A Crown of Talons Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  BOOKS BY KATHARINE AND ELIZABETH CORR

  Epigraph

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Katharine and Elizabeth Corr

  Copyright

  BOOKS BY KATHARINE AND ELIZABETH CORR

  A Throne of Swans

  A Crown of Talons

  The Witch’s Kiss series

  It is a fearful kind of fury, and fatal,

  When lover and beloved wage war.

  δεινή τις ὀργὴ καὶ δυσίατος πέλει,

  ὅταν φίλοι φίλοισι συμβάλωσ᾽ ἔριν.

  Euripides, Medea, vv. 520–21, trans. Georgie Penney

  Prologue

  Winter has caged my kingdom in ice.

  For the last month the snow has been relentless: an endless fall of frozen feathers, too thick to fly through. The glass-panelled octagon of the great hall creaks with the white weight of it. But this evening, at least temporarily, the clouds have dispersed, and beneath the cold gaze of the stars the inhabitants of the Silver Citadel are celebrating the midwinter feast of the Deep Dark, the first Solstice of my reign. Pine logs crackle in the fireplaces. The scented smoke mingles with the aroma of the delicacies heaped upon the tables. Roasted venison, still sizzling from the spit; winter roots tossed in spiced flour and fried in salted butter; sugar-iced plum cake and thirty or more other dishes. A thousand candles blaze in ornate crystal chandeliers, attempting to dispel the darkness of this long, frostbitten night.

  Dressed in a cloth-of-gold gown, with a gold and diamond circlet set in my dark hair, I’m dancing with Aron, my cousin and co-ruler. My husband, at least in name. I’m surrounded by servants and courtiers, all of whom have sworn loyalty to me. Many of whom claim to love me. But in this glittering throng, my thoughts and feelings are focused entirely on one man. A man who has been ignoring me, and flirting with others, for the last three hours.

  With every laugh, with every look, Lucien Rookwood drives another dagger into my heart.

  Aron takes advantage of a pause in the music to lean forward and whisper to me, ‘You seem tired.’

  ‘I slept badly,’ I reply. I haven’t slept well for weeks. The violence of this winter is bringing sickness and fear of famine to my people. I’m tired of being cooped up by bad weather, unable to take to the sky. And I’m tired of the Protectors and the nobles through whom I rule. Of their stubborn resistance to the reforms Aron and I want to introduce that would grant greater protection to our flightless population. Of their blind insistence that Siegfried and Tallis, the Oloryan half-siblings who nearly succeeded in seizing the throne, are no longer a threat, merely because no one currently knows where they are. I cannot forget for a single day Tallis’s promises: that she and her brother would return to exact revenge upon Aron and me. That the whole of Solanum would pay the price for our defiance …

  I’ve plenty of reasons to worry.

  But tonight, at least, every other concern is consumed by my misery over Lucien.

  My feet take me through the steps and turns of the minuet while I concentrate on not allowing myself to look at the man who was – so briefly – my lover. Three months have passed, but my heart fractures a little further whenever I think about the one night we spent together, or about our last meeting. Lucien left court straight after my coronation. He came back a week ago, but that was only because of the Solstice. Because I specifically invited him to the celebration. Insisted, in fact, that he should come.

  ‘Aderyn?’ Aron has raised one white-blond eyebrow; the dance has ended and he’s waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t hear. He sighs. ‘I said, do you want to dance again, or rest?’

  I become aware of the flightless musicians, bows poised above strings, waiting for me to decide whether I wish to continue. Of the dazzlingly clothed nobles observing me. ‘I’ll rest.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Aron kisses my hand as I leave the floor. He walks over to his sister, Odette, and leads her back into the dance. As the music resumes, I return to my seat on the dais and let my eyes stray towards Lucien. His dark hair – the same iridescent blue-black as the raven into which he can transform – is longer now; it curls against the edge of his collar. But otherwise he’s little altered. He’s still handsome and broad-shouldered. He’s even wearing the same sleeveless grey silk tunic he wore on the night we first arrived here – less than six months ago, though it seems like another lifetime. A life in which I was merely the Protector of the Dominion of Atratys, hoping to find answers about my mother’s murder, hoping to survive the intrigues of my uncle’s court. A life in which Lucien was merely my clerk.

