Chapter 36

Swan Flight

Yes, I have updated. You may die of shock now.

Questions from you:

1. I always forget who the fiddler is and what she's doing talking to Arnae. I've also forgotten who Karboren is.

The Fiddler is the child in the music-box statue that keeps appearing in obnoxious places, like Arnae's dreams. Karboren is Jasperian's spy/servant.

Was there a 2? You guys need to ask me more questions, dammit!

Three-sentence recap of the last chapter (since some of you have been asking me for 'em): Arnae dresses for her wedding and waits in the antechamber, where she receives a knife from Lord Vincent and bashes Garibaldi over the head with a candelabra. Meanwhile, Adrianne and Branic engage in a taunting war with Jasperian's spymaster, Karboren, and end up victorious. At the end of the chapter, when Arnae is supposed to swear fealty, loyalty, and eternal devotion to her new husband (the Emir), she throws everyone for a loop by saying "No."

"No?"

"You're supposed to say 'I am."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" shrieked the Emir of Huan-Raj.

"It's the opposite of 'yes'," said Arnae. "I'm surprised your language instructors haven't introduced you to the word yet."

"Just say 'yes'," said the priest.

"No," said Arnae.

"I believe I can explain," said Lord Jasperian of Cadaras, striding toward the dais.

"What the hell," said Branic, staring around the Emir's tapestried chamber with ill-concealed distaste.

"Shut up," said Adrianne, thrusting a pile of papers at Timar.

"I mean it." said Branic. "I thought you wanted to avenge Kavour's death. What are we doing here?"

"It's a detour," Adrianne said, flipping furiously through the papers and envelopes and missives scattered across the Emir of Huan-Raj's desk. "A shortcut."

"If this is a shortcut," said Branic, turning over a crumpled letter with his toe and staring at the large wolf emblazoned with in vibrant insignia wax, "then I'd hate to see what your normal routes look like."

"What can you explain?" said the High Priest of Court.

Jasperian smiled. It was not a pleasant smile; it resembled the kind of grin monkeys use when they realize a victim has left his hat exposed on a tree.

"She cannot marry you," said Lord Jasperian of Cadaras. "She is carrying my child."

Complete silence had only fallen over Imperial Court twice in Aryllan history.

In the year 234, Lord Vorgna the Warlord had stood on the very dais where Arnae trembled now and announced his successful conquest of the lands from the Silver Isles to the Furlong Mountains. It had been a historic moment. A ten minute quiet had followed his declaration. The fact that all of his opponents were alternately dead or corralled in the palace dungeon was no doubt a contributing factor.

But that silence was nothing compared to The Great Hush of 435: the year King Antony's uncle, in tipsy magnanimity, had strode a stately tapdance upon the dining hall's old table, while distributing gold pieces and singing 'Round and Round on the Round, Round Table'.

(Everyone had been too speechless to point out that the dining hall table was actually rectangular).

Silence number three was still in the making, and its record-setting prognosis looked very good indeed.

The Lord of Cadaras was in front of Arnae, so she glared at the floor. The Silence stretched languorously. It started to preen itself. Arnae pondered the melting temperature of sandstone (unthinkably high) and the average likelihood of solid sandstone floors spontaneously changing from solid to gas beneath her feet (depressingly small). When she looked up, the audience was still silent, so she looked down again. As The Silence began to press itself unbearably against the inhabitants in the room, Lord Byrnes pulled out his pocket-watch and began keeping time.

Then Lady Persha of Atran let out an unladylike burp from the far corner of the room. The Silence shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

Emir Sinaddin's face was the color of an eggplant. The old priest's face was the color of an egg.

"Excuse me," said Lady Persha.

"Lord Jasperian of Cadaras," said the Emir of Huan-Raj, swelling his chest to a giddy girth. "Well."

Jasperian's face was impassive. If Arnae hadn't known better, she would have thought he and the Emir were discussing the weather. He tilted his head very slightly: Arnae was not certain what he was acknowledging. That his name was Jasperian, Lord of Cadaras?

"Where ish the Duke?" Lord Byrnes said feebly. "He… he can short out thish mesh, I think –"

"Garibaldi has taken ill," said Firivati. There was a gleam to her eye that Arnae found unnerving. Firivati cackled once, rubbed her withered hands together (Arnae half expected them to make dry-leaf-sounds as she clapped them). "Very very ill! A poor constitution, I always said. But is this true, granddaughter, what the Lord of Cadaras is claiming? Did you really –"

"Yes," said Arnae loudly.

She felt the heat rise to her face. The lie made her want to vomit. She channeled hatred at the Lord of Cadaras through her eyes.

"Preposterous!" said the Emir.

He took a step forward. Arnae felt her heart leap in her throat. The red in his eyes hinted at murder or madness. A hint of teeth showed beneath his parted lips. She was reminded vividly of Lord Duncan.

Then someone coughed in the crowd. The Emir sagged. The poisonous light left his eyes. He suddenly looked less like a viper, and more like an overdressed eggplant: purple and ridiculous.

"Has it always been so, then?' he said quietly. "All this time?"

"I'm afraid so," said Arnae, feeling sweat trickle down her face. "For many months now, the Lord of Cadaras and I have been…"

She coughed. The words 'deeply in love' stuck in her throat.

"Secretly engaged," said Jasperian.

"Yes," said Arnae, releasing her breath in a rush.

She felt dizzy. Her illness and the day's events seemed to be catching up with her.

"And you hid it from me," said Emir Sinaddin sadly. "I loved you, Adrianne of Arylla."

"Really," Arnae said, momentarily nonplussed. She tilted her head sideways to stare deeper into his face.

What she saw frightened her. The Emir's face may have been sad, but his eyes were still burning with rage. Behind his changed demeanor, the man was furious.

But the people in the crowd seemed to be buying the Emir's act, judging by the tide of muttering that was percolating the hall. That made her nervous. It hit her suddenly: the realization that she would be among these nobles for the entirety of her remaining life.

"You show your love in interesting ways, my Lord Emir," Arnae declared. "Trying to take command of the affairs of a house not your own; beating up your lady-love's slaves; taking advantage of her hospitality; making your presence felt when it's neither asked for nor desired!"

