“I did what you asked of me,” she said.
He looked at her. “That’s a strange thing to say.”
His words sent a shaft of cold fear spearing through her body.
“All that you asked of me,” she added.
He moved away from her. “I must see Ven. I must comfort him, and he me.” His voice turned even colder. “Get back on your horse, Lydia, and ride west. You know what needs to be done.”
“Now?” Once more Lydia’s sense of time seemed out of kilter. “But we are only just reunited. I thought we would have this night together.”
He offered her the flicker of a smile. “No, Lydia, there is no need for you to wait. It was always to have been this way.” He shrugged.
The gesture seemed so casual, as if he had succeeded in throwing off the dark, difficult emotions he had experienced just moments before. He gazed at her intently, the smile now faded from his lips. His eyes were like stars in the gloom of the tent.
“So, I have been dismissed,” she said, overwhelmed with fatigue. “If this was the plan, I should have known. Henning, we should not keep any secrets from each other.”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot agree, darling Lydia.” His voice was softer now and he stepped toward her again. “There is beauty in secrets. For our relationship to continue to prosper, there must always be things we do not share with each other.”
As he finished speaking, his lips were so close to hers she could not voice any protest. He leaned forward and kissed her. Then, in one fluid movement, he turned and walked away. Gone to tell his brother the news that Prince Leopold was no more and they were, at last, the legitimate rulers of Paddenburg.
“You might thank me,” she said to his retreating back, an old strength finding its way into her voice.
“For what, precisely?” he asked, not bothering to turn back to her.
“For everything,” she said. “For every last one of the secrets I’m keeping for you.”
To her surprise, as he lifted the tent flap, he did glance back over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, before disappearing into the chill dark.
THIRTY
The Office of Prince Séverin, the Palace, Larsson
“AN ALLIANCE OF THE FIVE RIVER TERRITORIES IS indeed an intriguing proposition.” The words came not from Prince Séverin but from Princess Celestia, who—Jared was left in no further doubt—was taking the lead in this discussion.
He had been surprised to find Celestia waiting for him, alongside her father, in the Prince’s office. She was still dressed, as was Jared, in the clothes she had sported for the sledge race. Her cheeks were flushed a now more faded pink from her recent endeavors, yet there was no sign that the race had drained her of energy—quite the reverse. Her bright blue eyes sparked with life and purpose as she stood before Jared, one arm folded tightly over the other.
Jared and Séverin sat opposite one another in elaborate chairs. At first, Jared had thought they were hewn from the ice of the fjord but, though indeed cool to the touch, the sinuous chairs were in fact made of glass and draped with thick furs. Séverin was lounging upon his, one arm dangling over its back. His keen eyes darted back and forth between his oldest daughter and Prince Jared, as though he were watching a tennis match. Celestia had swiftly vacated her chair to take the floor between them. “May I be blunt, Prince Jared?” she asked now.
He nodded and smiled at her, wondering if it was within Celestia’s powers not to be blunt. In this respect, among others, she reminded him of Asta Peck.
“We had expected you only to request an alliance between Archenfield and Larsson. This would not, I fear, be a compelling proposition. Your Princedom is under the threat of imminent invasion and may soon fall into new hands.” Her face betrayed no obvious emotion. “But an alliance with the other territories—especially Woodlark—well, that is certainly much more interesting to us.”
Stung by the callous way Celestia had talked about the fate of Archenfield, Jared found himself giving in to a little reciprocal bluntness. “I thought the prospect of an alliance with Woodlark would appeal to you,” he said. “And it strikes me as curious, given the significant border you share, that there is not already an alliance in place between your two territories.”
As Celestia raised her head haughtily, her father responded to Jared’s question.
“Your point is valid, Prince Jared,” he acknowledged. “You have candidly laid your own cards on the table, so it seems fitting for us to reciprocate.” He paused. “Queen Francesca, an impressive woman with many fine principles, has never seriously entertained the thought of a formal alliance between her domain and ours.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “I suspect she feels we have rather little to bring to the exchange.”
