Текст книги "Princess of the Silver Woods"
Автор книги: Jessica Day George
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Supplicant
You’re going to be executed; you know that, don’t you?” Having said this, Simon lay back on Oliver’s bed and watched him pack, not appearing all that concerned.
“Well, I have robbed a great many coaches,” Oliver said philosophically. “I suppose that it’s only fair that I pay the price for that. Since I cannot give back the money now.”
“And Mother approves of this scheme?”
“I am the earl, and the head of this household,” Oliver said, all attempt at humor gone.
Oliver was the earl. It was time that he started acting like one.
He finished packing. He didn’t own that much: a few changes of clothing, including a suit that had been his father’s and that his mother had tailored to fit him. He would save that for his audience with the king, of course. He had some books and a few other effects, but there was no sense in taking them. Simon could have them if Oliver didn’t return.
“Karl says you’re doing this for the princess,” Simon said.
“I’m doing this for a lot of reasons,” Oliver said. “And that’s really all I’ll say about it right now, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine,” Simon retorted, and he rolled off Oliver’s bed.
He grabbed his crutches and hobbled out the door in as high a dudgeon as he could manage. Oliver watched without saying a word. He knew that his brother was worried and didn’t know how to express it. Oliver also suspected that Lady Emily had sent Simon to see how firmly Oliver was resolved to going to Bruch.
The answer was that Oliver had never been so committed to anything in his life. He had sat for an entire day and night in his room, thinking, and could not see any other path to take. It was partly to do with Petunia, it was true, but Petunia was merely the final straw, if anything. He wanted to tell King Gregor about the shadow creatures in the garden that night at the manor because he did not know who else could help her.
But in wondering how to help Petunia, Oliver had come to the realization that he could not be the one to help her because he could not even help himself. He was trapped. He could not continue thieving to support his people; he would be killed eventually, either by Prince Grigori or some traveler’s guard. But beyond that, he and Simon would never be able to marry, would never be able to further their educations or travel, but would spend their lives doling out stolen gold to their people, who dwindled with every season.
The older folk, who followed Oliver for his father’s sake, were dying off. And the young people were slipping away to find better lives. Oliver wished them nothing but luck, yet others spoke of them as traitors. So far as they could tell, no one had ever revealed a thing about the old hall or Oliver, though. Oliver used to entertain dreams of going too. Sneaking off in the night, making his way to Bruch or the Analousian capital of Amide, and finding work as … And here his imagination would fail him. Oliver knew how to do only one thing: rob coaches.
It had to stop. He was going to beg an audience with King Gregor, confess all, and seek help for his people as well as for Petunia. He was certain that he would not escape life in prison, that is, if the king didn’t order him executed. But he hoped that by turning himself in, his men might earn clemency, though he had warned them to prepare to flee with their families, just in case. And he hoped that by going directly to the king and confessing his connection to Petunia, strange as it was, the king would see immediately to his youngest daughter’s protection.
But Oliver was not planning on returning from this trip.
Karl appeared in the doorway of Oliver’s room and found the young earl slumped on the bed. His bag was beside him, and the sun was already rising. Oliver had meant to start an hour earlier. And, he thought, eyeing the pack on Karl’s back, alone.
“Where are you going? Taking your family away?” Oliver said halfheartedly. Karl’s wolf mask was hanging from its strap at his shoulder.
Karl just grunted.
Knowing that it was useless to argue, and that Karl would only grunt in reply anyway, Oliver took up his bag and followed the big man downstairs. Outside the hall he found the rest of his Wolves waiting, all with packs, cloaks, and masks.
“You do understand that I’m going to give myself up?” Oliver looked each man carefully in the eyes. None of them seemed any more nervous than they did before a raid, which was either great folly or great courage on their part. He hoped for the latter.
“We’re just as guilty. More so, since we’re older and should know better,” said Johan, a grizzled man who had been Oliver’s father’s captain of arms.
“I was hoping that if I turned myself in, I could plead for mercy for the rest of you,” Oliver said.
“Lad, it’s foolish to assume that the king will punish you and not us,” Johan said. “Better if we all go. Besides which, it’s a two-day walk, and you’ve no food in that little bundle.” He shrugged the straps of his own pack, which was twice the size of Oliver’s and had a large cast-iron frying pan tied to one side.
