The Waking Land Read online

  Hugh says under his breath, “Of course she was.” He sighs. “Queen Rionach kept the traditions—the tripartite division of rule, most notably—while Tierne scorned those customs and claimed the crown belonged to herself alone. That is why Eren has devolved into a kingdom ruled by absolutist monarchs who have no responsibility to their own people.”

  “Well, Rionach was a fool,” I shoot back, “because that tripartite division is what got her nation conquered.”

  Hugh looks at me. “Do you know what the tripartite division is?”

  “Of course—it’s the monarch of Caeris and the—the—”

  “The steward of the land and the warden of the mountains,” Finn supplies. “By keeping the sacred number of three, they maintained a balance against any one of them gaining too much power.”

  I glare at him.

  Hugh resumes his history lesson. “So, a little less than two centuries after Eren and Caeris divided into two nations, the Paladisans conquered us. That is, except for the Bal an-Dracan, because the mountain folk possess a magic even Paladis’s legions could not overcome. Under Paladisan rule, though it lasted barely a generation, the tripartite division was officially abolished and the role of Caveadear, steward of the land, nearly forgotten. Thus Ossian, the last king of Caeris, was both monarch and steward of the land.”

  “But the Paladisans withdrew because their empire had grown too large and too many insurgents clamored for power in Ida,” I say impatiently. “And their gods had already declared magic an abomination, saying the earth must be cleaned of sorcery. So Caeris and Eren were scourged with the witch hunts and the inquisition, like all former Paladisan subject states.”

  Hugh nods; at least there’s one piece of history we seem to agree on. “And in the wake of the Paladisan withdrawal, the Ereni conquered Caeris.”

  “In one day,” I gloat.

  “No, El,” he snaps. “The Ereni wrote the history, you know. They’ve cast it the way they want to see themselves, as the victors, instead of a miserable force who clawed their way through Caeris—over many months of fighting against the land itself—to murder the royal family, the Dromahairs, on the footsteps of Barrody Castle.”

  My blood runs cold, despite myself. So this is why I used to have nightmares.

  He’s looking at me. “The king’s heir, a little girl named Brigit, hid beneath her bed when the invading army came. But the Eyrlais dragged her out and slaughtered her.”

  The hair stands up on my arms. This is why I tried to hide from Antoine’s men when they came for me as a child. My nurse must have known it was doomed, but she urged me to do it anyway.

  “King Ossian escaped the bloodbath,” Hugh says, “but he died in the mountains. There have been no stewards of the land since, and no kings. Only the warden of the mountain remains, and he rarely appears in the lowlands.”

  I find it difficult to speak or meet his eyes. In my history lessons, there was nothing about a massacre on the footsteps of Barrody Castle. There was nothing about how the entire ruling family died out; they simply did.

  “The Ereni butchered whole villages,” Hugh goes on. “They forbid us to practice our magic and worship our gods and speak our language—though those things are now merely frowned upon. They killed our chiefs and gave away our lands to their own people—most of whom never even set foot in Caeris. They let in the witch hunters, who tortured and killed our sorcerers. But,” he adds with grim satisfaction, “the Valtais have hung on.”

  “And they still want to make kings,” I say sourly.

  “Ever since Ossian’s death, the Valtais have kept the title of steward of the land. Kept it alive, until a new steward could wake the land.” Hugh gives me a searching look. “By tradition, one of the steward’s duties was to acclaim the new king or queen of Caeris. Now that right belongs to your father.”

  Finn shifts in his saddle. I ignore him.

  “It’s a sacred duty,” Hugh adds. “Naming the king.”

  I allow myself a thin smile. “Then no wonder my father is so eager to do it.” I nudge my horse into a trot, leaving them behind on the trail.

  As if I can so easily escape the net my father has cast.

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING, Hugh calls a halt on the riverbank. From the narrow, rambling track we’ve been riding, he plunges off the trail, apparently into a hazel thicket. Finn follows, and after a moment, whether I will or not, my horse plods after. Hazels jab at my arms, at the mare’s belly. I almost rein her in and force her around.

