Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

‘And what would you pick? Something blood red or jet black, I’d wager.’

Janessa smiled. ‘Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine their faces when I walked in.’

‘Yes, and imagine your father’s when he found out.’

Janessa turned to Graye with a frown. ‘Must you pour water on every flame of an idea?’

‘One of us has to be sensible. The king has enough to concern him without you causing a stir whenever you get the chance. Sooner or later you’ll have to face up to your responsibilities.’

Janessa turned towards the window, fighting back a sudden stab of sadness. Graye hadn’t meant any harm, she knew, but reminders of her obligations grew ever more insistent and sometimes she just wanted to forget. It was not a responsibility she had been born to, and certainly not one she desired. She was simply not meant to be queen. Janessa had been last in line to the throne after her brother and sister, before the plague had sent them to an early grave along with her mother. Now she alone bore the burden of succession, and that responsibility weighed all too heavily on her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Graye, placing a hand on her arm, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘I know,’ Janessa replied, turning to her friend and trying to smile. ‘It just wasn’t supposed to be this way. Drake and Lisbette were the ones brought up to this, the ones who were taught the airs and graces. The ones born to rule.’

‘And you were always the wild one. I was there, remember.’

This brought a smile to Janessa’s lips. Graye had always been there, her constant companion, and could share her pain, for she too had lost her family to the plague. Her parents had fallen victim early and, with the death of Lord and Lady Daldarrion, Graye had come to live at Skyhelm, the palace of King Cael Mastragall. Having her as a close friend had been the only thing that helped Janessa through that terrible time, when the Sweet Canker had claimed almost a quarter of the Free States.

Sweet Canker. It sounded like a flower or one of the exotic foreign perfumes her mother had liked so much, but it was a name that struck fear into the hearts of every man, woman and child, not caring whom it took from beggar to king. Coming from nowhere, it had descended upon the Free States like a killer in the night. There was nothing ‘sweet’ about it. Once afflicted, death came in a feverish nightmare, with the phantom odour of cinnamon and clove assailing the nostrils. That was where the name came from — someone’s idea of a joke perhaps. No one was laughing.

‘Well I’m not wild any more,’ said Janessa, trying to shake herself from her malaise. ‘Now I am a lady at court, heir to the throne, the woman who would be queen.’ She began to prance around the room mocking the graceful gait of the sycophantic courtiers she had so recently been forced to mix with.

Graye laughed again. ‘You’ve hardly changed, have you? You’re still more suited to riding like a man and climbing trees than refinement and public engagements. How will your father ever marry you off?’

Janessa looked pointedly at Graye. Her lady in waiting realised her mistake and the easy smile fell from her face.

‘You’ll have to come to terms with it sooner or later,’ Graye said. ‘It’s not going to go away.’

‘No,’ Janessa replied, glancing towards the window, a sudden mad plan coming to mind. ‘But maybe we could go away. Perhaps we could run, far from here, far from this prison.’

‘And go where? We couldn’t go anywhere in the Free States; we’d be found by the Wardens in no time. Would you rather we crossed the seas to Dravhistan where they treat their women like servants, or perhaps head north to the steppes where the Khurtas would use us as whores.’

‘Graye!’

‘It’s true. You do say the silliest things sometimes. If your father were here-’

‘He’s not here, is he, Graye.’

‘No, he’s not. He’s with the army on our northern borders, ready to defend our country from invaders. He’s carrying out his duty to his people. Perhaps it’s time you did the same.’

‘Sometimes you can be such a bore,’ Janessa said, but deep down she knew her friend was right. Graye was so often the voice of sanity, but sometimes it was the hardest voice to hear.

The most northerly of the Free States, Dreldun, had been invaded by a massive warhost of Khurtas; savages from the northern steppes. Dreldun was in ruins; its populace, only recently recovered from the horrors of the Sweet Canker, had been put to the sword and flame. The city of Steelhaven was filling with refugees from Dreldun and other provinces, desperate to escape the invasion. In response to the atrocity, King Cael had taken the massed armies of the Free States north to meet the enemy.

They called her father the Uniter: he had brought together the disparate kingdoms of the Free States under one banner when they were facing an invasion force of Aeslanti beast-men from the south. That incursion had ended in their victory, but now King Cael faced a greater threat: the tribes of the Khurtas were said to be allied under their own warlord, a warrior from the Riverlands of the far north. Amon Tugha, an immortal Elharim, cast out by his own people, had now come south to claim a kingdom for himself, and Steelhaven would be his ultimate prize. Only the king and his united armies stood in the way.

And there was the cause of all her problems. Despite King Cael’s power and the loyalty he demanded, the alliance of the Free States was still a fragile one. The king was not a young man, and he always led from the front in battle, contrary to the advice of his generals. If he were killed, the treaties binding the Free States might well collapse, which would be disastrous. Janessa had to be married off as soon as possible, to a noble of one of the major provinces. Their alliance would seal the union of Free States for decades, the legacy perpetuated by their children. It was something that Janessa was only slowly coming to terms with.

There was a heavy knock at the door. Before Janessa could answer — or even cover her modesty, standing as she was in her white cotton petticoat — the door opened.

Odaka Du’ur was so tall that to enter he needed to stoop beneath the lintel. His purple robe was patterned with yellow and gold thread depicting stylised birds and intersecting swirls and branches. Astrological symbols surrounded the hem and cuffs and circled the base of the small round hat that adorned his head, adding inches to his already towering frame. But his outlandish attire was not the most striking feature of this man, for his skin was a gleaming black, marking him as native to the continent of Equ’un, far beyond the southern borders of the Free States. It was rare indeed to find any such foreigners in the Teutonian Free States, but this man was known to everyone at the court of King Cael Mastragall, for this was his most trusted counsellor, and in the king’s absence the current regent.

Odaka bowed his head. ‘My lady,’ he said, his deep voice rumbling like a bass horn. He ignored Graye, as ever choosing not to acknowledge those he considered beneath him.

‘To what do I owe this intrusion?’ Janessa responded, not even trying to conceal herself further. If Odaka had the temerity to enter her chamber unannounced she would not grant him the satisfaction of showing that it bothered her.

‘I’ve just passed your dressmaker on his way out. He looked quite consternated. Has there been any kind of … problem?’

‘No. No problem at all,’ Janessa lied, but she saw Odaka’s eyes flit to the dress left in a pile on the floor. He walked forward, stooping and picking up the garment.

‘I see there clearly has.’ He tried vainly to shake the creases from the fabric. ‘How many dressmakers does that make now?’