  But now … Now I am the Queen of Solanum. And Lucien seems more remote than ever.

  Another pause between dances. Aron is still with Odette, so I take a sip from the goblet of mulled wine a servant has placed at my elbow, grip my courage between my teeth and rise, making my way down the room to where Lucien is standing, chatting to his dance partner. Courtiers part and bow as I pass. The heavily armoured Dark Guards patrolling the edge of the room stand to attention, and household servants – now clad in the blue and silver of my house, Cygnus Atratys – drop their gaze. Yet Lucien does not appear to notice my approach. He is talking and laughing loudly, and doesn’t stop until the woman he is with bows and backs away.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ He ducks his head. His expression is calm, but his dark eyes are hard, glittering too brightly. ‘May the Creator guide your flight through the frozen season.’

  A well-worn expression. His first words to me since he told me to leave his room, after I revealed my marriage to Aron. They are appropriate to the time of year. Still, I’d hoped for something more, given what we had been to each other. I swallow my disappointment and force a smile.

  ‘I’m glad to see you back at court, Lord Lucien. Will you do me the honour of being my partner in the next dance?’

  His face flushes – whether with surprise or vexation, I’m not sure – but he cannot refuse my request. I place my hand on the bare skin of the arm he has offered me, try to ignore the surge of desire in my belly as he leads me back to the centre of the hall.

  There’s a delay as the orchestra tunes up and we wait for the other dancers to assemble. Lucien makes no attempt at conversation. Instead he gazes around the hall, as if he’s bored, until I can’t bear the silence any more.

  ‘How is your father?’

  Lucien glances at me briefly. ‘He is well, I thank you.’

  ‘And your mother, and your brother?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  More silence, and still the orchestra is not ready. I can’t ask the only question to which I actually want the answer: whether he has forgiven me. His tone and behaviour tell me he has not. My dress and diadem grow heavy with humiliation, pinning me in place, until I blurt out the only uncontroversial thing I can think of.

  ‘You must have caught the first of the snowstorms on your flight from Atratys. I hope you didn’t run into any difficulties.’

  He shoots me a look of such contempt that the blood rushes into my cheeks. ‘I am here, and uninjured. What difficulties do you imagine I could have had?’

  The music starts, en
ding my agony, but anger sparks inside me as we begin to dance. I want to shake him, to ask what choice he thinks I really had. To remind him that I married Aron to save the kingdom. To save Lucien himself. But I don’t. Instead, I focus on my steps, wishing that I hadn’t forced Lucien to come back to court.

  Aron, I know, is watching us.

  Finally the dance ends. I sweep away from Lucien before he has finished bowing, making for the full-length windows that lead out onto the terrace. I need some air – clean, cold air, not stuffy with woodsmoke and the scent of wax. But before I reach the windows, the heavy doors at the far end of the great hall are flung open. There are cries coming from the entrance hall. The Dark Guards stationed at the edges of the room swarm towards the source of the commotion.

  ‘Aderyn!’ Aron is hurrying towards me, his hand held out. Together we retreat to the dais, other guards taking up position in front of us. Aron has a sword belted to his waist; I regret that I have not. Both my ceremonial swords are locked, useless, in my rooms.

  We don’t have to wait long. One of the guard captains runs across the ballroom towards us. ‘Majesties …’

  ‘Speak, Hemeth.’ Aron beckons the man closer. ‘What’s amiss?’

  ‘Nobles, from the Kingdom of Celonia.’

