Tuesdays at the Castle (3 page)

Chapter

5

T
he country of Sleyne mourned, and Castle Glower mourned with them. It didn’t grow new rooms, didn’t stretch corridors, and when the bright banners that hung from the Castle walls were taken down, it didn’t replace them. Courtiers and commoners alike filed through the Castle with black armbands to bow and curtsy and murmur condolences to Celie and Rolf and Lilah, who refused to accept them. Not yet.

Celie didn’t have a dark-colored gown, which fretted her, and she worried that people would think she wasn’t showing proper respect. Her parents and brother were missing, and people had died, and she was wearing pale gray. It seemed silly to be concerned over such a thing, but at the same time, she had little else to do.

The morning after the terrible news had come, Lilah had helped Celie into the gray gown, made for a war remembrance ceremony a few months before, and wound a piece of black silk around her waist for a sash. The seamstresses were working quickly to make her a more suitable black gown, however, and one for Lilah as well, although Lilah already looked elegant in a black satin gown she had worn to their great-aunt’s funeral the year before. Celie was growing so fast that her funeral gown couldn’t be fastened up at all, and as it was, the gray gown was an inch too short and chafed under her arms.

But when Celie went to the throne room two days after the news had come, she found other things to worry about than her clothes. Rolf was sitting on a low stool that had been placed to the side of the throne. He was wearing a black tunic of their father’s that was the right length and width in the shoulders, but far too loose about the middle. His face was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

All the Councilors were clustered around, whispering to one another and eyeing Rolf, and there were two couriers from neighboring countries standing before the dais, looking patient. Celie could tell that this was more worrisome than her ill-fitting gown and Rolf’s too-large borrowed tunic. She knew if anyone saw her, she would probably be sent out, so she sidled along the wall to where Lilah was standing with Pogue Parry.

In the days since their parents had been attacked, Pogue had become the royal family’s staunchest ally. He had turned up at the gates of Castle Glower for the past two mornings, properly and soberly dressed in a dark gray tunic with a black armband. He had been quiet and respectful to Rolf and Lilah, and kind and friendly to Celie. He stopped flirting with Lilah (and the maids, and the girls from the village) and ran errands for Lilah instead, helped her arrange mourning bands for the servants, organized the townsfolk gathering to hold vigil, and was quickly becoming indispensible.

“What’s happening?” Celie took Lilah’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Lilah whispered. “Go to the kitchens and get some lunch.”

Celie let go of her sister’s hand and slipped behind her to stand by Pogue instead. “What’s happening?”

“The ambassador to Vhervhine is here,” Pogue whispered, pointing with his chin at a large man in plum-colored velvet and heavy boots standing before the throne. “He brought some interesting news.”

Celie’s pulse raced. “What? Do they have news of my parents?”

Pogue took her hand gently. “No. I’m sorry,” he murmured, leaning down so he could speak softly to her. “Vhervhine wishes to send an Emissary to the … funeral … next week.”

“But that’s good.” She straightened a little, trying to look more like a princess. “Isn’t it? Shouldn’t they send an Emissary? Even if there isn’t really a funeral.” Celie held fast to this hope, that Sergeant Avery would return, escorting her parents, and the funeral preparations would be used instead for a grand celebration.

“They are planning to send one of the royal princes,” Pogue said. “Prince Khelsh. Which means that he will have dozens of armed guards, plus servants and advisers and also a minister of state.”

“Isn’t Prince Khelsh the mean one?” Celie wrinkled her nose, trying to remember. The Vhervhish people were rather warlike as it was, but the second son, she thought it was Khelsh, was supposedly a real horror.

“That’s the one,” Pogue said under his breath.

The Vhervhish ambassador was glaring at them. His tunic buttoned up the left side of his breast, all the way to his throat in the singular style of his people, which Celie always thought looked very uncomfortable. Judging by the sour expression on the man’s face, he was either uncomfortable or quite simply didn’t want to be there at all.

“Ew,” Celie muttered. Pogue squeezed her hand a little in reply.

“And my prince, also, he will be coming with many fine gifts and many fine servants,” another man said. He flourished his hands a great deal as he talked, which made the trailing sleeves of his silk tunic flap, and he looked at the throne and the walls rather than Rolf. “He is a very, very man, our beloved Prince Lulath.” He said this to one of the carved pillars that supported the throne room’s vaulted ceiling.

“Lulath?” Celie tried to remember where she’d heard that name before. Or place the speaker’s accent.

“This is the ambassador from Grath,” Pogue murmured. “Lulath is the third son, I think he said.”