  But there’s nothing for me to run back to now. She plods ahead into scrubby pine.

  The trail, such as it is, plunges down to the river—a rocky, unused ford. Looking across to the other side, I don’t see anything but trees, a collage of russet oaks and dark evergreens. No trails lead into Caeris.

  Caeris.

  My mare, sensing my nerves, prances, though I try to hold her back. Hugh looks over his shoulder: Finn has already churned into the water.

  I bare my teeth in a sort of grin. “Coming.”

  Hugh nods. I nudge the mare after him. The water splashes up, cold, toward my face. My hands are shaking.

  I clench the reins hard as the mare steps onto the rocky Caerisian soil. My body seems to swell; my heart is too full. I gasp. The others are well past me, so I let myself sag low enough to hug the mare’s neck, the only comfort I have. A sweat has broken out all over my skin. I want to fall to the ground.

  Am I so afraid of going home?

  Grinding my teeth, I push myself upright and urge the horse forward. I can endure my father; I can endure Caeris. I have no choice.

  Ahead of me, in a clearing surrounded by oaks, Hugh turns to Finn, drawing a dagger from his boot. Finn’s eyes have widened, whether in anticipation or fear I can’t tell. He wets his lips. Forces a smile.

  I fold my arms tight over my chest and let my face form a scowl. Given my shaking, perspiring limbs, it’s not hard.

  Hugh pauses and glances at me. “Lady Elanna, would you care to go first?”

  I purse my lips. “I am appalled that a man of your intelligence enslaves himself to such superstition.”

  Hugh merely raises an eyebrow and turns back to Finn, who swallows. “The story goes,” he says, “that the land knows who walks on it. When we cross into Caeris, we make a sacrifice. One drop of blood. To make ourselves one with the land.”

  Or, I think nastily, to promote a fanatic devotion to a country that no longer exists.

  Hugh pricks the tip of one finger with the dagger’s blade, then squeezes his fingertip until a single drop of blood wells and falls at his feet.

  Into the earth of Caeris.

  A contraction presses through the ground beneath my feet, a single pulse rocking up into my body. My heart jerks. Fresh sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  I study the men. They don’t seem to feel anything. Finn takes the dagger, pricking his finger now, just as Hugh did, his lip caught in his teeth. He shakes his finger, unpracticed, and the blood smears before he gets a drop to fall to the earth.

  This time, the tremor echoes up into my knees. A bird flies away from a nearby tree, crying out. I fold my arms tighter. The strange, swollen feeling floods back into my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or something worse than fear.

  Hugh has tears in his eyes. But he only says, “The earth of Caer-Ys receives your blood.”

  Finn seems overcome. He drops to his knees and actually kisses the ground, the crown of his red-gold hair gleaming. My heart starts pounding under my breastbone. I cough and look away.

  Finn rises. Hugh blinks the tears from his eyes. He offers me the dagger again. “Lady Elanna.” Not in question, but in expectation.

  Finn bares his teeth in a grin. “It’s not so bad, El.”

  The earth trembles underneath my feet, a strange steady humming, a beat. I think about the stones coming alive on the Hill of the Imperishable, and I know I do not want to drop blood onto this land, the land that seems to recognize my
very body. I don’t know how the earth will respond if I do—I don’t know how my body will respond—but I know what Hugh and Finn will say. I know what they’ll expect.

  I wave Hugh away. “No, thank you. I don’t indulge in such barbaric customs.”

  —

  THE LAND ON this side of the river looks much the same as Tinan—steep hills, verdant moss, and great stands of trees—but every part of my body beats with the knowledge that we are in Caer-Ys now.

  I don’t remember this place at all.

  We ride through a dense oak wood—the Valtai Oaks, Hugh tells us, as if we should have some idea what this means. We’ve crossed onto my father’s lands. He lives in exile in his own country, in the house where (Hugh tells me) I was born. But I do not remember the oak wood or the parkland that we pass into. Night is falling as we come in sight of a sprawling house—all gables and colliding roofs and the stumpy shape of a defensive tower, lit against the dark-blue sky. Lights glow in the windows, though no one emerges to greet us. We pass a bank of empty windows—a salon or ballroom—and come around into the paved courtyard.