He knew if he ordered them to stay, they would just disobey.
“It would be nice to have a decent meal or two before I turn myself over to Gregor,” Oliver admitted.
His mother was waiting at the outer gate. She kissed his cheek, her eyes bright but her face resolute and calm. He took her hands and squeezed them.
“I shall do my best,” he said to her.
“You always have,” she replied. She kissed his cheek again. “One piece of advice, my son. If you fail to get an audience, try to go into the gardens.”
“Queen Maude’s gardens?” He gave her a surprised look.
“Yes. There’s a man who works there, an old man, named Walter Vogel. Tell him what’s happening to the princess.”
“How could he … ? Why?”
“If you cannot find him, simply asking after him should direct you to someone who can help.”
“Very well,” Oliver promised, though he was still confused.
His confusion took his mind off what he would face in Bruch, though. While his mother and his people watched, Oliver led his men into the forest.
They were in Bruch and standing at the gates of the palace. The guards were watching them curiously, and Oliver knew that it was time. Their masks were hidden in their packs, they had stopped at a bathhouse to wash and put on their best suits, and Oliver had run out of excuses. He thought of Petunia, whom he had left three days before in that house with those creatures haunting her.
He gave one of the guards a cold look, pretending that he had not been gawping at the palace for the past few minutes.
“We wish to see King Gregor,” Oliver said.
“Do you have an invitation?” The guard on the left looked past Oliver as though he already knew the answer.
“We … do not have an invitation,” Oliver said, doing his best not to sound sheepish. “But we will wait until the king can see us.”
“You might be waiting a long time,” said the guard. His face softened a little. “Send a servant with a letter stating your business. The king’s secretary will arrange an audience.”
“How long with that take?” Oliver felt like his heart was in his shoes. His people could wait, but he had a feeling that Petunia could not.
“No more than a month,” said the guard.
“A month?” Oliver gaped at the guard.
What if he had urgent news for the king? No wonder Oliver’s mother had given up trying to get an audience all those years ago. Save for the upcoming double wedding of two of Petunia’s sisters, all was relatively quiet in Westfalin … and it might still take a month to speak to the king!
“I don’t think you understand, we have very important—” Oliver began.
There was a clatter of hooves on the cobbles of the square, and the guard’s face became stern. He put out an arm as though to brush Oliver aside.
“Make way,” the man said in a strident voice. “Make way!”
Oliver looked around and then hurried to step aside. Four horses with elegantly dressed riders—two young women and two young men—were coming toward them. The couple in front were laughing, and Oliver could see that they were at ease in the saddle. Behind them, the other couple’s horses were considerably slower and older, something that their riders appeared grateful for.
“You see,” the young man at the front was saying to his companion, “she’s got a perfect gait, even here in the city.”
“I suppose,” said the young woman, looking lofty. “If I cannot have a cavalry horse, this mare is quite fine.”
The young woman behind her started to shrill something about cavalry horses being unsuitable and dangerous, but Oliver had stopped paying attention. He was trying to get the attention of the young woman in front, bowing to her and trying to make his expression pleading.
He was sure that the young women were two of Petunia’s sisters. They were enough like her to give him a little pang, particularly the one in front. She wore a plum-colored riding habit with a daring little hat pinned atop her black hair.
“Your Highness, I’m here on a very important matter,” Oliver blurted out.
“Don’t bother the princesses,” the guard snapped, stepping forward to take hold of Oliver’s arm. Behind him, Oliver heard Karl and one of the others moving closer.
“What’s the matter?”
The princess in the plum-colored gown had reined in her horse and was looking at him curiously. The other riders all reined in as well, and the young man at the front moved his horse around so that he was closer to Oliver, looking wary. The other princess, in blue, leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Poppy, don’t!”
“I need to speak with your father, Your Highness,” Oliver said. “It’s very urgent. It concerns Princess Petunia.”
Poppy’s black brows shot toward her rakish hat.
“You’d better come with us, then,” she said.