Celie let out a small snort of laughter. Lulath of Grath?

Rolf gave her a stern look, and now the Grathian ambassador glared.

Then Rolf’s gaze cleared, and he beckoned to Celie. “Sister, would you come forward?”

“Yes … brother,” she said. She felt her cheeks burn, and walked rather slowly to Rolf’s side.

“My younger sister, Princess Cecelia,” Rolf said, presenting her to the two ambassadors. “Cecelia dear, here is the ambassador from our dear neighbors in Vhervhine, and here is the ambassador from our equally dear neighbors in Grath.”

Celie nodded politely to both men, who bowed. The Vhervhish ambassador was rather perfunctory about it, but the man from Grath did so with many flourishes and sidelong looks, as though checking to see who was watching.

“Princess Cecelia is quite the best of us when it comes to knowing the Castle,” Rolf said to the ambassadors. Then he turned to Celie. “I want to make sure that our two princely visitors and their attendants are properly cared for during their stay, Cecelia. Would you be so kind as to ask the Castle to provide them with suites of rooms, as befitting their status and as suited to their needs?”

Celie just goggled at Rolf for a minute or two. She could no more ask the Castle to provide rooms for the princes than stand on her head on the roof of the Spyglass Tower! No matter how well it liked you or how nicely you asked, the Castle was far more inclined to do the opposite, if it did anything at all.

She was about to point this out to Rolf when she noticed the two ambassadors. They were both leaning forward, eager to hear what she had to say. The Vhervhish ambassador had a faint sneer on his face, though, and the Grathian’s eyes were narrowed with speculation.

“Of course, dear brother,” Celie said sweetly. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Thank you, Cecelia darling,” Rolf replied. His expression was suddenly sly. “They will each have twenty-five men with them—that
includes
men-at-arms, advisers, and servants.”

This last, she realized, was strictly for the benefit of the ambassadors. Off to the side, Celie saw Pogue raise his eyebrows, and heard the Vhervhish ambassador draw a breath to argue.

“So many?” Lilah inquired, and Celie could tell that her sister was trying to play along. “I do hope the Castle will be able to make room. We already have so many relations and other royal guests coming.”

That certainly wasn’t a lie, Celie thought. They did have a large number of cousins, and there were sure to be other countries sending delegations, anxious to hear the outcome of Sergeant Avery’s search.

“Please ask the Castle to do its best,” Rolf said to Celie.

“I had better get started right away then,” Celie said with mock seriousness. She curtsied to the two men, and then to Rolf, and they all bowed back.

“I had better assist her,” Lilah said, and also curtsied to everyone. She and Pogue followed Celie out of the throne room.

Celie waited until they had gotten a little way down the hall before she asked what had been going on. She had a little inkling that something about the two ambassadors had not been quite right, but she wasn’t sure what.

“They’re trying to take over the Castle,” Lilah hissed. “But let’s wait until we get to my room to explain.”

“Is your room up there?” Pogue looked doubtfully at the spiraling staircase they had now passed twice. “I think this is the same staircase that was back there.” He had encountered the Castle’s foibles and changes many times, of course, but was not half as skilled at navigating them as the royal family.

“My room should be right here,” Lilah said, frowning.

“It keeps showing me this room,” Celie said, pointing up the stairs to the Spyglass Tower. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s important.”

Lilah looked at Celie for a moment. “Do you think so?” She was very serious: everyone knew that Celie was by far the best at interpreting the Castle’s changes.

“It doesn’t seem to have any real uses now,” Celie told her. “But every day the Castle sends me up there at least once.”

“We’d better go look,” Lilah said.

All three went up the stairs, and Celie showed Lilah and Pogue the spyglasses, the book, and the dry biscuits. Pogue was very interested in the spyglasses, but Lilah flipped through the book and then shuddered.

“I hope these things don’t come in handy,” she said. “I’ve never been that keen on learning languages. You do realize that this is a Vhervhish phrase book, don’t you? That’s worrisome.”

“What is going on with the ambassadors?” Celie asked.

Lilah and Pogue looked at each other, and Celie folded her arms tightly. It was one of those grown-up looks that said they were going to try to sugarcoat what came next.

“You see, dearest,” Lilah began, but Pogue tapped her arm and shook his head.

“Celie,” he said, when Lilah gave him another one of the looks. “Rolf is very young. Too young, some people think, to be the king. Not to mention that he doesn’t want to be the king, at least not yet.”

“I know that,” Celie said, but not rudely. She was glad that Pogue, at least, was treating her like she was old enough to understand what was happening. “We need to find out where Mum—Mother and Father are first, anyway.”

