put Trystan back in her own room if it was already in use?

Feeling increasingly disturbed but too weary to do anything about it, Trystan answered the knock at her door to find that her bath had begun to arrive. Perhaps her powers of discernment would grow if she was clean.

One bath, a change of clothes and a nice lunch later, Trystan went to look for Vianne. When she arrived in the kitchen, all activity stuttered to a halt. Everyone stared, but no one said anything until one of the kitchen maids, a girl named Grita, approached.

“Begging your pardon, madam, but can we be helping you with anything?”

Trystan frowned. “Where’s Vianne?”

Grita grinned, clearly unable to hide her glee. “She’s not here, Miss Trystan. She doesn’t work here any more.”

Trystan’s mind ground to a stop. Vianne? Not here? Impossible. She would never leave Colbourne. Unless… Just as a wave of righteous fury began to rise, Grita went on.

“She took that job, at the palace. Went off a little over a week ago. We ha’nt seen her since.”

Trystan tried to process this information and failed utterly. Vianne had turned down the palace job three times. She knew all about Trystan’s entanglement with the royal family. What had possessed her to take that job now, of all times?

Trystan was beginning to feel as though the whole world was turned upside down. The true test, she decided, would be at dinner.

Which, when it came, was really no help at all. Anya claimed a headache and remained in her room. Darya merely shot sullen glances across the table and Malisse seemed determined to make minimal conversation about polite nothings. Every attempt by Trystan to approach the subject of the changes in the household were met by evasion or simply ignored. Nothing was mentioned about her own past or future. Trystan was sure that the restraint must be killing her stepmother, but the irritating woman showed no cracks in her facade. She said good night before the dessert course was brought in, taking Darya with her. Trystan guessed she didn’t trust Darya not to talk when her mother’s back was turned.

Trystan went to bed shortly thereafter, pleased to be back in her own room, but extremely disturbed by the disordering of her former life. That life had frequently not been pleasant, but it had been predictable. This strange new place felt even less like home than she remembered.

She fell asleep wondering whether it was all just a dream.

Ramsey slept for some time. When he finally cracked his eyes and yawned, it was to a strange and bright new world, a world suffused with a feeling of leftover urgency, like there was something he was supposed to be doing, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Or where he was. He looked around, blinking, until he established for certain that he was in his own room. It was morning, though he couldn’t remember it being night when he went to bed. For that matter, he couldn’t remember going to bed. Which explained why he was still in his clothes. Filthy, unwashed, unshaven… the sheets.

Foster was going to kill him.

And with that, the events of the past few days fell on him with all their dragging, suffocating weight. Rowan. Brawley. His father. Embrie. With that final thought, most of the weight lifted again, and for the first time in what seemed like weeks, Ramsey felt almost happy about getting out of bed.

Opening the door of his bedroom, he was greeted by the at once severely disapproving and genuinely welcoming face of his valet. Foster was obviously happy to see him. He was not happy to see his master’s clothes. Or the state of his hair. Or the bewhiskered wreck of his face. He was also clearly feeling peeved at being left behind while his employer went gadding about the kingdom wearing wrinkled shirts.

It was a full hour before Ramsey escaped, bathed, shaved and attired in miraculously laundered, un-rumpled clothing. He had been forced to admit to himself during the past week that as much as he disliked most of the trappings of his royal life, he had learned to appreciate the strange luxury of being clean.

The halls seemed smaller than he remembered as he tried to walk quietly towards his father’s apartments. It was early yet, and few people were about, which was fortunate, as Ramsey was not interested in answering any questions before he accomplished this first, most important task.

He did not really even know what he was going to say to his father, only that he had to say it. The king needed to know the truth about his son. His sons. Even Ramsey could tell that what had passed between him and Rowan had changed him. He didn’t know how much, or even if the changes were good ones. Only that he was a different person than he had been.

But when he entered his father’s room, something held him back. The king was awake and sitting up, enduring an examination by Emersen, his personal physician. Hollin’s eyes were bright and his temper fully recovered, if the curses he directed at Emersen were any indication. But he was changed as well, just as surely as Ramsey.

The robust and fiery king, who had never been less than equal to any challenge, had diminished. He looked a wreck, true, and had lost a great deal of weight, but it was not only the physical effects of his ordeal that Ramsey marked as he crossed the room to hug his father.

