If that was true, then there were other questions I had to ask, with answers that could earn my execution. What if saving Antora required Lord Endrick's destruction? What if the Coracks were right?
Simon touched my arm, and I jumped. "Are you all right? You seem nervous."
Nervous? No, I was unnerved, and completely unsure of what I was meant to do next. I just had to get home, back to what was familiar, and center myself again. Then everything would be all right.
"I'm fine," I said to Simon. It was a lie, but I made myself believe it, at least until the worst of the nausea passed.
Crossing into the capital city of Highwyn required us to pass between the Sentries, two blue granite statues so enormous that on horseback, we were barely taller than the toe of a Sentry's foot. The one to our right stood as a warning to all who came, his sword outstretched and body in a fighting posture. The one to the left faced toward the city, its sword sheathed and arm outstretched, an invitation to leave in peace. The Sentries had been built by the Dallisors during our family's earliest days in power. My mother once told me that Endrick hated them, felt dwarfed by them, but had never destroyed them for fear of losing our family's support.
Immediately after crossing the Sentries' Gate, the hills of Highwyn rose before us. The capital city was grand and regal, its streets clean and in good repair. Buildings were close together and stood tall. Each new layer upon the city became increasingly elegant as Highwyn's height grew along with its wealth. Numerous suspended bridges overhead connected the various buildings, leaving the narrow streets for animals and carriages. My father often described postwar Antora as an empire in eternal blossom, reflecting the immortality of its Lord. But if that were true, how would he explain what I'd seen in the countryside, in Pitwill? The Lord of the Dominion's green and black colors waved in flags hung over most building entrances. The streets remained busy for most hours of the day, populated by loyalists or those who wanted Dominion favors. And the deeper we went into the city, the tighter Simon's hand gripped his sword and the more ashen Trina's face became. I figured I was still more nervous than the two of them combined. They were risking their lives for this mission, but so was I. If they succeeded in obtaining the Olden Blade, I would also lose my honor, what was left of my family, and any future I might have otherwise had. But with soldiers as our escorts, none of us could go back now.
In the center of town, an ancient Halderian monument dedicated to the citizens of Antora was gradually being replaced with a grand statue of Lord Endrick. I'd been told it would be completed by spring and then the entire country would celebrate it together. After what I'd seen earlier today, I knew people would stand in the streets when commanded to do so, with smiles on their faces and cursing us under their breaths.
The higher we climbed the hills of Highwyn, the more Dallisor family homes could be seen. They were easily identified by the Dallisor crest on the gates, a shield with the upper half depicting the conquering sword of Gridwyn Dallisor, and the lower half a solid red, representing the Scarlet Throne of Antora. It was a source of family pride and, I assumed, of pain as well. The throne belonged to Lord Endrick now.
Of all the houses on the hill, my home, Woodcourt, stood highest among them all. That was because of my father's position in the kingdom. Lord Endrick's coziest lapdog.
The Dominion Palace sat highest on the hills of Highwyn, almost as if Woodcourt itself bowed to Lord Endrick, which I supposed was accurate enough. I'd never been allowed inside, nor had I ever asked to enter. Despite its glistening marble walls, the palace felt dark to me. A tomb for an immortal Lord.
Up here, near the palace walls, it wasn't hard to know when Endrick's condors were near. Their screeches carried for almost a mile and always left my ears ringing.
Endrick had created his own breed of the bird, born of magic and his unquenchable thirst for death. Each was large enough to carry a grown man and had talons that could rip flesh. At the palace, they were caged and fed live animals by their riders to keep them both loyal and bloodthirsty. They flew higher than any opposing weapon could reach, and their trained riders carried shoulder cannons with leaden fire pellets that exploded anything and anyone they landed on. Nothing in Antora had yet withstood their attack.
"What is making those sounds?" Trina hissed over at Simon.
He said nothing. He knew, which meant he had probably seen them in action.
I never had, and I never wanted to. It was a relief when our road bent away from the palace, toward my home.
