Asta nodded, understanding the Prince’s point. Still, he had ducked her important question. “Shouldn’t this role go to someone with suitable position and talent?”
Prince Jared held her gaze. “Position be damned,” he said. “What matters to me is that the Poet is someone I can trust.” His voice softened. “I do trust you, Asta, and I have absolute faith in your talents. I know we haven’t known each other long, but there have been times in the past weeks when you have been the only person in court I could depend upon. We are venturing deeper into the unknown now, and the next days and weeks are likely to be even more challenging than what has come before. I fundamentally need people around me whom I can trust, Asta. I need you.”
She nodded, tears pricking her eyes. “I want to help. I just don’t want you to overestimate my capabilities.”
He reached for her hand. “You will never disappointment me, Asta, if that’s what’s on your mind.”
She gulped. “I’m really touched—staggered actually—by your belief in me. But how can you really be sure that I’m ready for this? I’m still new in court. There’s so much I don’t understand.”
“Remember what I said to you when we first met in the woods?” He paused, then resumed with a smile. “I said we were both fish out of water. And so we were. We still are. But we are learning to swim together.”
She nodded. She liked what he was saying, but could she really fulfill his great expectations in her?
Once more, he seemed to intuit her question. “Just speak your mind and do this job your way. Don’t let anyone try to mold or influence you, or distract you from what needs to be done. Above all, Asta, just be your wonderful self.”
The scroll of Asta’s life had already unfurled much further than she could ever have expected. Six months before, she had been living in the settlements; two weeks ago, she had been thrust into the heart of court proceedings on the tragic day of Prince Anders’s assassination. Now here she was, sharing whispers with Jared, Prince of All Archenfield.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded again. “It would be my honor, Prince Jared, to serve you and the court.”
“Thank you,” he said, relief making him smile broadly.
Asta had a sudden fresh thought. “What about Uncle Elias? Have you talked to him about this?”
Jared shook his head. She realized that it was further vindication of his respect for her that he hadn’t first sought out her uncle. “No, but I’m sure Elias will understand. He, more than anyone, knows how talented you are.”
Asta frowned. She wasn’t so sure. Uncle Elias might indeed be assured of her talents, but he had brought her to court to help him in his work.
“You look worried,” Jared told her. “Please don’t be. Trust me, it will all fall into place.” He sighed. “I wish we had more time, Asta, but I ought to head back to the palace now.”
She began to slide out of her borrowed jacket. “You need some sleep before tomorrow. Don’t forget about that. You’re not superhuman.”
He affected a pout. “I’m disappointed you think that.” His face brightened. “Rest assured, I will sleep a lot more soundly knowing you have agreed to my request.”
She pressed the jacket back into his grasp. Their hands made contact; his flesh was surprisingly warm. “Let me walk you back inside,” he offered.
She nodded, then changed her mind. “Actually, I might stay out here for a moment. My head is spinning… in a good way. I think I just need a moment or two to come back down to earth.”
He nodded, gazing fondly at her. His face was close. Closer, she thought, than it had been before. With a shiver of anticipation, she wondered if he might be about to lean in and kiss her. He did not. Smiling at her, he slung his jacket casually over his shoulder, then turned and began making his way back toward the lights of the Physician’s house.
Asta watched Hal extinguishing his latest cigarette under the sole of his boot, preparing to escort the Prince back to the palace.
“Wait,” she called after Jared.
Immediately, he stopped and turned around as she strode to catch up with him. She dug her hand into her pocket and produced the sprig of rue she had squirreled away there before. “Please take this with you,” she said.
He wrinkled his nose. “Do I have to? It smells so rank!”
She kept her hand stretched out toward him. “I told you before,” she said. “It’s an antidote against all kinds of poisons. Some people believe it has the power to repel plague and evil spirits. That’s probably overstating the case but, all the same, I’d feel better if you took it with you on your journey.”