"I forgive you, though you speak out of turn," said the Emir. All traces of faux love had fled, and his face bore an expression of palpable annoyance. "A woman is easily misled, convinced to go against the commands of her beloved Council –"

"My choices are my own," Arnae shouted.

Again, there was silence in the Great Hall.

"Get out of my country," said Arnae. "Haven't you caused enough trouble?"

The Emir turned to leave. For a moment, Arnae thought he really was going to storm from the room without glancing backward. But of course he had parting words for her.

"I seem to recall your association with that other noble, the bastard without titles or holdings. Seems you did away with him fairly quickly. Where is he now?"

Arnae slapped him. She slapped him so hard she hoped he saw stars for the rest of eternity; so hard the ring on her finger drove deep into her own flesh and no doubt into his; so hard that a thin line of blood trickled down to congeal in his moustache

"Get out," she said.

In the next room, Duke Garibaldi woke up and wondered why he had been sleeping on the floor. His joints were stiffening up. He tried to open his eyes, but everything was dark. Was it night-time? "Umph," he said, wiggling his stiff toes against the confines of his shoes.

"Don't make a sound," said the man who was pressing the knife to his throat.

"Aah!" said Garibaldi.

The man drove the knife deeper into his throat.

"When I say don't make a sound," said the man, "It's because I'd prefer not to have to permanently slice your tongue from your mouth."

For a moment, Garibaldi was silent. The thought of having his tongue cut from his mouth was really too terrible to contemplate. He wiggled the organ experimentally and realized he needed to clean his teeth.

"Good boy," said the man.

Garibaldi moved lips.

"Beg pardon?"

"Well, the fact that you haven't cut out my tongue yet," said Garibaldi, "indicates to me that you would rather not cut out my tongue. You don't seem like the kind of man who would harm an innocent man with a family."

"You don't have a family."

It was true, Garibaldi realized. His old mother had died when he was forty. She had always insisted that he marry, which had convinced him never to do so.

"I have lands," said Garibaldi. "Money. Horses."

"Horses," said the man.

It sounded stupid coming from the other fellow's mouth. Garibaldi squirmed and wished he could see. The voice sounded familiar. It sounded like he was being laughed at. Garibaldi hated being laughed at. He really was alone. The realization saddened him.

"Lord Kavour is like a son to me," he said suddenly, "and Queen Adrianne of Arylla is like a daughter."

Good heavens, yes.

How had he forgotten Queen Adrianne of Arylla?

"Touching."

Garibaldi squirmed.

"Unfortunately, Queen Adrianne of Arylla is not long for this world."

It was tragic, Garibaldi thought, how people were always trying to kill Adrianne off. Then he realized that the fact that the man was saying this meant that Queen Adrianne was still alive. The thought reassured him.

"I want to see your face," said Garibaldi, for the voice still reminded him of someone familiar. "It's very unsportsmanlike to keep me blindfolded like this."

"I don't often play by the rules," said the other man. "But all right. You can look at my face this one time, but your own life be on the line."

Garibaldi felt the blindfold leave his eyes. He blinked the green sunspots out of them, squinting blearily at the features before his face. Slowly, they solidified into something recognizable.

"Horse shit," he said.

"I warned you." Prince Hait raised the candelabra.

There was a thud.

Another ow.

And silence in the antechamber.

There was silence in the ballroom too, but of a different cause. The nobles huddled in tight circles. The ladies poked each other with their fans and glared at Arnae.

Horse shit, she thought, and she glared back with especial verve.

The numbness that had grasped her all throughout the morning was fading. She was still on the dais and thinking clearly. The room was hot and sweat was trickling down her back. Kavour was still dead, but she didn't feel cold about this fact anymore. She felt alert and extremely pissed off.

Someone jabbed her in the shoulder. Arnae spun round. "Watch it," she snarled at the Dowager. "Do I have to take that stick from you, old crone?"

"Do I have to wrench the tongue out of your mouth, young brat?"

"Ladies!" said the priest, wiping his forehead.

"Shall we proceed?" said Lord Vincent.

"Oh, yes," said Arnae. Her hands felt as though they were lit on fire. She rubbed them against the sides of her dress. "Yes, let's. It's so hot."

The Emir's departure had caused a wave of talk to ripple through the Great Hall. Arnae did not know if this was good or bad. She surveyed Council lords still present in the room. Lord Byrnes had his head down on the table and was muttering to himself. Lord Vincent was their ally. The Duke of Meverick was knocked out in the antechamber. Lord Duncan of Derringham was no longer a Council member. Lord Saunders of Kamelsward was predictably absent. Arnae suspected he was still in the provinces and had ignored the summons for the wedding.

Lord Kavour was dead.

Lord Faquat of Atran was the only free radical who could oppose this marriage now. She knew nothing about him, save that he was Lady Persha's uncle and insipid. Arnae caught the man's eye and saw annoyance and fear. Faquat reached up quickly to push his glasses higher onto his nose.

He would not make trouble.

"My lord Vicar," Arnae said, reaching toward her wrist where the knife was hidden. "I ask you to continue with the ceremony."

"Your Royal Highness," said the Vicar, bowing from the waist. He pressed his hands together. The sleeves of his blue robe trailed low to the floor. "I'm afraid I can't do that. It's against my ethic to perform such a ceremony. I must decline."

"I suggest you reconsider that statement carefully, Vicar," said Lord Jasperian of Cadaras. Arnae saw him catch the vicar's eyes. Something passed between them. Arnae breathed in and smelled fire.

The Vicar seemed to crumple, but not in the same manner as the Emir had done minutes earlier. Arnae saw his face twist downward; his jaw opening slackly.

"I will perform the ceremony," said the Vicar. He bowed again, brushing sweat from his brow.

"What did you do to him?" Arnae whispered, as the vicar moved slowly toward the stage.

"Merely reminded him of his station," said Lord Jasperian. "He will make no further trouble."

"Unless he brands you as a witch and has you burned." She knew that the hopefulness showed in her voice. It showed in her eyes, too, so she turned toward the window. "I wonder," she began, "what the Chellan builders were thinking when -"

The thunder cut her off: a crack so loud several of the court ladies burst into screams. Arnae cursed and touched her fingers to her tongue; they came back red from where she had bit it. She looked out the window. The sky was a grayish green.

