The examination of orphans and Gatherers would take place at the front of the stage. Only those Housefolk standing near would hear the formal exchanges, and the rest would follow the progress by signal flags, musical cues, and the rapid ripples of gossip.
This was all according to tradition. But now the three observers could see what made this year’s ceremony unusual.
From a doorway on one side of the courtyard, ascending from passages below ground, fourteen men and women emerged, proceeding in bright sky blue robes fringed with gold. Masks of similar blue concealed their faces, representing their roles as a unified force of law and guidance for Cal-marcus’s house.
“I had better learn the names of all the magistrates,” sighed Stricia.
These were followed by a company of tall, pale men and women in black uniforms and towering green headdresses.
“Bel Amican ambassadors.” Stricia scowled. “Ugh. They look like insects. I cannot tolerate Bel Amicans. They’re always looking down on people.”
The magistrates and ambassadors walked to the platform through the crowd, moving in measured steps along a path that radiated from the stage and ascending the stairs on the left side.
They crossed the stage, pausing frequently before what appeared to be an array of kings and queens. Like ghosts undecided about this world or oblivion, wooden figures wearing robes and crowns stood posed to appear contemplative and watchful.
“What the kings and queens used to wear, back before the Proclamation…” Stricia did not bother to see if Kar-balter was impressed. “Someday I’m going to look through all the royal closets, see all the things they wore. The jewelry, the capes, the gowns.”
“I like to imagine the food that was on their table,” said Em-emyt.
“There he is! King Cal-marcus!” Stricia clasped her hands together.
Ascending from the back of the stage, Cal-marcus appeared among these standing tributes. He passed between the likenesses of his mother and father, their firstborn and thus the rightful heir, and took his place upon the throne, which brought a dutiful cheer from the Housefolk. The cheer would have been more vigorous, Stricia thought, had they not already received their honor stitches. What if the masses cheered for her more loudly than they did the king? It could trouble his temper.
As the musicians and singers raised their voices in bolder tones, Stricia wondered if they were trying to mask the halfhearted ovation.
“How much he expects them to forget,” Em-emyt muttered, turning his attention from Cal-marcus to gaze upon the king’s likeness that towered behind the musicians, a wooden sculpture carved from one enormous tree. Its eyes were level with the watchtower’s parapet. The statue’s right hand was raised, while the other hand clutched a scroll of laws. Its eyes were polished as smooth as eggshells. The lack of pupils, while a traditional style in Abascar art, had always bothered Stricia. It made the figure appear to be sleepwalking. Or blind.
The king’s likeness dominated the left side of the platform. But the statue on the right had been covered with an elaborate drape of colors, a single rippling veil, as though the hues that had been taken from the Housefolk had been unraveled and woven into a single banner.
In spite of the pageantry, Kar-balter was still pointing to the progress of the ale boy and his tray of drinks. “Cal-marcus must be serving something from his best wine cellars. Probably some of the king’s favorite drink there too.” He sighed. “I’d serve a winter post here if I could just get me some of that wine.”
Stricia thought for a moment, then gasped. “The bet!” She turned and seized Kar-balter’s arm. “I bet that wicked girl Dynei that I would taste hajka before there was a crown upon my head.”
“You’re rather ambitious, aren’t you?” Kar-balter squirmed, and Stricia could see that her charms were doing their work.
“Well, there’s no law against it and no penalty for asking.”
“No penalty but the king’s temper if we’re caught sipping a drink prepared for him. And it’s no secret that hajka will punish the drinker with a judgment all its own. Aren’t you a little young to be chasing dangers like that?”
“Oh, it’s only a crime if I drink the stuff. I just want to taste it. Surely you can help me, watchman.”
“How’re you gonna prove you’ve tasted it?” croaked Em-emyt.
“If you can get it,” Stricia continued, her voice losing its humor, “I will meet you at the gate after the Rites, and I’ll bring a cup. Then Dynei can watch me take a sip. It’ll be a barrel of laughs if we pull it off.”