He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. “I know I’d better do as you say and take it with me,” he agreed, tucking it carefully into his own pocket. “Even if all it succeeds in repelling are my traveling companions!” He smiled. “I’m grateful to you for thinking of me, Asta.”
Jared turned away from her and followed Hal back inside the house.
She was all alone in the Physic Garden. The wind was colder now that the Prince’s jacket and his close company no longer warmed her. She brought her arms across her chest, mustering what heat she could, and turned her eyes up toward the night sky. Things were changing fast now. She was shedding another skin. It was at once terrifying yet completely exhilarating. As the stars faded and the night sky was pushed away by the new morning, it would become known that she, Asta Peck—the girl from the settlements—was to be one of the Twelve. She had already come so much further than anyone could ever have thought possible. But she also sensed, with the thrill of momentum, that her journey was only just beginning.
EIGHT
The Dining Chamber, the Black Palace, Paddenburg
“WHY IS THERE SO MUCH FOOD?” PRINCE HENNING asked Lydia as yet another platter was set down on the already laden table.
Lydia smiled. “I talked to the kitchens. I wanted you to have a taste of all your favorite dishes before you and Ven set off with the troops in the morning.”
Across the table, Nikolai—cousin to the two young Princes and poised to assume greater powers during their absence—smiled approvingly and lifted his black glass goblet of wine. “A noble intent!”
“Roast duck with preserved cherries,” announced the steward, raising the silvered dome from the latest platter and releasing a plume of steam and the sweet perfume of cherries into the air. Lydia was momentarily transported to a lazy afternoon in the heat of the summer, when Henning and she had enjoyed an impromptu picnic in the palace’s glorious cherry orchard. She remembered him tenderly feeding her cherries, their flesh still warm from the kiss of the August sun.
“Oxtail stew, spatchcock quail, slow-cooked pork, roast duck,” Henning said, his eyes roaming across the many dishes deployed along the center of the table, as he comically pushed out his stomach and gave it a pat. “If I eat all this, I fear no horse in our stables will be able to carry me to the border of Archenfield!”
Lydia turned her head and rested the tip of her chin gently on the shoulder of his stiff serge jacket. “You don’t have to eat all of it. Besides, if a horse can sustain you in your heavy armor, I’m sure a little extra body weight will prove neither here nor there.”
Prince Henning laughed. “Well, when you put it like that…!”
Nikolai set down his glass. “Will Prince Ven be joining us this evening?” he asked, glancing at the empty seat beside his own.
Lydia watched Henning’s carefree smile disappear, unhappy that Nikolai had raised the question. She had made such a concerted effort to bolster Henning’s mood; now she could see her good work was already being unpicked.
“Prince Ven seems to have little appetite these days,” she said. “I hope some of these delicious dishes might tempt him to eat tonight. But I do not think we should wait any longer for him to join us.” Her eyes met the steward’s, propelling him into action. “We don’t want
the food to spoil.”
“Where exactly is Ven?” Nikolai asked, as the steward attended to the Prince’s plate.
“Take a guess!” Henning snapped. “Where is my brother ever to be found these days? He is in our father’s bedchamber with the latest quack whom he has summoned from afar and to whom he throws ridiculous amounts of gold in exchange for increasingly ludicrous cures.” Henning’s face flushed as he continued. “Last week, it was leeches; then, two days ago, imagine my surprise and delight as I observed Ven assisting his latest miracle worker in placing dead cockerels on either side of Prince Leopold’s head.”
Lydia watched the steward closely as he put a generous plate of food down before Prince Henning. Though the steward gave no indication he had taken in a word of Henning’s outburst, she still couldn’t shake the fear that he might report it verbatim to the other servants.
“Poor Ven.” Nikolai spoke softly as he set down his glass. “He wants so very much to find a cure for Prince Leopold in spite of the terrible odds against him.”
Henning frowned darkly. “My brother acts as if he is the only one who wishes my father to recover.”
