The sky was growing lighter all the time. Now, at last, Jared heard the sonorous chime of the Prince’s Bell. The bell chimes once, for there can be only one true Prince.
The traditional line snaked sinuously through his brain. With the Paddenburg Ultimatum hovering over the Princedom like the sword of Damocles, Jared was Archenfield’s only hope.
Once again, Jared felt the awesome weight of that responsibility, just as he had when Axel had set the Prince’s Crown on his head. Thankfully, the crown was stashed safely with his other things on the back of Hal’s horse—it would be brought out only if absolutely necessary. He dug his heels into Handrick’s sides and felt the pleasing sensation of gathering momentum as he and his three fellows hastened to the border with Woodlark.
ELEVEN
The Captain of the Guard’s Villa, the Village of the Twelve, Archenfield
AXEL’S EYES SNAPPED OPEN. HE WAS SITTING UP IN his bed, the sheets twisted around him. He caught sight of his face in the mirror on the wall directly opposite the bed. He looked pale and haggard.
He freed himself from the clutch of the bedclothes and leaped up. The room was bitterly cold. He wrapped a fur cloak around himself and nudged his feet, sockless, into a pair of boots.
He had no idea of the time but as he strode out of his chamber he was struck by the smell of brewing coffee. On the landing, his valet was lighting the lamps. It had to be just before the Prince’s Bell.
“Lord Axel!” The valet paused in his duties. “You have risen early this morning.”
“There is much to do,” Axel answered, without slowing his pace. “I’ll take my coffee in my office.” He continued on his way, not bothering to exchange pleasantries with the other servants making their way about the mansion. He plunged into the sanctuary of his office and slammed the door shut.
The room was still dark. Axel pushed back the curtains. The door opened again and his valet followed him inside. He set a tray with a coffeepot and a neat stack of buttered toast down on the desk, then glanced guiltily at the Captain of the Guard. “I’m sorry that the room was not ready for you on entry.”
Axel met the valet’s eager-to-please expression with a frown. “You need to wake up,” he told him. “Take notice of what’s going on around you. The Prince is on his way across the borders and we are on the verge of a new war.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just get the fire lit,” Axel snapped. “We might as well be in Elias’s Ice Chamber.” He turned away and directed his attention to the rows of books before him. He soon found the one he was looking for and carried it back to the desk. It was, fittingly, a heavy book: two hand spans long and another two wide, bound in maroon leather, its vellum pages edged in gold. On its front cover were the embossed words: THE LAWS OF ARCHENFIELD.
Axel set the tome down on his desk and began turning its pages, quickly drawing comfort from the familiar titles: “The Priest,” “The Beekeeper,” “The Captain of the Guard.” The Book of Law was the touchstone that Axel turned to in times of uncertainty. Written long ago, it laid down the key responsibilities of each of the Twelve. Axel was unsure as to why it soothed him so to see their roles and duties laid out in ink on vellum; perhaps it was merely that in moments of stark uncertainty, it gave him some reassurance that there was definition and certainty, if one only took a breath and searched for it.
His hand rested on the first of the pages devoted to the duties of the Captain of the Guard. He had no need to concentrate on the all-too-familiar lines:
The Captain of the Guard shall advise the Prince on how best to make safe the borders in times of threat… The Captain of the Guard shall muster the necessary forces to act to defend the Princedom… The Captain of the Guard shall act as the Prince’s deputy, as required, and in consultation with the Edling…
Axel felt the calm he had sought. He was doing all that was asked of him; all that his predecessors had asked of him. He might be failing in his father’s eyes, but according to this book, he was adhering to every last word of law.
His fingers brushed through the chapters devoted to “The Groom,” “The Cook,” “The Executioner”… He knew that there was no section dedicated to the responsibilities of the Prince—it was as if the ruler was never to be questioned or held to account like the rest of them were.
