With one last ripple, the memory changed once more: Pliny saw Gamelyn perched at the table. He had not been a much more biddable pupil than his father, though for different reasons entirely. He did not complain or fight, but he jostled endlessly in his seat, eyes darting, his body never at ease. He was a clever boy and learned his letters fast enough. But it was clear that his inclination was not toward any cerebral pursuit. He belonged in the tiltyard, not the schoolroom.
The memories were sucked away like a whirlpool with the sound of Waltrude’s voice. “My leech,” she said, “your lord is waiting.”
Tisander, with his mature mind and consummate focus, completed his lesson within the hour, when the purple haze of evening settled over Castle Crudele. The boy yawned and rubbed his eyes, and Waltrude, as she did every night, set about dressing him for bed. Pliny, meanwhile, rested in his chair. Tiredness was upon him like a heavy old cloak. In these moments, he felt his age, the sagging of his skin and the wasting of his bones. His blood seemed to run colder and more sluggishly even by the moment.
If the rest of his days followed as this one had, Pliny decided, he would be content.
Waltrude left Tisander’s bedside and came to him, carrying only a candle. Its dim orange light filled all the lines on her face, like molten steel poured into a mold. In a soft voice, she asked, “Did you have occasion to see the lady today?”
“Briefly,” Pliny replied, “in the library. She was reading to the boy as she always does.”
“No.” Waltrude shook her head. “The other lady. The lady in the tower.”
“The princess?”
Waltrude stared at him unblinkingly.
“No one sees her,” Pliny said. “She does not leave her chambers—nor does that girl of hers, Ninian, but for some handmaiden’s errands. I wonder if her daughter could even name the color of the sky.”
Waltrude bristled. It was strange to see this old porcupine put up her ancient quills. She said, “A fox run to ground still has its sharp teeth.”
Yet before Pliny could reply, the door to the chamber opened, and Liuprand entered. He nodded once, fondly, at each Pliny and Waltrude, and then strode in silence to his son’s bedside. He sat on the edge, leaning over, and pressed a kiss to Tisander’s temple. Low, soft words were spoken, each to each. Pliny could not hear them at this distance, though he marveled, as he always did, at the impressive size of the prince, his hand so large beside his son’s very small head, large enough, Pliny felt, that he could crush his skull to dust. He did not know why the thought occurred to him, why such an image rose, for there was nothing but tenderness between father and son.
With one last kiss, Liuprand rose—the bed creaking with his weight—and came to Pliny and Waltrude.
“Good evening, my prince,” Waltrude said. And Pliny echoed: “Good evening.”
“Tisander is well,” Liuprand said. “He is happy. In his life he has never known a moment of grief.”
It took both Pliny and Waltrude a moment to realize that this was not a statement but a question. When he did understand, Pliny nodded fervently, and said, “Yes, Your Highness. He has joy and no sorrow. And he is deeply loved.”
Liuprand smiled, a truly breathtaking thing. His Seraphine beauty was immense, its gloriousness infinite, and when he was pleased, it showed itself best. Pliny felt as if he were standing in the path of a strong beam of sunlight, and he was lucky to be there, lucky to feel the warmth on his skin. Such was the soft power of Seraph’s superior people.
“Relieve yourself for the night, Waltrude,” Liuprand said. “I should like to sleep with my son.”
Waltrude dipped her head. “Of course, my prince.”
She turned to go, and Pliny, assuming his own dismissal, followed. But he did not reach the door before Liuprand’s voice rang out, calling after him: “Pliny, stay a moment.”
Pliny turned back. As he approached the prince, in the incomplete darkness, his senses were suddenly assaulted: He smelled lavender and wax. It wafted from Liuprand’s body like a strong perfume, and the closer Pliny got, the stronger the scent. By the time he was at the prince’s feet, he nearly choked on it.
That was how Pliny knew, beyond all doubt, that he had been with the lady Agnes. He had come directly from their tryst. He and Waltrude alone had been given to witness their secret love; Pliny himself had performed their clandestine marriage rite. And in these intervening years they had kept this love hidden to great success. Pliny was impressed by how they were able to conceal such passions. He had seen, with his own eyes, just how fervent these passions were. Fortuitous that there could be no fruit produced from their unions, no matter how much they were in love. Fortuitous that the lady’s body prevented such a terrible and ruinous crime as a bastard child would be.
Liuprand leaned close to him, bending down so that their eyes were level. The lavender and candle-wax scent was as thick as incense.
“I need you to perform a task for me,” Liuprand said. “It is of the utmost importance and the utmost secrecy.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Pliny replied. And then he leaned even closer, to hear what treasons the prince whispered.
IV
Maleagant
“Are you frightened?” she asked. “Don’t be frightened.”
The young girl did not answer, but her teeth were chattering and her forehead was slicked with cold sweat, as if she had the pox or a fever. She was not suffering from either; Maleagant would have known that at once. Her left calf bone would have started to throb the moment the girl entered her hut.
She was also not, as Maleagant was dismayed to realize, suffering from the portentous visions that would have made her a valuable apprentice. If she were, Maleagant would have known in an instant by looking into her eyes. This girl was just a fearful, fluttery thing, like a pigeon fit for pie. She was not simple—Maleagant’s left temple did not ache, and so she knew that—but she was too jejune, too vapid to perform the services Maleagant would require of her.