Lydia placed her hand over Henning’s, her long, graceful fingers stroking his wrist. “We all know that is not the case. Your father’s decline is equally painful for both of you. I hope this will not sound callous”—she saw Nikolai observing her carefully—“but perhaps it is for the best that tomorrow Ven must ride out with you. It will take his mind away from sick Prince Leopold and toward matters central to the future of Paddenburg.”
Henning shrugged as he tore apart a quail with his fingers. “I would be far better off taking you with me to the border and leaving my brother to mope around the palace.”
No,” Lydia said with a shake of her head. “It is important that you ride out together. This is, and always has been, about the two of you.”
Henning dropped the quail bones with a clatter onto his plate. “As usual, dear Lydia, you are right.”
“Why don’t I go up and talk to him?” Lydia suggested. “Perhaps I can persuade him to leave Prince Leopold’s bedside for a short time. It will be good for you two to have some time together—before you set out tomorrow.”
“No!” Henning trapped her hand under his own. She felt the oily residue of quail juice transfer from his fingers to hers. “There is no reason for your dinner to spoil,” he continued. “Let my brother wend his way here in his own time.”
Lydia discreetly wiped her hands clean and reached for her knife and fork.
“Ah, yes!” Henning continued, chomping through a portion of duck. “This is the taste of home! I shall savor its sweetness and subtlety as I resign myself to lesser fare over the coming days and weeks.”
Lydia couldn’t help but laugh. “I have no doubt you will be well catered for in camp,” she said.
“Indeed,” Nikolai added, his dark eyes twinkling. “Let it never be said that the army of Paddenburg does not march on its belly!”
As Henning turned to Lydia, guffawing at his cousin’s small joke, a globule of thick cherry sauce slipped from the corner of his mouth.
The effect was chilling—the dark red stain too perfect a match for blood. It sent an icy chill from the nape of Lydia’s neck to the base of her spine. She leaned across to apply her napkin to his mouth; it came away streaked with crimson.
“You seem a little on edge,” Henning observed.
Once again, Lydia was reminded of Henning’s knack for seeming entirely caught up in his own thoughts and then surprising her with his lucid observations of her mood.
“You know I am always sad to be parted from you,” she told him. “You have no idea how slowly time moves when you are away from the palace.”
“I know,” he reassured her. “But, in this instance, it will be only a matter of days. You will, as discussed, ride out in two days’ time with the second flank of troops and join us at the border camp.” His eyes were bright as he warmed to his theme. “Your glorious body will be encased in the armor I had forged for you. And you, Ven and I will ride side by side across the border and onto the soil of Archenfield to take it for our own!”
Lydia nodded, feeling her heart beat faster. “That is a heady thought.”
Henning nodded. “And who shall be waiting for us on the other side, but Logan? I know how you ache to see him again.”
Lydia closed her eyes for a moment.
“And, as you know,” Henning continued, “there is important work for you and Nikolai to conclude in my absence.” He reached to the chair on his other side and produced two parchment scrolls—one slightly larger than the other. Each had been neatly tied with a black silk ribbon. Henning handed the smaller scroll to Nikolai.
“Cousin, this is the decree signed by myself and Ven, which makes you Prince Regent in our absence.”
Nikolai took the decree. Lydia watched as his nimble fingers unpicked the tight knot. He carefully set the snake of ribbon down and unfurled the parchment. From across the table, her keen eyes traced the intricate copperplate detailing the substantial powers with which Nikolai was being invested. Her eyes dipped down to the signatures of Prince Henning and Prince Ven—Henning’s wild and looping; Ven’s small and scratchy, like a spider pressed into the fibers of the parchment.
Nikolai nodded, then carefully rolled up the decree and replaced the ribbon.
“Of course, the Prince Regent’s decree has no value without us first obtaining a signature on this.” Henning offered Lydia the second scroll. “I shall entrust this to you.”
She took it but did not untie the ribbon. She knew exactly what was inside. Though it was only parchment, it suddenly seemed as heavy as a scepter.