A hailstone clattered against the window, and then another. The windows, closed on Firivati's decree, burst open in the wake of a tearing wind. Hailstones ricocheted off the walls and window tapestries. Firivati raised her arms up to cover her face. Arnae raced to the window, where hailstones the size of small kittens were coming in. They razed the treetops and thudded against the walls. Leaves whirled through the air. Arnae blinked dumbly at the carnage. Then a hailstone narrowly missed her right ear. She cursed and slammed the window shut. More ice rattled against the cold glass.

"It's a bad omen!" said Lady Persha and fainted.

"Oh, shut up," said Firivati.

"Shall we proceed?" said the Lord of Cadaras, raising his hand.

They were the first words he had spoken since the hail began falling.

Arnae wished he looked uneasy. But Lord Jasperian of Cadaras never looked uneasy. She wished she was not freezing. It was freezing again in the imperial ballroom.

"Close the damn windows," she said to the room at large, and she stepped forward for the ceremony of joining.

A hailstone bounced off the Emir's hat as he opened the doors to stride sternly to the stables. That, and the realization that he had forgotten to order his soldiers to fetch his belongings from his suite, caused him to rethink his plan of leaving immediately.

Plus, the sky was green.

That bothered him.

He would watch the wedding ceremony, he decided. He would watch the joining of Queen Adrianne with the Lord of Cadaras and use the time to plan out the torture he would use on the rulers of Arylla when he finally gained control of this strange, intemperate land.

Jasperian's hand in hers was cold, and when he spoke the words of joining she felt as though she was walking through fire and needles of frost. She curled her fingers inward, trying to drive her nails deep into his flesh. It was a symbolic gesture, more than an effectual one, as Yenthyl had trimmed her nails only that morning. The Lord of Cadaras tightened his grip on Arnae's so that her palm was almost white. She desisted.

Her head spun a little. She couldn't help feeling as though she had been here before: on a dais, with someone asking her to swear to something.

The Vicar caught her eye in a glare. "I said, do you swear to walk through water and fire to be joined in the deepest of unions?"

Oh. Right.

She bit back a snarky comment ("I'd do just about anything if the Earl of Cadaras would let go of my hand" was top on her list) and reviewed her options. She didn't have many, so it didn't take long. The room and the people in it were doing things, blurring slightly around the edges. That bothered her. She coughed, brushing her eyes with her fingers, suddenly exhausted. "Yes," she whispered.

"We shall begin," said the vicar.

"Fabulous," Arnae said weakly.

Water had been splashed across the marble tiles by the wash-boys. The bed of ashes was already prepared. All that was left was for her and Jasperian to walk forward. She stepped slowly, not trusting her slippers against the moist petal-strewn floor. They would walk three times around the dais, from water to fire and back again.

She had seen the ceremony performed often in her homeland; she had not realized nobles performed it also. The puddles symbolized water; the ashes, fire; the walk, unity. Arnae stepped through the water calmly, but slowed as they neared the ashes. These were laid thickly in a trail a couple metres long, still smoking.

Still hot.

They burned through the thin fabric of her slippers with her first step, the heat wicking through the water at the soles of her feet. All around her she smelled smoke.

Oh Saka, oh gods, please not fire. Fire is death.

She stepped back, trembling.

The Vicar straightened, adjusting his sleeves. "You will walk through together."

"Of course," she whispered.

I will drive my pretty knife through your smug little heart before I walk through that. What on earth are you thinking? Do you want us to die?

She was being foolish; even young maids of fourteen did this ritual, and they would laugh themselves silly if they saw her now: shaking, paralyzed at the thought of stepping through a little hot ash. She had never had this reaction inside Timar's forge, for Saka's sake!

"What is this?" said Jasperian, and she felt a tight clasp on her arm. He held his lips close to her ear. "Fear of ashes?"

"Fire," Arnae whispered.

"You've played with it often enough in my suite."

She hissed at him.

"I'm not afraid," she said, and she took one step, and then another. With her eyes closed she couldn't feel the smoke stinging them, and she couldn't see the ashes at her feet. The heat was still there, at the tips of her nerves, but she stepped quickly, and her slippers didn't have time to burn before she moved them.

They reached the end.

"Again," said the Vicar.

It was not hard for her this time. She kept her eyes closed and breathed shallowly. To calm herself, she thought about how she would kill Jasperian in a few minutes time. She would pull out the knife from her wrist-sheathe and drive it deep into the muscle of Jasperian's heart.

You're wastin' your time, love; I don't think he's got one.

The Fiddler twirled the hem of her dress and pursed her lips.

You're going to need him alive, anyway, come a few months' time, said the Fiddler. Why not let bygones be bygones, darlin'? I know he's done some naughty things, but that ain't no reason –

GET OUT!

Arnae opened her eyes, breathing hard. They were nearing the end of the final tour. Perhaps she had fallen asleep for a moment. She could be feverish again. There seemed to be a faint buzzing at the edge of her senses, as though of a sound just out of her range of hearing. She reached toward her sleeve – Fiddler be damned! Lord Jasperian was not naughty; the sins he'd committed were unthinkable. The entire land wouldn't be safe until he were twelve feet under.

Even then, he would probably manage to come back as a vampyr and latch onto the necks of the innocent.

"The final ritual," said Lord Jasperian.

Arnae stepped forward, stared at the dark basin resting at his shoes with a tremor that was not fear but disgust. At first she did not understand what was in the bottom and then she knew: the stuff was brown and coated the brass basin in dark congealed spots. Jasperian's palm was outstretched as though waiting.

As the vicar stepped forward, Arnae understood, though this had never been a part of their Sealing in Snowsdale. Something bright and sharp shone in the Vicar's hand.

The Vicar murmured something – an apology, perhaps? – and made a shallow cut across Lord Jasperian's palm. For a split second, Jasperian's eyes flitted shut. That was the moment to act. Her hand inched toward the knife at her sleeve.

He opened his eyes again and looked straight at her. Arnae felt the ring grow cold on her finger but didn't want to think about what that meant.

"Your Highness?" said the priest.

"Vicar," said Arnae.

She offered her left palm. The incision the blade made was an inch long and bled sluggishly. She stared at the beads of blood welling out of it and thought of the night of Adrianne's poisoning, when Kavour had smashed the long mirror in the garden hall.

