Inker and Crown

Chapter 8

8

Allora

The rain was trying enough to be getting on with. Not that Allora feared getting wet. Or even being cold and covered in mud should it come to that. But there was a time and place for looking like a filthy, drowned kitten, and a trip to the Royal Palace was not one of those times.

“Are you sure the Princess requested to see me immediately?” Allora felt quite pleased with herself. She hadn’t sounded at all like she was whining. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the storm passes?”

“The Princess requested you be brought to her directly,” the matron said, not looking away from the carriage window.

“As the Princess desires.”

Of course, Allora had already let herself be herded into the carriage, so it was much too late to avoid a soggy trip to the palace.

If only I’d had the sense to hide. I could be comfortable in my bed right now. Warm, dry, not worrying about the whims of the young royal.

But she had obediently answered the knock on her bedroom door, and now she would spend her day at the mercy of the Princess.

The carriage bounced along the twisting road as it trundled down from the cliffs where the Map Master’s Palace sat high above the city.

The Royal Palace was nestled at the far northern edge of Ilara where the cliffs gave way to gentle hills. The royals of Ilbrea had long since given up on the cliffs as a measure of defense, choosing instead a barricade of walls and warren of tunnels for their protection.

The Guilded streets were nearly empty. A few Guild members hurried along with their heads low and cloaks wrapped tightly around their shoulders. The commoners Allora spotted did not dodge through the rain. They walked with an air of resignation, as though the rain were nothing more than a new inconvenience.

There were no commoners or colorfully cloaked Guilded near the royals’ home. Only the ranks of soldiers patrolling the outer wall of the palace braved the deluge.

The rattle under the carriage’s wheels changed as they crossed from the street to the stone bridge that spanned the wide moat. The bridge’s very existence was, by non-magical standards, impossible. Without any struts reaching down into the water far below, the wide expanse appeared ready to collapse at any moment. The stones were barely a foot thick with no visible mortar holding them together.

Allora closed her eyes tight as they reached the center of the bridge.

It’s the work of the sorcerers.

She wasn’t sure if the thought should be comforting or not.

The sorcerers’ magic could hold up the stones, but the sorcerers’ magic could send her falling to her death as well.

The sound of the wheels changed again as they reached solid ground.

The carriage paused for a moment while soldiers’ voices rumbled outside, their words muted by the pounding rain.

Has Lady Allora been summoned to be trapped inside by a petulant child?

Yes, we have the Lady Map Maker.

Bring her in and lock her up for the rest of her days. Allora Karron will make a fine pet.

Allora bit back her smile at the imagined conversation.

Caring for the woes of a princess could hardly be considered the worst position for a person to be trapped in. At least with the Princess, there was bound to be a hot cup of tea waiting for her.

The pounding of the rain against the roof of the carriage stopped for a moment as they passed through the outer wall, then again as they passed beyond the inner ring and into the palace proper.

A wide lawn stretched out on either side of the road. Perfectly trimmed hedges and carefully curated flowerbeds dotted the wide swath of green. Had the Princess summoned her on a sunny day, they could have strolled through the early blooms, letting the cool spring wind invigorate them.

But even the Sorcerers Guild could not banish the rain. And the royals would not be ruled by the weather.

The carriage stopped at the bottom of the wide stone steps, and a servant in yellow and gray livery trotted down the stairs, umbrella in hand.

“I will escort you home when you are finished.” The matron gave a simpering smile.

Escort me home when I am freed. Allora swallowed the retort.

“Thank you, madam.” Allora gave the woman a nod and ducked out into the rain, grateful for the protection of the umbrella even as the downpour soaked the hem of her skirt.

She didn’t know the matron’s name, though she had seen the woman at least a dozen times. A flutter of guilt nibbled at her as she hurried up the steps. She didn’t like the woman who dragged her out in the rain, but it did seem a little vapid to sit in silence with a person without knowing her name.

