SIX

FROM THE SANCTUARY hall we stepped out into the nascent glow of dawn. All over the upper courtyard, soldiers in unadorned garb were at work: sorting through bodies, stacking the dead, despatching the wounded. I didn’t see them saving any wounded for healing.

A half-dozen soldiers snapped to attention as we emerged, their gazes seeking out my husband for orders.

My stomach contracted, forcing a rank, burning knot up into my throat. No doubt they waited for me: bound now – wife and captive in one. I mustn’t quail when they surrounded me. I would insist on walking unassisted to my prison cell.

Instead, my husband clasped my hand and tucked it through the crook of his arm as Gerlach’s men formed into an escort behind us.

‘We need to find you clean clothes,’ he murmured, pulling me closer with nary a grimace.

Shaken and exhausted by the night, my ability to reason was limited. All I knew was that this man had won – the Turholm was his in its entirety. And now he had me in his power, the ultimate living token to cement his claim to my throne. He didn’t need me to look like an accomplice anymore, so why maintain the pretence I was part of his plan?

With a gentle squeeze of my forearm, he bent his head towards me as if sharing a confidence. ‘Smile,’ he whispered. ‘You’re a bride.’

A strange gurgle escaped me in place of a laugh. I choked it down, for it would surely turn to sobs. ‘A particularly bloody one.’

‘Appearance is everything,’ he said, his answering laugh genuine for all I could tell.

Which was my answer, of course. By maintaining the pretence of collusion, he cut me off from those still in the Turholm who might otherwise have aided me against him. If I hadn’t been numb and fog-headed and still in shock, perhaps I’d have guessed it earlier.

His grip on my arm tightened as we neared the stairs. Surrounded by a cadre of soldiers, a huddle of thralls knelt on the filthy stone with hunched shoulders. Careful not to make eye contact, I scanned them, desperately hoping to find Sepp. I glimpsed Jonas, his arm wrapped around Sigi’s shoulder as she leant shivering against his side. There were other familiar faces – the stable thralls and the kitchen staff – but Sepp wasn’t with them.

I swallowed against a sudden, hard ache in my throat. Had he survived the slaughter? Or was he, too, lost?

It seemed the thralls all watched me pass with sullen glowers. One man, wizened with age and work in service to my family, spat in my path.

My husband was right: appearance is everything. Covered in blood and grime I might be, but I stood beside the invader, apparently free. Even those who reasoned I had little choice in the matter would reckon me a turncoat, or a coward. The pretence cost my husband little, but it isolated me from those not loyal to him, nullifying any threat I might otherwise pose.

I was in the thick of my enemy’s camp, and I was alone.

With an effort, I fought back the black tide of despair. I was alive, which had not been in my husband’s plan twenty-four hours ago. And I was useful – for now. The hope it offered me was too sickening to contemplate – and too sweet to ignore.

He swept me up the stairs and into the Turholm’s corridors. I hardly paid attention to our way – exhaustion had seeped into my marrow, leaving me heavy-lidded and limp. I badly needed sleep. I came awake, however, when we stepped into the suite he’d taken. Grandmother’s rooms.

Dropping my arm, he turned and closed the door, cutting off any sight of the soldiers arraying themselves in silent guard outside. He stood still a moment, his back to me, his shoulders slumped and his head bent forward. Then, turning around, he sought out a couch and sank onto its soft cushions. Whatever reprieve he’d allowed himself at the door, all trace of it had vanished. Arms behind his head and ankles crossed, he watched me.

Freed of the bluff which had bought my life, at least temporarily, I could finally afford bluntness.

‘I don’t know your name,’ I said.

‘Did you not pay attention during the binding?’

‘I had … other concerns,’ I replied with a blush, which made him laugh.

‘I suppose a woman should know her husband’s name,’ he relented, propping the heel of one boot on the toe of his other and watching me keenly for a reaction. ‘Dieter, of House Raban, drighten of the Marsachen tribe. You and I are cousins, of a sort. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘not close enough to make our binding immoral.’

I didn’t respond to the jibe. ‘I’ve never heard of the line,’ I said instead, baiting him to elicit information. ‘The Marsachen haven’t elected a drighten in decades.’

‘Your education is lacking. We simply chose not to participate in your endless squabbles and to rule our own from Grabanstein, and Beata chose to continue House Svanaten’s fine tradition of ignoring us. Which worked out well for me – if not for you.’ He stood and flicked his hand at me in dismissal. ‘Clean yourself up, Matilde.’