Soft chanting lulled her. Arnae realized the watchers were being asked to speak in cadence. She did not know what was being said. Half-dazed, she watched the Vicar press her freshly-bleeding palm against Jasperian's.

"The ritual of joining is a sacred thing," said the Vicar. "The ritual of blood…"

But Jasperian's face was pale; as Arnae watched he staggered back a step, and almost sank to one knee. Arnae's left hand was still joined to his by the Vicar. In that moment, Arnae did what she had not done before and pulled the hidden blade from her sleeve.

Everything happened very slowly. She remembered holding the blade with the point aimed toward Jasperian's heart. She saw the Earl of Cadaras' eyes open, gray like the storm outside, his face still pale but his eyes awake and cold with purpose. The blade was on a course toward his heart, but he halted it with a fist clenching round her wrist. The bishop no longer held their bloodied palms together. Arnae felt dizzy, the world was spinning, and there was pressure in her mind: lie down and give in. She thought she screamed then, in rage and defiance.

The point of the knife was still aimed toward Jasperian's heart, but his fingers were wrapped so tight around her wrist that she could barely feel her own. The vicar was gaping, the knife in his palm. Lord Jasperian did not look at the vicar, but his left hand reached out to pluck the knife from the vicar's hands with perfect accuracy. Arnae tried to lash out with her foot and found it blocked by the basin. For a moment their eyes met: the Earl's and Arnae's. In that moment, Arnae saw from the corner of her vision the Earl's arm sweep forward, the Blade of Joining clutched in his fingers, and in that moment, and with the pressure of Jasperian's magic still beating down on her aching skull, she understood. This had always been his plan. A traitorous wife was too troublesome to keep around. Better to kill her now than to be killed in his sleep. And she, she had given him the perfect opening (as Jasperian had intended). He was only defending himself from the witch who'd attacked him: a murder in self-defense.

She twisted, felt the blade miss her flesh by a centimeter, and then something very large and very solid slammed into her from the side. She rolled away. Her head landed amidst the now-cooling ashes, and the smell of smoke nearly drove her to blackness again. She clawed her way upright.

Two men were circling each other on the dais. Arnae had to do a double take to make sure that one of them was for real. The other's hand was red and bloody; it took Arnae a moment to remember that some of the blood there was her own. Someone in the audience cried out. Arnae thought it was Lady Viviane.

"Lord Vincent d'Essoms," said Jasperian of Cadaras coolly. "I must say, this is something of a surprise."

Unlike Jasperian, who held only a knife, the Lord of Essoms bore in one hand a sword of fine craftsmanship. "Jasperian of Cadaras," said Lord Vincent formally, "I charge you with the attempted murder of Queen Adrianne of Arylla, Trent, and the Silver Isles. I order you to stand down."

"A provoked attack was made in my own defense this morning," Jasperian said pleasantly. "As well, the marriage to the Queen places me a rank above you, Earl of Essoms. I trust you have not forgotten that."

"Until a coronation has been conducted you are not the King of Arylla, Jasperian of Cadaras." Vincent's eyes narrowed. "I trust you remember that."

"I can ruin your family, my dear Vincent."

"I can kill you, Earl of Cadaras, before you can breathe a word of our secret."

Vincent's sword crept to Jasperian's throat.

"If I die," said Jasperian, with an amused glance toward Arnae, "one very innocent person will suffer the same fate."

"Actually not so," said Adrianne of Arylla from the entranceway. Her face bore an expression of grim cheer. "On your leave, Vincent."

"Your Highness!" said Lord Vincent.

It was his moment of distraction that did it, that and Jasperian's speed, for Arnae suspected his magic made him faster than normal men. Something shiny flew through the air, and the next moment Lord Vincent was on the floor clutching his leg. "Fire!" said Jasperian, and Arnae ducked; arrows pattered down on the dais from up above, an effective enough distraction. There was a whirl of green robes and Lord Jasperian was vanishing through the entranceway opposite the nobles' quarters.

Arnae coughed the ashes out of her nose. The knife she had fought with was lying beside her; she grabbed it and took off across the dais, in the footsteps of the former Earl of Cadaras.

But she didn't have to look far before she found him. There were voices in the hall, voices she recognized and didn't want to think about.

The voice of the dead.

Arnae stepped backward. She leaned her back against the wall. Her knees gave way beneath her and she slid down it.

"You've failed," said Lord Kavour of Cadaras. "Lord Vincent knew you would; I suspect it's that's the reason he gave me an anesthetic instead of poison last night."

"Fail is a relative term, as I'm sure you know," said Jasperian silkily. "She's very beautiful, the false queen of Arylla – or should I say my wife?"

Arnae heard a clash of metal and she struggled to her feet again. Someone called out feebly. In the room she had left, there was another scream. Arnae hesitated, torn.

"Rituals don't make you married," said Kavour in the antechamber. "Even the blood ritual doesn't –" He stopped. "You can hear-" he said.

Another clang. It sounded like two axes had just contacted each other, wielded by people who did not know how to use them.

"She's right outside," said Jasperian coldly. "Why don't you invite her in?"

"Why don't I finish killing you first?" said Kavour.

"Everyone seems to be expressing that desire this morning." For the first time since Arnae had met him, Jasperian's voice sounded strained.

"Give up, Lord Jasperian!"

Garibaldi had never sounded more feeble. Arnae gave a silent thank to the gods that he was still alive. Then she realized the fact that he was awake meant there was no way she could show her face in the antechamber.

"Unfortunately for the pair of you," the Earl of Cadaras said, panting slightly, "I currently have no interest in complying with your wish for my corpse to become the newest palace adornment." His voice was growing closer. "Nor have I time to engage in banter with a bastard brother with no grasp of strategy."

Without warning, the ring on Arnae's finger burned with cold. She gasped and doubled over. Hands on her face, she did not see Jasperian and Kavour enter the hall; but she felt Jasperian's hand touch her shoulder, felt him pull her to her feet.

Rage squeezed her heart; she breathed in painful gasps. For a moment she was blinded with an unbounded fury that made her lips go white and her hands tremble. Arnae's fingers clenched the knife hilt. She met Kavour's startled eyes, and her own chin snapped up in a challenge.

Betrayer, you assumed I was a traitor and left me to die in Jasperian's quarters. Lord Kavour of Cadaras, I will finish you.