She signaled to the guards, who hurried to open the gates. Oliver and his men followed the four horses into the courtyard. The riders gave their mounts to the grooms, and then Poppy took the arm of her betrothed, a tall, blond young man who Oliver vaguely thought might be Norsker or possibly a Dane. A prince, either way, Oliver thought with a little bitterness. Not just a mere earl.
The other sister must be her twin, Daisy, he decided. She had slightly lighter hair and eyes, but their faces were very much alike (save for her suspicious expression), and her partner was a young man with black hair and swarthy skin. The heir to some southern principality, Oliver remembered. Venenzia? That seemed right. Even in the forest, they were able to glean a little royal gossip.
Poppy sashayed into the palace without looking back, taking off her gloves as she went. In the front hall, she asked the butler if her father was still in the council room, leading them all up a broad oak staircase without waiting for a reply.
“Your Highness,” the butler called out weakly. “His Majesty is with his ministers of state.”
“This young man has news of Petunia; they will surely want to hear it,” Poppy said airily.
But at the gallery at the top of the stairs, she turned to Oliver.
“Will they?” Her dark brows were drawn level, and her look could have skewered a braver man than Oliver.
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “It may be a … matter for the family only.”
“We shall see what Father thinks,” she said, continuing up the stairs. “He becomes irate when he is left out of things.” Then she stopped again. “Is Petunia all right?”
“I hope so,” he replied.
She nodded as though that were the correct answer, and led them all to a broad wooden door at the end of the gallery. She knocked twice but then swung open the door without waiting, sailing into a room that contained a long table, several tall chairs, some very startled gentlemen, and the king.
“Poppy!” The king’s face turned red in an instant, and he rose to his feet. “Who are these people?”
“I’m terribly sorry, Papa,” Poppy said, not sounding even slightly remorseful. “But this young man has an urgent message concerning Petunia.”
Oliver bowed to the king. Then he waited. He wasn’t sure what to do. He was fairly certain that he wasn’t supposed to speak first, but the king didn’t say anything. He was also afraid to rise without permission.
“Well?” The king’s roar made Oliver jerk upright out of his bow. “What is this message?”
“I– It’s– I—”
“Spit it out, boy!”
“You see, sire, my name is Oliver, and I—”
“Am I supposed to know you? What are you yammering about?”
Oliver panicked.
“I abducted Princess Petunia last week. I didn’t harm her; I delivered her to the Grand Duchess Volenskaya, but now she is in terrible danger,” he said.
Dreamer
Sometimes when Petunia slept, she was afraid that she was actually awake. If she was awake, that would mean that this was real life, and not a dream. She said as much to Lily, as they crossed hands and turned within the circle of the gentlemen, dancing a raucous Bretoner gigue, surrounded by their pale sisters and the sneering courtiers of the Kingdom Under Stone.
“No, it’s still a dream,” Lily said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. Even in the dream she was shockingly white, and her hands shook in Petunia’s grasp.
“Lilykins, are you all right?”
Petunia tried to stop the dance, but Lily’s partner snarled at her. He wasn’t one of the princes, but a courtier with a face like a fox and nasty ginger hair that wanted barbering. Petunia renewed her grip on Lily’s hands and kept spinning.
“You’re right; it’s just a dream,” she told her sister. “Just a dream, after all. Don’t listen to my silly talk.”
“It has to be a dream,” Lily said. “I can’t bear to think that it isn’t.”
“What?” Petunia did stop dancing, and when Lily’s partner snarled again, Petunia snapped her fingers at her own partner. “Kestilan, he’s bothering me,” she said.
Prince Kestilan grabbed Lily’s partner by the collar and hauled the unfortunate fox-faced man away. Petunia took Lily’s arm and led her to the side of the dance floor. Lily was staring at her in astonishment.
“Oh,” Petunia said, waving an airy hand as they sat in a pair of gilt chairs, “I’ve decided to start treating Kestilan like any other unwanted suitor. He behaves better that way.
“But I was just being silly about it being real life,” Petunia continued. “It must be a dream, it’s not like before: I didn’t walk here through the silver wood; I just went to sleep and whoosh.” She frowned down at the flimsy blue silk gown that she wore. “And I certainly never would have picked this gown myself; it looks like some sort of racy Analousian negligee.”
