A Crown of Talons Read online

  ‘True, true,’ Lord Thane adds. ‘And to be encouraging the flightless to inform against nobles is hardly appropriate.’

  Aron, who has previously said little, stops walking so abruptly that Lady Verginie, Protector of Lancorphys, nearly runs into him. ‘Must I remind you, Lord Thane, that these particular nobles are murderous traitors, and will be treated as such?’ He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s no mistaking the dangerously sharp edge to his tone. Thane changes colour and begins to murmur his agreement. Aron talks over him. ‘And we do not require your approval, Lord Arden. The bounty will be funded by the crown. Our purpose today is merely to inform you of the ongoing efforts to bring the traitors to justice.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ Lord Corvax bows, placating. ‘You have the full support of Convocation in these efforts.’

  Their support, but not their money, I notice.

  Corvax continues. ‘I’m sure Lord Arden’s only concern is to spare Your Majesties unnecessary anxiety.’

  Aron does not dignify this comment with a response. After a moment, Lord Pianet asks whether there is any further business. Patrus, Protector of Brithys – since I have yet to find a way of legally removing him – raises his hand.

  ‘Speaking of threats to the kingdom, may I remind the council that the question of the royal succession is not yet settled. Perhaps it would be advisable for Their Majesties to name an heir, since there is no child of the royal blood. As yet.’ He stares pointedly at my flat stomach with his one remaining eye; I blinded the other when he attempted to abduct me.

  Aron and I glance at each other. We’re both aware that there is speculation at court about the exact nature of our union. We married to keep the throne out of Siegfried’s hands, and to stop the kingdom falling into civil war, but without any pretence of more than cousinly affection. Aron knows I was – am – in love with Lucien. He was in love with him too, once.

  I draw breath, planning to tell Patrus exactly what he can do with his suggestion, but Aron slips his arm around my waist and speaks first.

  ‘The question of the succession will soon be dealt with, Lord Patrus. But rest assured that whatever happens, the next ruler of Solanum will not be you.’ He gives Patrus a grin that is all teeth and no humour. ‘So there’s absolutely no need for you to worry about how you’d cope with the responsibility. You may leave us now.’

  Everyone bows, the circle disperses, and in another moment Aron and I are alone in the council chamber.

  ‘Why did you say that, Aron? Now everyone is going to assume I’m pregnant, and it will be obvious soon enough that I’m not. I was just going to tell him to –’

  ‘I can guess what you were about to say.’ He smiles slightly, and there’s affection in his wide green eyes. ‘And believe me, I have every sympathy. Patrus is a monster. A rock dragon would make a better Protector; at least it would only kill people for survival and not for pleasure. But we have to proceed with caution, Aderyn. You and I both know that Siegfried and Tallis will come back, and when they do, we’ll need all the support among the nobility that we can get. We have to respect the Decrees. You want to change everything, and I understand why. But we can’t have tyranny.’ He goes to lean against the window, his hand resting on the side of the frame. ‘I saw enough of that in my father’s reign.’

  He’s right, of course. I do want to change things. That’s one of the reasons I said yes, to Aron and to the throne. I want to carry on the work my mother started in Atratys. It’s wrong, that the lives of the flightless – education, freedom, everything – should depend on the whims of the nobles who rule them. Lucien’s words come back to me; he described Solanum’s government as a rotten edifice. At the time I didn’t agree with him. I didn’t know enough to know if he spoke the truth. But now … I don’t want a revolution. I don’t want bloodshed. But things have to change.

  I just hadn’t realised it would be so … complicated.

  I’ve never even told Aron about my other dream: that of challenging the Decrees, to allow us to rule as cousins, not husband and wife. To free me to be with Lucien. If Lucien ever forgives me.

  Aron is still staring out of the window. The fabrics he chooses now he’s king are richer, more ornately embroidered, but his preference for black hasn’t changed; he believes his missing arm is less noticeable in dark colours. He’s currently wearing black leather trousers and boots, and a black velvet tunic over a fine linen shirt – a striking contrast to his white-blond hair, and to the scene beyond the glass. Snow is falling again, thick enough to obscure the view across the fjord that would normally be visible from here. The tumbling flakes are mesmerising, but they mean another day without flying or riding. I touch his shoulder gently.

