Rhylla
As a child, Sorrow had spent hours hiding in some corner of the palace with Rasmus, asking questions about Rhylla, building it in her mind. She’d filed every single word and description away: where the castle was, the roads to get there, where his family’s estate was, where the meeting places were. She’d memorized the colours, the scents, the flavours, until his memories of his home were almost her own.
She’d never imagined her first time crossing the border would be like this: her head bowed, heart beating a frantic tattoo against her ribs, hysteria scratching at the edges of her mind like a monster, demanding to be let in, as she fled a crowd that was in serious danger of becoming a mob. The Rhyllians had followed Vespus after he’d left, and she didn’t know where they were now; the road was empty of everyone, save her, Charon, Rasmus, Lincel, and the guard Vespus had promised to leave by the bridge. She could hear the Archior rushing somewhere to her right, drowning out the noise from the people, but she saw only the ground as they moved swiftly towards the place Vespus had chosen for their meeting.
In the end, she’d left a pale but determined Irris and the rest of the Jedenvat in charge of keeping the Decorum Ward in order and making sure the crowd were cleared.
“And send a bird to my father’s valet to bring him to the Summer Palace,” Sorrow said. “The Jedenvat and you need to go there too, as soon as it’s safe.”
“The Summer Palace?” Irris was confused.
“We can’t go to Istevar. Word would spread along the way, and the crowds would be too much, we’d never get there. Besides, the Winter Palace isn’t exactly ready for guests.”
Irris nodded grimly.
“Tell the steward they’re to travel in a plain carriage and keep the curtains drawn. They’re not to speak to anyone and no one must know who’s inside. I want to be the one to tell my father.”
“What about guards with you?”
“I don’t want any.”
“Sorrow—”
“We’ll be fine,” Sorrow said firmly, nodding to the crowd down in Rhannon. “It’s not the Rhyllian side of the bridge I’m worried about. You need all of them here. Trust me, Rasmus will be there.”
She turned to go, but Irris gripped her wrist.
“Is it… It’s not him, is it?” Irris stared at Sorrow. “It can’t be.”
Sorrow was numb. She didn’t know if he was the lost boy. Her thoughts from the night before came back to haunt her; she’d wished he was alive. That he’d stood where she stood, to take her place.
It was as though her wish had brought him back, at the exact moment she needed him. And the thought sent a chill down her spine that she didn’t understand. All she knew was that now she wished she could undo the thought, have never had it.
The only practical thing she could think of was getting him away from the bridge, away from the people.
Sorrow stared at her friend. “I expect we’ll find out,” she said blankly.
They hugged briefly, and Sorrow left her, descending the bridge into Rhylla with Charon’s wheeled chair on her back, Charon himself being carried by Rasmus. Sorrow didn’t know which of them looked more uncomfortable with the arrangement. Lincel followed behind, appearing to Sorrow as though she wished she were anywhere else.
To Sorrow’s surprise, Vespus really had waited for her, standing with the boy and the two Rhyllians who’d first been with him on the bridge, at the beginning of a track that led away from the main road.
“Did you think we’d go back on our word, Lord Vespus?” Sorrow spoke slowly, careful to keep the anxiety from her voice.
“Of course not. I told you we’d wait. We didn’t want you to miss the track and follow a wrong path.”
“How considerate of you.”
Vespus gave a swift, shallow bow and took Mael by the elbow once more, guiding him down the track, the two dark-skinned Rhyllians fanned out behind them in a way that suggested to Sorrow they were Vespus’s guard.
This close to the border there was no difference in the landscapes of Rhylla and Rhannon; the plants were the same, the temperature was the same. So instead of looking around, Sorrow kept her eyes fixed on the boy claiming to be her brother.
As he walked at Vespus’s side, Sorrow noticed he walked like a Rhyllian, his arms held still, his back perfectly straight. She looked at the others with them. All of the Rhyllians moved with a grace she found unbearably lovely, despite everything else that was happening. She wondered briefly if any of them had abilities – Lincel didn’t, Rasmus had said. But the other two, the twins… They might. She knew little of Vespus, but she imagined he’d prefer to surround himself with people he considered special. She was so busy watching them all she didn’t see the inn until they were right outside it.
Vespus stopped, and turned to Sorrow. “I assume you’d prefer this conversation happened without an audience?”
Taken aback by the consideration, she nodded.