Lily tugged self-consciously at her own gown, which was lavender and trimmed with black velvet ribbons that made it look, if possible, even more tawdry than Petunia’s gown.
“I’m not sure I should tell you, Pet,” said Lily in her most evasive big-sister voice.
She looked around, seeking out the others, but none of the rest of their sisters could get free of the dance to help her explain. On the dais, the King Under Stone was sitting on his crumbling throne, watching them through hooded eyes. Somehow knowing he had once been a prince like his brothers made what he was now all the more frightening.
“I’m not six years old anymore, Lily,” Petunia said with impatience when she realized that her sister did not mean to continue. “It’s time you all stop treating me like I didn’t know what was happening. I knew. And I remember too.”
“Do you?” Lily looked startled. “Oh, Pet, I’m so sorry! We all thought that … well, we hoped that you were so young you wouldn’t—”
“Remember coming here every night? Remember Rionin leading an attack on the palace to force us to come, even though we were all so ill we could hardly walk? Things like that will stay with a person,” Petunia said, a bit more sharply than she meant to. “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on Lily’s, contrite. “But I’m sixteen now, and it’s all starting to happen again, isn’t it?”
Lily nodded her head, her face grief-stricken.
“We thought we had spared you, at least,” Lily murmured. “But you’re as old as Hya was back then.” Her gaze was drawn to Hyacinth, who danced on the far side of the room with her prince. Though normally quite graceful, Hyacinth looked like a dressmaker’s dummy, twirling woodenly in the arms of her sullen prince. Dancing next to her, Jonquil appeared to be held up entirely by her partner, a grim man with the manners of a much-abused schoolmaster.
“What would happen if we all left the country?” Petunia asked.
“Galen says it wouldn’t matter,” Lily said. “And Poppy’s and Daisy’s weddings will be in a month. There’s no time to go very far.”
“What else is happening at home? I haven’t gotten a single letter since I arrived at the grand duchess’s,” Petunia said. This was the first time in years she and her sisters had been together in the Kingdom Under Stone, and even though it was a dream, she would still remember Lily’s words upon waking.
But all the while her eyes were on the dais. In the past they had been allowed to sit out only a dance or maybe two, even when ill, and now Kestilan was back and conversing with his brother the king. Both their gazes were on Petunia and Lily.
“You haven’t?” Lily was startled. “But someone’s written every day! It’s you who hasn’t written to us!”
“I’ve written,” Petunia protested, “when stupid Olga will let me!” Lily just gave her a confused look, so Petunia hurried to tell her what had been happening, running her words together as Kestilan started back around the edge of the dance floor toward her. “Rionin and the others have been sneaking through the gardens as shadows at night. They’re close to coming right into my room. Have they been after you all?”
“No,” Lily said, her eyes wide. “We’ve only had the nightmares. And none as real as tonight’s dancing.”
Poppy, coming over with a glass of punch, started shaking her head. “I think you need to come home, Pet. The Grand Duchess Volenskaya’s estate is not a safe place for someone who is plagued by the King Under Stone.”
“What on earth do you mean, Poppy?” Petunia looked from her to Lily, but it was clear that Lily didn’t know what their sister meant either.
“I’ve been reading some of Galen’s books,” Poppy said. “Did you know that the grand duchess is one of the Nine Daughters of Russaka?”
“Oh, nonsense,” Petunia said. She started to laugh, but then she saw Poppy’s and Lily’s faces. “That story isn’t real, is it?”
“Of course it is,” Lily said. “I remember Dr. Kelling talking about it with Anne once. It was the greatest scandal in Ionia, until our suitors started dying.”
“But if the grand duchess … if she really is … and it’s not just a story …,” Petunia sputtered.
“Then she was once the lover of the first King Under Stone,” Poppy finished for her. “Which is why I think you’re not safe there, Pet.”
“If we had known,” Lily said, stricken. “We never would have sent you.”
“Ask Galen when you wake up,” Petunia said with authority, ignoring the way Poppy raised her eyebrows at Petunia’s tone. “I want you to be sure before you start causing problems with the grand duchess, Poppy. And I still want to know what’s been happening with the lot of you since I’ve been gone.”