"I'll leave you two to duel it out," Jasperian said pleasantly. He pushed Arnae forward and whispered words in her ear. Then he turned on his heel. Kavour raised his sword and made to follow Jasperian. Arnae lunged, catching his thrust on the hilt of her knife.

Kavour stepped back, wary. The Fury forced Arnae to lunge again, driving closer toward Kavour's exposed chest. She swiped fast, drawing a shallow slash from his shoulder to his collarbone.

"Arnae!"

The newfound clutch on her heart was strange - as though the magnitude of Jasperian's grasp over her had doubled in the last hour. She could not fight it. Her body was ice-cold and insensible to reason. She darted forward again; this time Kavour parried with his blade.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You lie," she hissed. "All this time you've been alive, and you tried to trick me into believing you were dead. You called me a betrayer to Jasperian's face. I can't breathe when you get too close – and I couldn't when you were playing dead either – you can go to hell, Kavour of Cadaras, I'll at least see to that - nngh!"

"Garibaldi, no!" Kavour shouted.

"She's a traitor," Duke Garibaldi wheezed, hefting the candelabra in one hand.

"She's being controlled!"

Arnae raised herself off the ground, fingering the lump at the back of her skull.

"Arnae?" said Kavour.

She lunged at him with the knife, and he barely moved in time. Garibaldi screamed a word (half-curse, half-prayer) and struck out, but Arnae dodged the falling candelabra. She moved deliberately, like a tigress caught in a corner.

"Drop the knife, Arnae."

Her lip was trembling. "You can't make me," she said. She curled back her lips in a snarl. "You can't make me, Kavour! You're dead!"

"You feel numb," said Kavour. "He'll turn you to ice like him, Arnae. Look at your hands." (They were white). "Look at the way he's managed to manipulate you. Look at me."

Her head rose slowly. Half her will (the half that was not hers) was resisting with all its might and menace. Her head pounded. The blood seemed to hiss as it wove through her veins. She could sleep for a hundred years, like Briar Rose in her cradle of thorns.

"I won't look at you," she said, staring somewhere around his neckline. His tunic was brown and unadorned, and there was blood on it from where her earlier swing had made its mark.

"You will take the ring off now, Arnae."

"I can't," she whispered.

"You can if you choose it."

The words echoed oddly through her skull, merging with the mixture of fury, of love and of loathing. She heard the words as though from afar: soft, they seemed to rush through her veins like a draught of warm cider. Jasperian of Cadaras was not her master. She dug deeper, past the hatred that had been forced on her, toward the center, where everything began. Her intentions lay muddied, shrouded in gray fog like smoke. She pushed through the mist, and it parted for her like the wheat she had played in as a child. For the first time that morning, she did not feel murder in her heart. The world was still – calm, and quiet, like Snowsdale after an ice storm. The ground beneath her was firm, and she could slide across it easily when she stood.

So she skated across the wide lake in front of her, feeling the ice start to turn to water beneath her feet. She dipped a finger into the melting water, marveling that she did not sink through it. Arnae looked up, for something was fluttering at the corner of her eye. She needed to understand it. The other side – but the mist was growing thicker – and yet, she could see glimpses of –

There was a boy next to a pale-haired woman by a fountain, and a swan lay dying in the dust.

Arnae gasped and choked. The gray water was up to her neck, lapping against her nose and mouth. Arnae's numb hands scrabbled against each other. She looked down and saw that the thin band of gold was constricting her finger, and she tore it off with all her might.

"Arnae!"

There were too many colors and sounds. They blended together in a dizzying bouquet. Suddenly, the world was no longer gray but nauseatingly bright. Arnae fought off Kavour's hands. She leaned against the wall and retched, hard.

When she was done, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, ignoring Garibaldi's aghast glance.

Her hands were no longer white. There was something light and gold in her palm, though, and it was burning her palm with ice. She held the ring in the tips of her fingers, and then threw it against the wall with as much force as she could muster. Arnae shook and gasped and shuddered. She took the ring off and it almost destroyed her. She pressed her fingers against her temples and sucked in air. "You haven't won!" she shouted. She shook her head violently. A kaleidoscope of memories – blinding -

"Look at me," said Kavour.

"You're just like him," said Arnae.

She opened her eyes and saw brown, hazel like the Snowsdale forests at the height of spring, with hints of green and gold like the green of leaves with the sun reflecting off them. The madness that was eating away at the edges of her senses dimmed in the wake of Kavour's gaze. She clenched her hands in the folds of his tunic; the knife had dropped away long ago.

"Bright Saka," she whispered.

Kavour closed his eyes. "You'll be all right," he said.

Arnae couldn't remember ever feeling less fine. Her body felt as though it had been hammered with mallets. She wanted to curl up and die in a corner.

"You're bleeding," said Kavour, turning her slashed palm upward in his hand.

"The Sealing," she said, and she almost retched again. She licked her lips, and she glanced up into Kavour's eyes (still brown, still alive). "You're bleeding too," she said, looking at the slash across his tunic. "But I guess you're lookin' pretty good. For a dead man and all. Lord Vincent -"

"Gave me a drug instead of poison," said Kavour. "I've been asleep in his closet for the last twenty-four hours."

"He deceived Lord Jasperian." Arnae coughed and stood up. "Jasperian told me you were dead."

"Jasperian will pay for this."

Arnae saw Garibaldi rest a hand on Kavour's shoulder. She leaned back warily, but the candelabra had vanished from the Duke Regent's grip.

"Let him go, boy," said Garibaldi of Meverick wanly. "We have worse things to deal with."

"Like what?" said Kavour.

A shout from the Imperial Ballroom seemed to punctuate his statement.

"Prince Hait of Arylla," said the Duke grimly. "Here, hungry, and looking to kill."

Arnae clung to Lord Kavour's arm as they entered Bedlam. Garibaldi noticed but said nothing.

Hiding behind Kavour could not protect her. The Emir noticed her entrance, as sure as if she had marched in at the head of a procession of soldiers.

"There!" said the Emir. "As I told you, Highness! The Cadaras Earl's pet imposter."