Fear twisted my guts again, and my knees shook too much to stand.

The glint of his eye said he guessed at my state. ‘Stow your eagerness, my dear – that must wait until after the official ceremony. After all, I don’t want anyone claiming my coronation is a sham.’

Tears pricked at my eyes, hot and shameful.

‘In the meantime, you’ve a long day ahead as a trophy,’ he added, his humour replaced by sharp scrutiny, no hint of solicitousness in his words. ‘I hope you’re up to it.’

I stood and met his gaze square. ‘I lived, didn’t I?’

It was foolish, perhaps, to point it out again and reveal how I clung to the fact. But it had won me a chance to one day avenge my Grandmother and House Svanaten. Or the opportunity, a shameful voice inside me whispered, to flee, disappear into obscurity, live quietly – anonymous and untroubled …

‘Burdens on society generally do live on. It’s part of their … charm,’ he said. ‘Now go and clean up.’

The cold water served to calm my temper. It was too soon to play at power games. Dieter held it all – for now, at least.

I dug soapy fingers into my hair and scrubbed every last trace of blood from the tangles. Only when the water ran clear did I emerge.

Outside, clothes had been laid out for me. They must have been fetched from my own rooms, for I recognised them instantly. A simple cream robe for beneath and a wrap of summer-sky blue, the hems at ankle, wrist and throat worked with silver thread. Grand enough to establish my position, demure enough not to eclipse his.

Had Dieter chosen them? I wondered, the thought of such efficiency chasing a shiver down my spine. I didn’t quibble, though. Clean clothes were a luxury, and in truth I was lucky he didn’t want me in sackcloth.

When I emerged, Dieter was talking to Gerlach about horses and provisions for the Aestival progression, and what holdings they might reasonably reach in a condensed excursion. The effects of the night were taking their toll on me, and I couldn’t fight back the yawns and blinks of weariness.

Dieter smiled. ‘None of that now, Matte. We’ve a long day ahead.’

Gerlach, still wearing his weasel-emblazoned tunic, kept his face as blank as ever.

‘Now,’ continued Dieter. ‘First, this hidden corridor of yours. If you’d oblige us by showing the way?’

It wasn’t a request. I showed him the catch-stone in the wall, which clicked beneath the weight of my hand. Dieter peered into the corridor, unlit now. The lamps had burnt out.

‘The others?’ he asked. ‘Where are they?’

‘There are only a couple.’ Too fogged with lack of sleep, I lied before I considered the consequences. ‘This one leads to the throne room as well as to the sanctuary. You can get most anywhere from the kitchen.’

I held my breath, sure he’d fathom precisely how many corridors I was omitting from the sketchy tally.

He did. ‘Thralls’ runs. Should be easy enough to map.’

Gerlach dipped his chin; even the man’s nods were laconic. ‘I’ve men questioning the surviving staff. Thus far, they’ve proved cooperative.’

My heart sank. Reap as you sow, child, Grandmother’s voice whispered in the back of my head. You spent most of the past few hours convincing everyone you were on Dieter’s side. That the thralls would follow suit was inevitable.

Somehow, it didn’t make me feel any better.

Dieter was thorough: nothing would do short of my traipsing the palace with Gerlach to show him every hidden corridor and how to access it. Defeated by my isolation, I didn’t attempt to conceal any.

When we returned, sometime around midmorning, Dieter was in conversation with a young woman. They stopped mid-sentence when they saw us, and Gerlach reported my cooperation with a half-smile and the taunting comment, ‘Only a couple of others.’

‘My blushing bride is quite the helpmate,’ said Dieter.

If he hoped to raise colour into my cheeks, he failed. I was too weary and heartsore to enjoy the victory, however.

He gestured to the woman at his side. ‘Matte, meet Amalia. She’ll be your companion.’ His inflection on the word ‘companion’ carried laughter. ‘I’m sure you’ll get along famously.’

If anything, Amalia looked less thrilled than I. She had a sheet of frosted blonde hair and eyes pale as the foxfire which flickered, eerie and distant, in the marshes at night. Despite their dissimilarities, I judged them kin, for she had the same shape to her eyes and arched brows as Dieter.

‘Your sister,’ I hazarded.

