Darkwind, p.14
Darkwind, page 14
Cistine frowned. “I don’t know. I told you, they all felt the same.”
Maleck regarded her quietly for a moment, then scraped the weapons together. “You’re free to go.”
Cistine leaped to her feet, torn between a feeling of elation and a stab of guilt. “Did I pass, or fail?”
“Neither. This is not the test. That comes later.”
“Then what was the point of the knives?”
“Training.” He turned to the rack and replaced the blades. “Tomorrow, we’ll try again.”
Though her curiosity nudged her to ask what they were trying for, her rumbling stomach interrupted the bevy of questions. She only had an hour or so before Tatiana dragged her off to the market. She wasn’t prepared to face the evening on an empty stomach.
“Very well.” She hoped she sounded composed rather than confused. “Tomorrow it is.”
Maleck didn’t turn when Cistine thundered down the steps and ran to the kitchen.
It was deserted this time, but Cistine’s disappointment melted rapidly into glee when she saw someone had left her a plate of roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables, and wild game. She planted herself and picked up her napkin—and froze when she realized there was no cutlery.
“Unfortunately, they’re all dirty.” The papery voice was an echo from last night’s greatest moment of fear. “You’ll just have to use your fingers.”
Cistine jerked around in her seat as the old woman stepped from the shadows of the hall the same way she’d emerged into the foyer the night before, masked by darkness until she chose to be seen. “Oh—I don’t usually—that’s not how I was raised…”
The old woman chuckled, limping slowly to the table and drawing out a chair for herself. “It’s all right. I won’t tell a soul.”
Cistine didn’t know if she was referring to eating without cutlery, or Cistine’s spying on the cabal. She slowly popped a potato into her mouth as she watched the old woman, and almost moaned at the rich notes of browned butter and hot herbs that burst across her tongue. Though she’d just eaten lunch before her tutoring session, the morning’s training had left her deranged with hunger.
“Did you make this?” Cistine demanded through a mouthful of crisp pea pods and cooked asparagus. “It’s absolutely delicious.”
“Well, when you’re old and crippled, you find new ways to be useful. Cooking is a favorite of mine. And I can dust everything from this high, downward.” The woman gestured to the line of her bosom, and Cistine laughed against the side of her wrist. “And sometimes, I catch travelers listening in at doors in the dark.”
Cistine froze. The old woman’s silvery brows rose.
“Are you going to tell Thorne?” Fear rattled Cistine’s voice.
“If I was one of his warriors, I would have to,” the woman said. “But I’m not, am I?”
“I don’t suppose so.” Cistine watched the old woman reach over and pluck a potato from her dish. She was as out of place as Cistine herself in this home of lethal warriors—but unlike Cistine, she clearly felt she belonged.
“Just between us,” the woman said, “what do you make of it? The Black Coasts, the mines…all that Svarkyst steel?”
“It’s not my place to say. It isn’t my kingdom.”
“And they don’t allow women to have opinions where you come from?”
“No, I have plenty of opinions!”
“Then let’s have one.”
Cistine picked up a fire-roasted tomato and nibbled the fleshy shell, buying herself a moment to think. “It sounds to me like Thorne is facing someone who outmatches him in weaponry and resources. I don’t think raiding wagons will always be enough to keep him and his people safe.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I’m not—”
The woman tipped her head, and the rest of the words—a warrior—snagged in Cistine’s teeth. She forced down another bite while she considered the old woman’s question. She owed her that much for the meal—and for her silence. “I don’t know. I don’t understand your kingdom well enough to say what he should do.”
The old woman thumped her cane on the floor. “Honesty in a ruler. What a rare and welcome thing that is.”
Cistine’s skin tingled with unease and the feeling of being watched. She glanced up swiftly at the doorway behind the old woman, and found Ariadne standing there, eerily still, a hand on her hip. Her eyes took in the setting, and the two women speaking to one another, with a kind of muted tension that set Cistine back from the table.
