Something Long-Term
“Your father?” Sorrow stared at the girl. She’d expected Vespus to be the answer to the question. But she hadn’t expected this. “Vespus is your father? Rasmus is your brother?”
Xalys raised her eyebrows. “Half-brother. Lord Corrigan married Rasmus’s mother when I was six. He was never married to my mother.”
Sorrow was stunned, momentarily forgetting why they were there as she stared at the Rhyllian woman before her, trying to find Rasmus, or Vespus, in her features. Rasmus had no idea this woman existed; he’d often wished for a brother or sister, despite Sorrow’s dark warnings that they could be more trouble than they were worth.
“So Lord Vespus commissioned the paintings?” Luvian’s tone was a nudge, warning Sorrow to pay attention, and she shook off her shock and focused on what Xalys was saying.
“Yes. As a gift for your father, from the people of Rhylla.” Xalys looked at Sorrow. “To express our condolences for what happened at the bridge. You didn’t know that?”
“The records of who painted it were lost,” Sorrow said. “We were curious about who did the work, year after year. And how the tradition began. It was pure luck to find you here. We thought we’d have more of a search on our hands.”
“They’re really something,” Luvian added. “The pictures. It must have been challenging to imagine him.”
“For the first one we worked from a Rhannish painting. When they’re that little, they don’t change very much.”
“What about as he got older?” Sorrow asked, following Luvian’s lead.
“A combination of guesswork and pictures of the chancellor and his wife. And a model Lord Vespus brought.”
Sorrow froze. “A model? A Rhannish one?” To her ears she sounded too curious; she could hear the desperation in her voice, and she held her breath, waiting to see if Xalys noticed.
But it seemed not, as the Rhyllian replied, “I don’t know. I was never allowed to see him; Mama always sent me away when they came. He came for a few years. Then he stopped, and Vespus told my mother what he wanted changed.”
Luvian spoke before Sorrow could. “Such as?”
“Nothing especially. Comments on the length of his hair, the size of his lips, the tilt of his nose. It’s hard, sometimes, to predict how a child will look, especially through their teens. Vespus said the very same about Rasmus – that he’d changed into a boy he didn’t think he’d recognize. He said he didn’t want that for your father.”
Sorrow turned to Luvian, who met her gaze with his own bright eyes.
“Did he?” Luvian murmured. “How interesting. I wonder where the model is now?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Lord Vespus probably could.”
“We’ll be sure to ask when we see him at the Naming,” Luvian said.
Sorrow nodded, her whole body buzzing with this new knowledge. There had been a model. Someone had sat for the paintings. Someone real. And they’d stopped going after three years… So the model would have been around seven. Young enough, perhaps, to not remember doing it. Sorrow couldn’t remember anything specific from her seventh year; it was only after Rasmus had arrived that she had real memories of her childhood… So the Mael she knew might have been the model… And if he’d stopped going, was it because Vespus didn’t want him to remember doing it?
Even if the model wasn’t Mael, but some other child, Xalys had practically proven Vespus had been planning this for years. Why else would he do it? Sorrow fought back a grin at this realization. Finally, they had something.
“Does he look like her work?” Xalys asked Sorrow, interrupting her thoughts. “Mael, the real one. Were we close?”
“He’s identical,” Sorrow said, unable to keep her glee from her voice. “It’s incredible.”
Luvian rose to his feet then. “Well, that’s cleared that puzzle up. Now we know who our mysterious benefactor is, and the gifted artist. Thank you for your time.” He offered Sorrow a hand, hauling her up with surprising strength as Xalys gracefully unfolded her limbs and stood too.
“Can you find the way out?” Xalys asked.
“Not a chance,” Luvian replied cheerfully, and the Rhyllian girl smiled.
For the first time, Sorrow recognized Rasmus in her face, and her stomach gave a gentle flip in response.
Xalys led them back along the winding passageways, until once again they were standing in the entrance hall. Two other Rhyllians were descending the spiral stairs, and they looked coolly at Sorrow and Luvian but said nothing as they passed them, disappearing into the warren of rooms and studios beyond.
