Above the Snowline (19 page)
Two years ago this month, in the Langrel Room of Wrought Manor, candles were lit on black candlesticks so tall their flames were depositing rings of soot on the sloping ceilings. I sit opposite Francolin, Lord Governor of Wrought, across a card table on which burns a lamp. It is night outside and the oddly shaped corners of the large room are in shadow. The lamplight, so dark yellow as to seem almost brown, does not venture into them but plays on the table, skipping over the surfaces of every object and baulking from the shadows beneath. Beside the lamp, a pile of ash on a silver plate is all that remains of the letters that brought us here.
Reeve Estaminet has been quiet all evening, listening without comment, but Snipe, who has just checked the door for the hundredth time, stirs uneasily from foot to foot and looks back over his shoulder at us.
‘So, it’s settled,’ Wrought says. ‘We make our move next week. It’s a shame we don’t have the support of any other reeve.’
‘Only Estaminet,’ I say. ‘I can vouch for several reeves from other manors, but only Estaminet from Rachiswater.’
‘What about the steward?’
I shake my head. ‘No. My brother’s steward is loyal. I’ve taken pains to keep this from him. If he had the slightest whiff of what we were doing, he’d run straight to Tarmigan.’
Grey-haired, old Wrought carefully examines his fingernails and the backs of his hands. ‘Let me recap. Tarmigan . . .
King
Tarmigan,’ he amends sarcastically, ‘is preparing to march to the Front and resume his campaign against the Insects. On his first night in camp a group of soldiers in my pay will enter his pavilion and will ensure he never wakes again. They will make his death appear as if an Insect has attacked him. How it will be done, neither you nor I know and we do not want to know.’
King
Tarmigan,’ he amends sarcastically, ‘is preparing to march to the Front and resume his campaign against the Insects. On his first night in camp a group of soldiers in my pay will enter his pavilion and will ensure he never wakes again. They will make his death appear as if an Insect has attacked him. How it will be done, neither you nor I know and we do not want to know.’
‘Sh!’ says Snipe from the doorway. ‘Not so loud.’
‘Will you sit down!’ Wrought snaps. ‘You’re giving me the jitters. This whole wing is deserted!’
I say, ‘Nobody’s there, Snipe. Do as he says.’
My servant obeys, tentatively dragging a chair to the table and sitting astride it. His skin is so sallow it resembles ivory and deep shadows ring his eyes. The growing stress we had suffered as we watched Wrought’s plans take shape had reached fever pitch. I recoiled from them so much that I was no longer even sure whether my surroundings were real, or simply a backdrop to a mad play.
Wrought appraises Snipe shrewdly. ‘He’s nervous.’
‘Of course he’s bloody nervous. We all are!’
Wrought licks his dry lips. He has the peculiarly smooth lips of an old man whose looks age has dignified rather than ravaged. ‘Raven,’ he says, ‘you will be ready to ascend the throne as soon as the messenger arrives with the news.’
‘Yes, immediately. I don’t want the fyrd stepping in.’
‘Good.’
There is another long pause. To prevent any more last-minute fears setting in, Wrought clears his throat and says briskly, ‘This is our final meeting. We know what we have to do. We all have safeguards ensuring we can rely on each other. We all know what we stand to gain. Now, let us separate and go about our business; not a word nor glance will pass between us till it’s over.’ He stands up, scraping his chair on the parquet, and unlocks the door. Reeve Estaminet goes through without looking back and his footsteps recede down the corridor. Snipe sweeps the room with a quick scowl and follows him out.
‘Francolin,’ I ask, ‘why are you doing this?’
He chuckles, goes to the window and pulls the curtain aside a little, to look through the rain-streaked panes at the sodden and rotten scrub woodland extending down to the smokestacks of the weapons factories. ‘When you are king, as is your right to be, you’ll remember the hand I had in your accession. I’ve had a good life, Raven. I’ve done almost everything I wanted to do; slept and feasted with whomever I wanted. Still do.’ He rubs at the pane. ‘My coffers are full and at supper time my lovely daughter comes to the table and gives her old dad a kiss on the cheek. You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but she’s usually pushed forward to speak to my brother.’