“Then we’ll move out any patrons who might be in there, and tell you when it’s clear.”
Still herding the boy, he vanished around a corner, the other two Rhyllians following him. Lincel hesitated, as though unsure of whether to stay or follow her people. As she chose, moving decisively after Vespus, a thought struck Sorrow.
“Wait,” she called. Lincel halted and half turned towards her. “Did you know?” Sorrow asked her.
“No,” Rasmus said at once. “Of course she didn’t.”
Lincel said nothing and Rasmus’s jaw dropped.
Sorrow asked again. “Did you know?”
“I’m not permitted to reveal the confidences of my court,” Lincel said finally.
“You knew about this?” Rasmus whirled on Lincel. “How long?”
“I’m not permitted to reveal the confidences of my court,” Lincel repeated.
“I am of your court. Our queen is my father’s half-sister. My aunt,” Rasmus exploded.
Lincel didn’t reply. She didn’t look away from Sorrow, but there was no malice or challenge in her expression. Lincel might have been commenting on the weather. Sorrow made her decision.
“I don’t want you in my country any more,” she said to the Rhyllian woman. “You won’t return with us today. You’ll remain in Rhylla. Your belongings will be sent on to you.”
Sorrow turned to Rasmus.
“I’m staying in Rhannon,” he said before she could speak. “I’ll act as interim ambassador until you or my aunt decide otherwise. I’ll write to her tonight.”
For a moment Sorrow was dumb. It was no small thing he was offering, she knew that, and it wasn’t done for the sake of duty. He was doing it for her, declaring where his loyalties lay, and Sorrow’s throat tightened as gratitude choked her. A beat too long passed as they locked eyes with each other, until Charon coughed pointedly.
“I’m grateful, Ambassador Corrigan,” Sorrow said, her voice deeper than usual. Lincel shrugged, and Sorrow didn’t know if it was meant as an apology or not. Not, she decided, as Lincel followed Vespus, leaving the rest of them waiting.
Charon looked at Sorrow. “We need to find out if Mira knew,” he said quietly, and Sorrow nodded. If the Rhannish ambassador to Rhylla had known, and not told them, it was treason.
While they waited for Vespus to summon them, Sorrow examined the outside of the inn, trying to focus on that, instead of what might happen within. Like a Rhannish building, it was low to the ground – if she stood beside it on tiptoes she could reach up to touch the edge of the flat roof – though she’d expected that. Ras had said buildings in south Rhylla were very like those in Rhannon; because the weather was largely the same, the south Rhyllians had adopted a lot of their neighbour’s architecture and customs. But unlike a Rhannish building, it was alive.
The walls were curtained by a thick, flowering plant with star-shaped leaves; only the gold glass windows studding the walls gave Sorrow an occasional glimpse of white plaster around them. Fat, fuzzy bumblebees drifted lazily between ruby-coloured blossoms, their hum low and steady, so different to the vicious, lean insects she freed from her rooms to stop them stinging her. She caught a flash of bright blue – were the bees here blue? she wondered – and stepped cautiously closer to see what it was.
“It’s a bird!” she said in shock, rearing back as the tiny thing hovered in the air, before it vanished around the same corner Vespus and his cohorts had moved beyond. She turned to Rasmus for confirmation; he nodded.
His eyes were soft as he watched her taking it all in, his mouth fighting a losing battle with a smile.
“All clear,” a female voice called, and Sorrow dropped her gaze from Rasmus’s, catching the pinched look of anger on Charon’s face as she turned to follow Vespus.
She rounded the corner of the building to find the Rhyllian twins waiting outside a round, honey-coloured door, three of the blue birds flitting around the woman as though she were a flower. She offered a friendly smile, which Sorrow was too anxious to return, nodding instead. After a pause, Charon wheeled forward to enter first, Sorrow behind him, helping him tilt the chair to mount the doorstep, and Rasmus at the rear.
All three stopped as the door closed firmly behind them and the Rhyllian woman passed them, heading towards the back of the inn, then disappearing around a corner. When Sorrow turned, she realized the male twin must have remained outside.
It was dark in the inn, compared to the summer brightness, and much cooler. The skin across Sorrow’s shoulders prickled, and her senses sharpened. She fisted her hands, relishing the press of her nails against her palms, the pain somehow reassuring.