King Hollin had aged. Not merely in body, but in spirit. Some part of his spark, his tenacity, had gone, and Ramsey knew with a deep, aching sort of grief, that he was unlikely to ever get it back.

So they talked, but not so much of truth, and Ramsey felt desperately old as he realized he was shielding his father. Not that he intended the king should never know what had happened between his sons. Hollin was king still, and he must know what threats his kingdom would face. But for that day and that time, Ramsey chose to bear the burden of truth alone, and in doing so, began to grasp something of what the future would hold. Saw the inevitability of growing up to protect the person who had always done the protecting. A person who would very likely resent the notion that there was anything he needed to be protected from.

So Ramsey did not trouble his father with all the available facts. Instead, they spoke of the attempt on the throne, and discussed its outcome. They briefly discussed the necessity of trying the conspirators and determining their punishments. Of Rowan, Ramsey said only that he had fled the kingdom. Of Brawley, he said that the captain had been injured, but did not mention how. And of the ball? It didn’t seem like there was much to be said. He was not yet married, and hadn’t particularly thought about it in days. And his father, mercifully, did not press him on the subject.

The king very carefully did not ask any of the questions he wished to ask of his sole remaining child. He had been apprised of the situation in part by his sister-in-law, and knew much of what Ramsey did not tell him. About Rowan, about Brawley, and even about a girl named Embrie.

The boy looked terrible. He had aged, not so much in body, but in spirit. So much of his energy, his hopefulness, had gone and the king wondered sadly whether his son would ever fully recover.

The boy was obviously spent, mind and heart alike. If Ramsey was to mend at all, it would take time. His father intended to be certain that he had that time. Promised himself silently that his son would be shielded from the worries the kingdom now faced, for as long as it took. He would give suitable instructions to Lizbet, who would be suitably delighted to carry them out. Ramsey would be protected, even if he didn’t like it, even if he didn’t know he needed to be. That was a father’s job, and King Hollin was grimly determined not to fail in it. Not this time.

After leaving his father, Ramsey made his way to Lizbet’s apartments, where he played quietly with Parry and Prisca while he waited for Kyril and Caspar. When everyone was assembled, with the painful exception of Brawley, they shared their stories of the past few days.

Ramsey grew still and his jaw clenched as Kyril explained how he had finally discovered Embrie’s whereabouts, and what she’d had to tell him.

“Would it have killed him, eventually, if we hadn’t found out the truth?” he asked, thinking of his father.

“The physicians believe it would have worn him down in time,” Lizbet said, “though it’s hard to know for certain. The dose was small enough to keep from killing him outright, but large enough that he was nearly comatose, with hallucinations and convulsions at times. The healers were able to purge him, and the symptoms stopped within hours.”

Ramsey blew out a long breath. Knowing he had done what was necessary did not prevent him from feeling like an idiot when he realized that the swift and torturous ride back to Evenburg had been an exercise in futility. Perhaps the only good to come of it was that he was home, where there was obviously a great deal to do. With the king barely able to cope with basic tasks and Lizbet frighteningly overworked, his help was desperately needed.

“Ramsey,” Kyril began tentatively, “about Embrie…” Ramsey looked at him steadily. “She doesn’t know that you have made the connection, between her and Elaine. I thought perhaps you would want to tell her that much yourself.”

Ramsey was silent. What did he want? He was hardly sure himself.

Kyril continued. “I wanted very badly to hate her, Ramsey, and I won’t apologize for it. I liked her and she betrayed you, and that is not an easy thing to forgive.” He looked thoughtful. “But, on our ride back, I think I saw enough to realize why you believed in her. Why you decided to trust her, even when it made you look a fool.”

Ramsey was startled for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. He likely had looked a fool.

“I’m still not entirely certain I approve,” Kyril went on seriously, “but I hope you’ll at least talk to her. You both, I think, deserve a chance to be happy, in spite of what’s happened.”

Ramsey filed that thought away for future consideration, then told his family what had occurred in Zell. He left out nothing, even admitting to his own doubts, his willingness to believe that Rowan told the truth about his motives. “I wanted him to be innocent,” he sighed finally. “Wanted it so badly that some part of me heard what he said and made it make sense. It was all true, to a point. No one died. The conspiracy was exposed. I thought it was possible that he might have just wanted to help.”