  A man emerges from a doorway. He wears green-and-white livery—my father’s colors. “Ollam?”

  “I’m here,” says Hugh, swinging down from his horse and clapping the other man on the back, while the other exclaims with delight.

  My heart is rattling in my chest, but somehow I get off the horse. Finn stands next to me, unusually quiet. “Do you remember this place?” he asks me in an undertone.

  “No,” I say shortly.

  He swallows so loudly that I hear the click of his throat. “Elanna—” But though it sounds like a question, he can’t seem to pull out any other words. I have an urge to reach for his hand and hold tight, as if we’re two children about to be in trouble with our parents.

  Then Hugh says, “This way, please,” and the moment passes. Stableboys have taken the horses, and we follow Hugh into the orange warmth of the house. A woman hurries to us through the foyer whose ceiling towers three stories up to an open oculus. I glimpse tapestries, several marble statues of gods and heroes, a gilded bronze chandelier strung with rock crystals.

  Of course, my father is rich. The richest man in Caeris.

  The kingmaker.

  We follow the woman—Neave Thiebault, the housekeeper—up an impressive staircase to the upper floor, where even the hallway is richly carpeted, the rugs woven in traditional Caerisian designs, knot work with stylized herons and dogs chasing stags. You hear all the time how Caeris is a poor nation of shepherds and cowherds and fishermen, but so far you wouldn’t know it in my father’s house.

  Neave Thiebault opens the door on a room full of conversation, men’s and women’s voices, which stop as she walks in, followed by Hugh.

  Finn is in front of me, but he hesitates. His shoulders shift forward; he seems to be bracing himself. On the other side of him, I hear Hugh speaking Caerisian in the room beyond, and a man’s deep, ringing voice answering him. There was music, but it’s stopped.

  I touch Finn’s shoulder blade. He startles, looking back at me, and I give him the most confident nod that I can. I know how terrifying it is to walk into a room full of strangers.

  The flicker of a smile touches his mouth. He swallows again. “Thank you,” he whispers.

  Then he lifts his head. He puts back his shoulders, and even out here, the glow of the lamps burnish him and shine him into gold. He looks simple and brave, like a prince out of a storybook, his shoulders just broad enough to carry the burden of his people.

  He steps through the door.

  My palms are wet and cold. A tremor runs up the bottom of my arms. But I, too, have to move forward. I have to step into the room.

  I do—but I may as well have stayed outside. All the pounding terror leads to nothing.

  Because no one sees me. They’re all looking at Finn. He seems haloed, his ruddy-gold hair aglow, even in his rough traveling clothes. All conversation has ceased.

  A man stands across from Finn. There are others in the room, but at the moment I see only him: He seems to occupy all the available space, to press out into all the corners, as if he has orchestrated everything—this room, these people, Finn’s arrival. He’s a tall, lanky man, with a thick curling thatch of chestnut hair touched by gray, and brown eyes the color of my own. He wears a somber velvet coat to the knee, unbuttoned to reveal the red silk waistcoat underneath.

  Everyone in the room is looking at Finn, but I can’t take my eyes off my father.

  He doesn’t even see me.

  “The prince is come,” he says at last, his resonant voice filling the room. “The prince is come from across the sea.”

  I close my eyes. I can no longer stop my ears and pretend I don’t understand, that I don’t know who Finn is. I knew the moment I heard his voice in the darkness that night outside the city.

  My father drops to one knee. Everyone else in the room does the same, even Hugh. Even Neave Thiebault.

  Finn says something, but I don’t hear what it is. A buzzing fills my ears. I’m backing out of the room, back into the blessed dimness of the hallway, and then I’m walking away from that room and the boy they want to make their king.

  —

  MY FEET SEEM to remember this place even if my mind doesn’t. I come to a stop where the corridor jogs to the right, into what must be private apartments—my parents’ rooms?—while to the left another stair curls away upstairs. My body lurches toward the stairs, and I actually have to stop myself with a hand on the wall. What am I doing?