Then again, she didn’t know the name of the liveried man who was now soaking wet after having carried her umbrella.

“Thank you,” Allora said as they stepped into the grand entryway of the palace.

The man gave a tiny bow.

There was no point in asking his name. She might never see him again and probably wouldn’t recognize him if she did.

He disappeared through a discreet door that led to rooms she would never see. His place was in the narrow corridors that led from one part of the palace to another. Allora’s place was in the immense front hall.

The light of the glittering chandeliers reflected off the shining marble floor and golden filaments woven through the pale tapestries that covered the walls. Flames crackled in the two fireplaces that flanked the space. Both were large enough for several people to stand in, but the fires hadn’t pushed back the damp chill of the morning.

Allora looked at the puddle her dress had dripped onto the floor, hoping whichever poor maid would have to scrub her mess away wouldn’t blame her for dragging in the storm.

“Lady Allora!” the Princess’s bright voice called from the top of the grand staircase. “I was hoping you would come.”

Allora smiled and gently bowed her head. “I am always thrilled to see you, Princess Illia.”

“Please come up.” The Princess beckoned.

The wide marble stairs swept up to the second floor, which housed the royal apartments. Most in Ilbrea would be honored beyond belief to be taken to the Princess’s private parlor. But the grandeur of the Map Master’s Palace rivaled that of the Royal Palace. The only true differences being the lack of soldiers constantly patrolling and other public persona endlessly invading the royals’ home.

“How are you this morning, Your Highness?” Allora asked as she reached the second floor.

Portraits of the royal family lined the long hall, each grander than the last. Jewels studded the frame of King Brannon and Queen Carys’s wedding portrait. Allora bit the inside of her lips to keep from giggling at the gaudy display.

“Quite well.” The trill of the Princess’s voice faltered a bit. “The rains should be helpful in washing the city. And everything must be at its best in Ilara.”

“Of course,” Allora said as Princess Illia opened the white double doors to her parlor. “The city must always be at its best. The capital is the pride of Ilbrea.”

Princess Illia closed the doors, letting her hands linger on the knobs for a moment, as though she were afraid someone would throw the doors back open.

“Is there a reason the city should be made even more beautiful?” Allora asked.

The Princess glanced around the room before letting her customary smile slide away. “So many reasons, or maybe no reason at all.”

A fire had been lit in the parlor, and the room was small enough that the flames actually did some good. Still, Allora was grateful when the Princess led her to the two seats closest to the stone fireplace.

Every shred of the parlor’s decorations had been chosen with the Princess in mind. Pretty pictures hung on the blue and white walls. An easel, paints, and a harp waited to entertain the Princess. A tiny shelf of books hid in the corner. None of the spines looked as though they had ever been bent.

Allora’s nails bit into her palms at the thought of Adrial toiling for two years to make a book for a girl who cared so little for the scribes’ craft. But perhaps Princess Illia’s children would care to learn of their mother’s homeland.

Allora waited until she was settled in her seat by the fire, and the silence had become unbearable, to speak. “Your Highness, may I ask why you’re particularly interested in having the city look perfect this spring? If I’m not overstepping, of course.”

“Of course not, Lady Allora.” The Princess took Allora’s hand. It was in moments like this when it became easy to see that Illia was barely fifteen. The girl clung to Allora as though she held some magic greater than any sorcerer’s, which could wipe away whatever troubles plagued her beautiful blond head.

“The Queen has lost another child,” Illia began.

“Oh no.” Allora pressed her free hand to her mouth.

“We all knew it would happen,” Illia said. “It’s the sixth in as many years, and with each, she becomes more frail.”

“The poor Queen.”

“The child held on through Winter’s End, but now the Queen’s fallen back into mourning. My brother won’t even speak of it. None of us are meant to.”

“Of course.” Allora couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward the door, waiting for the matron to come bustling in to scold the Princess for daring to mention f*******n things.

