Graceling

  Raffin appeared again, a floor above her, on the balconied passageway that ran past his workrooms. He leaned over the railing and called down to her. "Kat!"

  "What is it?"

  "You look lost. Have you forgotten the way to your rooms?"

  "I'm stalling."

  "How long will you be? I'd like to show you a couple of my new discoveries."

  "I've been told to make myself pretty for dinner."

  He grinned. "Well, in that case, you'll be ages." His face dissolved into laughter, and she tore a button from one of her bags and hurled it at him. He squealed and dropped to the floor, and the button hit the wall right where he'd been standing. When he peeked back over the railing, she stood in the courtyard with her hands on her hips, grinning. "I missed on purpose," she said.

  "Show-off! Come if you've time." He waved, and turned into his rooms.

  And that's when the presence in the corner of Katsa's eye took shape.

  He was standing a floor above her, to her left. He leaned his elbows on the railing, the neck of his shirt open, and watched her. The gold hoops in his ears, and the rings on his fingers. His hair dark. A tiny welt visible on his forehead, just beside his eye.

  His eyes. Katsa had never seen such eyes. One was silver, and the other, gold. They glowed in his sun-darkened face, uneven, and strange. She was surprised that they hadn't shone in the darkness of their first meeting. They didn't seem human. She couldn't stop looking at them.

  A steward of the court came to him then and spoke to him. He straightened, turned to the man, and said something in response. When the steward walked away, the Lienid's eyes flashed back to Katsa's. He leaned his elbows on the railing again.

  Katsa knew she was standing in the courtyard's center, staring at this Lienid. She knew she should move, but she found that she couldn't.

  Then he raised his eyebrows a hair, and his mouth shifted into the hint of a smirk. He nodded at her, just barely, and it released her from her spell.

  Cocky, she thought. Cocky and arrogant, this one, and that was all there was to make of him. Whatever game he was playing, if he expected her to join him he would be disappointed. Greening Grandemalion, indeed.

  She tore her eyes away from his, hitched her bags higher, and pushed herself forward into the castle, all the while conscious of the strange eyes burning into her back.

  Chapter Seven

  HELDA HAD COME to work in Randa's nurseries around the same time Katsa began to dole out Randa's punishments. It was hard to know why she'd been less frightened of Katsa than others were. Perhaps it was because she had borne a Graceling child of her own. Not a fighter, only a swimmer, a skill that was of no use to the king. So the boy had been sent home, and Helda had seen how the neighbors avoided and ridiculed him simply because he could move through the water like a fish. Or because he had one eye black, and the other blue. Perhaps this was why when the servants had warned Helda to avoid the king's niece, Helda had reserved her opinion.

  Of course, Katsa had been too old for the nurseries when Helda arrived, and the children of the court had kept Helda busy. But she'd come to Katsa's training sessions, when she could. She'd sat and watched the child beat the stuffing out of a dummy, grain bursting from cracks and tears in the sack and slapping onto the floor like spurting blood. She'd never stayed long, because she always needed to return to the nursery, but still Katsa had noticed her, as she noticed anyone who didn't try to avoid her. Had noticed and noted her, but hadn't troubled herself with curiosity. Katsa had had no reason to interact with a woman servant.

  But one day Helda had come when Oll was away and Katsa was alone in the practice rooms. And when the child had paused to set up a new dummy, Helda had spoken.

  "In court they say you're dangerous, My Lady."

  Katsa considered the old woman for a moment, her gray hair and gray eyes, and her soft arms, folded over a soft stomach. The woman held her gaze, as no one other than Raffin, Oll, or the king did. Then Katsa shrugged, hoisted a sack of grain onto her shoulder, and hung it from a hook on a wooden post standing in the center of the practice-room floor.

  "The first man you killed, My Lady," Helda said. "That cousin. Did you mean to kill him?"

  It was a question no one had ever actually asked her. Again the girl looked into the face of the woman, and again the woman held her eyes. Katsa sensed that this question was inappropriate coming from a servant. But she was so unused to being talked to that she didn't know the right way to proceed.