‘All that will change. I’ve achieved most of what I wanted in life and, now death is round the corner, I have nothing to lose. It would be good to be father of the Queen of Awia. I’d like to see my line continue in the Rachiswater dynasty.’
I see. ‘I would be pleased to wed your daughter,’ I said.
‘Thought you’d say that. Thought you would. Tern’s a beauty, is she not?’
‘As beautiful as the legendary Lynette herself.’
‘Our families will join and my grandson will accede to the throne instead of your brother’s brat Sarcelle. I offer you this manor as Tern’s dowry. You will inherit it as well as Rachiswater and my blood will be part of the royal dynasty for years to come. That means a lot to an old man.’ His withered neck flaps, rather like a tortoise’s, and I suddenly hate him. The lusty, conniving old goat doesn’t deserve his woods and marshes, his foundries, his beautiful and scandalously young wife whom he found as a serving girl - and his even more stunning daughter whom every man in Awia is watching like a hawk. Now I understand why Francolin has been shielding her: he intends her for me.
‘A double prize,’ I say. ‘The throne and your daughter. I agree. We shall be the first of a long dynasty: Rachiswater-Wrought.’
Francolin bows. Then he reaches out a thumb and forefinger, turns down the lamp and with a hiss the room is plunged into darkness.
I dropped the coin. It clattered on the floor and rolled under the table. ‘Damn Francolin!’ I said, bent down and retrieved it.
A group of mountaineers entered the gate, and I heard their boisterous talk as they clattered through the undercroft below me. I went to the window, looked down and saw the last of them enter with crampons on their boots and ropes across their bodies. I had sent them to explore an ice cave in one of the rifts of Capercaillie.
‘Snipe!’ I called. ‘Tell the climbers I’ll dine with them tonight. I want to hear what they’ve found!’
‘Very good, my lord.’
I returned to sit on the tall pine chair. I missed Rachiswater intensely. I yearned for the palace and the capital town so much I ached. The fruits of Awia’s glorious culture were denied me: conversations with people who know literature, visits to the theatre, the opera and the ballet. There was nothing in the mountains. None of the coarse and grasping settlers had even heard of the Tambrine poets. Of course, my philistine brother knew this part of the punishment would bite most deeply. He forbade my friends in artistic circles to correspond with me, at pain of losing royal patronage. I wished that I had strangled him in the womb.
In Carniss the winter afternoons were freezing and deadly. I missed the crisp brightness of our hunting woods. I missed the beautiful lemon-yellow chestnut leaves against the pale blue sky, as it was this time two years ago, on my last day in Rachiswater, when Tarmigan dealt our lot with a simple wave of his hand. Everyone involved had known how much was at stake, and now I think of that day with a mixture of fear and defiance. I can still hear the hunting horn that signalled my life in Rachiswater coming to an end.
The sound of the hunting horn far off in the woods at Rachis: Hoo-oo! Hoo-oo! Dogs barking and scrambling bell a counterpoint to its resonant note. Crashes in the undergrowth grow louder as they approach, and now the first dogs burst through, their forepaws raised in dives. They snuffle the ground, their eyes bright but with a detached look: they are concentrating on the scent.
My twin is the first to turn his horse and race after them. His helmet visor is raised and his eyes sparkle. His horse’s rear hooves drag nettles and brambles out of the patch. I follow on black Rabicano and six more huntsmen spur on, one after another, behind me.
My reins are slippery in one hand, and in the other my longbow held down tight against Rabicano’s flank. Tarmigan races ahead and through gaps in the screen of twigs and hawthorn leaves I see flashes of his iridescent armour - beetle-carapace green, now turquoise, now metallic purple. Out of the corner of my eye the huntsmen are glints of steel and harlequin velvet - diamonds of crimson and primrose, violet and rose-blue, on their bay and dapple mounts.
