So I write to her of the new marble in the floor of my chapel and the bustle of troops training in the courtyard below my window. The king, I tell her, is in his usual good health. I assume that this is true, because I would surely have heard by now if he was ailing in any way. Lady Marguerite, at the very least, seems to know the gossip.
Outside my window a crow caws, and even though I’m wrapped in a shawl spun from fine Argonian wool, I shiver. The sun is weak and all the warmth seems to be leaking from the day. There’s something about the castle here in this rocky city of Mont that makes it feel like a prison. When songbirds of summer are gone, we’re left with nothing but grim crows, the same color as the ink in my pot. They swoop onto my windowsill and glare at me with beady eyes, as though they’re my jailers. The sound of them sets my nerves on edge. Some days it feels like we have more crows in the castle than soldiers patrolling the parapets or rats scurrying in the cellars. I’m tempted to pluck my bow from the wall where it hangs near the window and scatter a few well-aimed arrows across the courtyard. No one would miss those crows.
And I still never miss a shot.
Writing this letter reminds me of how much I miss my mother and her wise counsel. I ask her if she’s seen my aunts, Moriah and Mesha. I trust their wisdom and instincts more than anyone’s—perhaps even more than Cal’s. They know the world of Deia, our great and ancient goddess, and trained me from childhood to be present and alert in the natural world—in forests and rivers, in mountain caves and treetops and thickets. Look and look and look again, Moriah would tell me. Then close your eyes and listen.
If only we could travel together to the northern region of Montrice, to investigate and speak to the people there. The best way to banish mistrust of me, I believe, is to meet people face-to-face, and let them see that I’m not a monster.
My aunts raised me to be a Guild member, not to live some kind of useless, cosseted life. They brought me up to fight and to respect the power and danger of magic. The more I think about this, the more I’m convinced we need to go north, to stand in the place where magic hijacked nature and brought terrible suffering to the people there. But how can I trust this to ink and vellum?
The doors to my chamber burst open and I’m out of my chair, quill brandished like a knife. If I have to, I can take out an eye with its needle-sharp nib.
A man stands before me, out of breath and startled to see me holding a weapon at his throat.
It’s Hansen—my husband, the king.
Chapter Six
Lilac
“Put that thing down!” Hansen’s handsome face is pale and he is visibly irritated after being startled. The pages close the doors behind him and we’re alone. “I’m not here to attack you.”
“Then can’t you knock like a normal person?” I throw the quill onto the table.
“I’m not a normal person. I’m the king.”
“And I’m the queen, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Well. About that.” Hansen starts pacing in front of the fire. For someone who’s such an avid sportsman—truly happy only when he’s riding to hunt or galloping in a jousting tournament—he wears the most elaborate and fussy clothes. Hansen has more lace in his wardrobe than all the ladies of the castle combined. Today his long robe isn’t just edged with ermine; it’s embroidered with gold thread. I suspect he takes longer to dress than I do.
“Well,” he says again.
“What? Is something wrong?” Hansen never visits me in my apartments. I think the last time he was here was to throw something out the window as a joke, pelting one of his idiotic courtiers with a dead pigeon or squirrel carcass. Hilarious.
“Not wrong exactly.” Hansen stops pacing and stands, hands on hips, blocking the heat of the fireplace. His fair skin is red, either with heat or embarrassment. “But something we have to do.”
“Travel north?” I say too quickly. Perhaps my aunts could meet us there. It’s as though Hansen, for once, had read my mind.
“Travel—what? No. We have to stay here. Don’t you remember what just happened, only a short ride from the city walls? The people hate us. We got married, they loved us, and now they’ve turned on us.”
“I think that’s an exaggeration.”
“Do you?” Hansen shakes his head, the expression on his face incredulous. “You have a short memory. All this business down south, in that remote village with the name I forget—”
“Stur.”
“Right. Never heard of it until last week. Anyway, this business with the snow and the black and the pond, and the children dying, and the lilac frost or whatever it is.”
“We don’t know if that last part is true,” I say. The very mention of it makes me wince.
“True or not, everyone’s saying it. Everyone. A letter arrived this morning from our ambassador in Argonia, and he knows all about it.”
I pace before the window, trying to calm myself. “I need to see that letter as well. I am your equal as ruler. It’s time the ambassadors of Montrice—the whole court, in fact—understands this and stops treating me as a mere consort!”
“But see, that’s the thing.” Hansen steps closer. “That’s what we have to address. And I’m not just saying this because the Duke of Auvigne told me to.”
I roll my eyes. Clearly the duke told Hansen to visit me and make this incoherent little speech.
“You can look as cross as you like, Lilac, but we have to face facts. Our marriage won us popularity and united the kingdoms and added gold to the coffers and that was good. You and I agreed . . . well, somehow we agreed to keep our lives separate in private, and in public put on a good show. Smiles and waves and such. And that was working. Until it stopped working. Now we have to put a stop to the things that are being said about you.”
“Isn’t that why the soldiers are training outside?” I say, waving my hand at the window.
Hansen twists his face. “Soldiers can’t kill beliefs or rumors. And anyway, from what I hear, these boys are hopeless. They’ll march north and be killed at once by black snow or whatever it is. One crack of lightning and they’ll all fall over. But ten armies won’t change people’s minds about you being in league with the Aphrasians.”
I hate to admit it, but Hansen is making sense. With one hand I grip the edge of the shutter pulled back from the window, in part to steady myself for whatever he’s going to say next.
“The Small Council wants to see us,” he tells me.
“Since when do you care what the Small Council wants?” I snap. Hansen can barely be bothered to attend meetings. I usually go alone. Now he looks hurt.