“Prince Leopold must sign this before our horses set their hooves on the soil of Archenfield,” Henning said. “No one must be able to say that my brother and I are not the legitimate rulers of Paddenburg.”
Nikolai nodded. “It is regrettable that Prince Leopold has not rallied before your departure to sign this decree. I am sure you would ride out with a lighter heart knowing that all was in order.”
Henning shrugged. “Unlike my brother, I do not waste my time or energy merely wishing for things to change. If things are not to my liking, I make the necessary alterations.”
Lydia met his eye. She quickly set down the scroll. Footsteps rang across the room. Glancing up, she saw Prince Ven walking toward the table.
“You greedy pigs!” Ven exclaimed, pulling out the chair next to Nikolai. “Look at all this food! It’s enough for the entire army.”
“I hardly think so,” Henning said quietly.
“What’s that, brother?” Ven asked, reaching for the platter of quail. “Where is the steward? Must I serve myself?”
“I will serve you,” Lydia said, rising to her feet.
“No,” Henning said, seizing her wrist. “You will not serve my brother. You are his equal now.”
Ven raised an eyebrow. “You talk as if you are already married,” he said.
Lydia saw with relief that the steward had returned to the dining chamber and was striding toward the table.
“It matters little whether Lydia and I have been through the formalities of a ceremony,” Henning announced. “She has already done enough for us and for the Princedom of Paddenburg to sit here as our equal.”
“You will not hear any argument from me,” Ven said, as the steward prepared his plate. “A little more generous with the duck, if you please!” Ven’s eyes met his brother’s. “Both Lydia and Logan have earned their place in our nation’s history.” He picked up the wine decanter and poured a large measure into his goblet. “A toast,” he announced. “To Lydia and Logan Wilde!”
“To Lydia and Logan!” Nikolai and Henning echoed. Henning squeezed her wrist gently as he lifted his goblet.
“Now tell us,” Nikolai turned to Ven, “what news of Prince Leopold? We hear tell of an unusual treatment involving dead cockerels.”
Ven swallowed his wine. “O
h, I’m sure my brother has made great mockery at my expense.” Henning shook his head and was about to protest, but Ven lifted his hand. “But the fact is that the latest treatment seems to be working.”
“It is?” Nikolai said. “But that’s wonderful news.”
Lydia saw his fingers come to rest lightly on the bound scroll in front of him. It seemed that, after all, Henning would have an answer before his departure.
“Has he returned to consciousness?” Henning asked. “Is he able to talk?”
Ven smiled. “What you want to know is—is he able to hold a pen? He has shown moments of lucidity and I have seen faint glimpses of the father we used to know. But he is still very weak and given to tiredness. He is sleeping again now.”
Henning shook his head. “It doesn’t sound quite the miraculous recovery we were promised. I fail to see why you remain so confident.”
“Because the physician tells me that he is responding to the latest treatment. And I put store in the physician’s words.” Ven pushed back his chair and picked up his plate. “I shall eat in my chamber,” he announced. “I do not care for the company here.”
Nikolai turned to Henning. “You need to bring him into line. This is not the way for the two of you to embark on the most important mission in Paddenburg’s recent history.”
Henning chewed meditatively on his quail, spat the bones into his palm and dropped them on his plate.
“I will take care of my brother, Nikolai. You need have no concern about that. Your job is to resolve this situation with my father.” He turned to Lydia and traced the curve of her cheek with his finger. “Let’s retire,” he said. “I have an early start in the morning. I’ll not waste any more of this precious night.”
NINE
The Dungeons, the Palace, Archenfield
KOEL BLAXLAND MOVED THROUGH THE DANK underbelly of the palace. There were few places within the court that she had not explored at least once in her seventeen years, but until now she had had no reason—nor any desire—to visit the Dungeons. The light was poor down there, but her quick eyes soon began to discern shapes in the darkness. She felt her heart rate accelerate at the prospect of entering this new, forbidden territory.