“Thank you.” Sorrow echoed Luvian’s words as Xalys pulled open the main door to the street.
“Enjoy the Naming,” Xalys said.
“We will.”
“Oh, and if you’re looking for somewhere to eat tonight, there is a place on the other side of the square, on Crown Street, called Anwyn’s. It sells kishkies; they’re a pastry peculiar to Ceridog. You should try them while you’re here.”
“Thanks again,” Sorrow said. “I mean, you’re good to us!”
Xalys closed the door then, seemingly deciding the goodbye was over.
“To the inn?” Luvian asked, and Sorrow nodded, trying to contain her happiness.
They remained silent as they retraced their steps back through the bustling square to the inn, collecting a bored-looking Dain on the way. They told the bodyguard they were going to rest before dinner, and left her outside the floor once more. Sorrow opened her door, counted to three, then closed it loudly, before sliding into Luvian’s room and silently latching it shut.
He was already sitting at his desk, coat sleeves rolled up, a pen in his hand and a frown at his brow. She sat on his bed and watched as he began to go through his ever-present list of children, crossing things out before writing something else, underlining that and drawing arrows between words. There was a breeze dancing through the open window, and he tutted at it, as though that might make it stop, trying to pin the sheets down and write at the same time. She wanted to ask why he was working on the list now, why then of all times, but something in his posture made her wait until he’d put his pen down and sat back.
“Is now really the time?”
Luvian jumped, as though he’d forgotten, or not realized, that she was there. “What?” He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up like the crest of a bird.
Sorrow nodded towards the papers. “To do that?”
He gave her a long, unreadable look before replying. “There were over fifteen thousand children reported missing or presumed dead during the seven years I’m looking at.”
“Fifteen thousand?” Sorrow was shaken.
“Relatively it’s a small amount, especially for a country with a population of almost twenty million people. But still, a lot,” he added hastily, when Sorrow gaped at him. “So whenever I have time to do this, it’s time to do it. Besides –” he paused, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his tunic “– it helps me focus. It’s something solid.”
“So is what we learned from Xalys,” Sorrow said.
Luvian paused, and put his glasses back on. “Oh, that’s something,” he said, confirming what Sorrow had realized earlier.
“So…” Sorrow didn’t understand why he wasn’t as pleased as she with what Xalys had told them.
“We still have no proof that Mael is an imposter. All we know for certain is that Vespus commissioned the portraits, and, in the early days, had someone model for them. We don’t know who the model was, Xalys never saw him. He might not even have been Rhannish – it could have been Rasmus, did you think of that? Perhaps the reason Xalys had to stay away was so she didn’t meet her brother.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Sorrow. It’s confirmed our suspicions, and raised a lot more questions. That’s all.”
A lump formed in Sorrow’s throat and she swallowed, forcing it down to say, “So finding the artist was pointless, despite everything she said.”
Luvian wrinkled his nose. “It depends on what the point is. If it was finally proving Mael is an imposter, yes, it was pointless. But what it proves is that Vespus has been behind the portraits from the beginning. He ordered them five years before he became the ambassador. And he clearly wanted it to remain a secret. Why?”
“I don’t know. Because he’s an evil puppet master who likes to toy with people?”
“Exactly,” Luvian said, to her surprise. She was being facetious. “A puppet master, pulling the strings. So we need to know what strings he holds. Understanding that will lead us back to Mael, or whoever he is. We know Vespus is the queen’s half-brother, and that he owns an Alvus tree farm in the north of Rhylla. That he was the ambassador in Rhannon for seven years—”
“Until he was banished for trying to manipulate my father into granting him land in Rhannon,” Sorrow added. “He first went after it during the war, trying to convince his half-sister to not sign the treaty unless the North Marches was granted to him. Charon said it was something to do with the conditions in the north of Rhannon, and the south of Rhylla being the best place for Alvus to grow. He needs the land there for it.”