“I can’t help but wonder if she wouldn’t feel better if she left the palace,” Illia said. “She sits all day in the nursery she prepared. If she would only walk through the gardens, maybe she would feel better. The new blooms the rain brings might tempt her outside.”

“We all grieve in our own way,” Allora said, “and the Queen has had so much to grieve.”

“She has.” Illia let go of Allora’s hand and began fidgeting with her skirt, smoothing it as though preparing for her portrait to be painted. “And it seems she may never carry a child to term. My brother might never have a true heir.”

Tension gripped Allora’s neck as understanding trickled through her.

“Ilara must have an heir,” Illia said. “If the Queen cannot produce one, and I am to be sent to Wyrain, the throne will leave the Willoc name.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” The words seemed hollow even as Allora spoke. “I’m sure the King―”

“I should be allowed to stay,” Illia cut across Allora. “If my brother’s heir will not be his child, then he should look to me before any of our cousins. If he thinks I’m not fit to take his place, I should at least be allowed to stay and help, or marry the chosen heir to keep our bloodline in Ilbrea. Dudia gave our family to the people of Ilbrea to protect His great land. I cannot abandon my home.”

“You aren’t abandoning Ilbrea.” Allora ached to take the girl’s hand, but it couldn’t be allowed. The Princess could reach for her, but not she for the Princess. “Ilbrea and Wyrain need to come together. Our people have been at odds for too long. Wyrain blocks us from the Golden Sea and all the goods from the eastern lands. Your wedding will open trade routes and bring prosperity to the Guilds.”

“So trade routes are the price for selling me?” Illia stood and paced in front of the fire. “I don’t know the prince I am to marry. I’ve never even met him. Wyrain is to be my new home, and I’ve never been allowed to cross the mountains to see it.”

“Your Highness…”

You can’t tell her it’s awful and unfair. You can’t tell the Princess her place is in Ilbrea, protecting her brother’s throne.

“The weight of the Willoc name is a heavy burden to bear.”

Illia shrieked a laugh.

“But Dudia would not have borne you into the royal family were you not strong enough to bear the weight.”

“You mean to bear children for a prince I’ve never met.” Tears streamed down Illia’s face. “Lady Allora, what if he’s terrible?” Collapsing to her knees, the Princess buried her face in Allora’s damp skirt. “What if he smells like cattle or does nothing but drink frie?” The Princess’s words came out in muffled gasps.

“He’s a prince, not a common sailor.” Allora petted Illia’s hair.

They could be sisters. Their bright blond hair and pale faces were so similar. Somewhere, a few generations back, their families had been intertwined. Allora was a simple twist of fate away from being in Illia’s position. Promised to be sent to a land far from home.

“What if he hates me?” Illia dabbed her cheeks with a finely woven handkerchief. “What if he thinks I’m vapid and stupid and spends all his days dreading to be near me?”

“How could anyone hate you?” Allora dared to brush the hair from Illia’s brow. “You are lovely and kind. Prince Dagon will see that.”

“Are you sure?” Illia sniffed.

“Absolutely.” Allora smiled. “You know…you really needn’t wait until the wedding to get to know Prince Dagon.”

“Because my brother will let me cross the eastern mountains to see my new home? You can’t possibly believe there’s any chance of it until after the wedding.”

“No, I’m certain the King won’t allow you to leave Ilbrea. I’m quite certain Prince Dagon won’t be allowed here either.”

“Then it’s impossible.”

“Not if you write to him.” Allora stood and led Illia to the writing desk in the corner. “Letters are carried through the mountains by traders all the time. Ask him of his home in Wyrain. Ask him of his horses, or if he likes to sail.”

“And what if he hates horses and sailing?” Illia sank into the chair, her fingers trembling as she reached for the finely pressed paper.

“Then we’ll find out what he does like. And if he was raised to be as princely as he should, he’ll ask what things bring you joy.”

“Do you really think so?” A glimmer of a smile kissed Illia’s lips.

“I do, Your Highness.”