  ‘I’m supposed to meet with Letya, so if you’ll excuse me –’

  ‘Lucien is still at court, I see.’ Aron glances at me out of the corner of his eye, questioning me with a faint lift of his brows. ‘Still as devastatingly handsome as ever.’

  Is that what he’s been wondering about? ‘True. I suppose he has friends here he hasn’t seen in a while: his cousin Nyssa, and his aunt, and so on.’ I shrug. ‘I didn’t ask him to stay, Aron. I haven’t forgotten the vows we took.’

  ‘Neither have I. Please –’ he offers me his arm – ‘allow me to escort you back to your apartments.’

  I wonder whether Aron is happy. Whether he thinks his throne was worth the cost we both agreed to: a life lived with friendship, and the type of love that friendship may become, but without any deeper passion.

  I don’t ask him, of course. Just note it as another unspoken question that lies between us.

  As we leave the council chamber, the snow falls more thickly than ever. Aron would never admit it, but I’m sure there must be some spark of him that is glad of this weather. For however long it lasts, he is not the only one of us who is earthbound.

  We reach the royal audience chamber, only to hear raised voices coming from the sitting room that lies beyond. The voices are easily recognisable: Letya, my clerk, waiting woman and best friend – my sister, by affection though not by blood – and Lady Crump, the ‘adviser’ foisted on me by Convocation.

  Aron clamps his lips together as if he’s trying not to laugh.

  I sigh. ‘This is your fault. You persuaded me to agree to having that woman around.’ Unlike most nobles, who spend at least two years at court before they come of age, I had no contact with the Citadel until last summer. Lady Crump is supposed to be advising me on royal protocol. Teaching me how to be a queen, though she and I have very different ideas of what exactly that entails. ‘She makes me feel like –’ I scrunch up my face, searching for the right words. ‘Imagine if someone gets a rusty nail and a bit of slate and scrapes the one across the other, over and over and over until you want to scream. That’s how she makes me feel.’

  ‘That’s how she makes everyone feel. But it will be worth it, in the end.’ Aron leans down to whisper in my ear, mindful I suppose of the servants standing stiffly by the door. ‘She’s connected to every noble family in the kingdom, pretty much. Just put up with her for another few months. As I said, we need the support.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Fine. But you can go in there with me –’ I point to the door of the audience chamber – ‘and help sort this out.’

  ‘I’d love to, my dear. But I’m sure there’s something in my own apartments that requires my immediate attention.’ He begins backing away. ‘Paperwork. Or something.’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘You’re scared of her.’

  Aron smiles, shrugs and executes a flawless bow. ‘I have every confidence in you, my queen.’ He’s still smirking as he turns away.

  Sharpened by irritation, the dull headache that has been coiled around my right eye socket stabs upward into my skull. But there is no avoiding it.

  The servants fling the doors open ahead of me.

  Letya is standing in front of one the sofas, clutching a book – my diary, I think – to her chest. Opposite her is Lady Crump, arms crossed, mouth open in an expression of horrified shock.

  ‘What is going on here?’

  Lady Crump curtsies deeply. ‘I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. Mistress Letya and I were just having a discussion.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I look towards Letya. ‘Is everything well?’

  Letya, flushing to the roots of her ash-blonde hair, says no at the same time as Lady Crump says yes.

  I turn to my friend. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘She wants me to give up my position as your clerk. She says it isn’t fitting, for nobles to have to ask a flightless woman for an appointment. She says I’m not deserving of the honour, by birth or education …’

  I stare at the other woman. ‘Letya shared my lessons from when she was twelve years old. Do you consider me uneducated?’

