TWENTY-THREE
BY THE TIME I dressed and emerged from the bedroom, the breakfast Amalia had brought was gone and in its stead stood a replacement. By the foods chosen – fresh bread and cold meats – I guessed the tray to be Gerlach’s work.
Too queasy to eat, I could only pick at the food, pondering my next move. When at last I dared to emerge into the corridor, Gerlach turned his all-seeing gaze on me and asked where I was going.
‘To my husband.’ What else was left? At least I might see the drightens’ reactions for myself.
I let Gerlach walk ahead of me so he couldn’t see my face, pale after my illness and the exertion even a slow walk caused me. By the time we turned in to the council chamber, my lungs were burning with the effort.
Dieter perched straight-backed on a couch, Roshi kneeling at his side as he parried with Helma and Rudiger Somner simultaneously. After a quick look up at my entrance, Roshi bent her head and stared into her lap.
The seven drightens who’d arrived thus far were gathered in various stages of recline on a loose circle of couches. I wondered what Grandmother would have thought, seeing the room turned into a smoking pit, but still there was no murmur from her. Perhaps the poison had burnt her out.
Thralls moved through the gathering, distributing food, refilling drinks and tidying up any mess.
‘Matilde.’ Dieter welcomed me warmly and beckoned me to his side.
Grateful for the chance to rest, I didn’t hesitate to share his couch, although I did draw the line at reclining in public like some weak-spined Ilthean noble, an attitude not shared by all the drightens.
Only Maja of House Saschan sat upright, her legs crossed, staring at the carpet’s pattern as if it held important secrets. Though seemingly oblivious to the talk ebbing and flowing around her, she was a sharp player and I did not doubt she caught every nuance of every comment.
Krimhilde of House Raethn lay on her stomach, her head pillowed on one arm, in conversation with her brother Merten, who sat in a nest of cushions by her. Rein of House Falkere, whose son I might have wed had Dieter not staged his Aestival coup, had his eyes closed and his face turned to the ceiling, drawing deep on a pipe as he listened to the whispers of Evard Somner.
Dieter lay a proprietary hand on my shoulder as the drightens directed a barrage of questions at me. How was I feeling? I looked unwell still, did I have the strength yet to share their counsels? Who could have committed such a cowardly act?
Exhausted from my illness, lack of sleep, and the sudden exertion, I didn’t have the breath to answer. Dieter spoke for me. Perhaps he sought to cement the image of his power over me – or perhaps he understood how I struggled for the energy to speak.
After a while the flurry of questions died away, and the drightens talked of trivialities, their conversation going around in circles, never settling, never committing. They glossed over any suggestion of a vote whenever the subject arose, their eyes shifting constantly, measuring and assessing the currents, gauging the positions of the other drightens.
Dieter’s fears were true: they were at a stalemate.
While they prevaricated, there would be no vote. If they did not vote within a fortnight, there would be no ratification and Dieter would need to conquer them all to keep the throne.
Even with the Skythes to back him, Dieter wouldn’t have the manpower to withstand all the tribes united against him. His only hope now lay in divisiveness, and he was bending all his charm and cunning to the task, with a comment here, a silence there, a significant glance at one and a thoughtful appraisal of another’s speech. Though he appeared at his ease, he was working hard to keep the drightens separated, his grip on the back of my neck betraying his tension.
A thrall appeared in the doorway, bowing awkwardly before daring to enter. Scanning the room, her eyes settled on me.
‘Excuse me, my lady,’ she said, stopping before me. ‘There’s a messenger in the courtyard, with an armed escort, calling for the Lady Matilde.’
Just like that, the safe ground I’d worked hard to create beneath me – Dieter’s trust, the drightens’ disregard – were suddenly at risk.
‘Matilde,’ murmured Dieter, suspicion sharp in his tone. ‘Is there something you want to share? Perhaps you’ll tell me now who it was you contacted, while I was busy evading the Skythe trap you set for me?’
He was talking about the damnable pigeons again, the birds that had been released while we were securing the Nilofen as allies. Sigi had not been able to tell me anything of them or the message they might have carried, but that had not allayed Dieter’s suspicions. Now there arrived a messenger, calling for me by name, awakening Dieter’s distrust again. And where Dieter distrusted, the drightens discovered a keen interest in following suit.
