Samsel’s tone was light and even, but there was a tightness about his posture that made Cressyda anxious. As though he were coiled and ready to strike.
‘I always hoped you’d go away. I thought you might disappear like Mother’s other playthings.’ Samsel spoke into the window, his breath forming a silver cloud on the glass. ‘But I suppose you were the original Pet and once you were called Princess, it was difficult to get rid of you. Mother tried to keep you small, but you just grew and grew until you weren’t a little girl any more. I heard my father discussing it with his advisors a few times. They didn’t know what to do. It was awkward.’
Cressyda clenched her teeth. Samsel was telling her this to upset her, but she knew it was probably true.
‘And you were – are – very beautiful. That’s why you’ve lasted. All those spells and then something that is just you. Your own special magic, I suppose.’
Samsel pushed himself away from the window and turned back to her. When he next spoke, his voice was deeper, the tone taut and hard. ‘That’s all about to change because I won’t fall for it. I know your secret, remember.’
And here it was. Samsel’s punishment.
Cressyda had been expecting a public humiliation – something like an announcement in front of the whole court and a banishment from Syonno Castle – but rather than relief that they were alone, her fears sharpened. Whatever Samsel had planned, it was so terrible that he needed to order it in private. She thought of Alinore running away and she wondered if her friend was not so foolish. Perhaps Cressyda should have run away too.
‘You see, I’ve finally managed to discover the truth of your origins,’ continued Samsel, his lips snaking into a smirk. ‘Master Jakespurcia didn’t want to tell me. I think he worried what I would do with such information, but his apprentices got it out of him in the end with a little forceful magic. It finished the old Master off,but he was almost dead anyway – and besides, they would never deny a request from the future King.’
Cressyda’s breath caught in her throat. Despite herself, she took an involuntary step forward. ‘You know who my mother is?’ she whispered.
‘Was. I know who she was. She’s dead now.’
The crush of grief took Cressyda by surprise, like a punch to the chest.
‘Her name was Esmelie Tuchi and Master Jakespurcia’s record states that she was from the Pits. Probably a whore. I’ve had guards search the shacks, but she’s nowhere to be found. She must be gone. Dead. That’s the fate of those kinds of women.’
Cressyda’s eyes swam with tears as she sank to the floor, hands pressed against the cold tiles. She thought about her cherished, faded pink ribbon. She had tried to tell herself that the woman who gave it to her might be dead. She had tried to harden her heart. But a tiny part of her had always hoped.
‘Most importantly of all,’ said Samsel, ‘Esmelie was one of the Mountain folk. She had Mountain blood and therefore so do you. I suspected this last autumn, of course, but now it’s confirmed. Now there’s an official record.’
Two black-booted feet appeared on the tiles before Cressyda. Then a hand grabbed hold of her chin and yanked her head back. Samsel’s face floated above her.
‘You’re eighteen winters old, Little Pet,’ he said, his gaze raking over her face. ‘It’s all worked out perfectly.’
She stared at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, his words barely registering.
‘Tomorrow is the three-hundredth Maiden Sacrifice,’ he continued.‘The Royal Master usually chooses the name of the girl by lot, but such things can be rigged if the King requires.’
He pulled his lips back into a smile.
‘Don’t you see? It’s to be my first Maiden Sacrifice as the new King,’ he said. ‘And you, Little Pet, will be my first sacrificed maiden.’
Part Three
THE MOUNTAIN GIRL
THE TALE OF ESMELIE
WHEN SHE OPENEDthe door to the herald, she knew.
‘I come on behalf of His Majesty King Borto Donolaino of Calestra.’ The face beneath the armoured helmet was sombre, the voice deep and clear. ‘A girl has been chosen by lot from Tormale, our great capital city. She will ride with me to the castle to take the honour of the Maiden Sacrifice.’
Behind him, doors and windows opened as those living in the surrounding shacks of the Pits peered out, heads craned, mouths open. Cries of shock and bewilderment followed.
‘The honour of the two-hundred-and-eighty-first Maiden Sacrifice has fallen upon the people of Tormale.’
His words were a torrent of horror disguised in formality.
‘In recognition of this great gift, His Majesty King Borto Donolaino of Calestra grants the people dwelling here a feast this coming harvest day.’
He held up the scroll and broke the seal.