Autumn light has a golden quality that you never see at other times of the year. The sun is so low its long yellow light casts our shadows far into the woods. I am still young enough to prefer autumn to summer, dusk rather than dawn, late-night conversations, not early-morning graft. I am thoroughly enjoying myself.
We skirt round a copse of saplings growing close together, spiralled with ivy and hung with glossy mistletoe as if festooned for New Year’s Eve. Tarmigan jumps his purebred over a wide ditch. He dips his lance tip and disappears into a thicket. I urge Rabicano to follow him, feeling twigs buff off my armour. I am beside myself with gladness that soon I’ll have to follow him no more.
We duck low, over our horses’ necks as the branches sweep above our heads. My arrow shafts and flights squeak as they rub together in the quiver over my shoulder. Our hooves crunch the fallen leaves, then we emerge into a clearing with hassocks of grass bearing seed stalks. We charge through, splashing the shallow water lying between them.
The hounds know they are closing in and give tongue again. The screen of grass waves ahead of us and a rustling marks where our quarry has come to bay. The dogs are all around us now, slowing down and hanging back, looking up at us expectantly. Among the tussocks we sight the sinuous profile of the mountain lion.
I nock a barbed arrow, draw, and my hooked fingertips press white on the string. Then suddenly my brother’s horse plunges forward in front of me, completely blocking my shot.
‘Ya!’ He levels his lance at the lion. It draws back liquidly on deep-sculpted haunches. Its ears lie flat and its face creases into a snarl. Threads of saliva link its fangs as it opens its mouth and roars.
The lance tip pierces its shoulder and at the same time it leaps. It seizes his thigh, sticks there like a burr, its claws in the saddle and its tawny reflection shining on his leg armour. Its shoulder runs with scarlet. Slowly it releases its hold, slips down and slides off the lance. It falls on its side, showing its white belly - and my horse baulks away. The lion lies still and the fire dulls from its burning eyes. When they glaze over I lower my bow and see with satisfaction that my first arrow is still lodged in its hindquarters - peacock-feather fledgings and gold foil. All the other hunters had missed; my shot was the one that had brought it to bay.
Tarmigan alights, pulls off his gauntlets and touches the lion’s wound with his finger, then, according to the boorish custom, smears blood across his cheeks.
‘Well done, Your Highness!’ calls Oscen.
‘A powerful beast!’
‘An excellent bag!’
My twin turns to the hunters his laughing, panting face shining with blood. His chest and shoulders are heaving and his feet, clad in pointed sabots, are sinking in the grass.
‘Mortals could almost count you Eszai!’ says Oscen.
‘I shot it first,’ I say, but nobody pays me the slightest attention.
Tarmigan wipes his face on his leaf-fringed mantle. ‘The deer in our woods will be safe now with no lions to prey on them.’
‘Indeed. We knew you’d be its match!’ cries Oscen.
‘Right!’ Tarmigan says. ‘Let’s go back to the pavilion and release another one!’
I am always amazed how they can ignore me when I look identical to him. I repeat, ‘I shot it first.’
‘Yes. You damn well put an unnecessary hole in a fine pelt.’ Flushed with success, he stands with his lance clasped in both hands. ‘I think, Raven, you should be more careful of your own hide.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We bring new quarry to bay! Tanager! Oscen!’
The courtiers draw their bows
on me
! I gasp, looking from razor-sharp arrow head to arrow head - all six of them. The closest courtiers begin backing their horses slightly to take better aim.
on me
! I gasp, looking from razor-sharp arrow head to arrow head - all six of them. The closest courtiers begin backing their horses slightly to take better aim.
‘What’s going on? How dare you?’
‘My own twin, a traitor,’ Tarmigan says calmly.
‘What? Certainly not! Whoever gave—’
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