The Queen's Tower Page 2

  She took a deep breath and smoothed her dress. It was new, and she reminded herself she must thank Brandon for the gift. The chocolaty shade suited her perfectly. Not every jailer would take such care. Or at least she assumed they did not. Merewyn had no other jailer to whom she could compare Brandon, but she doubted anyone else would choose prisoner garb so as to match chestnut hair.

  “My hair!” She could swear she felt it coming loose now.

  She slalomed through the two skinny pillars in front of the window alcove, clutching fistfuls of the dress, and scurried up the little curved stairs jutting from the wall. She did not stop running until she flung herself down before the mirror. Haley had twisted her hair into an intricate yet loose bun at the crown of her head. A few wispy curls trickled down over her temples as though they had simply come free, rather than being strategically planned and meticulously colored. Merewyn patted her coif and breathed deeply again. Still perfection. Now if she could only do something about her puffy, tired eyes.

  “Mother?”

  Oh, no. How could this happen? She should have never run up here to check her hair. Why had she doubted Haley? She should have been downstairs to greet her son. “Stupid, silly, foolish old woman,” she muttered.

  “I’m coming, darling!”

  She flew across the flagstones of her bedroom as quickly as her thin slippers could safely take her. Shifting the silver bird hanging from the chain around her neck back to kilter, she took a long breath. Then she descended the stairs to the only other room in her tower apartment with all the poise and grace that befitted a queen.

  It had been nearly a year since she had seen Maxen. Surely it must be her maternal eye, but she could swear he had grown more handsome. Wasn’t his jaw stronger now than she remembered? Weren’t his shoulders wider? He was certainly wearing his hair longer now, and he had on a silver half-cape and a flat, baggy little felt cap with a blue silk tassel. Was that the fashion now?

  Then he dropped his forearm from the hearth, resuming his usual adolescent slouch, and she realized he looked much the same as ever. The cape was pretentious. The flat cap was completely wrong for the shape of his face. Not that it mattered to her in the least how her boy stood or how handsome he was; he was here.

  He met her halfway across the floor and kissed her cheek. “How are you, mother? Sorry I haven’t been sooner.”

  He opened every visit to her with these same words. She had insisted time and again that he should feel no guilt for not visiting his prisoner mother more regularly, yet he felt it all the same.

  “Do not let any perceived duty to me plague your sleep.”

  “But I do.” He smiled and she could have been peering in her mirror again.

  Fransis had once said that her smile was the first thing he had loved about her. He had said that her barely parted lips, turned slightly up at the corners, made her look as if she had just thought of something amusing and was wondering whether or not to share it. Did the girls at court think the same thing about Maxen?

  The smile faltered. She had been staring at her son too long. She was embarrassing him.

  “Never mind, never mind. Sit.” She bustled him to the table and into the chair closest to the fire. “Wine?” She poured and offered the glass to him. He took it so greedily that he nearly slopped it on his sleeve. Silly boy.

  With a dramatic flourish, she uncovered the little bowl of pistachios, and he reacted with mock surprise, just like he always did. “My favorite!” Then he cracked open half a dozen in rapid succession and stuffed them into his mouth, alternating with quick gulps of wine. Merewyn tactfully averted her eyes; this was hardly the moment to chide him over his table manners.

  She avoided the obvious question: “Why are you here?” Or, more precisely, “Why are you here with only three days’ notice, after staying away for eleven months?”

  “Now,” she said. “I must be told all the news. Because, surely, there must be news. Or have things in the capital become so frightfully dull that you had to come all the way out to Leornian for amusement?”

  He snorted in his wine. “Formacaster isn’t worth talking about in comparison to Leornian.”

  Odd—she could distinctly remember him saying that Leornian was “damp and cold,” full of “preosts and professors and other equally boring people.” Had that been last year, or five years ago? It was hard to keep it all straight sometimes.

  What was occurring out there in the wider world of the city? What was going on beyond the thick walls and her narrow windows? Beyond the reach of the spell that kept her confined to this apartment?

