Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

An armed soldier stood beside Siddonie. And there was, in the queen’s eyes, an intensity that alarmed Melissa. Siddonie said, “You will turn his sword aside when he strikes at you.”

Melissa stared at the queen, not understanding.

Siddonie repeated the order, as if to someone very stupid, “You will deflect his sword with your own powers. Only your own magic will save you from being struck through or beheaded.”

“I cannot do such a thing. I never have done anything like that.” And in truth she had not; this was beyond her powers. She watched the queen, terrified.

“He does not feign this,” Siddonie said. “You will turn the sword or you will die.”

But it was a test — surely it was only a test.

“If you cannot turn his sword, you are no use to me. He is instructed to kill you.”

Fear and rage sickened her. She had no way to know the truth. If the soldier had been ordered to kill, he would kill. He moved suddenly, his blade flashed upward toward her face. Fear shocked through her. Her terrified spell wrenched the blade from his hand so sharply he went off balance.

She drew back, faint, not believing what she had done.

The queen smiled. “Very good. We shall try a few more.”

“No. I will not do more. I don’t like this. What are you training me for?”

In two strides the queen was before her, and slapped her against the wall. “You have no choice. You will do two more. Or you will die.”

The soldier crouched, circling Melissa. When his sword thrust up at her she was so enraged, so hot with anger and fear, she shouted a spell that sent him sprawling across the tiles.

Again he came at her, crouching, dodging. Her blood pounded. She shouted a spell that turned his sword toward the queen’s throat; only at the last instant did Siddonie’s oath cast his blade aside.

“No more,” Melissa said.

The queen smiled with triumph. “Very good, indeed. Soon, my dear, I will teach you some of my own skills.”

Melissa’s hands were sweating. She didn’t like this; she was close to pure terror, close to losing control. She did not want to be Siddonie’s disciple. She was frantic with the need to escape.

But she could not run away, not until the rebels were free. She watched Siddonie narrowly, waiting for the next test.

Chapter 11

The banquet hall was noisy—laughter and drunken shouts rose over the music. Melissa glanced in as she slipped past the serving door. There were three visiting kings with their queens and entourages. She had glimpsed King Ridgen of Mathe in the grand foyer, and Terlis had pointed out the king of Wexton and Siddonie’s brother King Ithilel of Xendenton. Market Festival was the biggest celebration of the year. All day the scullery had seethed with strange servants added to the Affandar kitchen staff. And the courtyard had been in a turmoil of workers setting up the market booths and stringing colored banners. The visiting soldiers and the lesser servants were camped outside the castle, as were peasants from all over Affandar who had brought their wares for sale, their jewelry and weavings, their carvings and livestock.

Though the palace seemed bursting with people, surely at this moment with everyone at banquet, the upper halls would be empty. Melissa hurried up the back stairs and along the empty corridor toward the king’s chambers, strung with nerves. She had vowed to herself that tonight she would find the Harpy’s mirror, that she would learn her past, learn the spell to free the rebels, and get out of there. Leave the palace, get away from Siddonie’s tests and training. Now as she reached for the knob to the king’s chamber, from beyond the door she heard a woman laugh, a breathy giggle. She drew back against the wall, heard the king say, “It’s only a little ruffle, come let me remove it,” and the woman giggled again. Melissa fled for the back stairs and up to the safety of her attic chamber, both shocked and amused. The king had deliberately missed the banquet, flaunting his dalliance with some visiting serving girl, or perhaps with a visiting wife of royalty.

But not until the next morning in the scullery did she hear that the king had taken ill before the banquet, and of course she said nothing. The scullery was a turmoil of confusion as pastries and hams, sweets and sausages were prepared for the booths, as loaves were pulled from the ovens, and venison and game birds put to broil for royal breakfasts. As dawn touched the scullery shutters, Melissa stacked warm pastries onto a cart. She had been chosen to have a booth, and under the envious glances of the other girls, she wheeled her cart away to the courtyard. She was wearing one of the new dresses—a plain green wool that pleased her.

The courtyard was bright with draped booths and with colored banners blowing against the granite sky. When she had settled into her booth and laid out the pastries, she watched folk streaming in through the gates. The crowd was a mix of queen’s peasants and visiting servants. Soon she was busy selling turnovers and meat pies as folk flocked to break their fasts. In the booth across from her, cider was sold, and in the next booth a jester juggled silver balls. Farther down the row, the puppeteers were warming up with smutty jokes. The music of lute and rota, horns and vielle echoed against the sky like a dozen bands.

How quickly her pastries vanished. Twice she sent a page for more. It was mid-morning when she saw King Efil descend the marble stairs, swinging a red cape over his purple jerkin and trousers. He began to tour the booths, stopping to throw darts, then to laugh at the puppets. He was so young, hardly older than she. She wondered where his partner was from last night, which of the visiting young women. Though it was common practice, she found the promiscuity of royalty unsettling. This was not the way of the peasant families; there could be nothing of loyalty or deep love in such a life. When the king turned suddenly toward her booth, she felt her face go hot.

A young page followed him, carrying two mugs of ale.

“Pastries, then!” the king said, laughing, his dark eyes fully on her. “A dozen pastries. The lamb, the currant—four of those peach—some scones.” His gaze never left her. As she wrapped the pastries in a linen cloth, he leaned close across the counter. She backed off, handing him the package, but his hands lingered on hers and his voice was soft.

“Come out from the booth, Melissa. My page will relieve you. You’ve been in there since daybreak.”

“I—I can’t do that.”

His eyes hardened. “Come out now. You will join me for a picnic in the orchard.” He took the mugs from the page and nodded, and the boy slipped under the counter into the booth beside her. The king balanced the mugs in one hand. The twitch at the corner of his mouth deepened, his eyes darkened with excitement. “Wander the fair for a moment, my dear, then come through the east gate to the vineyard. Don’t be long. Come while the pastries are still hot and the ale has not gone flat.” He gave her a last deep look that made her giddy, then he turned away and was gone into the crowd.

She looked after him, cold and still. She felt heated. Shamed. Uncertain.

One did not defy a king’s orders.

Beside her the page was rearranging napkins over the pastries. He didn’t look at her. She supposed he knew every lover the king took. Embarrassed, she slipped under the counter and moved away.

She watched the puppet antics of stag and dragon, hardly aware of them. She told herself she would share the king’s picnic, that she need do nothing more. He couldn’t force her; she didn’t think he was strong enough to force her. Yet beyond her resolve her own heat built, and she saw again the dark, needing look in his eyes. She moved nearer the gate, but then paused beside the stall of a jeweler.