“It must be time for me to return to my room.” The old woman clearly sensed Ariadne’s burning stare, but she gave no hint of concern as she slowly stood. “It was a pleasure to speak with you, Princess Cistine.”
“You as well.” Cistine watched the old woman hobble past Ariadne, who turned to let her by, squeezing her shoulder in passing.
And then they were alone.
Cistine rose, giving up on the rest of her meal as she approached Ariadne. “I’m ready. What do you have in mind for me?”
Ariadne’s eyes flicked past her. “Your plate.”
Cistine glanced back. “I thought I was done.”
“Then dispose of the plate.”
Cistine frowned. “Doesn’t Thorne have people who tend that for him?”
“Do you see any servants in the Den? We’re all responsible for our own affairs. That includes our rinsed plates, our clothes-washing, and our clean quarters.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And I wouldn’t want you to forget it.” Ariadne traced the kitchen with a calculative look. “You’re going to clean this entire room. Wash every dish and cookpot. Carry the scraps out to the garden for compost.”
Cistine resisted the urge to toss up her hands in frustration. There was no sense in arguing. She’d accepted during her conversation with Thorne the previous day that this abuse was what she had to endure to save her kingdom.
For that, she could shoulder Ariadne’s scorn. She could shoulder anything.
“All right,” she snapped. “Show me where to begin.”
Cistine’s fingertips and knuckles ached by the time she finished scrubbing muddy bootprints from the kitchen floor. Ariadne’s presence was the only thing that kept her from stalking from the kitchen and leaving the menial labor behind. Perched on a chair she’d dragged into the mouth of the hall by Cistine’s room, the warrior thumbed through a book, ignoring Cistine except to grunt the occasional use of a tool or the proper hanging of some household item on the pegs around the room. Cistine had never realized how many utensils were dirtied in a single meal; it was no wonder her father’s kitchens were some of the most popular and highest-paid positions in the Middle Kingdom.
Darkness hugged the windows as Cistine sat back on her heels, examined the polished floor, and snaked a glance at Ariadne. She didn’t comment on it, just as she hadn’t commented on Cistine’s dish-washing or counter-wiping. Not a glint of praise. Not even a nod of approval.
A throat cleared from the doorway behind her, and Cistine’s stomach writhed as she looked up.
Julian leaned against the curved wooden entryway, arms folded. One brow peaked smoothly, and that was the only sign of his shock as he saw his princess down on her knees, polishing the floor like a scullery maid.
Cistine lurched up, knees cracking, her abused haunches, legs, and hands tingling. “What are you doing here?”
“Searching for the princess,” Julian said. “Have you seen her?”
“Very funny.” Cistine hurled her polishing rag at him. The simple heft and sling of her arm sent a lance of pain down her muscles, and she groaned.
Julian’s smile slipped as he approached her, rag in fist. “Take a walk with me?”
Cistine’s heart sprang at the notion of their first courtship stroll—then wilted just as quickly. “I can’t. I promised Tatiana I would shop for some suitable training threads with her tonight.”
Ariadne snorted as if the thought of Cistine in training attire was absurd, but she missed Cistine’s retaliatory glare as she turned the page of her book.
“I could accompany you,” Julian offered. “You shouldn’t visit a market after dark without an escort, anyway. Not after what happened in Veran.”
Cistine motioned him quiet, glancing at Ariadne, uncertain of which troubled her more: the thought of Ariadne knowing about Matthias and Roosha, and how Cistine had needed rescuing, or the reminder for any of the cabal of how Quill had failed them by rescuing her.
Ariadne gave no indication she’d even heard them.
“I’d welcome the company,” Cistine said. “We should invite Ashe, too.”
“I’ve been with her all day. She’s having her leg seen to right now. She’s supposed to stay off it for a day or so.”
Cistine’s relief that Thorne was keeping his word melted into guilt. She’d been too busy to even visit her Warden after the midday meal. “I’m glad you were there.”