“Clearly nothing as exciting as what you’ve been up to,” Poppy said.
“What excitement has Petunia been up to?” Kestilan demanded, stalking over to dance with Petunia again.
But before she could think of a cutting reply, they all froze.
The King Under Stone had left his throne and was walking toward them, the dancers parting to make way for the gaunt ruler. Petunia could see that Jonquil had actually stepped behind her partner, visibly shaking. Rionin had once been Jonquil’s partner at the Midnight Balls, but he had not danced in any of the dreams Petunia had had. His father had never danced either but had drawn power from the life and energy of the princesses as they danced with his sons and his court night after night.
“I have come to a decision,” said the king, his voice light but carrying across the entire room like a piercing winter wind. “My father never chose a queen, preferring instead the freedom of bachelorhood.”
The court all laughed, but Lily gave a small moan, pressing back against the chipped silver-and-ebony chair in which she sat. Petunia looked around, distressed, until she saw Rose sidling toward them. Their oldest sister was wearing a dark purple gown, and her partner kept trying to take hold of her arm again, but Rose simply ignored him. Like Lily, Violet, and Orchid, Rose’s original dancing partner had been killed during the battle to free them from the Kingdom Under Stone, and now she danced with some nameless courtier night after night.
“But I would like a queen to sit by my side,” the King Under Stone announced. “A helpmeet, as they say in the sunlight world. To share the joys and pains of this life with me, and to provide me with heirs, who, in turn, I hope will give me grandchildren. Beautiful, sunlight-dwelling grandchildren.”
The court greeted this pronouncement with applause and cheers.
And a scream.
Petunia, who had gone numb at this horrible revelation, felt the scream run through her like a jolt of lightning. She looked at Poppy and Lily, who were closest to her, but it was neither of them.
“It’s Jonquil,” someone called over the continued sound of screaming.
That sounded like Iris, but Petunia couldn’t be sure in the tumult. Where were the rest of the younger set? Pansy? Orchid? All she could see were the cruel faces of Under Stone’s court.
Rose shoved Kestilan hard in the chest to get by and ran to Jonquil. Petunia followed in her wake but stopped when the King Under Stone brushed past her, going in the opposite direction. He wasn’t going toward Jonquil after all but advancing on Lily, who was now prevented from going to their sister by the king’s tall, spare form.
“Never! Never! Never! I would sooner die!” Jonquil was screaming in a voice like splinters. “Never! Never! Never!”
“Rose,” Petunia said, her throat so dry that there was no way even Kestilan, standing just beside her, could have heard. “Rose. Rose. Rose. Rose.” She managed to shout the name at last, shaking off Kestilan’s attempt to grab her elbow and taking the last few steps to reach her sister Lily.
The King Under Stone had his arm around Lily’s waist, pulling her close to his side. His mouth was stretched wide in a smile that showed distinctly pointed canines. Lily was staring down at the toes of her dancing slippers, just peeping from beneath her gown, and her pale skin had grayish undertones now.
Someone took hold of Petunia’s arm again, and she almost elbowed the person in the ribs before she realized that it was Lilac. Violet came up on Petunia’s other side.
“What’s he doing?” Lilac’s whisper was hardly more than a fevered breath.
“We’re not going to like what he says next,” Orchid said flatly, coming up behind Petunia.
Petunia glanced over her shoulder and got a little jolt from seeing Orchid without the spectacles she had had to wear since she was twelve. But, after all, this was just a dream.
No, it was a nightmare. A nightmare that went on and on.
“Rose,” Petunia shouted again. “It’s not Jonquil!”
There was no way that Rose could hear her. Jonquil was now simply sobbing, wordless, and Petunia’s heart shuddered at the depth of her older sister’s pain.
“‘Never’ is quite right,” the King Under Stone said, his voice drowning out Jonquil, though it was not all that loud.
His lips twisted in derision, and even from across the ballroom, his eyes took in Jonquil’s wasted frame, her lank hair and extreme pallor. Petunia wanted to claw out his eyes for looking at Jonquil like that—Jonquil, who had once been the great beauty of Westfalin, who had been courted by princes from across Ionia. It was the King Under Stone’s fault that her looks were spoiled now, and now that they were, he mocked her and tossed her aside.