Jared nodded. It would be no surprise at all for Francesca, buoyed by the size and might of Woodlark, to adopt such an arrogant position.
“I must say,” Celestia resumed, “that I am surprised that Queen Francesca has so readily agreed to rekindle the alliance between Woodlark and Archenfield.” Her eyes met Jared’s challengingly. “I mean, after it was so recently severed due to the death of Silva of Woodlark on your soil.”
“Your information is impressively current,” Jared acknowledged—wishing that it was somewhat less current. Clearly Larsson had as effective a spy network as its larger neighbors.
“Francesca must have a very strong motivation for agreeing to reinstate the alliance, only days after she withdrew it,” Celestia said, coming to stand at her father’s side.
Séverin said nothing, but Jared was in no doubt he was subject to equal scrutiny by father and daughter.
He cleared his throat. “A lot has changed in the past few days. The threat from Paddenburg has become a clear and present danger, thanks to the ultimatum dispatched to me by the two Princes. But you need only glance at a map to see the extent of the border between Woodlark and Paddenburg. With Paddenburg mustering its forces, this alone may have changed her thinking.”
Celestia considered his words. “It’s possible. But I suspect there’s more to it than that.” She took her seat once more, crossing her legs. “Prince Jared, we should be very interested to see the decree from Francesca, detailing the specifics of the new alliance. I assume you have it on you, or else easily accessible?”
Jared froze. He had the decree in his breast pocket.
He could prevaricate, but that would only prolong this sense of deadlock—the one thing Jared knew he did not have was the luxury of time.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the folded decree and passed it over into Celestia’s outstretched hand. He knew it would not be long before she found her answer.
It took her moments to scan the text. Then she nodded and passed it to her father, who fumbled in a pocket before retrieving a lorgnette.
As her father lifted the glasses to his eyes, Celestia rose to her feet once more. “Well, now we are a good deal clearer on Francesca’s change of heart. It’s evident from the wording of this decree that your alliance with Woodlark is valid only if and when you hand over her daughter’s killer—Logan Wilde.”
Séverin folded his lorgnette away again. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Prince Jared, but wasn’t this Wilde—until recent days—a member of your esteemed Council of Twelve?”
Jared was forced to nod in conformation to both their questions.
Celestia’s eyes bored into his. “It’s shocking to think that a member of your own Council would be responsible for the deaths of Silva and Prince Anders.”
Ignoring the stab of her implied criticism, Jared nodded again. “His actions have shocked us all to the core. Wilde infiltrated Archenfield at the highest level, as part of what we now know to have been a long-term plot hatched in the Black Palace of Paddenburg.”
“Indeed.” Séverin nodded, his face showing sympathy at Archenfield’s plight.
Celestia’s expression was more severe. “It’s not ideal having a critically important alliance wit
h such a major string attached to it.”
Jared nodded. “You’re right, of course—especially when there’s a strong strategic argument to be made for not handing over Wilde to Woodlark. But handing him over ceases to be a problem once the alliance of the five river territories is activated. Right now, we’re all acting out of fear, prompted by this odious ultimatum, that Paddenburg will attack more viciously and sooner if their terms are breached. But if and when Henning and Ven discover that the five river territories—Archenfield, Woodlark, Rednow, Baltiska and Larsson—are standing together in alliance, then the Princes of Paddenburg will be forced to rethink.”
Celestia pursed her lips, then turned and walked toward one of the room’s large windows. The curtains had not yet been drawn and, through the glass, Jared could see thick flakes of snow falling heavily. For a moment, Celestia stood before the glass, as if lost in delight at the festive scene of the snow falling on the frozen fjord below. He had no doubt that she was simply biding her time, the cogs in her head spinning fast as she weighed up her decision. She held all the power in her tiny hands, which, even now, were pressed lightly against the windowpane.