  A neighbouring country, just close enough to fly to. Friendly, I had thought. My heart races. ‘An invasion? Has Siegfried launched an attack?’

  ‘No, my queen.’ The captain hesitates. ‘They claim there has been a rebellion. That the flightless of Celonia have risen up, and that the capital and the royal palace and many other towns are on fire. The nobles are here seeking refuge.’ He gestures behind him. ‘Those who survived.’

  The flightless seizing control of an entire country? The word impossible rises to my lips. But I can’t disbelieve my own eyes. People, some robed, some still naked from transformation, are crowding into the ballroom. Some are limping, many are injured – a woman with long, matted red hair clutches one hand to her face as blood wells between her fingers.

  A man who seems to be leading them drops to his knees. ‘Mercy …’ He clasps a young child, bundled in a robe, to his chest. ‘Mercy and shelter, we beg you …’ Solanish words, but spoken with such a strong Celonian accent that it takes me a moment to understand him. His speech is punctuated by rapid, shallow breaths.

  One of my courtiers pushes forward – Nyssa, Lady Swifting. Lucien’s cousin. ‘What of my betrothed? Where is Lord Bastien?’

  The man stares at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘Bastien of Verne,’ Nyssa repeats. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Behind us, I hope. We were separated …’ The child in his arms begins to writhe and cry, a high-pitched keening that makes me wince in sympathy. I’m about to step forward and take her from him when Aron’s fingers curl around my wrist. Whether to protect me or to remind me of my position, I’m not sure. Instead, Nyssa helps the noble lay the child on the floor.

  ‘Aron …’

  He nods, moves his hand briefly to my shoulder before turning away to begin issuing orders. The injured must be tended to. But I saw in his eyes my own fears: Solanum is about to be plunged into more uncertainty. More danger.

  I leave Aron to organise the servants and summon doctors. I am the queen: my role is to be seen to rule, to be in control. So I walk briefly among the injured, dropping words of comfort here and there, counselling patience to my own nobility. Like Lady Nyssa, some here have family and friends in Celonia, but I would not have anyone fly off in rage and get killed. I remind them of the enduring nature of Solanum, of storms that we have weathered before. But I know – everyone here now knows – that the world is shifting beneath our feet. Whether we like it or not.

  Finally I feel my work is done. Back in my own rooms, my maidservants help me out of my heavy gown, relieve me of the diadem, bracelets and rings that have been weighing me down. They depart. Naked – alone – I make my way out onto the private landing platform that is tucked away at the back of the royal apartments. The landing platform I prefer to use, for convenience, and to avoid exposing my scarred back more than is necessary. I need to feel the wind beneath my body, to lose myself in the consuming joy of flight. To get as close as I can to the stars that burn above the surrounding mountain peaks. Wading into the frigid water of the lake, I give in to the power that is always waiting just beneath my skin. Hair morphs into feather, muscles shift and bones lengthen and lighten as I let myself transform from human into swan.

  Within a few moments I am high enough to look down upon the Silver Citadel and the city of Farne which surrounds it. The House of Cygnus has ruled here for over two hundred years; the Citadel itself has stood for many centuries more. From up here, this symbol of our power appears unyielding. Eternal. Changeless.

  But it’s an illusion, nothing more. The old world is fading as fire sweeps across Celonia. If we do nothing, I fear Solanum too will burn.

  One

  We pace the council chamber in a slow, elongated circle, almost like a dance. From the lead-latticed windows spanning one end of the wood-panelled room, to the huge stone fireplace at the other, around and around we go. Aron and me and our principal royal councillors; Lord Corvax, the leader of Convocation – the assembly that represents nobles below the rank of Protector, and the four Protectors themselves. Only four, because I am Protector of both Atratys – the dominion in which I grew up – and, for the time being, at least, of Olorys, the dominion that was previously ruled over by the family of Siegfried Redwing. By law, Siegfried should be Protector of Olorys, not me. But that was before he tried to seize the crown. Before he murdered his own father, we’ve since discovered, in order to smooth his path to power.