“This way,” Vespus called in Rhannish, from somewhere deeper in the building. Sorrow took a moment more for her eyes to adjust to the softer light, and then began to move towards where Vespus, and the boy, waited.
They weaved around benches and tables made of the same golden wood as the door, polished to a buttery shine; in the centre of each one was a small vase with a red flower, like those on the walls, inside. There were curtains at the windows, red-and-white check, and the floor beneath Sorrow’s feet was a red too, tiled, clicking in a friendly manner under her heel, whispering beneath Charon’s wheels. Again her focus wandered, and despite where they were, and why, she wanted to stop and stare, to savour this moment, this place that was like nothing she’d seen before. It looked so cosy. So welcoming, as though it existed only to be inviting. And the colours everywhere. Sorrow was dizzy imagining what it might be like further inside the country.
Gentle fingers brushed the base of her spine, and she reached a hand behind her, squeezing Rasmus’s hand guiltily, before pulling away as they turned the corner to where Vespus waited.
Shadowed by the sunlight beaming through the window behind him, Vespus sat with his elbows on the table before him, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Lincel was on one side of him, her expression remorseless, the boy on his other. And beside the boy sat the unnamed Rhyllian woman.
“Please, sit.” Vespus gestured to the chairs opposite him, and immediately Sorrow’s heart began to beat rapidly. Trying to mask her strain with a show of confidence, she reached for a chair, only for Charon to stop her.
“Miss Ventaxis cannot sit with her back exposed to a room,” Charon said.
Vespus’s reply was smooth and immediate. Too smooth. “Forgive me, I thought it would be easier for you, Lord Day, to not have to navigate a small space with your chair.”
Sorrow was familiar enough with politics to know it for what it really was – another power play – and it seemed Charon agreed, for his jaw twitched and he replied, “Very thoughtful of you, but it remains that Miss Ventaxis cannot sit here, and that is my main concern. I assure you I’m more than capable of navigating any space before me.” His words were measured but loaded, and a silence bloomed between the men as they considered each other.
“Wait,” the boy said, breaking the stalemate. “Let me out?”
Vespus nodded, and the Rhyllian woman stood to allow the boy to step past her. Without warning he lifted the table and swung it around, moving it ninety degrees, leaving Vespus and Lincel now sitting at the head of the table.
“There,” he said, smiling at Sorrow. “Now no one has to have their back exposed, and Lord Day can easily fit his chair at the end of the table.”
It was a neat and swift solution. Without raising his voice the boy had taken command and, gently and easily, arranged things for everyone. He gestured to her to choose a side, and Charon chose for them, heading to the left. Sorrow followed, slipping behind his chair, to sit in the middle, Rasmus taking his place at her left. All of them placed their hands on the table, keeping them in sight. On the other side, Lincel, Vespus and the boy positioned their chairs opposite the Rhannish. The third Rhyllian slid her chair back beside the boy.
The moment they were all seated, a man appeared carrying a tray full of glasses and a carafe. They all remained silent as he filled each glass with a golden liquid, before melting away as quietly as he’d appeared.
The boy looked at his glass, then at Sorrow, and raised it towards her, a question in it.
Sorrow ignored the toast. “What can I call you?” she asked him.
“Mael,” Vespus said. “That’s his name.”
Sorrow bit her tongue to stop from snapping at him, though her narrowed eyes advertised her annoyance.
The boy – Mael, she supposed she’d better think of him as, at least for now – smiled apologetically at her and pushed his hair behind his ears.
She saw the mark on his neck, a darker patch of skin the shape of a crescent moon, and gasped without meaning to. He paused, his fingers twitching as though he’d tug his hair back over it. But then he gave a slight shake of his head and left it pinned back, leaving the mark on show.
Sorrow had to fight to not look at Charon, though she was sure his attention was on the boy’s neck too. On the birthmark everyone knew Mael had.
“And this is Aphora,” Vespus continued, drawing her attention back to him, as the Rhyllian woman bowed her head, folding her hands on the table before her.
“Why is she here?” Charon asked.
“I was the one who discovered Mael.” She spoke directly to Sorrow, in clear, though heavily accented, Rhannish. “Lord Vespus asked me to come so I could give account direct to your father. My brother, Melakis, was there too. He’s outside, watching the door for us.”
Sorrow nodded. But before she could tell Aphora to begin, Vespus clapped his hands together.
