The Queen's Bastard (3 page)

Robert did not look back.

Belinda began, that morning, the game of stillness.

It was a game of nonexistence, of not being there. The rules, as Belinda laid them out in her mind, were simple: she would be stronger than the events around her. A biting fly might land on her skin; she would learn to ignore the tickle of its feet as it walked across her throat. If it bit, she would learn to hold inside the flinch of pain and the slap of motion to dislodge it. A scratch earned in a fencing bout would no longer pull a gasp or paling cheeks from her; a burn from the embers might raise a blister, but not a cry.

The rules were easier in thought than action.

In the beginning there were more failures than successes. Belinda taught herself to use the memory of Robert’s shoulders in the soft gold sunlight of morning as a cloak, wrapping it around herself. She made it into armour, hardening the memory of being left behind into a layer of protectiveness between her skin and the invading entities.

The tiny dagger, held against the small of her back, began as an irritation, and became the test itself. Days turned into weeks, and the stiffened brocade of her dresses changed from pressing the hilt of the dagger uncomfortably into her spine to something she no longer noticed, and finally felt undressed without. She sharpened the little blade, and drew it carefully against her palm, waiting days for each last cut to heal, until she could part the skin without tears.

Then she began with fire.

When Robert returned at Yuletide, nothing could touch her unless she allowed it to. She had grown, taller and more slender, beginning to leave a child’s shape behind even at the youthful age of nine. The cloak of memory grew with her, pinning tightly against her skin, constricting and safe. Robert’s gaze upon her was sharp and appraising, even approving. She thought, in between moments, that he could see the wrap of memory that clung to her. Challenged, she strengthened it, lending it her indifference in the form of an uplifted chin and a cool hazel gaze.

Robert’s smile grew warmer.

Once rooted in her bones, the game of stillness spilled out of her. The near-perfect memory that both blessed and dogged her wouldn’t let her forget the moment when the stillness became larger than she was. She was dressed unfashionably, though the brown velvet was expensive enough to almost forgive the colour; Belinda didn’t care. The depth of the fabric made her hair rich and soft-looking, especially against the gold net snood that kept loose curls from falling into her eyes. The dress was a Yuletide gift, warmer than the two summer gowns. Extra length was nipped into the hem, a seamstress’s silent expectation that Belinda would grow taller still before spring. For now, she curled her fingers into the velvet’s weight, lifting it a few inches to allow her feet clearance from the petticoats and skirts. She clung to the shadows along the manor stairs, following the curve down into the great hall. It was cold, the new year a few hours from ringing in. Belinda’s boots, lined with rabbit fur, flashed beneath the hem of her gown as she trotted down the steps.

Voices echoed upward from below. Belinda hesitated between torches, recognizing Robert’s voice and uncertain if she was welcome to greet his evening’s company. Footsteps echoed off the stone floors, coming closer. Robert’s voice dropped in confidence, words becoming murmurs that rumbled in the small bones of Belinda’s ears. She stood frozen with indecision, then knotted her fingers in her skirts and scurried back up the stairs, ducking into a shadowed doorway.

The choice was well-made. Speech became more easily understood as Robert and his guest mounted the stairs. Belinda caught her breath, leaning into the doorway, pulse leaping in her throat as she willed herself not to be seen. Her dagger, like a reminder, pressed neatly against her spine. Belinda’s breath spilled out of her again, on the verge of silent laughter. The next breath was slow, calmness washing through her. Tranquility stretched taut, like a pulled bow, then snapped. In silence, it surrounded her, tucking her safely into the shadows. Belinda lifted her chin brazenly, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She leaned forward from the doorway, confident in the darkness and eager to see the man in whom Robert confided.

They came around the head of the stairs shoulder to shoulder, heads inclined toward one another. Robert was the broader, his shoulders dwarfing those of the other man, who was narrow and thin-featured. Black hair, thick and oily under the torchlight, was swept back from his face, worn much longer than fashion dictated. Whoever he was, he could not belong to Lorraine’s court: Robert’s brown hair, clipped short with a hint of fringe to hide the hairline itself, was the style favoured by the Queen for her courtiers. The stranger’s beard followed the line of his jaw, mustache neatly trimmed around a thin mouth; that, at least, was the popular look. He had a hawkish nose and deep-set eyes, black in the torchlight. His voice, low-pitched, was marked with an accent: Khazarian, from the sprawling empire beyond Echon’s eastern borders. “—begun. The imperatrix is with child—”

Rumbled amusement from Robert: “That was quickly done.”