“She’s my friend, too.” Julian led her to the door. “Besides, I needed the distraction. Otherwise I would’ve been shadowing you all day.”
“Did I say you could leave?”
Ariadne’s quiet question stopped Cistine midstride. The warrior hadn’t moved from her seat, but her eyes were fixed on them now, the book forgotten.
“Tatiana needs me,” Cistine said. “If you have a grievance, take it to her.”
Ariadne went on staring, her gaze as cold as the heart of winter. Cistine wondered if that stare was perfected by everyone in the cabal.
Finally, Ariadne returned to her book. “Take the compost with you.”
Cistine snatched up the tin of crushed eggshells, potato skins, and other half-rotten miscellanies, slipping out before Ariadne could think of another servant’s task for her to fulfill.
Julian plucked the tin from Cistine’s arms the moment they were out of Ariadne’s sight. “I can’t believe this. Princesses shouldn’t do the work of maids.”
Cistine had spent the past hour thinking that very thing, but hearing someone else say it, she bristled defensively. Somehow, her own words in Julian’s mouth sounded far more selfish and self-important than she could bear.
She took the tin back from him. “She wanted to see me react. I didn’t give her the satisfaction. I’m sure things will be different tomorrow.”
“And if they aren’t?” Julian asked. “A whole month of this, Princess…”
“I know.” Cistine’s calves throbbed at the mere notion. “But I have a duty to my kingdom. And I’ll fulfill it, whatever it takes.”
Tatiana waited for them at the door, her belly and arms covered with a thick wool cardigan. She grinned as she saw Cistine’s burden. “We’ve been making bets for weeks on who would finally be fed up enough to take that tin and dump it. I think I owe Quill and Maleck a few mynts.”
“And who were you betting on?” Cistine asked.
“Thorne. He’s always been a stickler for cleanliness. Why do you think we stashed that tin in the cupboard?”
They emerged into a sticky, sultry twilight. Insects chirred near the Nior River and the watermills cranked their quiet music as Cistine and Julian followed Tatiana around the Den. There was a small, paddocked garden behind it, under the shade of fruit trees and berry bushes. It reminded her of the garden outside her window in the Citadel—a small pocket of home in an unfamiliar land. “This is beautiful!”
“We don’t think so,” Tatiana said. “Tending it is a waste of valuable energy.”
“But it gives you food.” Cistine slipped through the garden gate. “You should be more thankful for what you can grow with your own hands.”
“It’s hardly enough food to make up for how much time we spend pulling weeds and laying soil every spring.”
“Don’t argue with Cistine about this,” Julian warned. “She has a special love for all things green.”
Cistine hadn’t expected him to notice that. A smile dimpled her warm cheeks as she spread the compost among the plants and bushes.
Tatiana leaned against the fence with a groan. “Are you ready yet?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Cistine plucked a few berries from one of the bushes and thumbed them into her mouth as Tatiana led them toward the market.
“It’s good to see you smiling like this again,” Julian murmured to Cistine. “Ever since the Vey…”
“I haven’t felt like smiling since then,” Cistine admitted. “Well…except last night.”
Julian wove his fingers between hers, and Cistine flicked a berry to him. He caught it in his mouth with a rakish grin.
A surprise awaited them at the front of the Den: Quill, propped against the porch railing and munching on a cinnamon stick, his arms folded. “I heard someone was going shopping without me. I’m wounded, Tati! I don’t know that I’ll recover this time.”
Tatiana perched her hands on her hips. “You look as lively as ever to me. Annoyingly so, even.”
“Why don’t I give you a better look all night, then? Someone’s got to carry your shopping bags. As usual.”
“We don’t need an escort,” Julian said.
“If it was an escort, I’d be armed,” Quill grinned “Can’t a man enjoy the finer things without having his motives questioned?”
“Not if he’s a featherbrained cutthroat, no.” Tatiana swaggered ahead of them down the path, calling over her shoulder: “Coming, or not?”