“True,” Pogue agreed. “But it means that Sleyne doesn’t have a king right now,” he went on. “Your father is … missing.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “And Rolf can’t be crowned until we find out what happened to your parents. So the kingdoms around Sleyne are watching very carefully, thinking that we may be weak. Because if we are, it would be the perfect time to … take over.”

Celie stared at Pogue, then Lilah, who nodded slowly. “So the Vhervhish ambassador is here to
invade
? But there’s only one of him!”

“He’s not invading yet,” Lilah said. “For now he’s just spying.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “He’s finding out if Rolf is smart enough, and old enough, to be a good king. And I’m sure that he’s trying to pave the way for his prince to come, with loads and loads of soldiers as an ‘honor guard,’ so that they can attack when we’re at our lowest.”

“What about the Grathians?” Celie asked.

“It’s the same thing,” Lilah said. “Only, I think the Grathians know more about the Castle. Their ambassador is paying a lot of attention to the Castle itself. He looks around when he talks, like he’s talking to the walls and not to Rolf. He must know that the Castle chooses its own rulers, and is trying to impress it.”

“But hasn’t the Castle already chosen Rolf?” Celie protested.

“We know that, but they don’t,” Lilah said grimly. “Or they don’t really believe it, or they want the Castle to change its mind. The Vhervhish will probably try to take it by force, if they try at all, and the Grathians by guile.”

Celie just shook her head. “It won’t work,” she said. “Castle Glower finds a way to get rid of
chambermaids
it doesn’t like. It isn’t going to sit there and let a new king take over.”

“Not a lot of people, outside of these walls, truly believe that the Castle does these things,” Pogue said. “I wouldn’t, if I wasn’t here all the time. I’ve seen it stretch the hallways, and I’ve seen the new rooms the day they appear. But most people, even in the village, think that it’s just a lot of nonsense.”

Celie put her hands on her hips. “Well, they’ll find out soon enough!”

Chapter

6

B
ut the Castle didn’t do anything to show its temper over the next few days. The next morning, when Celie awoke, they found exactly enough guest rooms, barracks, and stables to house precisely the number of foreign guests they were expecting. No one saw it happen, and the rooms were so perfectly normal, the stalls and barracks so perfectly plain and even worn-looking, that Celie herself had trouble believing that they hadn’t been there all along.

It was a theory of her older brother Bran’s that the rooms really were there all the time, they just couldn’t see them. Or they were being kept in some sort of magic pocket, although Celie had never quite understood this explanation. Because the “new” rooms the Castle would produce from time to time were never that new, but appeared to be the same age as the other rooms, just a little disused. When the hallways grew, the stone flags were always worn in the middle, the walls had occasional chips or marks on them; even the tapestries appeared to be part of the same series.

“It’s probably one vast structure; it might even be the size of the entire valley,” Bran would say, waving his arms. “But we can only see part of it. Or it tucks the unused rooms and bits of corridor away until it wants them, in an enchanted pocket. Or it hides them on another plane of existence.”

This was one of the reasons that Bran had gone to the College of Wizardry. He was always saying things like this.

Or he used to.

Celie sighed heavily as she made her way to the kitchens. She was taking the regular corridor, and not jumping out a window, because she had on her new gown, and Lilah had threatened to stuff her up a chimney with her own two hands if Celie got it dirty.

As though she would go climbing out of windows, or visit the stables, or explore a dusty attic today.

It was the day of their parents’ and Bran’s memorial service, and everyone was in a somber mood, waiting for the ceremony to begin. Celie wasn’t in the mood to do anything that might get her dirty, and Lilah knew it, but she said it anyway because she was upset. And because she was upset, too, and because she knew Lilah hadn’t meant it to be mean, Celie didn’t protest or complain.

Sergeant Avery had returned from his search two days before, his face set in grim lines. He had found the torn remains of Queen Celina’s traveling gown and her ruby-studded wedding band in the thicket at the side of the road. He hadn’t wanted to speak further in front of Celie, but Rolf had gruffly insisted that he continue. There had been signs of further struggle, and bloodstains on the hard-packed dirt to the side of the road, the soldier had reported as he handed Lilah their mother’s ring. Bodies had been found, but he couldn’t say whom they belonged to, though he was reluctantly convinced that they were those of King Glower and Bran.

Celie didn’t remember anything else. She had woken up in her bed this morning with a dull headache to find Lilah in full frenzy and the memorial service for those killed in the ambush converted into a state funeral for King Glower the Seventy-ninth, Queen Celina, and Prince Bran.

Their family.