  "No," Katsa said. "I only meant to keep him from touching me."

  "Then you are dangerous, My Lady, to people you don't like. But perhaps you'd be safe as a friend."

  "It's why I spend my days in this practice room," Katsa said.

  "Mastering your Grace," Helda said. "Yes, all Gracelings must do so."

  This woman knew something about the Graces, and she wasn't afraid to say the word. It was time for Katsa to begin her exercises again, but she paused, hoping the woman would say something more.

  "My Lady," Helda said, "if I may ask you a nosy question?"

  Katsa waited. She couldn't think of a question more nosy than the one the woman had already asked.

  "Who are your servants, My Lady?" Helda asked.

  Katsa wondered if this woman was trying to embarrass her. She drew herself up and looked the woman straight in the face, daring her to laugh or smile. "I don't keep servants. When a servant is assigned to me, she generally chooses to leave the service of the court."

  Helda didn't smile or laugh. She merely looked back at Katsa, studied her for a moment. "Have you any female caretakers, My Lady?"

  "I have none."

  "Has anyone spoken to you of a woman's bleedings, My Lady, or of how it is with a man and a woman?"

  Katsa didn't know what she meant, and she had a feeling this old woman could tell. Still, Helda didn't smile or laugh. She looked Katsa up and down.

  "What's your age, My Lady?"

  Katsa raised her chin. "I'm nearly eleven."

  "And they were going to let you learn it on your own," Helda said, "and probably tear through the castle like a wild thing because you didn't know what attacked you."

  Katsa raised her chin another notch. "I always know what attacks me."

  "My child," Helda said, "My Lady, would you allow me to serve you, on occasion? When you need service, and when my presence is not required in the nurseries?"

  Katsa thought it must be very bad to work in the nurseries, if this woman wished to serve her instead. "I don't need servants," she said, "but I can have you transferred from the nurseries if you're unhappy there."

  Katsa thought she caught the hint of a smile. "I'm happy in the nurseries," Helda said. "Forgive me for contradicting such a one as yourself, My Lady, but you do need a servant, a woman servant. Because you have no mother or sisters."

  Katsa had never needed a mother or sisters or anyone else, either. She didn't know what one did with a contradictory servant; she guessed that Randa would go into a rage, but she was afraid of her own rages. She held her breath, clenched her fists, and stood as still as the wooden post in the center of the room. The woman could say what she wanted. They were only words.

  Helda stood and smoothed her dress. "I'll come to your rooms on occasion, My Lady."

  Katsa made her face like a rock.

  "If you ever wish a break from your uncle's state dinners, you may always join me in my room."

  Katsa blinked. She hated the dinners, with everyone's sideways glances, and the people who didn't want to sit near her, and her uncle's loud voice. Could she really skip them? Could this woman's company be better?

  "I must return to the nurseries, My Lady," Helda said. "My name is Helda, and I come from the western Middluns. Your eyes are so very pretty, my dear. Good-bye."

  Helda left before Katsa was able to find her voice. Katsa stared at the door that closed behind her.

  "Thank you," she said, though there was no one to hear, and though she wasn't s
ure why her voice seemed to think she was grateful.

  KATSA SAT in the bath and tugged at the knots in her tangle of hair. She heard Helda in the other room, rustling through the chests and drawers, unearthing the earrings and necklaces Katsa had thrown among her silk undergarments and her horrid bone chest supports the last time she'd been required to wear them. Katsa heard Helda muttering and grunting, on her knees most likely, looking under the bed for Katsa's hairbrush or her dinner shoes.

  "What dress shall it be tonight, My Lady?" Helda called out.

  "You know I don't care," Katsa called back.

  There was more muttering in response to this. A moment later Helda came to the door carrying a dress bright as the tomatoes Randa imported from Lienid, the tomatoes that clustered on the vine and tasted as rich and sweet as his chef's chocolate cake. Katsa raised her eyebrows.

  "I'm not going to wear a red dress," she said.

  "It's the color of sunrise," Helda said.

