Dearest (14 page)

“You lead an army right now,” Tristan pointed out, “for all that they are children.”

“They’ve been called as much by some, but they are not an army,” said Friday. “They are just children. I am a shepherd, and they are my flock.”

“In a country being invaded by trolls, I have seen flocks like this given weapons to defend themselves,” said Sebastien. “What you have is an army.”

Friday shuddered. “Gods willing, my children will never be put to that test. They have been through enough already.” Her eyes met Tristan’s again, and once again she read his mind as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud. “As have you,” she added. “I can feel that each one of you is preparing for a fight—but you shouldn’t have to.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” said Christian. “But we will.”

“I know,” said Friday. “And I know there is nothing I can do to stop you, but . . . I worry about Philippe.”

“Why?” Sebastien, Christian, and Tristan asked all at once.

“There is a great anger brewing inside him.”

“That’s not new,” said Sebastien.

Friday took Sebastien’s hand. “I know what you feel. Through you, I have a sense of Philippe’s past behavior. Believe me when I tell you that the anger Philippe is experiencing now is far beyond anything of which you ever thought him capable.”

Tristan hadn’t been worried about his younger brother until that moment. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

“I assure you it is,” Friday said with perfect conviction. “That young man is very full of pain, and he is very ready to do something about it.”

“Like what?” asked Christian.

Sebastien took his hand from Friday’s and folded his arms over his chest. “Like kill Mordant the minute he sets foot in Arilland.”

Friday gasped. “You know?”

“I know my brothers better than you think, Your Highness. Worry not. I will speak to him tomorrow.”

Friday narrowed her eyes at Sebastien thoughtfully. “You might not disabuse him of this notion.”

Sebastien shrugged. “Maybe I don’t think killing Mordant would be such a bad thing.”

“You would start a war?” she asked. “And you would put Arilland in the middle of it?”

“I might,” said Sebastien.

“Then may the gods help us all,” said Friday. From the girl who believed only in putting good intentions out into the world, it was as much a prayer as a statement.

Philippe had a knack for finding chaos. This was one instance in which Tristan hoped his disconsolate brother did not showcase his talents.

9

T
HE PREVIOUS SPRING,
Friday had been tasked with fashioning five gowns for her mother and sisters for a royal ball, and she’d only had three days in which to do it. At the end of those three days, one of her sisters had become a princess, and one a queen.

This time, three days passed even more quickly.

An incredible amount of work had been done; a credit to Arilland, her inhabitants, and her resident refugees. Most of the women—and some men—took to spinning, sewing, weaving, and mending. It seemed that everybody on the castle grounds now owned some patchwork article of clothing. The parents of Friday’s children in particular donned the material as a mark of pride.

Most of the men—and some women—set to helping Papa and Peter with their ship; so many that it was almost completed and ready for sealing and launching. A special crew had been delegated to help Cook with the nettles and the rest of the scavenged food, though the numbers of her staff dwindled in direct proportion to the food supply. Those who left her service made their way to the grassy beaches armed with poles to fish in the surf for whatever they could catch. Velius and Monday attended to new patients suffering from heat sicknesses and sunburns, and Cook started concocting healing salves alongside her regular menu.

It had been almost a month since Saturday’s impossible ocean had appeared; it was beginning to look as if it was there to stay. If that was so, Arilland was in dire straits. Rumbold and Sunday remained ensconced in meetings, sending emissaries into Faerie and beyond in search of help or trade. Queen Sunday had recruited their old family friend Johan Schmidt as seneschal, to see how far he could squeeze the gold in Arilland’s coffers. He brought along his young assistant, Panser.

It was comforting to see Panser’s familiar face around the castle. Friday had been in love with Panser, too, once, not so long ago . . . and yet, it felt like ages. Tristan had colored everything about her life, it seemed: not only her present and future, but her past as well.

Friday worried about them all now—the swans and their sister—as if they were her own family. Elisa was as exhausted as Arilland. She remained in the sky tower quietly bent over her weaving, day and night. True to Friday’s promise, Elisa wove until her fingers cracked and bled. And true to Friday’s word, the princess took Elisa’s wounds as her own when she could, bearing the pain for her.

