A New Layer of Guilt
He pushed his long pale hair behind gently tapered ears, carefully avoiding the row of silver rings that pierced them lobe to top, and offered Sorrow a faint smile. Like every other person at the palace – in the country – he was dressed in mourning: a long black coat, tight at the waist, flaring over his hips down to his knees; wide legged black trousers beneath; black boots on his feet. The uniform of Rhannon.
But Rasmus was Rhyllian. Where the black brought out the yellow tones in Rhannish skin, it complemented his paler complexion: shadow to moonlight, ink to paper. Even lovely Irris, with her wide eyes and heart-shaped face, could not make the mourning black look as good as Rasmus did.
He watched her, looking as cool and crisp as ever, despite the layers of clothing, and the heat, and Sorrow was painfully aware that by comparison she looked wilted, and more than a little frazzled.
Still, she returned his smile with the ghost of her own, and that was all it took to bring him across the room, moving with impossible grace, to pull her into his arms. She relaxed against him, pressing her face into his chest, instantly feeling calmer.
“I didn’t know you’d come back,” she said.
“Of course I did.”
“You don’t think my orders apply to you, then?” she murmured into his shirt.
“You’re not my queen.”
“I’m not anyone’s queen,” Sorrow replied.
“As near as, if the line of subjects here petitioning you is anything to go by. And as you said yourself, you will be the chancellor one day…” Rasmus said, an edge to his voice.
Sorrow looked up at him. But before she could reply, the pain in her head pulsed, threatening to return, and she grimaced.
“Headache?” he guessed.
Sorrow nodded. “I thought I could smell Lamentia earlier.”
He lifted his head, and inhaled. “I can’t smell anything.”
“No. It’s gone now. Or it was never there, and I’m losing my mind.”
“We can’t have that.” He pressed his fingertips lightly against her temples, and the pain faded. “Is that better?”
His touch made her feel lighter, less substantial. “You’re good to me,” she said quietly.
He traced along her brow bone to the top of her nose, then across her cheek, until his index finger brushed her ear. “What’s the point in being able to take away pain if I don’t use it?”
She’d joked once that if she’d had an ability it would be the opposite of his – destroying things, causing pain – and he’d grown quiet, brows drawn together.
“That’s not how it works, and you know it,” he’d said.
She’d tried to explain it was a joke, of sorts, but he’d shaken his head.
“You shouldn’t say things like that.” He’d been upset; he wouldn’t let her touch him, keeping her at arm’s length while he spoke. “You know that’s part of how the war began. Because there were stories that my people could use their abilities to hurt.”
“Ras, I know—”
“Then don’t say it, not even in jest. They’re a good thing. They’re only used for good. Besides –” his voice had softened then “– you could never hurt anyone.”
She’d been too ashamed to argue.
Sorrow was shaken from the memory as his hand moved into her hair, pushing it back, stroking gently. “So, why the need to clear the room? What news did Irris bring?”
“My father…” she said, not needing to explain further. Though Charon would have been furious if he’d known just how informed Rasmus was about the chancellor’s problems, Sorrow couldn’t keep it from him. “And Senator Balthasar has joined the party.”
Rasmus gave her a sympathetic look. “Does Lord Day know?”
Sorrow nodded. “Charon thinks I should deal with them. Like Charon thought I should be the one to speak to the people here, despite the fact I have no power, or authority.” She leant back and then forward again, resting her forehead on his chest. “Stars, I miss Grandmama. She’d know what to do.”
Rasmus reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers and bringing her palm to his lips. “I know. Everyone misses her.”
Not quite everyone, Sorrow suspected. In the months before the dowager had died, Sorrow had realized the vice chancellor would never quite meet her grandmother’s gaze, and his mouth would pucker sourly when he looked over at her in the dining room. Charon never said a bad word about her, as far as Sorrow knew, but once she saw it, it was clear he didn’t like her. Not that it mattered; Sorrow had loved her enough for the whole country.
Absently, Sorrow pressed a hand to her chest. It was the only pain Rasmus had never been able to heal, in a place she hadn’t known existed until she lost the only mother figure she’d ever known. And now, she realized, she’d lost so much more than that. She’d lost a teacher and a guide too – someone who both knew what had gone before, and how to govern. If only they’d had more time… More time for everything.
“It should be her here, doing this. No, actually, it should be my father,” Sorrow corrected herself. “He should be the one listening to the stewards, and dealing with Meeren Vine. He should be the one making decisions. Not me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” She leant into his chest, and sighed.
“Right now, you should take a break. Let’s run away.” Rasmus rested his chin against her forehead as he murmured into her hair. “Irris will help cover for us, I’m sure. We’ll pretend your headache has forced you to your sickbed, then we’ll sneak out. Dress as servants and steal down to the lake. No one will be around; they’ll all be preparing for the memorial tomorrow. We’ll avoid the Decorum Ward and relax. We could talk. We should talk, Row. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have not.”
“Don’t lie,” he said gently. “You’re not as subtle as you think. So, make it up to me. Let’s escape for a while. We could spend the rest of the afternoon swimming, or fishing. And we can finally talk.” He slipped his arms around her.
