Shadow Queen - By Deborah Kalin
ACT ONE
THE WIDENING GYRE
ONE
MY GRANDMOTHER BEATA had matched the squabbling drightens in might and cunning, and ruled the fractious Turasi tribes unchallenged for nigh on thirty years. Her hold on the throne was so sure even the blasphemy of allowing a Skythe shadow-walker to pour foreign memories into her skull had not unseated her, though it had sorely tested her power. Her command over her children had been less successful. Not long after her beloved son (and my father) was executed, her headstrong daughter chose exile over a marriage that would have secured our House’s hold on power.
As we waited in the sharp spring wind for the return of that same daughter, Grandmother wasn’t inclined to overlook any of my delinquencies, pinching my elbow when I rose onto my toes for a better view.
‘A Duethin stands still, Matilde. None among the Turasi will bend their neck to a fidgeter.’
None will have the chance, with my coronation two years past due, I thought peevishly, though I knew better than to voice it. If I talked back now, if I failed even one of her myriad tests over this coming month’s Aestival celebrations, Grandmother might not step down at the gadderen and I’d have to wait another year entire for the drightens to ratify me as Duethin.
So I held my tongue, dropped my heels to the flagstones, tucked my hands into my sleeves, and stood as still as I could despite the exhilaration bubbling through me as I waited for my first glimpse of Aunt Helena in thirteen years.
The messenger who’d brought word of Helena’s imminent arrival claimed beauty and youth still graced her. I scarce remembered her – I scarce remembered my own parents – though I’d noted, over the years, the sour set of Grandmother’s mouth when anyone asked after my aunt, dismissing any such queries with a curt, ‘Helena is travelling.’
People crowded the upper courtyard, the thanes in their embroidered tabards pushed cheek by jowl against merchants, freeholders and farmers. Thralls dotted the throng, too, their bronze collars glinting in the sunlight, their duties temporarily abandoned. Everyone jostled for a glimpse of the prodigal daughter, blocking my view of the gate so that I had only a mere glimpse of the triumphal arch of its pale pink stone, the swan crest carved on the keystone.
My place, on the dais formed by the broad midmost stair at the courtyard’s end, was more spacious, with only Grandmother beside me. Thanes and court officials ranged along the stairs to our left and right, the highest among them standing a careful step below us.
To my left, tucked into the gap between the master of horses and the wall, stood Sepp, my closest friend despite the difference in our rank. He had pleaded for any other duty, but Grandmother would hear none of it – and it was that cold-eyed command, after years of gleaned rumours and hidden whispers, which banished the last of my uncertainty. Sepp was Helena’s natural son, born on the bloody side of the sheets, and today Grandmother wanted that reminder of Helena’s disloyalty in plain view.
Sepp was not the only gambit Grandmother had on display. Closest to her right hand stood a collared housecarl wearing the colours of House Falkere. He had arrived from the Ayrholm last week with an offer for my hand in marriage. Judging by the hours Grandmother had since spent closeted with him, she was considering the offer with some seriousness.
The irony did not escape me – it was a scion of House Falkere whom Helena had spurned when she chose exile.
Movement eddied through the crowd and, glancing sideways to check on Grandmother, I popped up on tiptoe again. As the ermine-trimmed hem of my dress lifted, a ferret poked her nose out, blinking in the pale sunshine. The dark markings of the kit’s face stood out against the white hem like soot on fresh snow.
Grandmother’s fingers tightened around my elbow, hard enough to bruise. She didn’t need words to express her disapproval.
Summoned by Grandmother with a glance, Sepp lured the wriggling kit from my feet, flashing me a sympathetic grimace. He’d come prepared – his closed fist, no doubt holding a sliver of chicken bone, distracted the kit immediately.
‘A Duethin does not cart kitchen ferrets to official functions. Particularly not at nineteen. A little decorum,’ said Grandmother, ‘or I won’t take you with me on tomorrow’s progression.’
‘I’m not Duethin yet,’ I replied, my impertinence only deepening the iron of her stare. ‘And I don’t know