He heard a snap and glanced up to see the flames leaping in the hearth. The valet had done his duties and slipped away, unnoticed. He poured himself a cup of coffee. The liquid was scalding hot, just as he liked it. Axel continued to turn the pages until he reached the last section. This final chapter addressed the workings of the Twelve as a whole. He stilled his hand on the title: “Extraordinary Measures to Be Employed in Extraordinary Circumstances.”
His eyes skimmed the page, then—with a swift flick of his finger—the next. And there it was, staring at him in black and white. His answer.
The Physician’s House, the Village of the Twelve, Archenfield
“What do you expect me to say?”
Asta stared disconsolately at her uncle across the breakfast table. “I thought—I hoped—you might be pleased about this.”
Elias smiled thinly. “Surely, Asta, as flattered as you may feel, even you must see what a ridiculous idea this is.”
Asta bristled. “I want you to know, Uncle Elias,” she said, “that I fully intend to continue as your apprentice in combination with my new duties.”
Elias shook his head. “I’m afraid that is further evidence of your naïveté. Under normal circumstances, a position on the Twelve is all consuming.” His smile disappeared. “With the threat of invasion hanging over us, things become still more intense.” He shook his head again. “You really have to wonder—what was Prince Jared thinking?”
Asta brought her cup down angrily on the table, sending a knife clattering to the floor. Her uncle flinched, but he deserved that. Did he really have to be unkind? Did he really not have any sense that she already felt out of her depth? “I did wonder how the Prince came to this decision,” she said, her voice wavering. “In fact, I asked him why he would even consider me for one of the most pivotal positions in court, when I have no relevant training.”
“A fair question,” Elias said. “And what did the young Prince answer?”
Asta glared at her uncle defiantly. “He told me that he wanted someone he could trust.”
“I see,” Elias shot back. “So you’re being offered this position because the Prince trusts you?”
“Yes. He does.”
“And what exactly is that trust based upon? Certainly not your background or your training, relevant abilities, your knowledge of the way this court works—”
“No,” Asta interrupted. “Upon none of those things. Prince Jared trusts me because during the past two weeks—during this cataclysmic time when his brother was assassinated and Axel bungled the murder investigation—I was there for him—”
“You were there for him?” Elias flushed puce. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I was someone he could talk to,” Asta said. “In spite of my lack of knowledge and experience of the court—indeed, perhaps because of my lack of those qualities—he felt able to talk to me… as an equal.”
Elias’s eyes widened. “Just listen to yourself! You think you are talking as an equal to the ruler of Archenfield?” He shook his head. “My, my, Asta, if your dear mother could hear you now.”
“She would be beside herself with pride,” Asta countered. “Just as proud as she was the day I set off from home to make a new life here with you. All Mother and Father have ever wanted for me was to know a good life, to have opportunities that they did not.”
Elias’s voice came sharp and low. “Well, just look at you scrabbling your way up the greasy pole. It’s quite a sight to behold.”
His words hung in the air like a noxious odor.
There was a knock at the door. For a moment, neither of them made a move to answer it. At last, Asta rose slowly to her feet. “You are bein
g grossly unfair,” she said.
There was a second knock, louder than the first.
“Answer the door, child,” he told her, his eyes lowered.
Hot tears welling in her eyes, Asta went to the door to find Nova waiting on the step. Her weight was propped on the cane she had taken to using during her recovery from her fall. It was made from a stag’s antlers, its wildness perfectly suited to the Falconer.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if you had…” Nova’s expression changed. “Asta, is everything all right? No, I can see that it isn’t. You look quite upset.”
Asta just about managed to nod. “Please come inside,” she said.
As Nova moved carefully over the threshold, she said, “I came, as agreed, to accompany Elias to the meeting of the Twelve. But, first, you must tell me why there are tears in your eyes.”
Before Asta could speak, Elias bustled into the hallway. Is he going to try to put a gloss over our spat in front of Nova? Asta wondered darkly.
“Good morning, Elias,” Nova said.