  If only she had a window that faced south, directly over Addle Street, she could have seen it all: knights in their armor, urchins in rags, beggars and brewers and butchers. Silk merchants in vivid purples and reds. Messengers from distant lands; mummers and minstrels playing for the passing crowds. Sometimes on the great feast days, she could hear the sounds of music and cheering. But she could never see what happened out there, outside the castle. In the first years, it had tormented her to think that ordinary life carried on, and ordinary people were strolling freely back and forth, just twenty yards from where she slept.

  Not that events in Leornian had any effect on her. The city might as well be in the Void for all she had to do with it, and somehow that made hearing about Leornian all the harder. But she still longed to know.

  Before she could ask, however, Maxen blurted out, “I had to be the one to tell you! The Queen of Loshadnarod and the crown prince are coming! There will be a feast and a joust, and maybe even a melee. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Merewyn set down her own wineglass hard. “Nina is coming? Are you serious?

  Maxen’s expression brightened again. “And the whole court will be meeting them here at the Bocburg, because my...because everyone at court thinks it will be more polite to meet them halfway.”

  “So this was your father’s idea?”

  She never called That Man “the king.” She didn’t even like thinking of him as “Maxen’s father” or “my husband.” It was a point of principle with her.

  “Mother, you don’t seem quite as excited as I had thought you would be.”

  “Is this absolutely certain?”

  “Yes! Well, I mean, it’s fairly certain.” He opened a couple pistachios and chewed them thoughtfully.

  “‘Fairly certain.’ I see.” She took a sip of wine to cover her disappointment. If Queen Nina wanted to visit Myrcia before winter set in and made travel along the Upper Trahern nearly impossible, then she would have to leave soon. It didn’t bode well that the arrangements were still unsettled.

  Half to herself, Merewyn said, “Why here? And why now, exactly?”

  “Obviously to ask father to release you!”

  It was tempting, so very tempting, to think that might be true. But the Loshadnarodski royals could have visited anytime in the last seventeen years. What had changed to bring them now? Did they have something they wanted from Myrcia? Surely they had an agenda of their own—an agenda that had nothing to do with her.

  “Do you think Nina is really coming to plead my case?”

  He slouched a bit lower in his chair. “Of course she will, won’t she? I mean, for years you’ve been telling me that story about how you gave her that pin when she was a little girl and you both said you would always be friends.”

  Long ago, Merewyn had made a great impression on the Loshadnarodski queen, entirely by accident. In the first year of Merewyn’s imprisonment, the only person to send a word of support was Queen Nina. And Nina had written five more times since then. Merewyn could remember every letter, almost word-for-word. They were censored by That Man’s agents, and Merewyn wasn’t allowed to keep copies. But she remembered them, all the same.

  Nina was a grown woman and ruling monarch now; if she still cared even an iota about Merewyn, being in the same city could change everything. But only if Merewyn could find some method of turning the visit to her advantage, despite these utter
ly impenetrable walls. Perhaps she could coach Maxen to act as her intermediary with Nina. He was, after all, her only true ally in the world.

  Merewyn took a deep breath, and asked calmly, “When will she be here?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. The first week of October, probably.” He heaved a sigh and crossed his arms. “These things get decided without me, mother.”

  There was a petulance in his voice that she had hoped he would outgrow. She poured herself a little more wine and said, “Surely, darling, these things are decided by the council.”

  Frowning, he tugged at the braided fringe of his half-cape. “I don’t usually go to council meetings anymore. No one listens to me.”

  She filled his wineglass again. “Darling, as I have often said, the key is confidence and—”

  “And preparation. Yes, I know. But it doesn’t matter how confident and prepared I am, because father and Uncle Edgar and everyone else listen to...to...him.” Maxen pounded his fist on the table, almost upsetting his glass. “They listen to Broderick. Not to me. To Broderick.”