  "It's the color of blood," Katsa said.

  Sighing, Helda carried the dress from the bathing room. "It would look stunning, My Lady," she called, "with your dark hair and your eyes."

  Katsa yanked at one of the more stubborn knots in her hair. She spoke to the bubbles gathered on the surface of the water. "If there's anyone I wish to stun at dinner, I'll hit him in the face."

  Helda came to the doorway again, this time with her arms full of a soft green silk. "Is this dull enough for you, My Lady?"

  "Have I no grays or browns?"

  Helda set her face. "I'm determined that you wear a color, My Lady."

  Katsa scowled. "You're determined that people notice me." She held a tangle of hair before her eyes and pulled at it, savagely. "I should like to cut it all off," she said. "It's not worth the nuisance."

  Helda put the dress aside and came to sit on the edge of the bath. She lathered her fingers up with soap, and took the tangled hair out of Katsa's hands. She worked the curls apart, bit by bit, gently.

  "If you ran a brush through it once every day while you were traveling, My Lady, this wouldn't happen."

  Katsa snorted. "Giddon would get a good laugh out of that. My attempts to beautify myself."

  That knot untangled, Helda moved to another. "Don't you think Lord Giddon finds you beautiful, My Lady?"

  "Helda," Katsa said, "how much time do you suppose I spend wondering which of the gentlemen finds me beautiful?"

  "Not enough," Helda said, nodding emphatically. A hiccup of laughter rose into Katsa's throat. Dear Helda. She saw what Katsa was and what she did, and Helda didn't deny that Katsa was that person. But she couldn't fathom a lady who didn't want to be beautiful, who didn't want a legion of admirers. And so she believed Katsa was both people, though Katsa couldn't imagine how she reconciled them in her mind.

  IN THE GREAT dining hall, Randa presided over a long, high table that might as well have been a stage at the head of the room. Three low tables were arranged around the perimeter to complete the sides of a square, giving the guests an unobstructed view of the king.

  Randa was a tall man, taller even than his son, and broader in the shoulders and the neck. He had Raffin's yellow hair and blue eyes, but they weren't laughing eyes like Raffin's. They were eyes that assumed you would do what he told you to do, eyes that threatened to bring you unhappiness if he didn't get what he wanted. It wasn't that he was unjust, except perhaps to those who wronged him. It was more that he wanted things the way he wanted them, and if things weren't that way, he might decide that he'd been wronged. And if you were the person responsible—well, then you had reason to fear his eyes.

  At dinner he wasn't fearsome. At dinner he was arrogant and loud. He brought whomever he wanted to sit with him at the high table. Often Raffin, though Randa spoke over him and never cared to hear what he had to say. Rarely Katsa. Randa kept his distance from her. He preferred to look down on his lady killer and call out to her, because his yelling brought the attention of the entire room to his niece, his prized weapon. And the guests would be frightened, and everything would be as Randa liked it.

  Tonight she sat at the table to the right of Randa's, her usual position. She wore the soft green silk and fought the urge to tear off the sleeves that widened at her wrists and hung over her hands and dragged across her plate if she wasn't careful. At least this dress covered her breasts, mostly. Not all of them did. Helda paid her no attention when she gave instructions about her wardrobe.

  Giddon sat to her left. The lord to her right, whom she supposed to be the eligible bachelor, was a man not old, but older than Giddon, a small man whose bugged eyes and stretched mouth gave him the appearance of a frog. His name was Davit, and he was a borderlord from the Middluns' northeast corner, at the border of both Nander and Estill.

  His conversation wasn't bad; he cared a great deal about his land, his farms, his villages, and Katsa found it easy to ask questions that he was eager to answer. At first he sat on the farthest edge of his chair and looked at her shoulder and her ear and her hair as they talked, but never her face. But he grew calmer as the dinner progressed and Katsa didn't bite him; his body relaxed, he settled into his chair, and they spoke easily. Katsa thought him unusually good dinner company, this Lord Davit of the northeast. At any rate, he made it easier for her to resist tearing out the hairpins that dug into her scalp.