The Physician glared at the Falconer. “There’s really nothing good about it, from my perspective,” he told her.
No gloss, then.
Without further explanation, he brushed past them and made for the door to his surgery, Nova calling after him in surprise: “Elias, I thought we had agreed to walk up to the palace together? It’s a surprisingly clement morning—”
“Change of plan!” he called, already halfway through the surgery doorway. “Walk with Asta if you wish!”
“But Asta doesn’t attend…” Nova began, then broke off as the door to the surgery slammed shut. “Asta, I think you had better tell me what’s going on here. Clearly you and your uncle have had some kind of unpleasantness?”
Asta nodded, leading Nova through to the kitchen. “Last night,” she said, “when Prince Jared came to visit, he asked me to be the new Poet.”
“Asta!” Nova exclaimed, light dancing in her eyes. “What a bold and wonderful move on the Prince’s part.”
“You really think so?” Asta asked, fresh tears welling in her eyes.
“Yes,” Nova assured her. “But I’m not convinced that you do.”
“I was so happy about it. Surprised and anxious but happy beyond measure. To think that he would place such faith in me.”
“Faith you have swiftly earned,” Nova noted.
“I wish my uncle felt as happy for me as you do.”
“Oh, of course.” Nova’s eyes met Asta’s. “So, that’s why he’s stamping around? I’m sure you know as well as I that your uncle does not adjust well to change. Give him some time.” Pressing her cane into the floor, she leaned forward confidentially. “He’s just being overprotective. You know how deeply he cares for you.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Asta conceded. They could both hear the Physician, shuffling about in the adjacent room. “But, Nova, he has made it very clear to me that he thinks the Prince’s confidence in me is misplaced. That I have no aptitude or experience to bring to this role.”
Nova reached out her hand to blot Asta’s tears. “Clearly, Prince Jared feels differently.”
Asta allowed her head to drop. “Maybe Uncle Elias is right. Maybe the Prince’s faith in me is misplaced. And if my own uncle thinks that, how do you think the rest of the Twelve are going to react?”
“With open minds, I hope,” Nova said. “Some of the more traditionally minded—Vera, perhaps, or Jonas—may raise an eyebrow, but times are changing fast, Asta. If recent events have shown us nothing else, it is that we need to alter the way we do things around here.”
“You really think that?” Asta pressed her.
Nova nodded. “I do. And I want you to think about this, as you take your place at the Prince’s Table. The Prince himself is sixteen, the exact same age as you. But Morgan Booth, Emelie Sharp, Hal Harness and Lucas Curzon are all in their early twenties, Asta. There is almost no old guard left. That’s a myth that people who oppose change like to cling to. The Council of Twelve has always welcomed new blood and fresh thinking. In many ways, it is what keeps us so strong.”
Asta felt a fresh shiver as the Groom’s Bell began to chime.
“Come on, then,” Nova said, reaching out her hand. “It wouldn’t do to be late for your first meeting.”
Asta froze. “I’m really scared. Just imagine—what if I really can’t do this?”
Nova gave her hand a squeeze and looked deep into her eyes. “Just imagine,” she said. “What if you really can?”
TWELVE
The Fencing Court, the Black Palace, Paddenburg
LYDIA FELT THE BLOOD PULSING THROUGH HER veins as she readied herself for Nikolai’s next attack. She watched carefully through the mesh of her mask as he extended his saber toward the left side of her torso. Swift as a snake’s tongue, he lunged toward her and, holding her nerve, she moved into his thrust to parry. But, as she did so, her opponent paused and withdrew, directing his attack to her right side. It was the classic disengagement and she knew she ought to have anticipated it. She twisted her own saber in a circle just in time to catch the tip of Nikolai’s weapon and deflect it.
He drew back, nodding slightly in her direction. This was, she knew, as much praise as she was ever likely to elicit from him.