“If no one objects, I’d like to order some food. We had an early start today and no time for breakfast, and it seems to me we can talk and eat at the same time. I assume you have time?” he asked Sorrow.
She didn’t think she could eat. Her stomach felt too small and too stone-like for food. Besides, she didn’t want to delay, needing to get to back to Rhannon and see what damage Vespus’s actions had caused. “I’m afraid not. I need to be at the Summer Palace to greet my father,” Sorrow said.
“So we are not to go to Istevar?” Vespus said.
“The Summer Palace is closer, and it’s less dangerous to get there, both for us and my father, given what happened at the bridge. I’ve already sent word asking him to leave Istevar at once. I expect he’s travelling now.” She hoped that was true.
“Then by my reckoning we have time for at least two courses.” Vespus smiled easily. “Don’t worry, Miss Ventaxis, we’ll be there in good order. I shouldn’t think the chancellor will arrive much before nightfall, whereas we are just a couple of hours away. What do you say?”
The boy – Mael – spoke. “We’d be honoured if you would.”
There was nothing to be gained from refusing, she realized. Vespus was right: Harun wouldn’t get to the Summer Palace until much later, and if they stayed it would give them more time to hear Mael’s story. And examine it. She gave a small nod, ignoring the way his face lit up at the gesture.
Vespus beckoned, and the same server as before, silent-footed and lithe, glided to the table. Sorrow tried to listen without looking interested as Vespus ordered.
“Do you want me to translate?” Rasmus leant over and asked.
Sorrow shook her head.
“Are you all right?” His voice was barely above a whisper, impossible for anyone but her to hear. She nodded, but kept her eyes on Vespus, trying to follow the lilting of his words, trying to avoid the stare of the boy beside him.
The weight of his gaze was like a collar around her neck, choking her. He watched her, and her skin burned in response. Her pulse raced, she felt it in her fingertips where they pressed into the smooth wood of the table. Too fast.
When he finally looked away, she studied him from the corner of her eye. He looked so healthy. She’d never seen a Rhannish person look so well. Most everyone she knew had a pale cast to their bronze skin; very few people went out into the sun, unless they worked under it. This boy looked as though he bathed in it, his skin gleaming, like his neat white teeth.
“He’s ordering everything on the menu,” Mael said abruptly, startling her from her thoughts. “I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything Rhyllian before?”
“Of course she has.” Rasmus answered for her, his tone challenging. “I used to share the food I was sent with her.”
“I was just asking.”
“And now you know.”
“Rasmus…” Vespus broke off from ordering to glare at his son, and Rasmus folded his arms, staring back at him.
“What?”
“Try to show a little courtesy.”
“I was civil. He was the one patronizing her.”
Vespus spat something at his son, something that caused Rasmus’s skin to flush, and even the boy and Aphora looked taken aback. Rasmus abruptly closed his mouth, as the whole table lapsed into strained silence.
Rasmus had taught her Rhyllian, but it had always been conversational – greeting and parting phrases, talking about the weather, food, family members. Rhyllian was less straightforward than Rhannish, no one-word translation for most things – goodbye was “when next we meet I will be blessed”, and mother was “she who grew me beneath her heart”. Sorrow had loved the romance of it, but it made following a conversation between native Rhyllians impossible to anyone who hadn’t been born to it, or spent a lifetime studying it. It reminded her that she and Charon were at every disadvantage at this table.
The mood was broken by the arrival of the food. And Mael had not lied; Vespus really had ordered everything. The surface of the table was covered: bowls of olives, glistening with oil. Spiky leaves from unknown plants were dotted with bright blossoms and drizzled with something dark and sticky-looking, golden bread woven into knots and braids and sprinkled with seeds. She could smell almonds – mazarine, she realized, the sugar-almond paste Rhylla made for celebrations – and a cheese oozing from its rind, pungent and almost-sour. There were pears, tomatoes, plums, figs, dates, flaking pastries dotted with green nuts and dripping syrup.
“Eat,” Vespus insisted, and began to serve himself, Lincel and Aphora following immediately.
Sorrow didn’t know where to begin, staring helplessly at the food.
“The summer pears are especially good,” Mael said, holding one out to her.
Sorrow shook her head, grabbing a plum and a handful of dates before he could say anything else. Aware his eyes – all eyes – were on her, she pushed a date between her lips and bit down.
The flavour exploded in her mouth, impossibly sweet, chewy and soft, and she raised her hands to her face, convinced she’d have to spit it out because it was too much.