Woodcourt was L-shaped with a circular tower at its center. Gray granite blocks made up most of the exterior, along with white-shuttered windows and a gabled roof. There were several entrances into Woodcourt: the main doors in the tower for guests and members of the household, another for servants, one for the vast gardens that extended to the rear of the home, and another one set just outside the gates for prisoners to be escorted directly into the dungeons, unseen and unsmelled. One word from me and these soldiers would use that entrance for Simon and Trina. The temptation of it was difficult to shake from my mind.
The soldiers left us at the main gate into Woodcourt with polite bows. I thanked them for their service. Simon and Trina didn't even acknowledge them, which was both rude and foolish. Real servants would have expressed gratitude for their protection.
The three of us slid off our mounts, and Simon walked the two horses through the main gates. Trina almost immediately recoiled, then pointed forward, saying, "What is that?"
When I saw who she was looking at, I hissed back at Trina to shut her mouth. Celia had already warned me about my father's household manager, so at least one of us here wouldn't behave like an idiot. He was of medium height, with a plump body, bald head. And blue skin. Or grayish blue, to be more specific.
He must have seen Trina's reaction, but he ignored it and turned to me. We exchanged polite bows, then he said, "My name is Gerald Bones. I am the manager of Woodcourt. Are you Miss Dallisor? Your father expected your arrival today."
"I am." My formal tone matched his. "With me is a guard, Simon, and my handmaiden, Trina."
Gerald raised a hairless brow when he noticed them. "Your handmaiden is supposed to be Celia. I chose her for you myself."
"You chose a stupid and lazy girl. I released her and selected my own handmaiden."
It was a question I'd anticipated, so my answer was ready. But it felt like a betrayal to describe Celia so cruelly, after her months of patience with me. It was also a ridiculous excuse, considering that Trina was still staring at him as if she'd forgotten how to blink.
"I have a condition," Gerald said at last, uncomfortable beneath her gawking. "I'm as human as you, only--"
"Blue." This was the word Trina used to shake herself from her trance?
"Speak so rudely again, and you'll go to work in the laundry!" I scolded, then returned my attention to Gerald. "Forgive my handmaiden, sir. Clearly she's even less intelligent than Celia was."
Gerald grunted and turned toward Simon, who had made himself busy with our horses that needed no attending whatsoever. "We expected a man named Darrow to bring you back ... in a security carriage. And with a garrison accompanying you."
"They're all dead." Simon spoke stiffly, clearly uncomfortable. "Lady Kestra's carriage was attacked at the inn where she stayed last night. I rescued her and came on as her protector."
Thinking of the soldiers and why they died, I clenched my teeth, an angry retort at the tip of my tongue. But not in front of Gerald. Not in front of any servant of my father.
Instead, I offered Gerald a wry smile. "These two aren't much, but I intend to keep them ... for now."
Gerald dipped his head at me. "Very well, my lady. Your protector can attend to the horses while your handmaiden prepares your bath for a special supper tonight. Your father asked to see you as soon as you arrive."
Simon and Trina exchanged a wary look--one so obvious I would have to discuss it with them later. Neither of them seemed to like the
idea of being separated from me this soon, but what had they expected? It would never be tolerated for servants to follow me around Woodcourt.
After Gerald moved out of earshot, I whispered to Simon, "Either you trust me or you don't."
His gaze on me was steady. "I don't."
For some reason, that made me smile. I took his words as a challenge to a game I fully intended to win. He should already know how comfortable I was with cheating.
He didn't like seeing me smile, and certainly didn't return it, which only made me enjoy the moment more. I said to him, "Nor should you trust me. Now go attend to those horses." Then I called to Trina. "Draw a hot bath for me, and have some food waiting in my room. If you do a good job, you can have my scraps."
I felt rage rising in her, which gave me a particularly satisfied smile. I swerved on my heel to follow Gerald into Woodcourt, never looking back.
Why would I? They were only servants.