"Well spotted, my Lord Emir," said Adrianne of Arylla. "Perhaps those clever eyes of yours can also spot some interesting features about this letter I found in your drawers this morning. I find your choice of correspondence partner highly interesting. It also interests me that in the reply that you drafted to my convicted murderer uncle, you seem to regard my status after marriage as 'dispensable' and you refer to my Council as 'dithering fools'."

"Lies," said the Emir confidently.

"It's quite a damning letter. I hope you are prepared to explain it."

"It will be my pleasure, Your Highness. As soon as we're properly married –"

"Oh, I think there's very little chance of that happening."

The Queen nodded at the Ambassador of Esca. He glanced up eagerly from his slice of cake and strode forward, clicking his boots against the tiles.

"While the Earl of Cadaras was attempting to coerce an unwilling wife, I had the pleasure of talking to Ambassador Salvare of Esca. He was very amiable. Apparently, there is a standing offer of marriage from Prince Marcus of Esca, King Dephelmun's second son and not soon in line for the throne. An alliance between our countries, while… unprecedented… would certainly strengthen our boundaries. Not only that, but an alliance would come with the promise of cessation of hostilities across the Eastern valley. The ban on smuggling across the Trent valley would be strictly enforced. As I recall, My Lord Emir, your offer for an alliance was not nearly so comprehensive."

Ambassador Salvare nodded. Arnae thought he was trying a little too hard to keep his eyes above Adrianne's neckline.

Timar, watching with Branic from the back of the room, watched the proceedings with an expression of pride and sadness. Arnae stepped past them without a word.

Lord Vincent was on the floor, a bandage round his thigh. Lady Viviane's pale face was toward the ceiling, her eyes closed forever in sleep. An arrow had buried itself deep in her breast.

"Her spirit is with the Gods," said Nireem, coming up beside Arnae.

"She shielded me from the archers," said Vincent d'Essoms. He pushed flat a crease in the dead woman's dress. Then he did it again. "Stupid… girl."

In death, Viviane had a beauty she had never attained in life. Her dark hair fanned out across the flagstones like a banner.

"I will track Lord Jasperian to the deepest corners of Hell," said Lord Vincent.

Arnae almost put a hand on his shoulder. Something about his demeanor warned her that he would not take kindly to it; he was like a viper, ready to spring.

Arnae looked up. The sky still bore a faint greenish hue. Lightning rippled in the distance. The chandelier above them was bright.

"Is everyone else all right?"

"The priest is dead," said Nireem.

"Dead," said the tattlebird on her shoulder.

"Hush," said Nireem to the bright parrot. "Make yourself useful. There might still be traitors among the guards. I want you to look for them."

Arnae glanced back at Kavour and Garibaldi. Lady Persha's scream caused her to spin round again.

"It's her!"

"You!"

"The imposter!"

Arnae met Lord Faquat's eyes, blue and heady with rage. She ducked as the man swung a fist toward her face.

"You are the cause of thish kerfuffle?" said Lord Byrnes.

Arnae stepped backward and felt a hand clamp around her wrist. Instinctively she swung backward; another Imperial Guard closed in. Arnae struggled blindly.

"That's enough," said Adrianne of Arylla loudly. "Let go of her."

She had left the Emir's side. She put a hand on Horace's shoulder as the Captain of the Guard tried to subdue the struggling girl in his grip. The guards stood down. Arnae's hands shook; Nireem reached out and clasped them in her own.

"Kavour," said Queen Adrianne. "Branic. Get her out of here before she causes more trouble. Horace, report."

"The guests have been checked for weapons, milady," said the Captain of the Guard. "The area should be contained. The only guards in here now are the ones that I trust."

"Hait," said Garibaldi.

"I'll scour the area," said Timar. His gold hair was pulled back, away from his eyes. Arnae noticed him fingering something in his pocket.

"You don't even know what he looks like," said the Duke.

"Can't be that different from the other Aryllan Lords and Lordesses. All red hair and hellish tempers." Timar grinned. "Back soon."

"We have to go," said Branic.

Arnae turned to face her double. They would never share love for each other, or even friendship. She felt a sudden, terrible sadness fill her for the Queen Who Would Never Be Happy.

"You should have run," said Arnae, "while you still had the chance."

"You have the chance," Queen Adrianne whispered. "So run."

"I was wrong about you, Adrianne of Arylla." It was as close to an apology as she would get.

"I might cry," said Branic. "Hell, I feel tears coming on."

Adrianne glowered and spun on her heel. Branic was not one who Adrianne would miss.

Nireem caught Arnae's bloodied hand in her own. Kavour put a hand to Arnae's free elbow. And thus they departed the Imperial Ballroom.

"Where are we going?" said Arnae.

"The palace is no longer big enough to hold both you and Queen Adrianne," said Lord Kavour. "You aren't safe here anymore."

"You mean, she's not safe from me."

"Arylla is safe for neither of you; Lyara Castle even less so. Jasperian's used you once; others could try a similar ploy. The Council nobles know this. The ones loyal to Adrianne will try to have you imprisoned. You must not stay at Lyara."

"Where is safe," Arnae said desperately. "Not Arylla, but surely not Huan-Raj. Esca hates us."

"You lived in Snowsdale," said Kavour.

"I can't go back," said Arnae.

"You can't stay here," he said.

Nireem tugged Branic's sleeve; the two of them fell back some distance, no doubt to give them space. Arnae clutched Kavour's hand, his palm warm in hers. "I could stay in the secret room," she said. "Like Ambria."

"That's no proper life for you," said Kavour. "Hiding in shadows, stealing food from the kitchens when the lights have gone out. You will go mad. You will become trapped, desperate for fresh air – take to longer and longer trips out of doors, through the castle or through the Chellan marketplace. Arnae, you are not safe here."

She turned away from him, hating him for the look in his eyes; he hated and loved her in that moment for being wild, and she hated him for being true.

"You will go to my parent's house for awhile," said Kavour. "Gareth will be escorting you from the castle grounds to the Loft; Daniel can protect you there. The house is sheltered from the rest of Chell and you will be safe. Once you are recovered enough to travel, you will leave this part of the country."

"And you?"

"I will find you."

She looked at him.

"Soon all of this will have blown over," said Lord Kavour. "The Queen will marry Prince Marcus of Esca. They will not need another Council member to tell them what to do, and I, too will be free. I'll join you in Snowsdale."