“Tasty, aren’t they?” Vespus said, holding the apple like an orb.
She nodded, and forced the mouthful down her throat. Without allowing herself time to think she took a bite of her plum. It was the opposite of the date; tartly sour and succulent, the antidote to the sweetness that she needed. She took a second bite, a third, a fourth. Soon she was gnawing at the stone in the centre; there was plum-flesh caught between her teeth, juice sticky on her chin.
She wanted more. Suddenly ravenous, she reached for one of the loaves and tore some off, using it to scoop up some of the cheese, taking her knife and smearing it across the bread. She followed that with a handful of olives, the stone at the centre a surprise that temporarily made her think she’d cracked a tooth. She devoured handfuls of the tiny, succulent tomatoes; plucked more dates from the pile, ready for their sweetness now; sliced a fig into quarters and ate it, skin and all, then another with more of the cheese. She ate with her hands, they all did, reaching out to take and grasp, using their plates for discarded stones and seeds and pits, using knives only when fingers wouldn’t suffice.
Rasmus alone didn’t touch the food, but Sorrow was barely aware of it, barely aware of anything except the feast before her, her worries and fears buried by the food. As Rasmus sat back in his chair, upright and stiff, sipping water from a tumbler, she and the others filled their bellies, drinking deep draughts of a sharp wine that tasted like sunshine.
“Shall I bring more, my lord?” The server had reappeared and addressed Vespus, and Sorrow realized they’d almost finished the food.
She sat back, dazed, looking at the remains of the feast. Only some of the fruit and the sleek slab of mazarine remained. They’d devoured it all.
Vespus glanced around the table, then shook his head. “No. Leave what remains, and bring coffee. That will do.”
The server nodded, and began to stack the empty platters before taking them away.
“How did you enjoy your meal?” Vespus licked his fingers as he looked at Sorrow.
“It was delicious,” Sorrow said honestly. It was delicious. Even now, with a painfully full stomach, she itched to reach for the golden peach that still remained. She wanted to split it open, eat half as it was and the other half piled high with mazarine. Everything here tasted extraordinary, she didn’t think she could ever tire of such food, hadn’t known it could be this good.
She sat back, frightened by the strength of her need, reaching instead for her water tumbler and taking a long drink. Even the water tasted better here, crisp and light and somehow cleaner than Rhannish water. She’d never known before that water had a flavour.
“There’s something ancient and honourable about breaking bread with friends,” said Vespus. “And your country showed me hospitality for a time. It is good that I’ve been able to repay that. To your health.” He raised his wine glass. “To you both.” He tilted the glass to Mael, then drank deeply.
The server returned with an odd silver pot and seven tiny cups, pouring a thick dark liquid into each one. The drink smelled warm, rich and faintly bitter, and Sorrow’s mouth watered once more. As the server placed a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes in the centre of the table, Vespus held up a finger to stop him.
“Open the window, would you?” he asked, and the server bowed, edging behind the Rhyllians and unlatching the hexagonal window, pushing it open, the scent of the blossoms on the wall mingling with the coffee aroma.
As the server vanished back into the recesses of the inn, Vespus added a single lump of sugar to his coffee. “To business, then?” he said. “Mael, are you ready to tell your sister what happened to you?”
At his words the good feelings from the meal, and the companionship that came from eating together, evaporated, leaving Sorrow on edge once more. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing, watching as the boy nodded, reaching for the cream and adding a good amount to his own cup, turning the liquid a pale brown. He added two lumps of sugar and stirred the drink. He looked up at Sorrow, smiling briefly.
“Lord Vespus tells me the Rhannish drink their coffee black, but I never did develop a taste for it without cream,” he said.
Sorrow said nothing, raising her brows pointedly. No more chit-chat. She was there for a reason.
“All right.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t remember falling from the bridge,” he began, eyes fixed on the whirlpool he’d made in his cup. “But sometimes I dream; it’s cold, and dark, and I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I think it must be some memory of the river, but I don’t remember it truly. I don’t remember my mother, or my – our – father.” He looked at Sorrow and she lowered her gaze to the inky darkness of the coffee. “I can only tell you what I was told of that day, second-hand. But firsthand, I can tell you what I lived after.”
The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end, despite the heat of the day, and without realizing it, Sorrow leant forward.
“Tell me,” she said.