“As it had to be,” the dark man replied. “With the imperator’s wars, that Irina has even a chance of childbearing is—”

“A blessing to us all,” Robert said, tone lofty and sanctimonious. The dark man let go a staccato laugh that cut through the stillness surrounding Belinda. Her heart lurched, one too-strong beat, though her body never dreamed of betraying her with a flinch. Robert turned his gaze away from his dark companion, meeting Belinda’s eyes through the shadow. She read no leap of recognition there, no sign that he had seen her, though her pulse fluttered alarm in her throat. Within a moment his gaze left hers again. He extended a hand, gesturing the dark man to precede him as he pushed open the door to his private rooms. Light and heat swept out, the fire inside testimony to the servants’ knowledge that Robert would entertain tonight, although Belinda herself had not known.

The dark man inclined his head, thanking Robert for the gesture. The door closed behind them, leaving the hall dark and cold. Belinda remained where she was a few seconds longer, arms folded around herself to ward off the chill. Then shadow released her and she caught up her skirts, scurrying downstairs to tend to her original task of asking that more wood be brought up for her fire.

The door to her room opened late that night, cool air from the halls sweeping Robert and his companion in. The latter hung at the door, a scent of cloves washing on the air with his entrance. Belinda, buried beneath her duvet, came awake, her eyes still closed, her breathing still deep and easy. Familiar words raised goose bumps over her body, even beneath the warmth of blankets: “It cannot be found out, Robert. Not yet. It’s still too early.”

“I know, Dmitri.” Robert’s voice was a comforting murmur at the side of her bed. He put a hand against her forehead, brushing tangled curls away. Belinda followed her impulse, stirring, sighing a little, and turned her head. Robert’s voice warmed with a smile. “Sleep, child. Forget. The time has not yet come for you to know such things.” The words were intoxicating, heavy with compulsion: Belinda, trusting impulse a second time, kept her learned stillness about her, not resisting. A surge, like the sound of water suddenly bursting through a waterwheel, pushed into her mind, and, like water again, spread through her, trickling down her spine and into her fingers and toes. She could almost see it, behind closed eyelids, faintly golden and glimmering: a concept just beyond her understanding.

Sleep comes hard on the heels of that near-understanding, exhaustion waving through her so quickly she doesn’t hear the door close again. Doesn’t hear, most certainly, Robert’s sigh beyond that threshold, or Dmitri’s short sound of dismay. “She’s female. What did you expect? Power and ambition are built into the females.”

“I expected more time.” Robert exhales another sigh, then gestures down the hall. “Another cup of wine? She’s young. Too young to show such talent.”

“They mature quickly. Faster than we’re accustomed to.” Dmitri falls into step beside the Aulunian lord, neither raising his voice above a murmur. “And they die young. It may affect the development of their skills.”

“Still, she’s yet to see her tenth summer, and if I hadn’t looked straight at her…”

“You’d have known. The air was charged with her hiding. Or have you become too inured to it already? Does power only quiver your skin when it’s an unfamiliar taste?” A mocking smile curves Dmitri’s mouth as he bows before the door to Robert’s chambers, inviting the other man to enter before him. Robert’s expression sours, but he goes ahead.

“Perhaps I’d have known. Still, it’s sooner than we anticipated, and ambition in women is not well looked upon here. You know that as well as I.”

“Can you control her?”

Robert gives the black-haired man a flat look as he pours wine, then sits before the hearth’s glowing embers. “Neither of us would be here if we were incapable of controlling one child. Our queen chooses her standard-bearers more carefully than that. She’ll remember nothing, nor have any urge to try again. She’ll be the creature we need her to be, and never question me.”

Humour plays upon Dmitri’s lips a second time. “I meant no disrespect.” That’s a fob, intended to soothe waters without being believed. Robert accepts it for what it is, and half a beat later Dmitri says, “You’re certain. You’re certain of her loyalty? Why?”