“But Melisia wouldn’t give it to him. Either in Rhylla, or Rhannon. That sounds like Melisia doesn’t care if her brother’s business fails.”
“I suppose.”
“Which means she doesn’t support it, for whatever reason.” Luvian twisted round and made another note on his papers. “So he tried to prolong the war, and was denied. Next, he asked his sister for the ambassador’s job, and started working on Harun, who eventually sent him away because of it.”
“And in the meantime, he’d already started grooming a boy to be Mael, and Rhannon to accept him through the portraits, as another backup,” Sorrow said.
Luvian nodded, then frowned. “This is a huge amount of effort to go to just to get some land to grow trees on. He’s a lord – half-brother to a queen.”
“Maybe that’s it. It’s pride. Something only he can do, with his ability. Maybe he wants to be seen as special, or worthy in his own right. The only person in the world who can grow Alvus trees?”
Luvian shook his head. “It seems a remarkably unambitious goal for someone like Vespus. Get some land, be a great farmer… And like I said, so much work. Eighteen years of scheming and planning.”
“Charon said it wouldn’t just be land. It would be all of Rhannon. If he put a puppet ruler in charge, he could rule Rhannon through them, as his sister rules Rhylla,” Sorrow finished for him. “Maybe that’s his plan. He wants to play at being king, make himself Melisia’s equal.”
“Maybe,” Luvian said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
Sorrow was suddenly exhausted, too many thoughts in her mind. She lay back on Luvian’s bed, and sighed. She hadn’t expected it to be easy to unravel the mystery of Mael, but all their leads so far – Corius the tailor, long dead; the mysterious painter – had led to nothing but more doubts. There was no sign of the woman who’d supposedly raised Mael. The only solid thing they had was Vespus being in the background, pulling the strings, weaving his web. That was a problem, and one she planned on dealing with.
But still, she wanted, needed, to know whether or not the boy was a fake. She had to know one way or the other. She’d been on the bridge, seen the Archior, and she knew logically he couldn’t be, but as long as there was the tiniest doubt in her mind, she’d never rest.
All those times he’d smiled at her, defended her. He’d tried to make Harun apologize to her. He’d offered to sacrifice himself to the Sons of Rhannon so she could get away.
He believed he was her brother. He wanted to be.
And in the darkest, most secret part of her heart, buried so deeply she could barely acknowledge it, she realized she no longer hated the idea of it.
Even though she knew it was impossible, even though he was trying to take her job, and her home, and Rhannon from her…
Because if he was her brother, then she wasn’t alone.
But she couldn’t let him in until she knew for sure.
She couldn’t do anything until she knew for sure. So she had to find out who he really was.
“What’s the plan, then?” she asked.
“Focus on ‘election stuff’.”
Sorrow heard the smile in his voice and reached for one of his pillows, throwing it at him.
“Concentrate on wooing everyone at the Naming, and then channel that into efforts in Rhannon.” The pillow landed back beside her head, and Sorrow tucked it beneath her.
“And what will you be doing?”
“I will be using my enormous brain and intellect to cope with being your advisor and continuing to investigate Vespus, and Mael.” He paused, and then the bed dipped as he sat beside her. She turned to look at him.
“But I don’t want you to get bogged down in that obsession and sabotage your own campaign. Especially now you have the Sons of Rhannon to take on that duty.” He smiled at her. “If we can somehow prove he’s an imposter, then the election is undoubtedly sewn up. But, even if we can’t prove it, I think you can win anyway. I know you can. So your job is to focus on that.”
Sorrow reached for his hand and squeezed. “You’re a good advisor. A good friend. I’m so glad to know you,” she said as she released him.
Luvian stiffened, closing his eyes, and Sorrow wondered if she’d upset him. “Of course you are, who wouldn’t be?” he said finally, opening his eyes and sitting up. “Let’s go and find these kishkies.”
They took Dain with them to the restaurant Xalys had recommended, asking for a table for three. She seemed confused to be included, and Sorrow couldn’t blame her, given the way she’d treated her so far. Sorrow was ashamed of her behaviour, and so she made an effort to talk to her while they waited for their food.