  “He is the captain general. He is twelve years older than you and an accomplished soldier. You know I’ve often thought that you should cultivate a friendship with—”

  “So people can gossip about how I don’t measure up to him? Did you know he’s started a fencing club in Formacaster? Everyone wants to be a member. It’s all any of the fellows at court talk about anymore. And then....” Maxen gave a sour look. “And then he actually sent me a personal invitation to join, if you can believe it.”

  Merewyn took a good look at her son. Maxen had a slim build, but then again, his father had been slim at twenty, as well. According to the rumors that Haley passed along, That Man was starting to spread.

  “You ought to join the club. Fencing is excellent exercise. It also sounds like an opportunity to mingle with the men who will one day serve you. Never underestimate the benefits of popularity.”

  “Oh, trust me. I don’t.”

  Poor Maxen—he had inherited her desire for popularity, but his father’s inability to attain it.

  “Darling, I would like to offer you some advice that I hope you will take to heart. You are the crown prince. You make fashion. If you can’t join Broderick’s au courant, as the Brigantians say, fencing club, then see to it that no one wishes to fence anymore. Perhaps you could start a rage for music that will make everyone in Formacaster forget about fencing.”

  “Mother, have you forgotten that I’m not musical?”

  “No, darling, I haven’t. You needn’t be. You need only to surround yourself with those who are. The important factor is to choose an endeavor at which Broderick cannot meet you.”

  Maxen’s face reddened, and his eyes had a brittle, desperate look. Merewyn recognized it as the expression he used to wear right before he started throwing toys.

  He gulped down some wine. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ve been thinking I should do something with the Loshadnarodski crown prince. When they’re all visiting here, he and I should...oh, I don’t know...sponsor a tournament or go hunting or something.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Merewyn, honestly impressed that he had thought of this on his own.

  Her son’s lip quivered. “Not that it would matter. Broderick will show up, and of course Vadik will like him better.”

  Ah, that was more like Maxen: pettiness combined with self-loathing.

  “Then draw Broderick in from the beginning. Bring him over to your side and make him a friend and confidant. He would be a powerful ally.”

  “I’d sooner trust a snake.”

  “He is your brother, darling.”

  “He’s not my brother. He’s my father’s bastard!” Maxen sat up, fists clenched at the edge of the table. “You’re always taking his side.”

  “Maxen,” she said sharply. “This is unworthy of you. Broderick may be captain general, and he may be popular now. But the mob is fickle in their affections, and you are your father’s true heir.”

  “Am I?” he snapped, leaning over the table. “Am I really? Because every once in a while, I hear a rumor about you and our dear, late Cousin Fransis, and honestly, if it were true, it would explain—”

  She slapped him.

  “If I had raised you, you would never dream of saying such things in the presence of a lady.”

  “Some people say you gave up the right to call yourself a lady when you conspired to put your lover on your husband’s throne.”

  This wasn’t a new conversation. When Maxen was 15, he had asked for the truth—the complete and unvarnished truth of why she had been locked up. It seemed as though she would have to repeat herself yet again. “You know I never had any part in the conspiracy,” she said firmly. “When you speak this way, it leaves me in no doubt as to why Broderick is more beloved than you. Bastard or no, he is an honorable and gallant man.”

  Maxen, who was still rubbing his cheek, muttered, “He’s an arrogant fucking prick.”

  Before she could admonish him for language, the huge iron lock of Merewyn’s door clicked open, and Lady Haley Randal arrived with two housemaids carrying the luncheon that Merewyn had ordered. Merewyn wasn’t sure she had an appetite anymore, but she smiled and chatted with Haley while the servants set the table and laid out the three courses: curried vegetables, cold ham and pickles, and blackberry pie.

  As the housemaids left again, Haley curtsied to Maxen and said, “I trust you concluded your business in town successfully, your royal highness.”

  Merewyn paused with a serving fork in her hand. “Your business? Which business was this, my dear?”