Kar-balter’s smile faded. “My lady, perhaps we should wait for another occasion. It’s going to be tough to get hold of anything served on the platform, especially once the ceremony begins. Watchmen can’t be drinkers, so I’d best keep my hands clean. There are guards all over the courtyard.”
“Watchman, I’m going to be queen. And as queen, I’ll have the opportunity to grant favors to those who make extra efforts to please me. I need to know those I can count on to carry out orders quietly, even difficult assignments.”
Color drained from Kar-balter’s face.
“I do not yet have a crown. But should you happen to find a way to help me win this bet, I promise I will remember you.”
“My lady, I…”
Playfully, she jumped at him, grabbed the hilt of the dagger strapped to his leg, and unsheathed it, just the way she often did when her father came home from a long day in the wild. He cried out in protest as she stepped away and the blade came free.
She had only meant to tease him. She had not anticipated that the dagger would have only half a blade. Nor could she have guessed that wine would spill from the open sheath.
She stood there, blinking in astonishment, while he knelt to wipe the red splash from his leg. “My lady, forgive me!”
Em-emyt was laughing now, holding his sides, until his laugh became a coughing fit. “You see, my lady,” he chortled, “Kar-balter is a dangerous watchman. Nobody dares threaten this palace for fear he’ll throw wine at them!”
“You’d best keep your hands clean, huh?” Stricia took a deep breath. She extended the half dagger back to Kar-balter, but she held it fast when he reached to take it from her.
“Please,” he said, his voice trembling. “Don’t mention this. The nights up here can be so long. I get thirsty.”
“You smuggle wine to the watchtower without anyone the wiser,” she said in a singsong way. “Surely you can wring some drops of hajka from a clumsy errand boy.” She released the dagger.
“My lady.” He dropped to his knees. “I’m just a tower watchman. I have no permission to approach the platform. And I—”
“You hear those horns?” Stricia ran to the wall again and looked down. “My father and mother are approaching. I’m supposed to be with them.”
With that, she was through the opening in the tower floor and descending as fast as she could run, fighting her way free of her father’s raincloak and lifting the skirts of her ceremonial dress to keep from stumbling. The hour had come when Abascar would look on her with new appreciation, and she would at last begin to enjoy all she had worked to receive.
Taking up the melody, two women drew a long arcbow across the rope-thick cords of the lynfr, the chief instrument of the event. Their solemn refrain quieted the crowd.
Housefolk drank in this view of painted spires and domes, shielding their eyes against the silver light that burnt through the sky’s grey veils. Young men crossed their arms and strove to distract young women. Parents bent to scold talkative children. One toddler wailed, having stumbled, fresh blood on his knees, and his father, embarrassed, wiped it away. The congregated household pressed in close along the paths, while the celebrated families proceeded toward their reserved, slightly raised ground.
Cheers rose in scattered waves as army regiments entered in rhythmic pace behind the families, hands on hilts, jaws set.
There had been rumors. Whispers of revolt.
It would never
happen, of course. No dissenter could muster enough strength and support to become a serious threat. They were sure of this. But still, under Ark-robin’s strict orders, the soldiers were watchful.
The drummers provided an officious march for the officers as they took their posts about the yard. Vawns with jewel-studded saddles, carrying two riders each, were carefully guided, small eyes as expressionless as black coins. The children begged for rides, but the officers refused and sent them away with their heads full of sword fights. Some wanted to know Prince Cal-raven’s whereabouts. He had been promoted from his rank as a troop leader to the station of house defender, second only to Ark-robin. The soldiers reminded them that the prince was away on a mission to protect Abascar’s livestock, hunting a dangerous fangbear.