  Lord Corvax’s stick thumps against the carpeted floorboards, unintentionally keeping time. Meetings are usually conducted like this: a way of ensuring our leg muscles do not wither, given the amount of time we spend on the wing. The council scribe orbits us like a comet, taking notes and reminding us, if necessary, of the items we are here to discuss.

  Not that we need reminding of the revolution in Celonia. Two weeks after the interruption of our Solstice feast, the stream of escaping nobles shows no sign of abating.

  ‘… and it appears that some have gone straight to friends and family in the dominions. But most of those who can fly have made their way here.’ Lady Finch, Warden of the Citadel, sighs and shakes her head. ‘The Citadel is full, Your Majesties. My people are trying to find space for new arrivals in the city, but then there is the question of provisions …’

  I glance, questioning, at the Steward of the Crown Estates. He pulls a long face.

  ‘Snowfall has blocked all the main roads. I fear the grain imports we need from Lancorphys are being eaten by barn rats instead.’

  The litany of troubles goes on. Celonians who were too badly injured to fly – and there are many – have started arriving by boat at our port towns. Some have brought sickness with them. No one knows the number of dead.

  Thane, Protector of Fenian, launches into a ponderous and bloodthirsty description of exactly what he’d like to do to Celonia’s flightless rebels, if only he could get his hands on them. I check my impatience by studying the ornately painted ceiling. It depicts mythology: the war between birds and humans, and the Firebird’s creation of beings who could take both forms – us – to bring about peace and prosperity. I wonder if the flightless artist who painted it was being ironic. Finally, Thane is forced to pause for breath, and I seize my opportunity.

  ‘Dreams of revenge are all very well, Lord Thane, but the reality is seldom as satisfactory as the fantasy. And I will not authorise any action until we have a clearer sense of the situation in Celonia. The Skein will meet in two days’ time to consider what is to be done.’

  ‘But what, Majesty, of the rumours? Unrest in flightless towns, secret gatherings and plotting …’ Thane’s eyes bulge. ‘Are we to do nothing to protect ourselves?’

  ‘Rumours, my lord, are not facts. Have you any ev
idence to present?’

  Thane pouts, but he doesn’t reply.

  ‘Well, then. Any acts of retribution directed at our own flightless population will be severely dealt with.’ My friend Letya’s wedding present to me, a piece of Atratyan luckstone carved into the shape of a feather, is in my pocket. I grip it tightly. Lift my chin and stare at the circle of faces. ‘Do I make myself clear?’ There are murmurs of assent, some more grudging than others. The flightless, my Letya included, have no voice and little power, beyond whatever local assemblies may be allowed within each dominion. When the Skein meets, I hope to raise again the question of giving them representation – but I’m not about to mention that now. The first time I proposed it, the idea was rejected outright; I’ve learned it’s better not to give my nobles time to prepare their objections. ‘Lord Fletch, what other items of business do we have?’

  The grey-skinned scribe, a junior member of one of the goose families, shuffles his papers and purses his orange-pink lips.

  ‘Um … the proposal for establishing a bounty for information leading to the capture of Siegfried of Olorys and the former queen Tallis, his half-sister.’

  Lord Pianet, our Master Secretary, outlines the plan: to set up a fund, and to put up notices in every town square – together with likenesses of Siegfried and Tallis – offering rewards for information leading to their capture.

  My councillors continue pacing, silent, until Arden, Protector of Dacia, raises his hand.

  ‘Is it necessary? Nearly four months have passed, and we’ve found no sign of them. Every noble household in the kingdom has been searched. Olorys has been ransacked. And still nothing. They could be dead, for all we know.’ He waves his hand, dismissing them easily as his mouth curves into a smile. ‘And if they’re not, they don’t have the resources to be a credible threat. I think there are better uses for our money.’