Морган Райс - A Court for Thieves

“You’re not good enough,” the other version of her said. “You’ll never be good enough. You’re weak.”

The words rattled through Kate almost as much as the impact of the sword blows against her practice weapon. They hurt, and they hurt most because they were everything Kate suspected might be the truth. How many times had they said it in the House of the Unclaimed? Hadn’t Will’s friends shown her the truth of it in their practice circle?

Kate shouted her anger and attacked again.

“No control,” the other her said as she deflected the blows. “No thought. Nothing but a little girl playing at being a warrior.”

Kate’s mirror image lashed out then, and Kate felt the pain of the sword cutting across her hip. For a moment, it felt no different from the ghostly blades that had stabbed her so many times, but this time the pain didn’t fade. This time, there was blood.

“How does it feel, knowing you’re going to die?” her opponent asked.

Terrifying. It felt terrifying, because the worst part of it was that Kate knew it was true. She couldn’t hope to beat this opponent. She couldn’t even hope to survive against her. She was going to die here, in this ring of thorns.

Kate ran for the edge of it then, casting aside her wooden blade as it slowed her down. She leapt for the edge of the circle, hearing her mirror image’s laughter behind her as she threw herself at it. Kate covered her face with her hands, shutting her eyes against the thorns and hoping that it would be enough.

They tore at her as she plunged through them, tearing at her clothes and the skin beneath. Kate could feel the blood beading as the thorns ripped into her, but she forced herself through the tangle of them, only daring to open her eyes when she came out the other side.

She looked back, half convinced that her mirror image would be following, but when Kate looked, the other version of her was gone, leaving the sword sitting on its tree stump as if she had never been there.

She collapsed then, her heart hammering with the effort of all that she’d just done. She was bleeding from a dozen places now, both from thorn scratches and from the wound on her hip. She rolled to her back, staring up at the forest canopy, the pain coming in waves.

Siobhan stepped into her field of vision, looking down at her with a mixture of disappointment and pity. Kate didn’t know which was worse.

“I told you that you weren’t ready,” she said. “Are you ready to listen now?”

Lady Emmeline Constance Ysalt d’Angelica , the note read, Marchioness of Sowerd and Lady of the Order of the Sash . Angelica was less impressed by the use of her full name than by the source of the note: the Dowager had summoned her for a private audience.

Oh, she hadn’t put it that way. There were phrases about being “delighted to request the pleasure of your company,” and “hoping that it should prove convenient.” Angelica knew as well as anyone that a request from the Dowager amounted to an order, even if the Assembly of Nobles made the laws.

She forced herself not to show the worry she felt as she approached the Dowager’s chambers. She didn’t check her appearance nervously or fidget unnecessarily. Angelica knew that she looked perfect, because she spent time in front of the mirror every morning with her servants, making sure that she did. She didn’t fidget because she was in perfect control of herself. Besides, what did she have to worry about? She was going to meet one old woman, not walk into a shadow cat’s den.

Angelica tried to remember that as she approached the doors to the old woman’s chambers, a servant pushing them open and announcing her.

“Milady d’Angelica!”

She should have felt safe, but the truth was that this was the queen of the kingdom, and Sebastian’s mother, and Angelica had done too much in her life to ever feel certain that she would avoid disapproval. Still, she walked forward, forcing herself to project a carefully crafted mask of confidence.

She had never had cause to be in the Dowager’s private chambers before. To be honest, they were something of a disappointment, designed with a kind of plain grandeur that was at least twenty years out of date. There was too much dark wood paneling for Angelica’s tastes, and while the gilt and silks of the rest of the palace were present in patches, it was still nowhere near the extravagance Angelica might have chosen.

“You were expecting something more elaborate, my dear?” the Dowager asked. She was seated by a window that looked out over the gardens, on a chair of dark wood and green leather. A marquetry table stood between her and another, only subtly less tall, seat. She was wearing a relatively simple day dress rather than full finery, and a circlet in place of a full crown, but there was still no doubt about the older woman’s authority.

Angelica dropped into a curtsey. A proper court curtsey, not one of the simple things a servant might have bothered with. Even in something like this, the subtle gradations of status mattered. The seconds dragged out as Angelica waited for permission to rise.

“Please join me, Angelica,” the Dowager said. “That is what you prefer to be called, isn’t it?”

“Yes, your majesty.” Angelica suspected that she knew very well what she ought to be called. She also noted that there was no corresponding suggestion of informality on the part of Sebastian’s mother.

Still, she was pleasant enough, offering a raspberry tisane from a pot that had obviously been freshly brewed and serving Angelica a slice of fruited cake with her own delicately gloved hand.

“How is your father, Angelica?” she asked. “Lord Robert was always loyal to my husband when he lived. Is his breathing still poor?”

“It benefits from the country air, your majesty,” Angelica said, thinking of the sprawling estates she was only too happy to stay away from. “Although he no longer rides to the hunt as much as he did.”

“The young men ride in the vanguard of the hunt,” the Dowager said, “while more sensible souls wait behind and take things at a pace to suit them. When I have attended hunts, it has been with a falcon, not a pack of charging hounds. They are less reckless, and they see more.”

“A fine choice, your majesty,” Angelica said.

“And your mother, does she continue to cultivate her flowers?” the Dowager asked, sipping her drink. “I have always envied her the star tulips she produces.”

“I believe she is working on a new variety, your majesty.”

“Splicing together lines, no doubt,” the Dowager mused, setting her cup down.

Angelica found herself wondering at the point of all of this. She sincerely doubted that the kingdom’s ruler had called her here just to discuss minor details of her family’s life. If she ruled, Angelica certainly wouldn’t care about something so pointless. Angelica barely paid attention when letters came from her parents’ estates.

“Am I boring you, my dear?” the Dowager asked.

“No, of course not, your majesty,” Angelica said hurriedly. Thanks to the civil wars, the days might have gone when the kingdom’s royalty could simply imprison nobles without trial, but it still wasn’t a good idea to risk insulting them.

“Because I was under the impression that you found my family fascinating,” the Dowager continued. “My younger son in particular.”

Angelica froze, unsure what to say next. She should have guessed that a mother would notice her interest in Sebastian. Was that what this was then? A polite suggestion that she should leave him alone?

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Angelica replied, deciding that her best option was to play the part of the coy young noble girl. “Prince Sebastian is obviously very handsome, but – ”