She pulls out a velvet pouch, the vivid orange of Ezzonid. She brings it to Cleves, and without another word presses her own hands to Johana’s wound so that Cleves can look inside.
The velvet’s sunset umber turns scarlet in her hands. The parcel is light and strangely warm. From it, under Johana’s glassy gaze, she pulls a cushion containing a dozen golden dress pins.
To the unknowing eye they are no different from any royal dress pin used to secure a frontlet or a veil, a ruff or a collar. But Johana wouldnot have hidden them if they were not important. She holds the cushion up to the light, and understanding washes over her like dawn.
The head of each pin is adorned with a molten sliver of phoenix feather.
She never knew what became of Sybil’s gift. She assumed it was secreted in a vault, like the binding cloths beneath the Tower of High Hall. But she knows, the way she knew when she laid eyes on the bird as a child, the way she knew when she communed with the bordweal, that she holds the deepest, most precious magic.
Johana tries to speak. She bends over him.
“You were always very good at staying alive, dear cousin,” he breathes. “Promise me you will never stop being good at it.”
“I promise,” she says. Her throat is tight.
He closes his eyes.
“Keep running,” he whispers, though she can hardly hear the words.
She and Seymour stay there, hunched over him, as his chest rises fainter and fainter, and the pump of blood through Seymour’s fingers ebbs. How can one so sharp die so quietly? How can her cousin, who has survived so much, be felled by a petty princess? It is not right. It is not just.
At some point, Seymour rises. Cleves is aware of her talking to the servants and, presumably, to the damned late physician. In one hand she cups Johana’s cooling cheek. In the other she holds the cushion. The feathery pinheads make dots of warmth on her palm.
“Cleves,” Seymour says, kneeling beside her once more. “Cleves, we must flee. Cecilia has still not been discovered.”
“Yes,” Cleves says, but does not move.
“She has mysunscínatoo,” Seymour says.
Of course she does. Cecilia has played them both for fools. At least they had enough foresight to conceal the other queens’ part in their treachery.
Strangely, it is the thought of those other queens – of Howard, really, and her determination to place herself in the greatest possible danger in order to benefit them all – that brings Cleves to her feet. She turns to the servants. “Wrap his body. In Ezzonid it is customary to bury our dead in the Desa Savalis, but we will not be able to ship him back to my homeland.”
She cannot bury him in the Lake of Souls, but she can find another body of water for him to rest in. “Take him to the Dreomere,” she tellsthem. The mere is the largest of Elben’s lakes, and bridges the territories of Cnothan and Hyde. It does not hold the religious significance of the Desa Savalis, but perhaps it will be enough for his spirit to find peace.
Next she must think to the future. Always ahead, for insanity lies behind. Perhaps, on some level, she has been preparing for this ever since she committed to toppling the King of Elben. She can see the events that will undoubtedly follow.
“If Henry is at High Hall, then we have a day at least before he could bring an army to Cnothan,” she says. She runs a hand through hair still tangled from her night with Seymour. That night feels like moons ago, and also so very close – her body still bears the marks and heat of their lovemaking.
There seems only one thing to do. “I must return to Cnothan and raise the drawbridge,” she says. Seymour’s head snaps up. “Why?”
“It is one of the most defendable of the castles. It is my home.”
“But you won’t be able to leave. We have only just committed to our plan for the binding cloths,” Seymour says, crossing her arms.
“You would have me simply hand over my castle?”
“It is only a castle.” Seymour surges forward and takes Cleves’s hands. She kisses the knuckles. “You could keep Cnothan and never defeat him, or leave Cnothan and stand a chance of overthrowing him.”
“You underestimate my cunning, my Lady Seymour.”
“Why are you so afraid?” Seymour says.
“Just because you decided to destroy your safety for the sake of a grand statement does not mean I am a coward for not doing the same.” She wishes Seymour could understand that she must consider her position as a royal not only of Elben but of Ezzonid. She may be considered eccentric, but she must uphold her royal duty. An eccentric with a castle has power. An eccentric without a castle has nothing.
Seymour’s eyes glisten. “I do not understand what you can hope to gain from your course of action. It is short-sighted.”
Cleves turns away.