The families settled into a space between two massive stone fountains. These new marvels, currently dry, would one day spring to life as giant pumps beneath the surface blasted water into the air, where it would fall into bowls on the corners of the platform. These were certain to impress the Bel Amican ambassadors and set them to imagining the future when a river would course beneath this house. Smug as thieves, Abascar’s Housefolk would drink, bathe, and water their gardens, never needing to venture forth from the walls again.
Some even said the water would bring Abascar’s Spring.
As Ark-robin’s family entered, a murmur rose, for here was Cal-marcus’s chief strategist and captain of the guard. The captain’s uniform jingled with medals. He waved his left hand to greet the people and kept his other hand concealed in a fold of his shirt. Two fingers, the tale was told, had been ripped off by the jaws of a beastman. Middle-aged women, struck dumb at the sight of him, yearned to meet his gaze, just as young ladies had when he was a new soldier.
His wife, Say-ressa, was in appearance his equal. Like him she was tall, smooth skinned, decorated in a seamless redbrown robe, as red as brown could be without crossing the forbidden line of Queen Jaralaine’s proclamation. And while she kept her hands calmly folded, her elegant robes proclaimed her a formidable figure, the most regal and influential woman in the house, still shapely enough to distract the young men, if only for a moment, from her daughter.
To the eye, Stricia was the perfect balance of her parents, inheriting her mother’s delicate complexion and grace, her father’s piercing gaze and confidence. The observers hushed as Stricia waved, a gleaming circle around her wrist—the bracelet of King Cal-marcus’s favor. This was the first public recognition of the royal choosing. The moment hung in the air as if the first firework of a royal festival had been launched. As the revelation swept through the congregation, they exploded into hurrahs. Even the musicians faltered, glancing up from their instruments to investigate the ruckus.
Permitted at last to discuss what they had already suspected, the Housefolk ventured their guesses as to the date of the wedding. Many nodded their approval that the king should bestow such an honor on Ark-robin’s family.
Meanwhile, Stricia reached down to accept wildflowers from a young girl who rode atop her father’s shoulders.
“She’s come just to see you,” the man shouted through the din. “You’re the glory of our house. If only all our daughters could grow to be like you.”
The captain’s daughter pressed her face into the flowers. And when she emerged smiling, tears of gratitude were streaming down her face.
13
CUP, DAGGER, AND MASK
A ll the hysterical laudation for Ark-robin and his daughter made the ale boy want to smash his tray of wine-filled goblets. But he had watched the harvesters’ labor, and he had seen the vintners perform their subtle arts. His respect gave him restraint; he bound up his bother and locked it away.
“Shoutin’ and cheerin’ for figments of your own imaginations,” he said to no one who would listen.
While the procession pulled the crowd’s attention, no one bothered to notice him. He was grateful for the invisibility, but it left him to shove and dodge, duck and scramble. Winding his way through their oblivious ovation, he shouted, “Delivery for the king!”
Nothing about Ark-robin’s entrance or the celebration of Stricia’s future inspired him. He wanted to scold anyone who planted hope in such shallow soil. The girl’s arrogant laughter that had disturbed Deep Lake not so long ago seemed to go on echoing, a bad dream he could not shake. He could only imagine what she would become once she wore a crown.
Such a future only ensured that the ale boy would continue to cross Ark-robin’s path. The memory of the captain berating Auralia still stung. While royalty, guards, soldiers, and magistrates seemed content to count the ale boy as a nuisance, a necessity, a paltry puff of dust, he could not imagine a day without the captain studying his steps. Try though he might during the noisy Underkeep night, curled beneath blankets made of reedweave, the boy still could not unearth an answer to solve this persistent puzzle.
A flask of the king’s drink strapped to his belt, the ale boy retreated to the east wall of the courtyard. Obsidia Dram had told him Captain Ark-robin would give a signal when the king was thirsty. The boy would respond, proceeding to the stage to fill King Cal-marcus’s cup and set goblets of wine on the pedestals alongside the assembled guests.