Robert snorts. “Because they always are, Dmitri. Faithful to the queen. It’s as much part of them as it is of us.”

“But they don’t normally show such promise so young,” Dmitri murmurs. “Watch her, Robert. Be cautious.”

“Heed your own advice. Return to Khazan. Watch Irina.”

“Mm.” Dmitri lowers his head over his glass of wine. “In time. Let Feodor crow over her pregnancy first. Irina wants me gone until they’re well settled. There are things to be done in Essandia. Rodrigo needs a mistress. Even an illegitimate claimant for his throne is better than none. His sister’s son is too far out of our control. I want a stronger hand there.”

“And what of Seolfor?”

“Unchanged. Biding time. We have enough of it.”

Robert nods, swirling wine without slopping it. “Well enough, then. Keep me apprised of Essandia, and get back to Khazan when you can. If you’re successful with Rodrigo, I’ll call Seolfor to be the guiding hand there.”

Dmitri stands, draining his wine. “I will.” He sets the glass aside, ponderous action, then turns back to the broad-shouldered lord by the fire. “Is three enough, Robert?”

“It always has been.” Robert keeps his eyes on the fire. “And if it isn’t, you can be glad you’re not the queen’s favourite, and that you won’t be the one to answer for failure.”

Belinda woke with a clear memory.

She knew in her belly that she wasn’t meant to, and that Robert’s peculiar actions had somehow failed in their purpose. She remembered shadow gathering around her; she remembered Dmitri, and the snippets of conversation she’d overheard.

What she could not remember was
how
she had hidden in the shadows. How the stillness escaped from her and surrounded her; how she had stood all but in plain sight and gone almost unseen. Over the next three years, she practised and tried to bring that stillness out again.

She failed.

Irina, imperatrix of Khazar, gave birth to a daughter, Ivanova, four months after Dmitri visited with Robert. The whole of Echon sent gifts and congratulations to its eastern neighbor; Lorraine sent Robert himself to bear Aulun’s presents. For the child, a baby rattle made of eggshell and gold; a rabbit-fur cloak, trimmed in royal ermine; and for Irina, the sister queen on the Khazarian throne, a gown of the latest Aulunian fashion, littered with jewels and nearly as elegant as Lorraine herself wore. Belinda asked, without real hope, to journey across the sea, north and east, with Robert, to see Khazar’s capital city of Khazan and help bear Aulun’s gifts to the new mother and child.

When Robert denied her with a fond, patronizing smile, she curtsied and slipped away again. He would be gone for three months, perhaps longer. It was time in which Belinda studied.

Unable to re-create what memory told her she could do, she learned to hide in plain sight more conventionally. She learned to dress conservatively; she learned to sew servants’ garments, so she might slip in and out among Robert’s guests without announcing herself. He returned, and noticed, his contemplation of her thoughtful and interested, but he said nothing. Belinda took silence as tacit permission, and continued. She learned to be unremarkable, if not wholly invisible, and slowly gained confidence in an ability to hide in shadows, if not disappear into them entirely.

Even now, her forehead numbing against the cold pane of glass, Belinda reached for the ability that had enveloped her just one time, three years earlier. The duvet around her shoulders held her safe in its warmth; the glass held her safe from the plummet to the earth, but shadows would not enfold her in their safety.

You are waiting,
a voice inside her whispered, and she knew it to be true. Waiting for a sticking point, for a moment of culmination that would explain the solitary, focused studies of her almost twelve years of life. It felt like standing on a knife’s edge, fathomless depths below her and impatience prodding her on. There was purpose there somewhere; Robert would not otherwise have troubled himself with the cost of her eclectic education.

Lately she had realised that girls were not taught the things she had been taught; they did not study the blade, or learn politics and history. Rather, their days were filled with learning embroidery and managing households. Belinda had learned those things, too, but her math went beyond the numbers to balance the manor books, and her languages, written and spoken both, were numerous. Robert had purpose in educating her. Belinda only waited to learn what it was.

Lamplight glittered on the road beyond the manor walls. Belinda blinked twice, hardly realizing her eyes had been open, then knelt up to peer through a windowpane unstained by fog from her breath.