  Crump forces her mouth into a smile, though she can’t conceal the disdain in her eyes. ‘Absolutely not, Your Majesty. I was merely trying to point out that a queen is judged by those with whom she surrounds herself. While there is no doubt of Mistress Letya’s qualification to act as your personal servant, the position of clerk has traditionally –’ she puts such weight on the word that it becomes a thing of stone, a weapon with which to crush the life out of someone – ‘been held by a noble. It is what is expected.’ She fixes her gaze on the ceiling, a habit she has when she’s about to deliver a statement. ‘A clerk of high status, well-connected to the most important houses and families, free to move about the court and act as a bridge between the monarch and the nobles … Such a clerk can only enhance the status of the one whom she serves.’

  ‘It sounds as if you have someone specific in mind for the post.’

  My comment throws Lady Crump for a moment. The mossy tint of her skin – she’s one of the numerous pigeon families – turns darker green. ‘The selection of your staff is of course up to you, Your Majesty. But if you have no one else in mind, my eldest daughter is returning to court shortly. I’m sure she would be deeply honoured to be of service to Your Majesty.’ Another curtsy and false smile accompany this suggestion.

  Next to me, Letya is tense. I want to point out to Lady Crump that I’ve not actually agreed to replace my friend. If anything, I want to banish her from court, to send her back to the marshlands of Brithys, where she can preach about tradition and status to her own unfortunate dependents.

  But Aron is right. We need support. We need time to convince our nobility that our plans for the future of the kingdom are workable. So I grit my teeth and give Lady Crump a smile as false as the one she gave me.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Crump. As always, you bring such an interesting perspective to matters. I will definitely give your words consideration. There will be no need for you to speak to Letya any further on this subject.’

  Crump’s brow wrinkles as she tries to work out my meaning.

  ‘I’m afraid I have a headache,’ I continue. ‘Lady Crump, would you be so good as to send for my physician on your way out?’

  She has no option but to curtsy again and go. As soon as I’m sure she’s left my apartments, I turn back to Letya. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. That woman is a mean-spirited, jealous-natured weasel who would sour milk if she passed within three wingspans of a dairy.’ My friend sighs. ‘I’m not sure she’s wrong though.’

  ‘Of course she’s wrong.’ I grasp Letya’s gloved hand briefly; the power that allows us to transform, that lingers in our skin even as humans, also means that our touch is dangerous to the flightless majority. I’ve seen nobles burn servants’ skin in anger. I was forced by my uncle, the last king, to do so myself once. ‘You’re a fine clerk, Letya. Don’t let her make you doubt yourself.’

  ‘I don’t doubt myself. But when nobles come to me to ask for an appointment with you …’ She drops her gaze, shaking her head. ‘I’ve seen how they look at me. As if they’re … they’re lowering themselves, just by talking to me.’ When she looks up again, her eyes are glassy. ‘As if I’ve got some disease they’re afraid they’re going to catch.’

  A surge of anger and sorrow takes my breath away. ‘I’m going to change things, Letya. I promise.’ I just don’t know when. Or exactly how. ‘And if Crump ever talks to you like that again I’ll have her thrown in the dungeons, no matter how well-connected she is.’

  ‘Don’t do that. I don’t want to make things difficult for you.’ She opens the diary, and for a few minutes we sit together on the sofa – close, but not touching – and go through my appointments for the next few days. But I can tell her mind is not on the ambassadors and trade delegations who fill the pages, their names and purposes noted in Letya’s curving script.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Change.’ She folds the corner of one of the thick pages. ‘Things have changed in Celonia.’

  ‘They have. But, surely, you don’t want –’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Silence fills the space between us. ‘Letya,’ I ask eventually, ‘do you want to go home? You know you can, any time you want to.’ Dread of what her answer will be makes my stomach twist into knots. I have Aron and Odette, and I’ve come to love my cousins. I’ve made some friends among the younger nobles. But I’ve spent at least part of every day with Letya since I was eleven years old, when she came to be my companion after my mother’s murder. My life without her would be unrecognisable.

  Still, I have to give her the choice. When we left Merl Castle late last spring, we thought we’d only be away for six weeks. It wasn’t supposed to be forever.