Stars, it was tempting. To be outside would be such a luxury. Yes, it would be hot there too, but the dry, natural heat of the summer sun. Not the fetid heat of grief and madness, incubated in a palace that hadn’t changed at all in almost eighteen years. She imagined sinking into a pool of clear water, pushing her head beneath it and watching her hair float around her. She shivered despite herself, so vivid was the thought of it.
But then he’d talk, and she’d have to listen. Have to hear his futile arguments, have to watch his face fall when she told him he was wrong. Have to hurt him. It was inevitable they’d both get hurt, but there was a difference between her finally telling him they would never, could never be properly together, and circumstances forcing them apart. One was a kinder sort of cruelty.
She shook the thought away.
“I can’t, Ras,” Sorrow said finally. “You know I can’t.”
She allowed herself the luxury of his embrace for a moment longer before she freed herself from his arms. He sighed softly as she did, but she ignored it, walking to the window and sweeping the curtains aside, pushing the frame open, relishing the small act of defiance.
She was surprised to find it was raining, for the first time in at least a month. The air that rushed in was crisp, and smelled fresh and earthy, and droplets lashed her face. It made her think again of sinking into a lake or river, and she opened the window as wide as it could go, raising her face to the sky. Lightning flashed, and seconds later thunder followed, the pressure low across her forehead. Perhaps that explained the true reason for the headaches. Not because she’d thought she smelled Lamentia, but the storm.
She let the water run down her face, not bothering to wipe it away, and it scored her cheeks. As she watched her reflection she realized it looked as though she was crying, and it reminded her of something Rasmus had once said about the Winter Palace. The Court of Tears, he’d called it. An entire palace locked in grief and sadness. But it wasn’t just the Winter Palace that slumbered like a fairy-tale princess.
Beyond the palace walls the country existed on a knife edge. Artists were not permitted to create art, save for government-sanctioned homages to Mael. Merchants could not stock fripperies – no ribbons, no trinkets, no vases, no flowers. The universities were prohibited from teaching arts subjects. There was no music. No performance. No games.
It was treason to wear anything lighter than dark grey or brown, treason to read books for pleasure, treason to laugh. Pregnant couples were treated with suspicion, and had to take great pains to assure anyone who’d listen that their union was made out of duty, and not in happiness. No one held hands, nor kissed. No one smiled, or at least not where they could be seen. Make-up and perfume were banned; even haircuts were seen as frivolous and vain, sometimes enough to warrant a visit from the Decorum Ward.
Children silently haunted the streets like drab little wraiths, never laughing, never smiling. They were taught from infanthood not to, for fear they’d be caught in a moment of joy when Mael had no more moments.
The Land of Tears would be more apt. All of Rhannon was forced to weep for what was lost.
Rasmus moved behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, thumb rubbing her collarbone. His skin was cool, pale against her bronzed tone. Each of his elegant fingers had multiple silver rings on it, some at the base of his fingers, some just above the knuckles, the small green and blue stones in them the only colour in the whole room. They lit up when lightning flashed above them, glowing like lights, and spontaneously she kissed the back of his hand, feeling his chest swell against her spine as he smiled, thrilled that she’d done it. He leant down to kiss her neck, and her eyes closed for one delicious moment before she broke the spell.
“I suppose I should go now.” She let the drape fall back into place, shutting out the storm, and raised a sleeve to dry her face as she turned to him.
“I suppose you should.”
But she didn’t move.
“I hate this,” she said, so softly she might not have spoken. “I hate all of this. It isn’t right. Grandmama told me – even during the Eternal War there was still life. Hope. Art. Music. Growth. People went on holiday to Meridea, and sailed out to the Skae Islands on pleasure cruises. People studied, and started businesses, and invented. Nothing has changed in almost eighteen years, Ras. It’s like Rhannon is trapped under glass. Something has to change. Someone has to do something.”
“Who? You?” When she didn’t reply he asked again. “Who, Row? Your father is a mess, granted, but he’s still alive. Right now the only way things will change is if he dies, or you overthrow him. Is that what you want?”
“No. Of course not.”
Rasmus watched her carefully. “You know they want you to,” he said slowly. “Why do you think Lord Day sent everyone to you?”
“To help prepare me. To teach me, so when the time comes—”
“He wants it to be now, Row. You’d have his full support if you did choose to depose your father. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s waiting for it. Waiting for you to suggest it. Which is why we need to talk, because things are changing, and fast. And it will have an impact on us. We need to be ready—”
“Rasmus.” Sorrow moved her hands to his chest and pushed him gently back. “Not now. I have to go.”
“Wait. Please, Row.”
She paused. He didn’t often say please. Rhyllians never did. Nor sorry, nor thank you. Rhylla didn’t have a single word that translated to mean the same thing, and in Rhylla the phrases they used instead were potent, Ras had told her. Powerful words that were only spoken when they were truly needed. He said the Rhannish versions were used too freely to fill holes, after goodwill had been dug up, too easily tossed around so that they were all but meaningless. So for him to say “please”…
Her brown eyes met his violet ones. “We will talk. I promise. Just let me get through the next two days. After the memorial ceremony, we’ll talk properly.”
After a moment he released her wrist, his mouth a line of grudging acceptance.
“I’ll see you later?” she asked.
“Ever your servant, Row.” He bowed low, taking her hand once more and turning it over to kiss her palm.
She slipped her hand from his, leaving him there, a new layer of guilt coating her old ones like varnish.