In the evenings, Elisa’s hair changed to gold, and during the daylight it returned to the color of nettle fiber, but she did not budge from her spot. She wove until she passed out from exertion, and when she woke she scolded whoever was at hand for letting her sleep too long. She would have refused food or drink if her brothers and Friday had not forced it into her, keeping the looms out of reach until she wolfed something down, used the privy, and silently fought to start again.

There is not enough time to weave all seven shirts before Mordant’s arrival,
Elisa said as Friday took her hands and her pain once more.
Don’t tell them, please. I beg you
.

“Whether you complete the task or not, will anything stop you from working yourself to the bone?” whispered Friday.

No.

Friday squeezed Elisa’s newly healed fingers once more. “Then there is nothing to be said.”

Elisa had four shirts completed and was hard at work on the fifth when the trumpets blared just after dawn on the third day to signal Mordant’s arrival.

Mordant’s ship had . . . well, not
docked,
since there was no port in Arilland to speak of, but it weighed anchor just off the shoreline. Two boats were lowered into the water from the high deck, giving Rumbold, Sunday, and their staff time to clear out the Great Hall and ready themselves to receive the visiting dignitaries.

Friday changed out of her patchwork and back into the only formal dress she had not yet given away, a Tyrian purple she’d acquired from Monday’s trousseau. Though she had altered the gown down from her eldest sister’s height, taken out the seams, and fit it to herself perfectly, she was instantly uncomfortable inside it. Friday might have been a princess, but only by default. She was a woodcutter’s daughter and a devotee in the church of the Earth Goddess. She was more comfortable covered in flour or children.

Still, this sort of thing was expected of her now. Sunday had made it clear: if
she
was forced to wear shoes, then Friday must make herself presentable as well.

She was intercepted on her way to the Great Hall by none other than Henry Humbug. A silver chain gleamed across his rounded belly, at odds with his tattered, long coat. When he stopped, his tall hat wobbled mightily but didn’t topple.

“Miss Woodcutter . . .” he began, then shook his head. “Princess Friday . . . Your Highness . . .”

Friday put a hand on his arm. She sensed a loneliness deep within his heart, and she knew that he would find the gesture reassuring. “I prefer the first address,” she said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Humbug?”

“I wondered if you might consider taking an old man’s advice.”

Friday was often the recipient of such advice. Perhaps because, unlike the rest of her siblings, she was the one who was most likely to follow it. “It would be my honor.”

Mr. Humbug’s yellow eyes seemed to twinkle with happiness at her reply. “I know what’s about to happen. And I know it will not be pleasant—for any of you, but you especially.”

“I expect not.” Friday was worried for her new friends, and still curious as to the extent of Mr. Humbug’s knowledge of the situation. She was almost positive Mr. Humbug had no fey blood in him, but there was still something other-than-human about his personage.

“Whatever happens during this reception,” he said, “you must say nothing. Do nothing.”

It was an odd suggestion, but Friday should not have expected otherwise from such a man. “This is a meeting of royalty, sir. It is for Arilland’s queen and king to manage, not I.”

Mr. Humbug nodded solemnly. “So it is. Yes, so it is. But you are royalty as well.”

Friday felt a strange impulse to hug the doddering older man. “All right, then. I promise you I will say nothing.”

She made it to the Great Hall with moments to spare before the new Lord of the Green Isles and his dubious companions walked down the long carpet toward the dais where Rumbold and Sunday awaited them.

Mordant was shorter than Friday had imagined.

His robes were bright red, as were those of his sorceress consort. Friday marveled at their exquisite embroidery: silver and gold thread and even precious jewels were intricately woven into symbols of royalty and power. The craftsmanship involved meant that dozens of laborers had spent hours fashioning each garment. The costume was a smart choice for this reception, communicating not only the cost of the fabric, but the number of devoted servants—or slaves—at Mordant’s command.

Beyond that, the two matched only in their wide faces, mottled skin, and coarse black hair. Her eyes were almond-shaped, almost catlike, while his were beady and hid beneath bushy brows. His thin-lipped mouth formed a line under an equally thin waxed mustache.

