Bittor glared. “Did I ask? Does it matter?” He stomped off, white lace hanging from his nose, past Jon and a young, wide-eyed groom.
Cas cleared his throat. “Lena,” he said, then fell silent when she gave him a look every bit as dark as the one she’d sent the eavesdropper. She lifted her hood and walked off.
And now a summons from the king. Splendid.
8
Cas was left to bide his time out in the quiet, firefly-lit corridor. With Lena, who no longer wished to speak with him. And with that gnat Bittor, who suddenly did.
They stood outside a chamber that had been his mother’s sanctuary. A place where she had retired with her ladies to embroider and read, to play music. He had spent his earliest years here along with the other castle infants, until she had died giving birth to a sister. They had been buried together, mother and daughter, and this chamber had remained empty ever since.
“You don’t believe in coming home quietly, do you?” Bittor leaned against one wall, Cas directly opposite, each with their arms folded. Lena sat in a chair beside Cas and ignored them both. “You save the prince,” Bittor continued. “You expose the treacherous scribe and chop off his hand . . . during supper. That was diabolical, by the way.” He shoved the blood-streaked handkerchief up a sleeve, his nose red as harvest peppers. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“Too late.” Cas eyed him with disfavor. “What is your name again? Bitter?”
“Bih-tor,” the soldier corrected with indignation. “Bih-tor.” His expression, aggrieved, spoke to a lifetime of correcting others.
If he had been anyone else, Cas would have sympathized. He had grown up, after all, with the name Cassiapeus. Wondering what had become of Faro, he asked, “Where did they put him?”
“In your dungeon.” It was Lena who spoke. “He’ll be taken away as soon as he can travel.”
“Alone, as it happens,” Bittor added. “His lady love has decided not to marry him after all.”
“Marry?”
“Next week. Sorne, that’s her name, isn’t it? I bet she feels like she’s escaped the noose. One more week and she would have been exiled with him.” Bittor pressed gingerly at his swollen nose. “Was she your girl?”
Lena’s head was bent, her hair falling forward, so Cas could not see her expression. She had been tracing the embroidery on the arm of her chair with a fingertip. At Bittor’s question, the finger stopped.
“No,” Cas said, willing Bittor to silence.
Bittor did not take the hint. “Does she know that? I heard she visits your statue every day.”
“What?”
Cas’ reaction brought a pleased grin to Bittor’s face. “It’s in the gardens. A memorial statue. Your brother brought in a sculptor from Elvira.” He gave Cas an assessing look. “It’s a good likeness.”
“Bittor.” Lena spoke on a sigh. “Why are you still here?”
The door opened and out came a woman, thin and wan, dressed in unrelieved black.
Lena leaned around Cas to greet her. “Hello, Abril.”
Cas did not imagine it. Dismay flitted across the woman’s face the instant she spotted Lena. She returned the greeting with little enthusiasm. “Lady Analena, Lord Cassia.” There was no hello for Bittor.
Cas bid her good evening. She was not from Palmerin. Her voice, like Lena’s, belonged to someone who had grown up in the capital city. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and seeing them, Cas felt a momentary kinship. Here was someone whose sleep was as troubled as his.
Lena said, “I sent a note to your lodgings this morning. The messenger said you received it?”
Abril appeared uncomfortable. “I . . . yes. Forgive me, Lady. The day slipped away from me.” She carried a wooden box by its handle. The sort of battered, paint-streaked box used by artists.
Lena smiled. “No matter. Tomorrow, then? I will meet you at midday, in the library.”
Abril tightened her grip on the handle. A splotch of green paint covered one knuckle. “I don’t think I can be of help to you, Lady. My memory is . . . not what it was.”
Lena rose, red skirts brushing by Cas. She took Abril’s hand in hers. Her words were gentle. “I don’t wish to cause you pain, but the king has asked that I complete my grandfather’s history. To do that I must speak with you. It will not take long, I promise.”
Abril mumbled, “Of course, Lady. Tomorrow, then.” She slipped her hand free of Lena’s and hurried down the corridor, shoulders hunched, disappearing around the corner.
“What was that about?” Bittor asked.
Cas wanted to know too, but Ventillas appeared in the open doorway, frowning after Abril. “Cassia. Lady.” He waved them in and sent Bittor off with his question unanswered.
Much had changed in his mother’s old chambers. A small grouping of chairs remained by the fireplace. The king and queen gathered there. As for the rest of the room . . . all had been cleared. Her favorite instruments, the bandurrias, the tambours, were gone, along with her spinning wheel and writing desk. In their place, on the stone floor, was the largest tapestry Cas had ever seen. It had been arranged in a coil, like a massive, sleeping serpent. At least two hundred paces if stretched out. And the height? Six feet or so. As tall as he. He could not make out the images from where he stood. Several looms sat in a corner, the threads pulled tight between rollers.
“It’s been a strange night,” King Rayan said in weary greeting. “Will you eat?” The table beside him was covered with platters and bowls and pitchers. Next to the table, a pair of lynx slumbered.
Cas no longer had an appetite. All he could picture was a different table and a hand without an arm. “No thank you, Your Grace.” Ventillas stood by the fire with a cup in his hand. Cas joined him there, glad for the warmth.
Lena also refused. She chose to sit on the rug within reach of Queen Jehan, who touched her hair and said, “Bittor found you. Good. Where did you run off to?”
Lena leaned against the queen’s green skirts. “The stables. Not far.”
They were sisters by marriage, who clearly cared for each other. It was something Cas had understood when Lena told him who she was, but it was a strange thing for him to see firsthand.
King Rayan said to Cas, “You’re wondering why we’ve asked you here, at so late an hour.”
“Yes,” Cas admitted. Ventillas, scowling into his cup, had offered no hint that Cas could see.
“We cannot demand reparations from Brisa, Cassia,” King Rayan said bluntly. “Not for a crime committed three years ago.”
Cas had thought as much. “It does not matter.”
There was a sharp clink as Ventillas slapped his glass onto the mantel. “It is not right.”
“Ventillas, the terms of the treaty are clear,” King Rayan said with the air of a man whose patience had been tried. “You were there. You signed it too. Any violations that occurred before then can’t be touched.”
Queen Jehan directed her words at Ventillas. Words sharply spoken. “No, it is not right. Was it right when Oliveran soldiers sacked a Brisan village with no provocation? Women, burned. Children, dead—”