War. A brutal word. But to Alinore, it was always edged with both danger and dignity.
Prince Ottone hunched his shoulders. ‘Yes, the Diaspass Kingdom have got themselves into a mess with Journier,’ he mumbled. ‘The High King has agreed to come to Diaspass’s aid and Father says I must go too.’
Alinore looked down at the sword in her hand. She could feel an impossible mixture rising in her chest: sorrow that Prince Ottone would be leaving again so soon and yet longing, painfully sharp, for the chance to prove herself in the same way. To stand shoulder to shoulder beside him on a battlefield, not left behind in a silken dress, practising footwork among rotting grain sacks.
‘I didn’t realize you were training for war,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be in the High King’s army like my father.’
‘I don’t have a choice in the matter.’
‘A choice? Why would you choose anything else?’ said Alinore, thinking of her father’s daring tales from past battles. ‘It’s an honour.’
Prince Ottone frowned. ‘I’ll just try to stay alive,’ he muttered.
Outside they heard the clang of the Sanctuary bells, signalling the middle of the day.
‘Let’s go and find Cress,’ said Prince Ottone, already stridingtowards the door. ‘I’ve barely had a chance to speak to her since I returned.’
Alinore pushed the practice sword into a nearby wooden crate. ‘Don’t tell her about all of this,’ she said.
Behind her, she heard Prince Ottone pause.
‘So Cress doesn’t know that you practise at all?’
Alinore kept her back to him, trying to ignore a prickle of guilt. ‘She doesn’t need to know everything.’
Cressyda
CALESTRAN FLAGS SLICEDthrough the thick, hot air. Tossed upwards, they floated in a purple blaze against the rusty stone of the surrounding buildings, before dropping in unison to the beat of the pounding drums and trumpet blares. The dancers waiting on the cobbles caught the flags, whirling them in a flurry of rippling, golden dragons, before leaping and ducking, twirling in time to the steps of the Summer Carnevale.
Cressyda stood on the balcony overlooking the square, two paces behind the Queen. Beads of sweat trickled from her temples, mixing with the tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. Facing forward, the rest of the royal party arranged behind her could not see her misery, and the crowd below packed at all sides of the square was too far away to notice. In the blistering brightness of the summer’s day, she cried silently to herself.
Moments ago, as she had waited in one of the royal carriages that had processed through the streets of Tormale, she had felt a jabin her side. Turning, she had seen Samsel, leaning across the seat, smirking at her.
‘You’re riding with us now, Little Pet,’ he had hissed. ‘You’re getting too big.’
Cressyda had flushed. It was true. She normally tucked into the first royal carriage for such occasions, beside the Queen’s legs. ‘Like a lapdog!’ the King had always chuckled. But this time the Queen had said that there was not enough room. ‘You’re too old,’ she had muttered with a frown. ‘You’ve got too big.’
‘Perhaps you ought to ask Master Jakespurcia for a spell to turn back time, if such a thing exists,’ Samsel had added. ‘Or Mother will get herself another little pet.’
Ottone had kicked his brother and said something about keeping his mouth shut, but Samsel had barely noticed.
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want to lose your place in the royal carriages,’ he had carried on. ‘After all, you do like a ride. According to Prince Mariso.’
Cressyda had blinked at him. ‘What?’ she had whispered finally.
‘Allowing yourself to be backed up against a corridor wall like a common whore. Naughty Pet.’
Before Cressyda had been able to respond, the carriage doors had swung open to the bellowing of the surrounding crowd. Trying desperately not to cry, she had followed her brothers into the burning sunshine. Only when the royal party had taken up their positions on the balcony overlooking Tormale’s main square and the Summer Carnevale spectacle began, had Cressyda allowed her tears to fall.
Below, three dancers launched one of the larger flags into the air as the drums beat faster. The flag soared upwards, twirling above the terracotta roofs to drift suspended against the distant, jagged outline of the mountains. Then it dropped to a roar of applause.
‘Bravo!’ yelled the King suddenly.
The royal party standing on the balcony all jumped in surprise and the Queen dropped her fan.
King Borto seemed oblivious to the alarm he had caused. He giggled to himself, the mirth bubbling up in a series of high-pitched chuckles, childlike and disarming.
Two councilmen standing to Cressyda’s left began whispering, their eyes flicking to the King and back again, their expressions sombre.
