“I also,” Aragon says. “To understand how to wield the bordweal would be a powerful move indeed.”
Howard tempers her bubbling joy. She does not want them to see how much their approval means to her. “Very well, sisters. I will also study my books,” she says.
And like that, they are united in purpose. Aragon looks away, towards a window, bleak sunlight coating her face. “We must consult quickly. With a fair wind behind them, Cecilia and Seymour will reach Elben’s bordweal in three days.”
“Three days, then,” Cleves says. “Three days to riddle Elben’s most ancient power and save a queen. How hard can it be?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cecilia
The ship is a glorious vessel, a true Perfugian galleon with a hull crafted from dragon bone. No wooden ships can dock in Perfugi’s harbour: the lava and the mountain’s natural heat would melt the tar and set fire to the wood. The secret to making the old dragon bone vessels is closely guarded by the people of Perfugi; not all the spies in the known world have been able to gain the knowledge, for to do so would be to open the city to foreign invasion, the only other way of entering it being across a slim strip of land, easily defended. Cecilia knows something of the paranoia of small kingdoms. She grew up in one, after all.
As Cecilia’s galleon passes the harbour designated for foreign ships – a man-made island a league away from Perfugi itself – she rifles through her letters. More has sent another missive since his one warning of Seymour’s arrival. She has not told anyone of her return to Elben. Oh, to see their faces when she steps foot on those shores with their traitor queen shackled and her murderous beast cowed. But there is something odd about More’s words this time that she cannot quite fathom.
I do not always agree with them, but the king surrounds himself with men of impressive mind and spirit. There is a blight, a plague come upon this land, my dear. I am glad you are not here to witness its spread. We may yet prevail, however. Cromwell hasdiscovered something in my vast library at Pilvreen that may save us all, and the soul of this dear island of ours. It will require courage and strength that I do not know if I possess, but for Elben, for your good brother and for our great God, I am willing to make the attempt.
Cecilia frowns. The plague must refer to Seymour and her notions about the goddess Medren, but what can he mean about the test of strength? There is something portentous about the letter that she does not like. When she looks up from the parchment, the waves are jostling for room between her ship and a lone sail from the Feorwan Isles, which – even as she watches – overtakes them. Those mercenaries of knowledge move swiftly upon the oceans. On the other side of the ship, they pass a trail of smaller bone boats which carry goods between the foreign harbour and the city. Rich silks and velvets, strange spices and jewels with the light of stars within them. Cecilia moves around the deck, wanting to keep the city in view for as long as possible before she faces the unknown of a homeland she has not set foot upon in more than a decade.
The tempestuous mountain upon which Perfugi sits is a flower rusting from the earth, petals of fierce orange breaking through the softer reflection of the sunset on the grey rock that crackles between the lava flows. The city spreads in alabaster tears down its slopes. Cecilia can spy her own palace nestled near the base in the safer, wealthier district. She dashes errant dampness from her cheek.
She recognises Florin’s light footsteps, even above the ocean winds. “Her Majesty is weeping,” he says. He stands beside her, his eyes downcast. He has been appropriately attentive since the day he ruined her pleasure-taking.
“Do you think me silly?” she says.
“Never,nes mihohle,” he says.My ruler-of-the-heart. She likes the irony that for a country superficially preoccupied with equality, Perfugi’s language has so many words denoting authority. She likes, too, these moments of softness between them.
“I will miss its deadly beauty,” she says.
“If you were a city,” he says, as she knows he will, as he knows he must.
She pats the balustrade next to her, permitting him to lean on it at her side.
“Your palace was the first thing you owned that was entirely yours, was it not?” he says.
“Do not pretend to know me,” she says. She is no common lady. She has always owned her own wealth.
“I sometimes think I shall die trying to know you,” he says.
She brushes a strand of hair, buffeted by the wind, from her face, and arches her head in a way that she knows shows off her jaw and neck. Florin is watching her worshipfully. She is rather fond of him. She turns her back on Perfugi and pulls him closer, strokes his smooth cheek.
“I am sorry for what happened to Lorena,” she says.
His face tightens, but then he nods. Good. She will suffer no more theatrics, and he has learned the lesson. Now that he is more conciliatory, she is beginning to see a way to solve her other problem, for she knows that Seymour is still hiding something from her, and the knowledge itches. “Besides, it was not I who killed her. I gave the Lady Seymour a choice. It was her and her creature who chose to deliver the final blow.”
Florin looses a great breath, then nods. His fist is clenched. She almost has him. Perhaps just one more little tip. She kisses him full on the mouth, long and slow as he prefers. When they part, she whispers into his ear, “I miss her also. I wish only that her death will not be in vain.”
She walks away. As she goes, she flicks a hand to the nearest servant. “Make sure that our prisoner is fed, do you understand?”
Once out of sight, she trips down the stairs which lead into the ship’s bowels. She takes one of the servants’ passages, narrow and gloomy, all the way down. The Lady Seymour is being kept in a windowless cabin in the hold. Her room abuts a space reserved for the provisions they will need for the voyage. Cecilia climbs in among the barrels of grain and pushes aside cured meats hanging from the ceiling. She sits on a sack of flour and finds the whorl in the wall that affords her a limited view of the space within; something she had made sure of before requisitioning the ship.
Seymour sits upright on her pallet bed, dressed in the simple green gown in which she was captured. Her eyes are closed, and her hands are holding onto the hem of her gown. Cecilia frowns. It seems as though the hem is solid beneath her fingers.
Before Cecilia can ponder this, heavy footsteps on the main stairs indicate that someone is coming. They pass by Cecilia’s hiding place.Florin is carrying a tray of bread and cheese. The boy is so very obliging. So very predictable.
He enters the room without ceremony, barely looking at Seymour. She opens her eyes as he places the tray in front of her on the rush-covered floor.
“Who was she to you?” she says.