The ale boy would have preferred to spend the ceremony nearer to the gate, to see the Gatherers come in and the orphans in step just behind.
Would Auralia be among them?
Unable to sleep the night before, he imagined a hundred scenarios regarding Auralia’s fate. She had purged her lakeside caves of their colors and slipped away from Abascar. Or she had stumbled into a duty officer’s snare or crossed a summoner’s path. That beastman who had crept into her caves—he might have eaten her alive. Perhaps she had gone to House Bel Amica or fled southward to House Jenta.
Even on tiptoes he could not distinguish one small figure from another as the orphans moved along the west side of the yard. Toughweed flutes accompanied their progress with a playful melody, this after a comical sawing of dissonant fiddles had mocked the stumbling Gatherers. Laughter scattered through the crowd. Though the potential for a pardon gave the Rites their fame and focus, Gatherers were still convicted criminals serving out their sentences, and the king was not about to object should people find amusement in their humble approach.
He watched Ark-robin’s family settle on cushions in a prestigious place near the magistrates. Ark-robin bowed to his beloved Say-ressa, to Stricia next, to the gallery of magistrates, and the row of uncomfortable ambassadors. Then, beside the king’s grand chair, the captain dropped to one knee and placed a golden-gloved hand on the hilt of his broadsword. There he would remain, a royal guard dog.
To a flourish of trumpets, officers escorted the first Gatherer into the torch-framed Ring of Decision.
In the shadow of the statue bearing his likeness, King Cal-marcus sat in his high-backed chair, elevated above the other guests. Nodding, he might have been numbering the subjects who would march up the redgold carpet to stand, make their plea, and await his judgment.
The Rites had become an annual festival of taunting and gambling. As Gatherers fought to maintain their composure, the magistrates sought to knock them off balance with unexpected questions. Some of these crooks reentered the house with a notion to take vengeance for the trouble they endured outside. The magistrates saw it as their duty to tighten the vise until they were satisfied (and even delighted). As a gesture of trust, they might even permit the Bel Amicans to interject a challenge.
Meanwhile, the Housefolk would bet stitches, rations, and favors on each decision.
And so it began. The first Gatherer, a woman in a bonnet and humble brown cloak, took her place in the circle, carrying a heavy clay bowl draped with a cloth.
This year it was Cal-marcus’s chief advisor, Aug-anstern, who stood at the front point of the platform and cast the first sharp inquiries. The Gatherer unveiled her appeal—an array of rare flowers cultivated in the wild.
While the jury murmured, the cap
tain clapped his gloves together, and the ale boy sprang forward as if prodded with a pitchfork. Careful to hold the goblet tray steady on one raised hand, he reached down with the other to ensure the flask of hajka was securely strapped to his belt, and then he moved along the edge of the crowd to the eastern processional ramp.
Hajka was the king’s choice draught, and the ale boy had watched it carried up to the royal quarters in greater volume as the years went by, bringing the reign of Prince Cal-raven ever closer. Hajka first stung the eyes as the cup was raised, then burnt the tongue, scoured the throat, set fire to the belly, and rushed into the mind, raining fiery light. Surely it could bring no health to the body or the mind. The ale boy had sipped it once by accident, mistaking it for water. While he wept and shouted that Abascar was on fire, Obsidia held him and sighed.
The boy set down the tray, unclasped the hajka flask, and reached up to the king’s chair, where his fingers closed around the goblet’s narrow stem. He lifted it with effort—it had been carved from a heavy block of blacklode—and held it shakily while filling it with the colorless drink.
Ark-robin gave him an almost imperceptible nod of approval. But the routine dismissal did not come. The captain was distracted by a messenger at the edge of the platform.
The messenger’s words carved creases across Ark-robin’s forehead. He called for Aug-anstern, who turned the questioning over to the magistrates and joined the hushed consideration. The king dismissed the messenger, but only the messenger. The ale boy waited, worried he had been forgotten.