“We will offer you an alliance.” He heard her voice, but it took him a moment to process her words. She turned and walked back toward him.
“That’s wonderful!” His words emerged as a weak rasp.
“Wait,” she said. “I’m afraid that just as there are conditions attached to the Woodlark alliance, so there will be one with ours—to be drawn up by our scribe.” Jared noticed Séverin was listening as carefully to Celestia as he was. “Our support is contingent on the full activation of the alliance between you and Woodlark.”
Jared could not fault her logic. Had he been in her shoes, he might have suggested the very same thing. Celestia had made no secret of the fact that the prize she sought for Larsson was an alliance with Woodlark.
Jared felt conflicted: he had gained a third alliance and that should have been cause for celebration, but, like the first of his alliances, it hinged upon handing Logan Wilde over to Woodlark. He knew that he’d have a tough job persuading Axel and the others to follow through with that… Though surely, he reasoned once again—his mind going back to his thoughts after the alliance with Rohan had been agreed—he could make a very strong case for it, as it delivered three vital alliances? Four, if Kai had been successful in Baltiska.
Four alliances. Jared felt a momentary sense of elation. Against the odds, he had achieved what, days ago, had seemed impossible.
All he had to do was persuade his Council on the matter of the renegade Poet.
“Well,” Séverin said. “A drink, I think, to seal the deal, and then we shall send at once for a scribe!” He rose to his feet. After he had taken a few steps toward a row of assorted shaped bottles standing on a cabinet, he stopped in his tracks and glanced back at Jared, curiously. “But tell me, my friend, how did Prince Rohan respond when he heard about Francesca’s terms?”
Jared froze again, saying nothing. For all his veneer of softness and joviality, Séverin could indeed be as merciless as his daughter.
“I mean, about the necessity of you handing over the assassin?”
Celestia’s voice chimed in again. “I don’t think Prince Rohan asked you about that, did he? And I don’t think you saw fit to volunteer the information.”
Jared felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He just didn’t have the heart to tell another lie. Remaining silent, he felt the walls of the room closing in upon him.
Prince Séverin shook his head sadly. “Typical Rohan. Acts with his heart, not his head.” His eyes met Jared’s. “In spite of appearances to the contrary, that is not how we do things here in Larsson.”
Jared rose to his feet, feeling suitably chastised. Now he was gripped by a fresh fear, which he had to voice. “Do you intend to tell him?”
Prince Séverin’s lips rose up in a half smile, then his eyes narrowed. “I hardly think it is my place to tell him. Surely that task falls to you, young Prince?”
“Yes,” Jared said, flushed with momentary relief. He sensed he could trust Séverin on this matter. However, while he wanted to tell Rohan the full truth—had wanted to all along—what if it cost him a vital alliance? Only moments ago, he had been congratulating himself on the alliances he had secured; now, he could feel the fragile house of cards collapsing. Nonetheless, his mind was made up. “I will tell him,” he said. “Be assured of this.”
“Very good.” Prince Séverin issued a nod. “And now, a glass of grappa to warm your bones!”
Jared raised his hand, palm up. “Thank you, but I should keep a clear head,” he said. “I intend to ride out tonight—just as soon as I am in possession of your decree.”
“That’s ill advised,” Celestia told him. “The snow is falling thickly again and the icy roads will be treacherous in the dark—not to mention the added danger of bandits, once you leave the palace borders.” She smiled at Jared. “All things considered, I’d recommend that you stay the night and ride out at first light.”
Séverin nodded. “You shall join us at the ball tonight. It marks the end of the Ice Fair.”
“Thank you so much, but I don’t have anything to—”
“We shall have fresh clothes sent to your room,” Celestia told him. “If you dance anything like you ride a sledge, Prince Jared, we should all be in for quite a treat.”