It was strange to be here again after three years. The house itself looked exactly as it always had, yet it wasn't the same at all. It wasn't the house, of course. I had changed. The first thirteen years of my life had been spent here, existing under my father's rules, where one did not speak until spoken to first, where an accidental cough at dinner was considered unpardonable, and where, aside from Lord Endrick alone, my father ruled his world. Even the cut flowers seemed to bow to him when he walked the halls. Since going to the Lava Fields, I'd eaten beside my servants because it was preferable to eating alone. Darrow had taught me to ride astride, and Cook showed me how to gut the fish Darrow and I used to catch from Unknown Lake. At best, rules were a suggestion, and no one cared when I broke them. Except my handmaidens, of course, but none of them lasted long enough to re-civilize me.
As Gerald led me into the east wing of Woodcourt, he said, "You've been away for a long time, my lady. Do you feel you are coming back a stranger?"
No, I was coming back a traitor, which was much worse. And I'd always felt like a stranger here.
That was true today, more than ever before. I was seeing my home like a forgotten memory, unknown and familiar at the same time. Most rooms bore dark wood-paneled walls, and tiled floors with thick rugs that I used to roll myself in as a child. On the plastered walls in the grand entry, artists had painted scenes of Dallisor family history, though I wondered how many of those were exaggerated in my family's favor to earn the artist extra gold for his work. Surely not all of us were as bold or as handsome as the paintings made us appear. I knew for a fact that before her death, my Grandmother Dallisor had more closely resembled a walrus than the painting in front of me depicted.
Since I hadn't answered Gerald's last question, he changed the topic. "Your father is waiting for you in the library. Did you know he's read every book the library holds? A brilliant man, your father."
"Hmmm." That was the most energy I could muster for this conversation.
When he was home, my father spent most of his time in the library, perhaps because its civilization stood in such stark contrast to Endrick's torture chambers, the other place my father frequented. The library was two stories tall, filled floor to ceiling with books. If a satin-covered diary was still here in Woodcourt, then it was probably somewhere in this room.
Gerald knocked to announce our presence, then opened the door. "Sir Henry, your daughter is here."
I was given permission to enter, and saw my father seated at his desk, reading from a thick marble slab known as a tablet. All Dallisor families had one, as would most loyalists and traders. It was one method by which Endrick sent his orders throughout the country, as messages or images would appear on the tablet at his pleasure. Whatever my father was reading now was obviously more interesting than the daughter he'd not seen for three years.
My father hadn't changed much in that time. He did appear older than he should have--he was near Darrow's age, yet had the face of an elder. He also looked harder than I remembered, any warmth in his expression deadened since our last meeting. The lines around his mouth were creased with sadness, making me sad too. Despite who I knew him to be, no daughter wishes to see so much regret in her father's eyes.
Was it too late for him? Or for us? I drew a deep breath and held it, unsure of whether I wanted those questions answered.
Finally, he glanced up, appraising me with all the generosity of a miser on his last coin. "You look well, though a little untidy."
If he wouldn't show any affection, then neither would I. "I've been traveling since early yesterday morning."
"Yes, but then you were never one to fuss with your appearance. That must change now, Kestra. You are not a child anymore."
"My travels here were an adventure, thank you for asking. But the past three years of my life went well, if you were wondering."
He frowned. "Of course they did. I'd have heard if anything was wrong."
Such as a small garrison of his men having been killed? No doubt Gerald would give him the report later today. I shifted my weight to the other foot, hoping it wouldn't be perceived as my growing impatience with this conversation, although that was exactly the problem. "Why did you bring me home again? All I got was a message demanding that I return by today."
He leaned back in his seat, touching a finger to his lips. "My reasons should have been obvious. You finally agreed to my terms."
"To a marriage of alliance? I'm not seventeen yet. Is this a joke?"
He grunted. "You did agree, Kestra. You sent a letter through your handmaiden, telling me you'd had enough of the Lava Fields and would agree to wed the person of my choice."
My hands curled into fists. "I sent no such letter! Does it sound like me to have made such a stupid concession?"