The girl could have been taking lessons from Gerlach for all the reaction she showed. Dieter flicked an eyelid as if my guess either surprised or pleased him. Perhaps both, perhaps neither.

‘Indeed. And your maid in today’s ceremony. It’s a pity there’s none of your own kin to stand at the binding, but shift as shift can, I suppose. Speaking of which, you’d best prepare,’ he said, before turning his attention to Gerlach, dismissing Amalia and me.

Amalia’s haughty look as she waited for me to precede her didn’t hide her irritation at the dismissal. The girl had pride, then, and a temper easily inflamed. I tucked the knowledge away.

Once again garments had been laid out for me, this time the earthen-hued underdress and black wrap of the binding ceremony. The ribbon I was to fasten around Dieter’s throat lay coiled on the bed, slender as a serpent.

I had expected Amalia to stand guard and watch me dress, but instead she stepped forward to help me, as if she was in truth a thrall. Her brisk hands raised prickles on my flesh. It was strange, being ministered to by his sister in this way.

‘Do you always do as your brother bids?’ I asked, earning myself a sharp look, though nothing more. ‘I suppose he’s promised you something in return. Is it to sit by his side, as his equal?’ I voiced a false laugh. ‘Now you’re reduced to being his wife’s maid.’

‘My brother is no fool.’ Again the sharp look, this time with a cruel smile. ‘And neither am I.’

Her words could have meant many things, too many to reply to any one in particular. So I kept silent while she wound the black gown over my shoulders and secured it at my waist with a simple braided cloth belt.

‘This Gerlach,’ I said, when she’d finished. ‘He bound us last night.’

‘It was valid, if that’s what you’re angling at,’ she said. ‘The general was a prester before he took up the sword.’

‘He can’t be both.’

‘Spoken like a true Tamoran,’ said Amalia. ‘Don’t worry, today’s ceremony will be “real” enough to satisfy your people.’

‘If you don’t follow Tamor’s teachings –’

‘Tamor was an upstart prester,’ snapped Amalia, cutting me off. Giving a last tug at the belt, she stepped back. ‘He led the Turasi away from the true faith. It’s past time they found their way back.’

Another fact to tuck away against future need. I was like a starveling ferret kit, fossicking through a ransacked pantry for scraps.

Then we waited and, whether I closed my eyes or not, I must have slept, somewhere deep inside, for I have no memory of those hours other than Amalia’s pale eyes hovering over me.

The afternoon was bright but grey with cloud, and a cold wind licked around our ankles. Once again I stood on the midmost step of the upper courtyard’s stairway, in full view of those gathered there. Dieter wanted the binding to be as public as possible. The crowd consisted in large part of Gerlach’s men, some in their blank uniform and some not. They were easy to spot: not a one of them showed any confusion. Thin among their ranks were genuine citizens.

Amalia stood by my right shoulder and Gerlach stood by Dieter’s left. This time we knelt before a real prester, the grey paving stones hard beneath my knees. This time I understood the prester’s speech, though I struggled to pick out the words over the drone of the wind. Somehow this more familiar ceremony seemed stranger than last night’s, which had been the real binding, tight and final. This one was simply for show, for others to witness the totality of Dieter’s ascension to what should have been my throne.

As the ceremony unfolded around me I felt the first inklings of both my safety and my death, balanced each side upon the knife’s edge I would have to walk. When the prester had finished I wept, slick tears of grief and exhaustion that Amalia and Dieter clearly found distasteful. It was over, and yet it was only just begun.

At the prester’s bidding I turned to Dieter and tied the ribbon about his throat. It looked well on him there, the strap of black. The ribbon he tied about my throat – his fingers surprisingly gentle – was the colour of red clay. It caught my tears and held them, cold and stiff. Dieter rose after fastening it, his hand on my shoulder keeping me on my knees.

The prester did not look at me as he picked up the bronze circlet last worn by my grandmother. It had been in my family for eight generations. Now the prester slipped it on to Dieter’s head, and the obsidian stone of Turas gleamed from his brow.

Noise rattled against the sky as the soldiers slapped swords against shields. As simple as that was his coronation.

I had expected him to make more of it, to drive home his ascendancy. Instead he seemed content with the stone of Turas crowning him, me bound by his side. He even reached down a hand and helped me to stand.

Fool that I was, I allowed myself to hope.