“Slimy” was probably the best word to describe him. Short and slimy.

A cockatrice wound itself around the sorceress’s neck like a deadly living scarf. Its scales shimmered in the firelight like flame itself, from the crimson feathers atop its beaked head to the copper wings folded flat against its body, to the slender drake’s tail that curled down its mistress’s breast like burnished gold ivy. It was leashed to her right wrist with a gold chain so fine and delicate that it did not give Friday much faith in the animal’s restraint. Thankfully, it was hooded with a chained veil of similarly fine gold, and it seemed to sleep soundly on its perch.

Just as dangerous as the cockatrice—or its mistress—was their bodyguard. The man was taller than them both, broad of chest, narrow of waist, and clad from head to toe in black silk. The only bits of skin that showed were his mouth, from cheek to chin—a scarf obscured the top half of his face, with slits for his eyes. Even his gloves and boots were black. He made no sound when he walked and, like Elisa, he said nothing. His only weapon was a dagger at his waist, conveying to the company that if he wished to stop man or beast, he needed no other aid. The mystery man made himself known by briefly stepping into the room to survey the occupants, and then made himself just as quickly unknown by slinking back into the shadows.

“We welcome you to Arilland, Lord Mordant.” Rumbold’s Official King voice held an air of command similar to Mama’s. Friday wondered if Sunday had taught him that, or if he’d picked it up from his own overbearing father.

It was too bad that Rumbold and Sunday could not instantly raise arms against this man who had done such a wrong to their new friends, but Arilland must introduce itself as a neutral party. As king, Rumbold’s duty was to assess the situation before taking action. Devastating though it was, Mordant had conquered the Green Isles and was now their new ruler. As such, Rumbold was required to treat Mordant with respect.

Especially since His Sliminess had brought with him a desperately needed supply of food.

“Word of your plight has spread throughout the land and across the sea, as far as our fair Green Isles,” said Mordant.

Friday smirked. The Green Isles lay beyond the Troll Kingdom, too far away for this statement to be true, and everyone in the room knew it.

“I hope you accept this bounty as a gift from my people, a gesture upon which we might begin a new friendship.”

Rumbold received the gift with as much grace as he could muster. “Arilland thanks the Green Isles for its most generous forethought.”

The men bowed to each other. With a wave of Mordant’s hand, bushels and bags of fresh vegetables and fruits Friday had never seen before began to parade through the Great Hall. Sack after sack of sugar, rice, flour, and salt were followed by boxes of spices and barrels of wine and the preserved haunches of various animals.

Sunday called for a matching pair of guards to lead the men to the kitchens. Cook would be beside herself. “We should hold a feast in honor of your arrival.”

“Think nothing of it, Your Highness. Your situation is far direr. We must see to the needs of our subjects.” Mordant managed to imply not only that was Arilland broken, but also that Rumbold and Sunday did not have the means or skill to rebuild their own country without help. The “our” indicated that Mordant had no problem with the idea of conquering Arilland as well.

Friday wanted to slap the man. If only Mama were here, she could step right up to Mordant and order him to speak the truth about his intentions.

“Perhaps, in lieu of a formal celebration, Your Majesties might help us with a more delicate, political matter.”

Rumbold motioned for Mordant to continue. Friday took a deep breath and braced herself.

“A young girl—a ward of my kingdom, if you will—escaped our custody, and by doing so has put herself in grave danger.”

Beside her on the dais, Friday saw Monday fold her hands together in her lap. The subtleness of the gesture helped Friday remain calm.

“How terrible.” Rumbold gave no evidence that he knew of whom Mordant was speaking.

“Coincidentally, my own . . . messengers . . . have sent word that she currently resides in your kingdom.”

Rumbold continued to play the fool. “We have had a marked increase in population since the ocean made its appearance on our doorstep.”

“Can you tell us her name?” Sunday asked. “Perhaps we can help.”

“You would not know her by name,” Mordant said evasively. “She would want to conceal her true identity.”