“Where are you from?” Sorrow asked.
“The East Marches,” Dain replied.
Sorrow waited to see if she’d add anything else, but when it became apparent she had no plans to, she asked, “What made you choose to join the Decorum Ward?”
“It’s a job,” she said in her soft-as-velvet voice. “Papa is dead, Mam’s not up to much and I’m the eldest of five. We needed money, and it pays. Besides, there aren’t a lot of jobs out there and I’m… Well, I’m big. It made advancing through the ranks a lot easier. And the higher you go, the more money there is, so…” She trailed off, head lowering a fraction, and Sorrow’s heart twisted in sympathy for her.
She knew what it was to have few – or no – choices about the path your life took. Dain was doing what she had to, for herself and her family, and that was something Sorrow had come to understand. And if Dain felt that way, perhaps others in the Decorum Ward did too. Perhaps they needed a chance somewhere else.
“Do you like it?” Sorrow’s voice was soft.
Dain stared at her, and Luvian turned to her too.
“I don’t like throwing my weight around,” Dain said, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t like bullies. Or cowards. The two tend to go hand in hand. I don’t want to become one.”
Sorrow understood then why Dain had stood up for her at the bridge.
She smiled at her guard. “A lot of things are going to change when I win the election,” she said as their food arrived. “For everyone. For you, if you want. I’ll probably need a constant bodyguard, someone I employ.”
Dain nodded, her eyes lowered, and Sorrow reached for one of the kishkies.
The pastries were nice, lightly spiced meat inside a flaky shell, dusted with icing sugar. The combination of flavours and textures was strange but incredibly tasty, and the owners were delighted to have Rhannish guests. They’d brought out more varieties than the table ordered, and plied them with honey wine. Like all Rhyllians they spoke Rhannish, and Sorrow leant over to Luvian and told him that when she was chancellor she wanted to make learning Rhyllian available to everyone.
“All the languages,” she’d said, her voice slurring gently. “All of them. If I had an ability like the Rhyllians, it’s what I’d want. Imagine it.” She tried to say something in Rhyllian, mangling the phrase and causing the Rhyllians at the table next to theirs to look disgusted.
“That’s enough wine for you.” Luvian looked a little worse for wear himself. For once he’d taken off his frock coat and was sitting in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, revealing surprisingly toned forearms. He tried to take her glass from her, but she slapped his hand away, and drained the contents.
“That’s enough wine for me,” she said as she put the glass down a little harder than she’d meant to. “Come on, we have an early start.”
It was the wine that made Sorrow do it.
They were walking back, chattering loudly, when Sorrow saw the shop. The sign on the door said open, and so she paused, bending down, pretending to adjust the buckle on her shoe.
“Are you going to be ill?” Luvian turned and asked.
“No, my feet hurt. New shoes.”
“Do you need me to carry you?” He looked serious.
“No, I’d snap you like a sapling. I’ll sit down for a minute. You go on, Dain can walk with me.”
Luvian shrugged and began to head to the inn, pausing once to look back at her. She made a pantomime of grimacing and rubbing her heel, watching through her hair until he’d turned a corner and was out of sight. Then, looking at Dain, she pressed a finger to her lips and beckoned her towards the shop.
When they arrived at the inn, Luvian was standing at the bar, having an animated conversation with the barkeep, and he turned to wave Sorrow over.
She pointed at her shoes, faking a limp, and then disappeared up the stairs to the corridor the Rhannish party had hired for themselves, Dain guarding the corridor this time not from danger but from her advisor, while she slipped into Luvian’s room and left a parcel on the bed, smiling to herself.
She’d bought him a set of clay paints, three brushes, and a small sketch pad. She didn’t know why, only that she’d wanted him to have them, because once he’d wanted to be an artist and maybe it wasn’t too late. She wanted to give him something to thank him. Something to give him the hope he’d given her. The same kind of friendship. For the first time since she’d lost Rasmus, life felt as though it had something worth fighting for in it again that was more than revenge. Something long-term.