‘You’ve made a mistake,’ I said to the thrall. ‘My husband is the Duethin – the messenger would be asking for him.’
‘No, my lady, he was definitely asking for you. He said he’d speak to no other,’ said the thrall. ‘However, it’s possible he’s lost his wits. He has the starveling look of a stray, and his eyes keep rolling in his head.’
‘You could have added that snippet earlier,’ I snapped, fear making my tone hard. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying, obviously.’
No one laughed. No one relaxed. Stray and lunatic or not, the stranger was armed and asking for me by name. Was he a plant, or a ploy? Had one of the drightens decided to oust Dieter in my name? Or perhaps one or more sought to undermine Dieter’s position.
I snuck a glance around the drightens, but none had the look of guarding secrets. Indeed, all of them were waiting to see my reaction.
‘Perhaps we should see what the lad wants,’ I said, keeping my voice calm.
Despite the energy it cost me, I walked the entire way with Dieter a half-step behind me – his choice of positioning, not mine. The drightens followed, of course. There would be no keeping them from this spectacle.
Stepping into a pale wash of sunlight, I immediately saw a ring of soldiers surrounding a stranger in the courtyard’s centre. The stranger was loudly demanding, ‘Matilde of House Svanaten’, and insisting he’d speak to no other. Behind him huddled the ragged remains of an entourage, the bear of House Vestenn on their tabards. As one, they looked up at me, and the gaunt stranger stopped his cries.
Silence fell over the courtyard as, sour horror choking me, I recognised him. Beneath all the grime it was Sepp standing before me, thin and wild and hurting. I’d thought him dead in the Aestival coup, yet here he was, bedraggled and broken, in the midst of the ragged remains of House Vestenn. Where had he been in the meantime? And what had befallen House Vestenn?
Dieter bent his head to the level of my ear. ‘Friend of yours?’ he whispered.
A commotion broke out before I could answer. ‘You fool!’ shouted a young man storming from the ragged entourage to grab Sepp’s arm. ‘You’ve brought us to our deaths!’ he bawled, giving Sepp’s arm a violent shake.
Sepp hung limp in his grasp, his head jerking back and forth.
‘Release him!’ I shouted, the command escaping me with no pause for thought. The agitated man abruptly loosened his grip and Sepp lifted hopeful eyes to me.
‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘We heard stories, stories of blood –’ He stopped, his voice cracking, then let out the sigh of one laying down a heavy burden and finished simply, ‘I knew you’d hold true.’
The man who’d berated Sepp glanced at Dieter and the drightens, silent and waiting. ‘Is this true, my lady?’
He looked familiar, and in a moment more I had puzzled out why. Take away the tension creasing his brow and drawing down his mouth, add fifty years, and he would resemble Harald of House Vestenn, our missing drighten. He was obviously close kin to Harald; given his group’s ragged appearance, he could well be the heir to that House now.
Fear of hurting Sepp stopped my tongue and silence fell over the courtyard.
‘Do you hold the Turholm?’ the Vestenn demanded, grounding his stave with a thud.
‘No,’ I said after a brief hestitation. ‘My lord and husband does. Dieter of House Raban is Duethin, not I.’
Sepp slumped down on his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. Meanwhile, the Vestenn stared at Dieter, a sickly green sheen stealing the flush from his cheeks. His lips moved as he soundlessly repeated, ‘House Raban’. What had he heard, that the name caused him such horror?
A large crowd had gathered by now, thralls drifting from their duties and soldiers drawn from their posts. They stared at Sepp, who looked utterly broken.
I tore my eyes away, Sepp’s despair too painful to contemplate. Behind him, the Vestenn was stepping backward, still staring at Dieter.
Dieter stepped forward. ‘Enough of the theatrics. I want to know why this ragged group –’
The Vestenn spun on his heel and dived into the circle of his men, who held their weapons tight, watching everyone with wild eyes.
Dieter placed one hand on my shoulder but made no other move. The Vestenn and his men stood ready, shoulders forward, sunlight glinting off swords, axe heads and pikes. For one strangled moment the entire courtyard stood as if trapped in amber, golden and glinting and frozen.
Then everything exploded.