He stood, thrusting his chair back with enough force to leave a crack in the plaster of his library wall. "It sounded like you had finally grown up, that you were willing to accept your duty as a Dallisor!"
"Agreeing to marry someone I may not like--a person I don't even know--is not a sign I've grown up. The fact that I've grown up is evidenced in the fact that I don't have to subjugate my happiness to your desire for power. I will not do this."
My father marched around his desk and grabbed my arm, hard enough that I suspected it would leave a bruise. Then he all but threw me out of his library, where Gerald was waiting in the hall. No doubt he had heard every word of our fight.
"Tell her maid to dress her like a proper lady, and to have her at supper tonight, where she will meet Sir Basil of Reddengrad and charm him if she knows what's good for her. She will not eat until then. If she does not attend, she will never eat again."
Gerald bowed and then waved a hand to motion me ahead of him down the corridor. I didn't look back at either him or the library as I walked, and not from defiance or conceit. It's only that I didn't want anyone to see the tears so thick in my eyes they nearly blinded me. Simon and Trina could talk all they wanted about the privileges of being a Dallisor, of how I was so much better off than they were. They had no idea what they were talking about. A true privileged life had nothing to do with the softness of bedsheets or the spread of food on a table. It would have meant I still had a mother to welcome me home, and a father who cared more for my happiness than for his personal ambitions.
My room was on the upper floor at the end of the west wing, literally as far from my father's apartments as he could place me without requiring me to sleep on a perch outside. Trina had a hot bath waiting for me there, and was putting the finishing touches of a warm meal on a table in my old room. It would've been easier to accept my punishment if that food had all the aroma of a barn floor, but sadly it didn't. Woodcourt cooks were second only to those who served Endrick and could spin delicacies from straw, if necessary. Trina curtsied to Gerald when he entered, like a proper handmaiden would, and when he acknowledged it, he said, "The lady's father has ordered that she is not to eat until she agrees to attend a supper with him tonight. You will enforce those orders with absolute strictness."
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sp; "Of course." A wicked smile crossed Trina's face. "It's a pity to see this lovely meal go to waste. I could eat it, I suppose. My lady hasn't fed me as well as she should have."
I exhaled a stiff breath, loud enough that if I were convicted of treason one day, at least Gerald would know I'd already been sufficiently punished.
"You may eat it, this once," Gerald said. "But remember she is your mistress, not the other way around."
In any other circumstance, Trina would've argued that. But now, she immediately sat down, attacking the food like it was her first meal in months. She must have been hungry, for most people outside the Dominion didn't like the spicy way we prepared our food, or the expense of the spices, perhaps. Gerald remained in the room long enough to assure himself that she wasn't going to share with me. If only he knew how unnecessary his concern was. Trina would lick the plate before letting me have a crumb.
I didn't care. Or, at least, I tried not to care. I spent most of the time pretending I couldn't hear the smack of her mouth as she ate, instead reacquainting myself with my old room. The walls had once been lined with golden fabrics, though I'd heard that Lord Endrick banned the use of gold cloth for anyone but himself. My other furnishings were still here: a bed, a writing desk, a reclining sofa--yet the things I'd cared most about were gone. On a shelf in the corner, the rock collection I'd spent years gathering had disappeared. An autumn leaf, plucked from a tree the day my mother died, was nowhere to be found. Whatever clothes I'd left behind when my father rushed me away were gone too, though that was understandable. I'd grown taller in the last three years. I'd grown up.
"The water will be cold by the time you get around to bathing me," I told Trina, who was finishing the last of the boiled meat on her plate.
"Probably."
"Let's do it now."
"Do it yourself, brat. I'm not your servant."
"Here at Woodcourt, you are."
She tossed her head upward, hard enough that I wondered if she'd cracked her neck. "I am superior to you, Kestra Dallisor, in ways you cannot imagine. I should be the one having a bath, not you."
"As you wish." I marched over to the large basin that had been placed in the center of my room. It was nearly full of water, and the soaps and rinse-water buckets were set out on a nearby stool.