Nikolai had been in a merciless mood throughout their bout that morning and, true to form, did not allow her any time to recover from his last attack before lunging toward her again. She met his energy with her own, using her saber to push Nikolai’s aside and gain access to the target area. She executed the move perfectly and was rewarded by the pleasing sight of her saber pressed up against his chest.
This time, he did not launch another attack but instead lifted his hands in playful surrender. Their battle was over.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her mask and shaking free her hair.
“Thank you.” He removed his own mask and bowed low before her. “You certainly made me sweat today, Miss Wilde.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, grinning. As he unbuttoned his fencing jacket, she caught sight of his chest, still widening and narrowing rapidly as his breath caught up with his exertions. His skin was slick with sweat. As she walked closer she caught his scent. Nikolai exuded a different kind of sweat than Henning did; it was clean and pure, like the air in the mountains.
“You have proved a great help to me,” she said. “These daily bouts with you have made me a better fighter than I ever thought I could be.”
He gave a small shake of his head. “You came to Paddenburg as a fighter, Miss Wilde. I merely trained the saber not to tremble with fear at being in your hand.” He held her gaze, then smiled. “Well, I for one seem to have built up a sweat from our exertions. We should go and wash.”
She nodded and followed Nikolai out of the fencing court and into the corridor circling back to the Black Palace’s main entrance but, as they moved farther from the court, her exhilaration began to ebb away, and her head once again became crowded with the dark thoughts that had magically receded while she was stalking Nikolai through the mesh of her fencing mask. She thought of Prince Leopold slumbering above, behind the gauze curtains connecting each of his golden bedposts. She thought of Henning and Ven riding for the border in their golden armor. Each one of them had a job to do.
The hour of judgment was close now. Whatever games she might play with her mind to try to distract herself, there was no running away from that cold fact.
She had barely set foot on the grand stairway when she heard the woman’s cry. “Lord Nikolai, my lady! Thank heavens! I was looking all over…!”
It was Magda, one of the Black Palace’s oldest servants, coming down the stairs from the upper gallery. The wrinkled skin of her face and neck was contorted, as if she was having trouble breathing.
“Whatever is the matter, Magda?”
“The Prince, my lady.” Lydia tensed, preparing herself for the worst. The old woman took a gulp of air before continuing. “He
is asking for his sons!”
Nikolai turned and glanced over his shoulder at Lydia. His eyes were dark, alive with purpose.
Lydia felt a fluttering in her chest and her heart rate accelerated again. She had a fresh vision of Henning and Ven riding toward the border. She remembered the particular way Henning had squeezed her hand during dinner. She knew with a cold certainty that she had to take control here.
“Thank you, Magda,” she said. “Come, Nikolai. Let us go to greet the Prince.”
As Magda tottered down the stairs and across the marble floor of the hallway, Nikolai placed a steadying hand on Lydia’s shoulder. She realized she was trembling.
“There is nothing to be frightened of, Lydia,” he said. “There is no task that awaits you now that you are not capable of tackling. Remember this.”
“Yes,” she said, gathering herself. “I know you are right. I will stop by my chamber to retrieve the decree.”
“Very good.” Nikolai nodded. “And bring a pen and ink,” he added. “Just in case the inkwell on old Leopold’s desk has run dry. We may get only one chance at this.”
As Lydia walked toward the Prince’s bed, each of its four posts mounted by a carved golden eagle, motes of dust danced before her eyes. The air in this room was always stifling, and she was aware of a noxious odor—a mixture of various bodily smells and something else—perhaps one of the strange medicaments or dead animals delivered to Leopold by the latest of Ven’s “miracle workers.”
The gauze curtain on one side of the bed had been drawn back. Leopold was sitting up, propped on a pile of pillows. His eyes were fixed on the window, with its clear view of the palace gardens and his beloved maze. As Lydia drew closer, he gave a start. “I thought you were an angel at first, dressed all in white, come to lead me away,” he said hoarsely. “But no, I see it is fragrant Lydia.”