  Letya hesitates, but only for a second or so. ‘No.’ She shakes her head decidedly. ‘I won’t leave you, Aderyn. And besides –’ sly humour twinkles in her eyes – ‘Lord Lancelin is still paying me to be your companion. It’s good money.’

  I grin. ‘And still entertaining, I hope.’

  She shrugs and laughs. ‘Well, you’ve not risked your life for a while now. And though I doubt it will last, I don’t mind a little less excitement for the time being.’

  Her tone is light, but I know what lies behind her words. Despite the best efforts of our doctors, Letya’s neck still bears the hand-shaped burn left by Siegfried’s grip.

  Revenge doesn’t solve things. Watching my mother’s murderer die didn’t bring me the peace I thought it would. Whatever I do to Siegfried won’t heal Letya’s skin. But I have to find him. If nothing else, I have to stop him inflicting the same pain on others.

  My doctor arrives with a tincture of willow for my headache. When he’s gone, Letya helps me swap my silk gown for a long-sleeved tunic of padded leather, trousers and high boots, and I make my way to the new training room, eager to burn off some energy, eager to do something – anything – to distract me from this morning’s dealings with my council and Lady Crump. I learned to fight with a sword after I lost my ability to shift my shape. Although that power has now returned to me, I’ve continued to practise; I’m not sure about Tallis, but Siegfried can handle a blade.

  When I arrive, the room is busy; the endless snow is forcing many nobles to seek alternative forms of exercise. But the crowd here isn’t just nobles. This is the only space in the Citadel where flighted and flightless – a privileged portion of them, at least – are on an equal footing. The training room was expanded by Aron after we were crowned, but it’s run and overseen by the Dark Guards. They practise sword-fighting and axe-throwing here themselves, but now they allow nobles to use the space too, offering advice on technique and ruling on disputed matches. Despite Solanum’s two hundred years of peace, the ability to use a sword is still valued by some, though too many nobles disdain it as a skill only necessary for the flightless. The guards won’t fight nobles themselves though. The exception to this is Aron; when he lost his arm, nearly three years ago now, the Dark Guards befriended him and taught him, and he still values their friendship. I search the large, high-ceilinged room for his slim figure.

  Hemeth – handsome, copper-haired, and Aron’s closest friend in the Dark Guards – approaches me and nods respectfully. ‘Madam.’ There are no titles used in this room. No references to house or rank.

  ‘Good afternoon, Hemeth. Is my husband here?’

  ‘No. But there’s a match that’s just about to finish if you wish for a practice partner.’ He hands me a dull-edged, blunt-tipped practice sword and leads me past the axe targets to where two men, both breathing hard, both misted with sweat, are saluting each other. One of the participants is unknown to me. He’s of average height, powerfully built, with dark eyes and silvery hair that is tied back now but must fall past his shoulders. Hemeth murmurs that the man is one of the nobles who escaped from Celonia; there’s a scabbed-over wound marring one of his cheekbones.

  The man’s opponent is Lucien.

  He’s had his dark hair cut short, so that he looks just like my Lucien again. The Lucien I dream about. My heart, traitor that it is, beats faster.

  Hemeth steps forward. ‘Gentlemen, if either of you is inclined to fight again, this lady wishes for a partner.’

  The stranger narrows his eyes slightly, shooting Hemeth an incredulous glance, but he makes a sweeping bow to signal his acquiescence. Lucien, after a tiny hesitation, nods. Even smiles a little; I wonder if he’s trying to make up for his behaviour the last time we met. But then he begins to walk forward. As if my choice is already made. As if I’m bound to choose him, even after he treated me with such disdain at the Solstice ball.

  ‘This gentleman –’ I gesture at the stranger instead – ‘would make a worthy opponent, I believe.’

  Lucien stiffens. Clamps his mouth shut and swings away from me.

  I refuse to let my gaze follow him.

  Hemeth is already scattering fresh sand on the floor. The silver-haired stranger salutes me and, with a slight smile playing upon his lips, raises his sword. I take a deep breath and ready my sword in response. I’ve no time to worry about Lucien or anything else; as soon as we are both in position, the stranger attacks.