  There’s a sound coming from one of the rooms. I freeze. All of my muscles tense. I want to clamp my hands over my ears. I want to scream.

  It’s music. The tender sound of a pianoforte, with all the heartache being wrenched out of it.

  I don’t want to hear this.

  The hallway is silent; the twist in the walls blocks me from sight of the room holding Finn and my father. Slowly, as if the strains of the melody pull me down, I sink to the floor. She must be on the other side of the wall, and it seems I can feel the vibrations of the piano, just as I did when I was a little girl, when I would lie down underneath it and feel the humming press up through the floorboards into my spine. I can imagine it, even: the plain pine underneath, the outside of the instrument painted teal blue, with bunches of flowers.

  I bring my knees to my chest, close my eyes. The music hums through me.

  “Excuse me?”

  There’s a maid standing in front of me, a blanket folded over her arm and astonishment on her face. “Who are you? Can I help you?”

  “I—” I pull myself to my feet, wiping my face. “I’m—I came with Hugh—”

  The door to my left opens. The music has stopped. She’s standing in the doorway, more fragile than I remember—but what do I remember? I remember nothing. She wears a shapeless velvet gown, her hair is loose, like a dark animal. “Jenny, I thought I heard you out here. Will you bring me a cup of—” She stops, seeing me. I am so stricken, I know I’m staring, but I can’t look away from her. Her eyes are large, black, widening at me. Her skin is a shade darker than mine, a deep sepia brown. She grasps the collar of her gown in some alarm. “Who’s this?”

  She doesn’t know me. My mother doesn’t know me.

  Of course she doesn’t. Why would she? She abandoned me to Antoine Eyrlai fourteen years ago.

  “This…person…came with Hugh Rathsay, my lady.”

  My mother leans out, excited. “Hugh’s back?”

  “Yes, he—”

  “Brought your prince,” I say, the words exploding from my mouth with shocking bitterness. “The prince from across the sea. The one you’ve been waiting for.”

  My mother blanches. Then her lips tighten. I expected her to burst with joy like all the others, but instead she seems almost angry. Almost as angry as I am. “He wasn’t supposed to come until spring.”

  “Well,” I say, “he couldn’t wait any longer. He was so eager to prove his worth
to Caeris that he persuaded a Paladisan lord to smuggle him into the country.”

  My mother looks at me for the first time—really sees me. “You’re a girl.”

  “I know.” The maid laughs. “I thought she was a boy at first, too.”

  I look between them. The anger tastes bitter in my mouth, as if it’s turned to grief instead. “You really don’t know who I am, do you, Mother?”

  She turns as white as paper.

  “I’m Elanna,” I say. “Your daughter.”

  —

  A LOW SOUND pours out of my mother’s throat—like she’s been kicked, like she’s in pain. Then she’s in front of me, her hands lifting my face, touching my hair. She commands the maid to bring a light. I stand, unable to move, while she looks at me, while her eyes fill with tears and her lips move soundlessly over a prayer. She speaks in Baedoni, in the language of her home country, and the sound of it falls on my ears with a painful gentleness. It must be the language she spoke to me when I was a child. I flinch at the rhythm of it.

  Then she reaches down and takes my cold hands in hers, folding them against her stomach. Slowly she pulls me against her. I’m crying again, too, now—stupid, heavy tears, my nose running, my mouth open. She releases me, stares into my face, and embraces me again. And again. Her body is strong and slender and she smells of roses and spice.

  “Every day,” she’s saying. “I prayed—every day.”

  Even the maid is crying.

  “But you never came for me,” I say. “You left me there. You left me—”

  “No,” she says fiercely. “I was always with you. Every day. Every moment. I am your mother, and I was with you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I wake to sunlight dappling the rosebuds embroidered onto the coverlet on my bed, and a strange feeling warming my chest. I can’t place it, and I lie there for a while until I finally realize that it is happiness.

  Then I remember my father and the idiotic smile I’m wearing fades. My father, and the prince from across the sea.