For an instant she saw it as she did: this pure, straight path that he painted with words – and then it twisted. The future warped out of focus and gray and Arnae shivered although her hands were now warm.

"I never asked," said Kavour. "What were the words Jasperian whispered to you, just before we started to fight?"

She thought of the painting on Jasperian's wall. She stared at Kavour, saw the torchlight-cast shadows drifting over his face.

"He said…" Ice, crystallizing on the stones at her feet. "The swan is black."

There would be no more weddings that day, but the Festival of the Portraits would go on. That was Adrianne of Arylla's decree, at Duke Garibaldi's behest. The continuation of the festivities in light of the recent deaths were thought by some callous, by others appropriate. If Lord Vincent had showed disapproval Adrianne would not have done it. But he hadn't shown disapproval. His words to her were something along the lines of forging confidence in the ruling body by whatever means necessary.

She felt heady and powerful. Perhaps it was the occasion. The Festival of Portraits was a day to celebrate the might held by the rulers of Arylla. She was waiting for the key to the Chamber of Portraits, the vast room that opened out of the Imperial Ballroom. She had among her train more than half of the body of nobles that had watched the false marriage one hour earlier.

Ten years and three hours ago, the Chamber of Portraits had last been open, but Adrianne had no memory of it. She suddenly wanted to know what kind of family was behind the door. The room could be hiding a portrait of her mother.

"Your Highness," said Garibaldi.

She looked over her shoulder. Timar was still missing. She suspected he was still gathering intelligence in the balconies.

"Any sign of Lord Duncan?" she asked the Duke.

He handed her the key to the Chamber of Portraits. She could have handed it back. She only had fifteen minutes to live, though she didn't know it yet. The august grandfather clock in the corner read two fifteen.

"He'll turn up, I suppose," she said, turning the key in the lock. It was silver and green with age. "What?" Her hand was still on the door, and she was about to push inward. "Garibaldi, what?"

The Duke of Meverick felt something well up in his chest. It might have been pride, or a faint queasiness left over from being hit too many times with a candlelabra. He decided to attribute it to the former.

"Has anyone ever told you?" he said fondly.

"Huh?" said Queen Adrianne.

"How much like Ilana you are."

Adrianne blinked. "You haven't been into Firivati's rice sherry?"

Gareth patted her on the shoulder. "If I had, it wouldn't change a thing. You make me proud, Adrianne of Arylla."

Adrianne stared at the door. Proud? No one had ever used that word to describe how they thought of her before. She felt something weird happen with her eyes. They were going strangely blurry. Annoyed, she pursed her lips and squeezed them hard. It was all because she had bothered to come out of her tower; she had forgotten that people started having this effect on you if you let them.

"Right," she said, shaking her head. "Clearly, I should get my mad uncle to hit you over the head more often."

The Queen still had ten minutes to live. She didn't know that, of course, when she pushed the lock open.

"Great Saka," she gasped.

"What is it?" said Duke Garibaldi. "What's wrong?"

Immobile, Adrianne stared at the wall. Duke Garibaldi put a hand on her shoulder and repeated the question.

"Sorry, nothing," she said. Her mind was still somewhere between horse shit and Saka's kneecaps. Everything she had assumed seemed to be slipping from her grasp, replaced by unabated horror.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Garibaldi told her.

"Just a small poltergeist." She nodded toward one of the portraits on the wall. Garibaldi saw where she was looking and hissed.

"I think that we should postpone this," said Adrianne, in spite of the nobles who were outside. "Unless you want to lead the festivities, Garibaldi. I – I feel sick, really want to lie down."

She ignored Garibaldi's confusion. She half-limped, half-jogged (much too fast for a sick person, but who bothered, really?) in the direction of the doorway, fighting against the tide of nobles crowding in through the double doors. There were statues in the room, which made matters all the worse.

She was at the entrance when she realized a second strange thing: half the nobles she was pushing past were not people she recognized. They had an odd, mean look to their faces, for all their garments were nice, like a nobles. The nobles she did recognize seemed frightened, even panicked.

She stood on tiptoe and peered into the Imperial Ballroom.

Lord Duncan. Surrounded by guards bearing his own livery. In the center of the Imperial Ballroom.

She ducked back inside the Chamber and tried not to scream. Her heart was racing. Lord Duncan, here! Lord Duncan, when all this time it was her Uncle, Prince Hait, they had been fearing! What to do?

They were still filing into the Chamber, the imposters dressed as nobles, Lord Duncan's men. Their faces were rough, unshaven; they had a rough, rascally look around the edges, not like someone of the old gentry. They were soldiers' ilk, soldier bred – all her time among the Outlaws had still not made Adrianne any less scornful of the warrior classes.

How had no one else noticed them? Perhaps, she thought, people had noticed but were too cowardly to speak. The Chamber was growing crowded. Garibaldi was at the front of it – he was not safe.

Garibaldi!

But she couldn't see him; he was blocked out by the crowd that had entered the Chamber. The crowd was good, for it made her less easy to see. She touched a hand to her red hair and shivered.

Someone barreled into her as she looked around for a shawl or some kind of a disguise. She almost screamed before she realized it was Timar. His face was not panicked, but determined. She knew he had seen what she had.

"We've got to get out!" he said. "Quickly."

"Duncan's outside! He's got us trapped."

Where, in all this mess, was Prince Hait? She had a creeping feeling along her spine that began as a shiver, and she whipped around quickly. Impossible to tell if someone was watching in this crowd. Were Lord Duncan and Prince Hait together, or was it coincidence that had caused them to appear at such similar times?

Timar was speaking. "There may be a passage – Kavour and I mapped it out together but never used it, it's another of those entrances you can only open from the outside. C'mon."

They pushed through to where the crowd was thinner. "It should be this wall," said Timar. "Probably behind one of these portraits."

Portraits… Adrianne glanced behind her, but too many people were blocking the portrait to see it now. "What?" said Timar, giving King Raphael III a push that caused him to topple over sideways.

"Tell you later," said Adrianne.

She peeked out from behind Sadar Selth IV's statue. Firivati had seen them. She was smacking people (imposters and nobles) with her cane in an effort to clear a path toward Timar and Adrianne. The imposters didn't bother to hide their annoyance. They snarled at the Dowager and shook their fists. It frightened her that Duncan's mercenaries felt so secure. If they were truly attempting to blend in, if they thought they had any chance of being stopped, they would not have dared.