Lilah seemed braced for Celie to make a fuss, but instead Celie had quietly put on her new black gown, which felt very stiff and grown-up with a royal purple sash, and did all the errands that Lilah sent her to do as quickly as she could without running. She checked with the housekeeper that the newly added rooms had linens and basins and chamber pots and everything else the guests would need. She sent a footman to the stables and barracks, and took his report back to Lilah. Now she was on her way to the kitchens, to make sure that Cook had everything she needed for the feast that night.

In Sleyne, funerals were always held at sundown, with a feast afterward that sometimes went on until dawn, so many of the guests had not yet arrived. It was only noon, after all, and there was plenty of time for the various princes and their entourages to arrive, settle in, and change before the ceremony.

“Good afternoon, Princess Cecelia,” said a very subdued undercook as she entered the enormous kitchen.

The rest of the staff echoed his greeting, a ripple of quiet preceding her across the room as she made her way to the far end, where Cook was overseeing the roasting of a huge pig in the largest fireplace. A motherly woman nearly as broad as she was tall, Cook just nodded as she ladled some sort of sauce over the sizzling meat. The sauce smelled like oranges, and Celie’s mouth watered in spite of her resolution to behave with decorum. She had planned on eating lunch in the kitchen after she spoke to Cook, but if everyone was going to stare at her like this, perhaps she should take a tray somewhere else.

The roasting pig thoroughly basted, Cook admonished the spit boy to keep his cranking slow and steady, and turned to Celie.

“Princess,” she said.

“Cook,” Celie replied.

They smiled palely at each other.

“A message?”

“Indeed.”

Celie took a note out of her sleeve, not the least bit put off by Cook’s short, clipped words. She always spoke this way, and it was never a sign of ill temper or impatience. Rolf speculated that her head was so full of recipes, and cooking times, and remembering when she had put the potatoes on to boil, that there was no room for fancy speech. Celie didn’t mind: there was no finer cook in all of Sleyne, and perhaps the whole world.

Celie looked at her list of questions.

“Do you have everything you need for the feast?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the numbers of people who are expected to attend?”

“Yes.”

“We expect to have one hundred guests staying with us for the next week after the … service.”

“Fine.”

“Prince Lulath of Grath does not eat meat,” Celie went on. “Do we have a variety of non-meat dishes we can offer him?”

“Of course.”

“Also, Prince Lulath’s dogs require their meat to be lightly grill—”

“No.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I don’t deal with dogs,” Cook said, her voice as impassioned as Celie had ever heard it. “I cook for people, not dogs. Talk to the kennel master.”

“But they’re not hunting hounds,” Celie protested. “His Highness has three small—”

“Princess,” Cook interrupted her. “Stand up straight!”

Celie stood up straight.

“Princess Delilah sent you to ask questions that we all know the answers to because she is grieving, but this is enough. When Prince Lulath comes with his herd of lapdogs, one of you must look him in the eye and tell him to take them to the kennel!”

“But it—” Celie protested.

“Befouling Castle Glower with hair and dirt and … soil from those little yappers! And during a time of mourning, too!”

Celie was rather fond of small dogs, or dogs of any kind, but she had to admit that the prince’s demands seemed rather pushy, especially since he had invited himself to the ceremony. Rolf and Lilah were still worried that the Grathians would try to take over the Castle, and the list of “necessities” that had been sent ahead of the prince’s traveling party seemed to confirm their fears. He was requiring that he and his men be put in the best possible quarters, and for an indeterminate length of time. He had requested special foods brought to him and his servants and dogs, a tailor on hand to help him if he needed to alter his clothes or order new ones, a carpenter in case his rooms were not to his liking, and a private study large enough for him to meet with his ambassador and other confidants as often as necessary.

“Princess Cecelia?”

Celie folded the paper and put it in her sleeve again. “I’ll do it,” she told Cook. “And I’ll let Lilah know that you’ve got everything ready in the kitchen, like I knew you would.”

“Thank you, Princess,” Cook said.

The big woman turned to one of the kitchen maids. “Lunch, on a tray,” she barked. “For Prince Rolf and Princess Delilah as well.”

“Oh, and Pogue,” Celie put in. “Pogue is helping Rolf.”

Cook raised her eyebrows, but merely said, “Of course.”

“I’ll take the tray to Prince Rolf and Master Parry,” one of the maids offered. She giggled, and shared a look with her friend.

“You.” Cook pointed to another maid, who had been quietly ladling soup into four bowls. “Take the tray to Prince Rolf and Master Parry. You”—she pointed to the giggling maid—“Princess Cecelia and Princess Delilah.

“Now.”