There was a family dinner that night. It was strained and everyone picked at their food. There were too many courses, all of them far too rich, and the servants took them away again, barely tasted. Marra watched turtles go by, cooked in their shells, and quail stewed with apricots, and venison in lingonberry and truffles and trifles and wondered who in their right mind served such a thing to mourners.
The old king was having a vague sort of day, intercut with moments of lucidity. Vorling’s smooth, handsome face was smoother and colder than Marra remembered. She wondered if he was beginning to age like the old king had. She had no idea how old he was. Forty? Forty-five? He did not look old. He did not look young. He looked like carved marble. Kania, beside him, was all too clearly flesh. Her wrists and ankles were swollen and her skin was puffy. Marra wanted to grab her hands and beg her not to get pregnant again, to dump everything she’d learned about preventing conception into her sister’s lap.
She did not, because even she was not so far gone as to do that at dinner, particularly not with the husband who had bought her sister to give him sons. She fiddled with the stem of her wineglass and waited for the endless courses of food to just go away. Finally they did. The last plate was removed and the king stood and everyone else got to their feet as well.
“Tomorrow,” said Vorling. His eyes flicked over Kania. “Clean yourself up for it. You look a fright.”
Marra inhaled sharply. Had he really said that? Had she misheard? Why was no one else reacting? That was shockingly cruel. She couldn’t really have heard it.
She glanced at her mother’s face, seeking confirmation, but the queen’s face was utterly calm, the same calm that she wore when speaking to enemies and diplomats. The two attendants who helped the king began to lead the monarch gently toward the door, and Vorling followed.
“I would like to stand vigil for my daughter tonight,” said Kania to Vorling’s back. “In the chapel.”
Vorling turned. Marra saw his lips thin, saw them start to form a denial, but the old king looked at her and smiled blearily and said, “Yes, yes, right and proper…”
Rage flashed across Vorling’s face. It was so strange and unexpected that Marra almost didn’t recognize it. For a moment she thought that the prince was in pain or about to have some kind of fit. Then it passed and his face resumed that flat, smooth tranquility.
“I will send guards,” he said.
“I would prefer to keep vigil alone,” said Kania. Her voice shook a little, as if she were asking for some enormous favor. “But I will take my sister with me for comfort.”
Vorling’s face turned toward Marra. There was something masklike about his expression, and Marra wanted to take a step back, but Kania was also looking at her, and so was the old king.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, folding her hands inside her sleeves. “I would be honored.”
“You must keep a guard,” said Vorling.
“I must mourn,” she said. “A nun is chaperone enough, I think.”
Marra wanted to say that she was not really a nun, but she knew that her sister knew that, and if her sister thought it was important enough to lie, she would not be the one to expose her.
A tear slid down the old king’s face, and he wiped it away. His wispy hair seemed to float as he nodded. “It’s proper,” he said. He nudged his son’s shoulder. “You have to let the ladies weep in their own way.”
Vorling’s lips tightened over his teeth. “My guards will escort you,” he said in a clipped voice, and he turned on his heel and walked away.
* * *
The guards came for Marra that night after dinner. She had sent the maid away and was staring at the tapestries in her room, pacing from one to another. They mostly showed treaties being signed and were remarkably tedious, but she had to admire the craftsmanship that suggested writing on pages without actually spelling out the letters. That is a fair bit of design. I wonder if I could do that …
One of the tapestries billowed in a draft, perhaps from the palace of dust underfoot. Tomorrow her niece would go to join the ancient kings. It seemed like a cold and lonely place to send a child.
Someone knocked on the door, then opened it immediately. Two guards came in, wearing the white cloaks of the prince’s personal guard. “You are sent for,” said the taller of the two.
Marra nodded. It occurred to her, somewhat belatedly, that guards might address a princess with a little more respect, but here in this place built on dead kings, perhaps there was no great worth to a princess. She walked behind them, her head bowed, and concentrated on looking as much like a nun as she could.