Firivati didn't seem to notice the snarling. In a few minutes she was with them, raising her flask high above her. "You're looking in the wrong place," said Firivati with half a chortle, taking an enormous gulp of whisky. "Try that one. Her name was Princess Adama. Legend has it she was fond of rats."

Timar grinned and began work on the indicated portrait. "Thanks, grandma."

"You make me feel old," said Firivati sadly.

"What are you doing?"

Concealed in the shadow of Sadar Selth, Adrianne escaped notice by the owner of the voice. She could see out, and she recognized the man as Pecard: former Captain of the Guard, fond of money, graft, and (most of all) the cat figurines he kept polished above his bedside cabinet. Adrianne's body felt like the stone monolith of her father, immobile and cold. In Timar's distraction, the portrait of Princess Amal Adama tumbled to the floor. The glass covering shattered, ricocheting off the walls and catching in the folds of Adrianne's dress.

"Slaves are not allowed in this part of the Palace. Slaves have never been allowed in this room. By order of them as command the palace –"

Timar turned towards her. He did not make eye contact; but Adrianne, still frozen, watched him brush a finger across his lips.

"Watch who you're talking to, he was ordered by me!" said Firivati, lashing out at the guardsman with her cane. "I wanted the walls redecorated, you little runt."

"Well you may find yourself not power much longer, Madame Dowager Firivati."

Adrianne recognized that voice. "You're coming with me," said Pecard. "In fact, the both of you are coming with me. Right now."

Adrianne heard her grandmother's shrill voice, punctuating Pecard's cooler one. Timar caught her eye – Go! – before he was hustled through the crowd, and she was still trapped, trapped in the Chamber of Portraits and alone. Lord Duncan was about to make some kind of horrible move; she could feel it. The air was as still as the eye of a hurricane.

"The Festival of Portraits," said Garibaldi, "celebrates the lives of the Aryllan rulers."

She stopped, one hand upon the wall that had held Adama's portrait.

"There was a time," said Garibaldi, "when this day was for glorifying the Aryllan rulers. But people don't like mindless displays of power." There was a nervous chuckle from the audience. Emboldened, Garibaldi continued. "Today we celebrate the Sahayan line as people. These –" He spread his arms, as though beseeching the portraits that surrounded him. "—are the family that has ruled Arylla since Vorgna the Warlord took power. Kings, queens, aunts, uncles, children, cousins, grandparents."

Adrianne's fingers found a latch. She pressed inward.

"Arylla can be great again," said Garibaldi, "if you trust your judgment, as the people of this land used to. I do not want to frighten you. Doubtless you've noticed what I have – that the people standing next to you are not ordinary noblemen. There are cruel people waiting and ready to tear apart this land."

She thought they would move in then. Some of them shifted, but they seemed to be waiting on a signal from someone. Her foot was half in the door, but Adrianne waited, staring at the man who had raised her since she was ten.

"All of you," said Duke Garibaldi, "are going to have to make choices in the next twenty-four hours. Some of them will be painful, or hard. I suggest you think carefully before making your move."

"Touching sentiments."

The shiver started from the back of the room and seemed to spread through all of the people in it. Lord Duncan's sallow lips curved up in a smile. He raised his hand: silent. Swords were drawn. There was a slash, and ribbons of red. There was also screaming.

Adrianne hid her face and turned her back. She began walking, into the dark, dark corridor that Firivati had found. She didn't look behind her. She still had five minutes left to live.

She came out in the hallway by the antechamber of all places. Common sense told her to stay in the tunnels, but with the drama going on in the Chamber of Portraits she didn't think she'd be noticed.

There was something cold and yellow on the floor. She picked it up: a ring, set with a brilliant emerald. Curious. She thought she had seen it before. She had to get to Kavour – he would know. Kavour would know everything. Kavour would save Timar, would save Garibaldi. She pressed her palm to her cheek and moved forward again. He had to be close, she thought. He'd said he'd take Arnae to the front and come back. She had to intercept him before he returned and was seen.

Whenever Adrianne moved she walked with a sort of shuffle. That was courtesy of the injury she'd sustained at age ten. But now, as she pulled her bad leg forward, she kept thinking she heard things. As though someone else was behind her, moving whenever she moved. The person would stop whenever she stopped, but sometimes he'd be a little off and she'd hear something. Like a shuffle. Like the noise she made when her bad leg thudded wrong against the floor.

"Who's there?" she cried out, hoping to take the Other by surprise. Her words echoed off the armor that lined the hallway. She glanced out the long window; the sky was a roiling brackish purple, as though the sky had sustained a severe bruise. Torchlight threw weird shadows off the walls. Thunder rattled the windows. She heard it again, the weird shuffle: this time she knew that it was not imagined. Blood hummed in her veins and the air in her chest tightened.

She did not know how long she stood this way. She did not know how long she waited for something to change, for the evil to draw closer, for the lightning to strike. The gold metal was cool in her hand; she clung to it like a talisman. "Show yourself!" she cried (four minutes left now). "Come out!"

She me the eyes of her soon-to-be-murderer. "I thought it was you," she said. Her voice was calm, despite her racing heart. "Hello, Uncle."

"Adrianne. Well. It's been awhile."

She breathed. The ring was cold in her hands.

"I'm terribly sorry about this."

She turned.

The saber made no sound as it buried itself in her chest.

Mwa ha ha.

Your opinions, please!

Action (too much or too little?)

Plot (too much?)

Marriage ritual (weird enough?)

Ending (Creepy or stupid?) (AN: It seemed creepy to me when I wrote it at 3 AM in our old house and the wind was howling outside something fierce. I am probably biased, however.)

Who killed Adrianne?

Is she really dead or am I pulling another Kavour? (Hint: she was stabbed through the chest)

Lord Byrnes' use of the word Kerfuffle?

These questions?

You know how as you're writing a chapter/story/piece the plot bunnies dance in your head with little floopy ears, and you're thinking "This is the best thing ever!"

…and then you look back at it a couple weeks later and you think "How could I have written this piece of ***?"

Yeah.

That's my opinion of this chapter, in a nutshell.

In other news, I'd like to thank each and every one of you. Five hundred reviews? You guys are amazing.