Quill winked at Cistine and hurried to catch up with Tatiana. Julian swore under his breath, and Cistine squeezed his hand. “Think of it this way: at least they’ll distract each other.”
Julian’s smile crept back into place, slow as a sunset. “I can appreciate that.”
They descended into the market together, and Cistine knew that even with Quill and Tatiana for company, she was going to enjoy herself tonight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THOUGH HELLIDOM SEEMED quaint from afar, especially on the paths Cistine had walked on the outskirts during training, Quill and Tatiana showed them inner pockets that dazzled in the night. Few shops sold superfluous wares—there was little to speak of in the way of jewelry or fine dresses—but the food was delectable, and the clothing they did find was like nothing Cistine had ever seen: scarves and shawls of some foreign beast’s wool, both cool and warm at once, their colors winking like a dream in the pomegranate-lantern light; trousers like Tatiana’s that billowed from the tight waist strap and clung at the ankles; blouses with long sleeves and high midriffs; long shirts woven with armored vests, practical and stylish.
And, most importantly, there was no lack of training and battle armor.
“There is a difference,” Tatiana said as they browsed a brightly-lit shop she’d dragged Cistine into. “There’s light training armor for the inexperienced and armor weighted like battle-ready threads without wasting the actual resources.”
“You mean the steel silk and such?” Cistine asked.
Tatiana smirked. “So you were listening today. That’s precisely it. Once you’ve progressed through training, you’re ready for true battle armor with its reinforcements.”
Julian ran a hand over a set of black fighting armor: a long, loose-sleeved undershirt, vambraces, calf-guards, a chestplate, and a weapon’s belt. “What about me? Do you think I’m ready for a set of armor like this?”
“We would have to see you fight,” Tatiana said.
Quill rubbed his chin. “That just might be entertaining, come to think of it.”
“Then I just might try.”
“If you have the stones, my sword is ready for yours.”
Much to Cistine’s relief, Julian didn’t take Quill up on his offer.
They returned to the Den well after dark, Julian and Quill weighed down with bags. They’d left the market with more than just training armor: Cistine had two new scarves, one of which Julian picked specifically for its vibrant gold-and-blue threads. Tatiana purchased several outfits, complaining to the shopkeeper while she paid that she had no room left in her closet for any of it.
“Then why do you keep buying?” Cistine asked as they ducked from the shop.
“Because Tariq has seven children to feed,” Tatiana said. “They’re Blaykrone refugees. They need the mynts.”
“Why not just give it to them, then?” Julian asked.
“Thorne doesn’t give charity,” Quill said. “He just encourages us to look for our clothes at Tariq’s shop before anywhere else.”
Cistine pondered that as they passed through the ghostlit paths: the ruthless High Tribune who gave no charity but found other ways to ensure the people of Hellidom had a living. She wondered if that was generosity, or his way of ensuring everyone in the city pulled their weight.
Perhaps it was a bit of both.
“Also,” Tatiana added when the silence became thick with thought, “I do love clothes.”
That kindred interest had Cistine laughing despite her sore feet as she, Quill, and Julian left Tatiana with the bags in her room, facing the challenge of cramming five more outfits into the overstuffed space.
“We’re going to find her buried under a landslide of threads one of these days,” Quill lamented, ducking into his own room across the hall. Cistine caught a glimpse of an open, uncluttered floor, and many windows ushering in the glittering light of Hellidom below, before Quill shut the door.
“They should encourage her to donate to the poor,” Julian said as they left the corridor. “She could clothe an entire village with that closet.”
“True,” Cistine said. “But did you notice, Julian? There doesn’t seem to be anyone poor or unfortunate in Hellidom.”
They paused before his doorway, and Julian shrugged. “Maybe our benefactor doesn’t allow anyone without mynts into his town.”
“I heard that.”
The quiet rumble came from the kitchen. Though it was dark inside, not even a candle lit, Cistine had no doubt Thorne was there in the shadows, lurking between her and the sanctuary of her room.
Julian bristled. “I’ll walk you to bed.”