“Will you help me write him?” Pink crept up Illia’s cheeks. “I’ve never written to a man before.”

“Of course I will.” Allora sat on the upholstered chair next to the desk, carefully looking away from the table to give Illia her privacy.

This was the price of her delaying marriage. Were she a married women, even if her husband were away on a journey, she would not be expected to come running at the Princess’s bidding. Her place would be in her home and her mornings meant for more than sitting beside a young girl’s desk.

Please let the Prince write her back.

Illia was completely right. Prince Dagon could be a wretched beast who cared more for drinking and women than the good of his own country. But Princess Illia didn’t need to know that. She would have to marry him, whether he was terrible or not. There was no need for the girl to spend the next two years dreading her fate.

And they had no reason to give up hope. Perhaps he would be lovely and send her a letter back. Maybe Illia would be lucky and grow to like the Prince enough she might look forward to her wedding day.

Men on journeys couldn’t send letters. There weren’t the resources to spare. Niko would be gone for months, charting the eastern mountains, at least until winter came. Mara and Tham would be off in the white for ages. Kai would be far away on a ship.

And Allora and Adrial would be stuck in Ilara, praying to Dudia and Aximander that everyone would come home safe.

“Will you read it?” Illia’s words pulled Allora from her reverie.

“If you like.”

Illia’s nerves showed in her writing. The usual smooth curve of her penmanship had been replaced by angular script.

My Dear Prince Dagon,

I hope Winter’s End has found you in good health. Our celebrations of the spring have ended in Ilara. Are there such festivals in Spios? Do you celebrate Winter’s End or some other festival?

I do hope to learn more of my new home before I join you across the eastern mountains.

King Brannon’s chief joy in the spring is riding through the forests that surround Ilara. He finds the fresh air does him good after a winter confined in stone to avoid the chill of the season.

I have heard winters in Spios are kinder than winters in Ilara. Are you able to ride through the country even in winter? Do you enjoy riding at all?

Please give my regards to His Royal Highness and whomever else you hold dear.

Yours in highest regards,

Princess Illia Willoc

“Is it a good letter?” Illia asked as soon as Allora’s gaze reached the bottom of the page.

“It’s a fine letter.” Allora slipped it back onto the desk. “And I’m sure he’ll be grateful for it. Think of the comfort he’ll feel when he knows he’s getting a kind wife.”

“Oh, Lady Allora, I knew you would help. You’ve always such a level head, and I never feel embarrassed to talk to you.” Illia bit her lips together. “I was thinking, and I’m sure I could convince my brother, but what would you think of moving into the palace?”

“Your Highness”―Allora’s mind raced through a dozen different rejections―“I’m sure your brother wouldn’t want me invading his home.”

“Is it not my home, too?” Illia asked. “My mother passed years ago. My brother’s wife should by all rights be my guardian, but she’s always so sullen she hardly speaks to me.”

“And what of the matron who came to collect me?”

“Sara is a dowdy old thing.” Illia waved a hand through the air. “She never would have suggested writing to Prince Dagon. She speaks only of duty. I don’t think the old crow knows anything else.”

“Your Highness, I am always at your service, but I cannot live in the Royal Palace.” Allora took a deep breath. “My place is in the Map Master’s Palace. My father has no wife to care for his house. I cannot abandon him.”

“But he’s so often gone.” Illia took Allora’s hand.

“And it is my place to keep everything safe for him in his absence.” Allora’s mind flew to a stone room and a hidden secret.

“Is that why you still haven’t married, so you may care for your father?” Illia’s brow wrinkled as she spoke, as though she were a child confused about the making of supper.

“There are many reasons,” Allora said, “but I cannot abandon my father. Not when the map makers have so much to do before your wedding.”

“I suppose I should be pleased a daughter of the Guilds is so attached to her duty.” Illia sighed. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could do as we pleased, and live where we pleased, and marry whom we pleased?”

“Perhaps, but the Guilds require sacrifice. And who are we to refuse?”