  The Lienid prince was also a distraction, no matter how much she willed him not to be. He sat across the room from her and was always in the corner of her eye, though she tried not to look at him directly. She felt his eyes on her at times. Bold, he was, and entirely unlike the rest of the guests, who carefully pretended she wasn't there, as they always did. It occurred to her that it wasn't just the strangeness of his eyes that disconcerted her. It was that he wasn't afraid to hold hers. She glanced at him once when he wasn't looking. He raised his eyes to meet her gaze. Davit had asked the same question twice before Katsa heard him and turned from the Lienid's uneven stare to answer.

  She supposed she would have to face those eyes soon. They would have to talk; she would have to decide what to do with him.

  She thought that Lord Davit would be less nervous if he knew there was no chance of Randa offering him her suit.

  "Lord Davit," she said, "have you a wife?"

  He shook his head. "It's the only thing my estate lacks, My Lady."

  Katsa kept her eyes on her venison and carrots. "My uncle is very disappointed in me, because I intend never to marry."

  Lord Davit paused, and then spoke. "I doubt your uncle is the only man who finds that disappointing."

  Katsa considered his pointy face, and could not stop herself from smiling. "Lord Davit," she said, "you're a perfect gentleman."

  The lord smiled in return. "You think I didn't mean it, My Lady, but I did." Then he leaned in and ducked his head. "My Lady," he whispered, "I wish to speak with the Council."

  The voices of the dinner guests were lively, but she heard him perfectly. She pretended to focus on her dinner. She stirred her soup. "Sit back," she said. "Act as if we were only talking. Don't whisper, for it draws attention."

  The lord settled back into his seat. He raised his finger for a serving girl, who brought him more wine. He ate a few bites of his venison and turned to Katsa once more.

  "The weather has been very kind to my aging father this summer, My Lady," he said. "He suffers in the heat, but it's been cool in the northeast."

  "I'm happy to hear it," Katsa said. "Is it information, or a request?"

  The lord spoke around his mouthful of carrots. "Information." He sliced another piece of venison. "It becomes more and more difficult to care for him, My Lady."

  "Why is that?"

  "The elderly are prone to discomforts. It's our duty to keep them comfortable," he said, "and safe."

  Katsa nodded. "True words, indeed." She kept her face even, but excitement rattled at the edges of her mind. If he had information about the kidnapping of the Lienid grandfather, they would all want to hear
it. She reached under the heavy tablecloth and rested her hand on Giddon's knee. He leaned toward her slightly, without turning away from the lady on his other side.

  "You're a man of great information, Lord Davit," she said to the lord, or rather, to her plate, so that Giddon could hear. "I hope we'll have the opportunity to speak with you more during your stay at court."

  "Thank you, My Lady," Lord Davit said. "I hope so, too."

  Giddon would spread the word. They would meet that night, in her own rooms—because they were secluded and because they were the only rooms not traveled by servants. If she could, she'd find Raffin beforehand. She'd like to visit Grandfather Tealiff. Even if he was still sleeping, it would be good to see with her own eyes how he was faring.

  Katsa heard the king speak her name, and her shoulders stiffened. She didn't look at him, for she didn't wish to encourage him to draw her into his conversation. She couldn't make out his words; most likely he was telling some guest the story of something she'd done. His laughter rolled across the tables in the great marble hall. Katsa tried to push back the scowl that rose to her face.

  The Lienid prince was watching her. She felt that, too. Heat licked at her neck and crawled along her scalp. "My Lady," Lord Davit said, "are you quite all right? You look a bit flushed."

  Giddon turned to her then, his face flashing with concern. He reached for her arm. "You aren't ill?"

  She pulled back, away from him. "I'm never ill," she snarled, and she knew suddenly that she must leave the hall. She must leave the clatter of voices and the sound of her uncle's laugh, Giddon's smothering concern, the Lienid's burning eyes; she must get outside, find Raffin, or be on her own. She must, or she would lose her temper, and something unthinkable would happen.