  All the color had drained out of her son’s face. “Um...er...just visiting you, mother. And talking to Duke Brandon about the Loshadnarodski visit, um....”

  “And talking to the bishop, too, of course,” said Haley, smiling. “You’re ever so brave, your royal highness. I know the bishop has always scared me half to death.” She curtsied again. “Excuse me, your majesty, your royal highness. Enjoy your lunch.” The door shut and locked behind her.

  With swift, savage strokes of the carving knife, Merewyn cut off a piece of meat no bigger than the palm of her hand. Then she ladled a spoonful of vegetables to her plate, not caring that the curry sauce splashed over the starched linen.

  “So you spoke to Bishop Robertson?” she said in a low voice.

  “Ah. Um...yes,” said Maxen. “Please, mother, before you say anything else, I know you don’t like the bishop, but—”

  “Why would you talk to him?”

  “I...I...I, well...he’ll have to be involved when the Loshadnarodskis visit, of course, and—”

  “Have I not been clear enough? Never, ever trust that man.”

  Maxen rolled his eyes. “Because of what happened with Cousin Fransis, you mean? I still don’t quite understand how he ties into the whole business.”

  Oh, if only she could tell him that story! If only she could explain why the bishop wasn’t to be trusted. If only she could explain why it had all gone so wrong seventeen years earlier. But one might as well wish that Fransis were still alive.

  “Maxen, I want you to stay away from the bishop. I mean it.”

  “Mother, he’s the head of the church. Someday when I’m king, he’ll be the one who conducts the—”

  “Very well, then!” Her head started to hurt. Perhaps it was this wine—it wasn’t very good. “You can talk to him at your coronation. But not before.”

  “You never trust me,” said Maxen softly. “I wish you trusted me the way I trust you.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, darling. It’s never that.” Maxen should appreciate that, at least. If only she could explain it better! Once she had been renowned for her eloquence, and now she couldn’t even convince her own son of how deeply she loved him, but her head was muddled, and she couldn’t focus. “I’m so sorry, darling. Please forgive me. I haven’t been sleeping well. I can’t express my
self as I wish to. But promise me you know that I love you.”

  Looking up, her same dark eyes stared back at her, and she could read them as clearly as any script. This time when she reached out for him, he leaned forward to place his cheek in the palm of her hand. “Of course, mother. I know that.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry you’re in here. I want to get you out. I promise I’m doing everything I can. Please trust me.”

  Chapter 2

  WHEN MAXEN GOT UP TO leave, he promised to see her again “soon.”

  “Are you staying in Leornian long?” she asked.

  He looked embarrassed by the question. He almost looked guilty, in fact. “Possibly.” Quickly, he kissed her goodbye. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything more about Queen Nina’s visit.”

  Once he had left, and the servants had carried away the dishes, Merewyn settled into the window seat tucked into the alcove behind the pillars. The view was in no way picturesque—simply the wide gravel walk patrolled by the duke’s men outside the wall and a narrow strip of the dusty cobblestone gutter. She could hear carts moving along Addle Street and the hearty laughter of revelers from the inns and taverns nearby, but she could not see them.

  The window faced west, though, and now in the afternoon it brought her warmth, as close to outdoors as she ever got. Some force or energy in the sunlight always focused her mind and made it easier to think logically.

  What was Maxen doing, exactly? Why was he even here in Leornian? Yes, to be sure, he wanted to see his loving mother. But the more Merewyn thought about it, the more she found his timing strange. Why now? Why not wait a few weeks until Queen Nina and the Loshadnarodskis arrived?

  More importantly, why was he talking to Bishop Robertson? If only Maxen knew the full story. It seemed too late to tell him now, but what if Robertson told Maxen, instead? And Robertson’s account would no doubt be some twisted version that made his grace the hero.

  There was a knock, and Haley stopped in to see if Merewyn needed anything else. Merewyn told her to take away the pistachios. Maxen adored the wretched things, but Merewyn had never been able to stand the taste of them.