“Such as you would be wholly unsuited to being my queen,” he went on. “An accident of birth made us partners during my father’s reign, but it seems silly for me not to have a choice, when there are more princesses than princes.”
He laughed, but none of the courtiers did this time. Looking at them, Petunia thought some of the gentlemen seemed almost sulky. She wondered if they had petitioned to be partnered with one of her sisters and been denied. Served them right, she thought. Nasty things.
“At first I thought to marry the eldest and make myself king of Westfalin as well,” Rionin continued in a smooth, amused voice. “But the taint of that common gardener and his dribs and drabs of magic has become offensive to me,” the King Under Stone said to Rose, who was now holding a silent, semiconscious Jonquil in her arms.
“I’m married too,” Lily murmured. She rubbed her ring finger, but in this nightmare, there were no rings there.
“What’s that, my beloved?” The King Under Stone looked down at Lily with a smirk.
“I am married,” Lily said in a louder voice. She slammed her elbow into the king’s ribs and twisted out of his arm in the same motion.
“We do not recognize the mumblings of your quaint little religion down here,” the King Under Stone sneered, straightening his jacket as though Lily’s strike had been nothing. His smile grew even wider than before. “And,” he added, “it’s not as if you have any children to tie him to you. I may not have my father’s temperament, but I do have all his powers.” He threw back his head, his black-and-silver hair rippling down his back, and laughed.
Petunia’s heart turned to ice. Lily sank to her knees.
“You bastard,” someone screamed. To Petunia’s shock, it was Hyacinth. “I will see your head mounted on the front gate!”
Hyacinth made a run at the king but was caught by Pansy and Daisy, who had gathered near to help Rose with Jonquil. Jonquil now appeared to have fallen unconscious, and Rose sagged beneath Jonquil’s weight, her face bleak. Poppy stood by Rose’s side, watching the king with calculating eyes, and Petunia wondered if there was some way that Poppy could bring her beloved pistols into this nightmare.
“Let her go, Daise,” Poppy said. “I, for one, would like to see him torn apart. And if Hyacinth is willing …”
“You can’t do a thing,” the King Under Stone said lightly. He raised Lily to her feet and kissed her on the cheek. She shuddered and tried to pull away, but he held her all the more tightly, both arms winding around her. “After all, it’s just a dream.”
Petunia woke in her bed, sweating even though the window was open.
She got up, closed the window, and lit the candle on her bedside table. She took a moment to look at the flame as it grew and steadied; fire always soothed her. Then, holding her candle before her like a weapon, she marched across the corridor in nothing but her nightgown.
Petunia entered Prince Grigori’s room without knocking. She yanked the bed curtains aside and looked down at the sleeping prince. He was terribly handsome, but Petunia didn’t stop to stare, just grabbed his shoulder and shook.
“Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, Grigori!”
“Hmm? What is it?” He blinked around sleepily, but then his eyes widened when he took in Petunia in her nightgown, her candle held just over his head. “My petal, what has happened?”
“I need to go home,” Petunia said tersely. “Now.”
“What time is it?”
“I don’t care,” Petunia said. “I need to go home.”
Dodging out from under her candle, Prince Grigori struggled upright. “Have you had a bad dream?”
Petunia started to laugh. She laughed so hard that the prince had to take the candle out of her hand before she dropped it on the bedclothes. She laughed until she was crying, sobbing, in a heap on the floor by his bed.
The prince set the candle aside and climbed out of bed. He scooped Petunia up in his long arms and carried her back to her own room, where he tucked her into her high bed and summoned Olga to sit with her. Then he sent for his grandmother’s physician, who brought extract of poppies to help her sleep.
“No,” Petunia gasped as the physician held the cup to her lips. He tipped a little down her throat. “No! Not poppies!” He forced her to drink a little more. “No! Not unless Poppy can take her pistol! And where’s mine? I don’t want to sleep without my pistol!”
“She’s delirious,” Petunia heard the physician say as she slipped into the grayness. “You’d better send a letter to her father.”
And then she heard the sound of a valse being played, shrill and just slightly out of tune.
