shift his roving gaze from the crowd, examining the multihued sea of faces as if a magistrate might arrive to explain further. “Officious fools believe they can lock out the wind.”
Before I could ask what he meant, Duplais rose in the stirrups and waved to a sober, soft-cheeked gentleman who had just emerged from behind the customs station. “Henri! Over here.”
The man squeezed his way through and handed over a rolled page, tied with a ribbon. “You’re a fortunate man, Portier,” he said, blotting his forehead and bearded chin with a linen kerchief. “Chevalier de Sylvae provided this just before he left for the country. You’re right that the imbecile can expedite tricky matters, though I’ll throw myself in the river if I must listen to one more crocodile story.”
“Many thanks. I had to leave in such a rush, I’d no time to arrange for a gate pass.”
“She’s still not bound for the Spindle?” The man lowered his voice, eyeing me without staring.
My cheeks scorched. This Henri, his close-barbered beard and mustache encircling an ill-defined mouth, had been one of Duplais’ witnesses at Papa’s trial.
“She’s the king’s gooddaughter,” said Duplais, “and deemed little threat should she be in custody of a forceful ally. The dowry His Majesty settled on her in infancy will attract notice from a number of useful quarters.”
I wanted to vomit. For these long three days in the saddle, I had relived the bizarre attack in the wood, wrestled with the heartache of leaving Montclaire, the impossibility of Lianelle’s death, and Duplais’ implication of murder. I’d given my own future no thought at all. Now here it was, laid out before me like the view from the hilltop.
My father had been a king’s First Counselor, ensuring that I would take substantial property, connection, and influence into a union. Since my first inkling of what marriage meant, my father had assured me that any husband would be my own choice, a choice of the heart, as my parents’ had been. Yet observing my mother’s heartache every time Papa rode out, often absent for months at a time, I had decided that love and intimacy created a bondage every bit as confining as arranged marriage. Friends, family, study, and travel were everything I wanted. But in this, as in all, Papa’s crimes had changed everything.
“Best not let word get out who she is,” said this Henri. “A mob demolished a cult shrine last night, screaming they were sheltering the Traitor. Night begets rumors of hauntings like a corpse begets maggots. And pick your route up the hill carefully.”
We never heard his reasons. The crowd shifted, quickly engulfing Duplais’ friend, as a rider in dusty scarlet livery charged through the press. “Make way! Step aside! Royal dispatches for Castelle Escalon!”
Duplais pushed his mount into the wake of the royal messenger, shouting at Margriet and me to keep close. The deft maneuver slid us to the head of the queue, where he presented his scroll. To the disgruntled murmurings of other travelers, the gate guards passed us through after only a glimpse.
“Why would anyone believe a shrine would shelter my father?” I said as we rode through the gate tunnel.
“It was a cult shrine—the Cult of the Reborn,” said Duplais. “Since your father’s conviction, Merona has suffered a plague of. . . unnatural . . . happenings. These hauntings or incidents spawn rumors that the Great Traitor seeks to raise an army of revenants to overthrow the king. The frightened and ignorant lash out at any group who speaks of souls returning from the dead.”
The Cult was a small, devout branch of Temple worshipers. They believed that our saints were actually heroic souls who had turned their backs on Heaven, reborn repeatedly to succor humankind in times of our direst need. Yet I’d never heard that Cult beliefs encompassed necromancy , an aberrant—and wholly unsubstantiated—practice anathema to the Temple and
Before I could ask what he meant, Duplais rose in the stirrups and waved to a sober, soft-cheeked gentleman who had just emerged from behind the customs station. “Henri! Over here.”
The man squeezed his way through and handed over a rolled page, tied with a ribbon. “You’re a fortunate man, Portier,” he said, blotting his forehead and bearded chin with a linen kerchief. “Chevalier de Sylvae provided this just before he left for the country. You’re right that the imbecile can expedite tricky matters, though I’ll throw myself in the river if I must listen to one more crocodile story.”
“Many thanks. I had to leave in such a rush, I’d no time to arrange for a gate pass.”
“She’s still not bound for the Spindle?” The man lowered his voice, eyeing me without staring.
My cheeks scorched. This Henri, his close-barbered beard and mustache encircling an ill-defined mouth, had been one of Duplais’ witnesses at Papa’s trial.
“She’s the king’s gooddaughter,” said Duplais, “and deemed little threat should she be in custody of a forceful ally. The dowry His Majesty settled on her in infancy will attract notice from a number of useful quarters.”
I wanted to vomit. For these long three days in the saddle, I had relived the bizarre attack in the wood, wrestled with the heartache of leaving Montclaire, the impossibility of Lianelle’s death, and Duplais’ implication of murder. I’d given my own future no thought at all. Now here it was, laid out before me like the view from the hilltop.
My father had been a king’s First Counselor, ensuring that I would take substantial property, connection, and influence into a union. Since my first inkling of what marriage meant, my father had assured me that any husband would be my own choice, a choice of the heart, as my parents’ had been. Yet observing my mother’s heartache every time Papa rode out, often absent for months at a time, I had decided that love and intimacy created a bondage every bit as confining as arranged marriage. Friends, family, study, and travel were everything I wanted. But in this, as in all, Papa’s crimes had changed everything.
“Best not let word get out who she is,” said this Henri. “A mob demolished a cult shrine last night, screaming they were sheltering the Traitor. Night begets rumors of hauntings like a corpse begets maggots. And pick your route up the hill carefully.”
We never heard his reasons. The crowd shifted, quickly engulfing Duplais’ friend, as a rider in dusty scarlet livery charged through the press. “Make way! Step aside! Royal dispatches for Castelle Escalon!”
Duplais pushed his mount into the wake of the royal messenger, shouting at Margriet and me to keep close. The deft maneuver slid us to the head of the queue, where he presented his scroll. To the disgruntled murmurings of other travelers, the gate guards passed us through after only a glimpse.
“Why would anyone believe a shrine would shelter my father?” I said as we rode through the gate tunnel.
“It was a cult shrine—the Cult of the Reborn,” said Duplais. “Since your father’s conviction, Merona has suffered a plague of. . . unnatural . . . happenings. These hauntings or incidents spawn rumors that the Great Traitor seeks to raise an army of revenants to overthrow the king. The frightened and ignorant lash out at any group who speaks of souls returning from the dead.”
The Cult was a small, devout branch of Temple worshipers. They believed that our saints were actually heroic souls who had turned their backs on Heaven, reborn repeatedly to succor humankind in times of our direst need. Yet I’d never heard that Cult beliefs encompassed necromancy , an aberrant—and wholly unsubstantiated—practice anathema to the Temple and
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