Jared realized he had been roundly outmaneuvered. As tough a negotiator as Queen Francesca of Woodlark was, he could see young Princess Celestia might soon prove her equal. He sensed he was in for a punishing time on the dance floor.
Jared turned to Séverin. “On second thought,” he said, “I should be very grateful for that drink.”
TWO DAYS UNTIL INVASION…
THIRTY-ONE
The Chapel, the Village of the Twelve, Archenfield
ASTA CLOSED THE LYCH-GATE CAREFULLY BEHIND her, checking to ensure that no one had seen her enter the churchyard. Satisfied that she had arrived undetected, she turned toward the chapel door just as it opened and Father Simeon stepped out into the morning air. He was wearing a coat over his vestments to protect himself against the winter chill. Asta lifted a hand in greeting but he did not seem to notice her.
The Priest seemed agitated. He clasped a small book in his hand—it looked like a book of prayer or perhaps a hymnal. She watched as he turned it over in his hands a few times before lifting out a furl of paper from between its pages, scanning whatever was written on the note, then slipping it back again. His face set with determination, the Priest bowed his head against the wind and began walking purposefully around the side of the chapel. Asta followed at a discreet distance.
An icy wind was blowing up from the fjord. Asta had forgotten how cold it got here, at the northernmost point of the Village. Her hood was blown down and she drew it back up again quickly before the wind had the chance to nip her ears. When she looked back along the path, the Priest had disappeared.
Asta had the strong feeling that Father Simeon had ventured out here to meet somebody. Proceeding with caution, she scanned the smaller pathways emerging to the left and right. There were myriad directions in which the Priest might have disappeared.
The sound of a bird breaking free from the branches of a tree made her turn. As she did, she saw a flash of brown cloth—the tail of Father Simeon’s frock coat. Asta set off to follow him. As she turned the next corner, she saw him approach one of the larger tombs. On pedestals to either side of its entrance stood a pair of statues, each with a hand covering its face in mourning: the left-hand statue’s eyes were just visible as the figure’s forefinger lay along the bridge of its nose; the face of the right-hand statue was entirely covered by a stone rendering of a kerchief. Between these two figures were ironwork doors, into which were wrought the outline of two trees.
Father Simeon opened the door and disappeared inside. Asta glanced up and read the words inscribed on the top of the tomb. “Family Drummond.” Now she had
a pretty good idea who the Priest had ventured there to meet.
As the iron gates clanked shut behind the Priest, Asta continued on, making her way along the side of the tomb. She could hear voices, indistinctly. She had to get closer if she was to learn anything.
At the back of the Drummond tomb, a cross-shaped hole had been made in the stone. The aperture was only slight but it was enough for Asta to see and hear through. First, she saw Father Simeon’s face. The other occupant of the small room—its only interior decoration a string of cobwebs—had his back turned toward her. But once she heard him speak, she was in no doubt as to who it was: Jonas Drummond.
“I come here often to visit my family,” she heard Jonas say.
“I know you do,” answered Father Simeon. “You have proved an honorable child to those who came before you.”
“They laid down their lives on the battlefield for me,” Jonas continued.
Asta risked leaning forward, watching her footing carefully as she did to ensure she made no sound.
“The Drummond family is one of the most honored in all the court,” Father Simeon said.
“Thank you, Father. I want to live my own life with the same kind of honor. If I die in war—well, so be it. But I know I have to take a stand. It is my duty, my purpose, you might say.”
“Your purpose?” Father Simeon echoed.
Asta saw Jonas nod. “We are short of time now that the Paddenburg invasion has begun. It is up to each and every one of us to take a stand and determine the kind of future we want for Archenfield.” He paused. “The kind of ruler we want for Archenfield.”
“We have a ruler, Jonas,” Father Simeon said.
“The sands of time are running out for Prince Jared. His folly across the border is, I fear, another sign of his inexperience and naïveté. At this point, he needs nothing short of a miracle…”