story - part 4 - secrets - 1267 words

It is easy to forget, sometimes, that there are other people in the world besides the young Prince. The past few months I have spent here blend together into a familiar routine. Early mornings spent at his lessons, afternoons dragged away to the open court or to play in his rooms, nights at his side, coaxing him to sleep and easing away his pain. I become an extension of him. I lose track of myself, except for that fierce, burning hatred - I am my mother's son to the core, and it terrifies me sometimes. But who would I be without that anger, that passionate flame?

Tonight is an early evening. Perhaps because of the court, perhaps because he knows that there are more long lectures on the importance of winning the hearts of his people, perhaps because he does not wish to speak to me tonight - whatever the reason, it is strangely easy to coax the pain pills into Tumaire's mouth, and the sleeping draught down his throat. He will sleep for hours, even if the pain lances down his spine, even if a war is fought outside of his bedroom window. I know my work well. I was taught by some of the best.

The halls are never empty at this hour. Servants scuttle from one door to another, carrying heavy loads of dirty clothing or scurrying away to do dishes, to serve meals, to light fires, an array of other idle tasks. None of them every pay me any heed, they flow past me with practiced easy, and I have learned how to ignore them. We understand each other; our jobs are easier when attention is not draw to us, we prefer it when we are out of the minds of those people around us. We do not want to be seen.

I am understandably surprised when a young woman draws herself out into the hallway before me, head cocked up and to the side to peer intently up at my face. She is petite - she barely reaches my shoulder, and she is so thin I could wrap both hands about her waist with ease - but she stands as if she were three feet taller and seventy pounds more massive. I can read her posture, that arch of her neck and flash in her eye, the way her hands settle on her hips. Despite her clothing, which is far too plain and drab to suit her, I can see that sharp edge of something noble in her.

"Raven. Correct?" Said with a curt, familiar tone, something that rings at memories but I pass off as merely that of a noble. I can meet it with nothing but a slow bob of my head, a careful movement that is only half-bow.

A crook of her finger, the gesture obviously more than merely beckoning. It is an order, and as she turns back down the hall and away, leading toward my rooms, I am drawn into her wake. I should be afraid, but I cannot gather up the energy to care. Something in her face registers as familiar in my mind. Slowly, the curve of her jaw and the stiff downward slope of her nose settle into place, I can picture her eyes a vivid green, darkly lined with powder. Her lips curve up into a haughty smile, stained a dark crimson, and I can remember the expanse of emerald cloth that she had swept up about herself, shimmering in the lights of Great Hall.

"Lady Calidris? May I ask where you are leading me?" Attempting to sound suitably humble and timid, I do not dare let my annoyance creep into my voice. Her response comes as a sharp glance back over her shoulder, a faint twist of a smirk that makes my stomach flip and my heart jump. It does not matter.

The halls twist, we wind our way through passages that I do not recognize, areas of the castle I have never seen before. How does she know her way? I remember her arriving no longer than two weeks ago, amidst a bustle of gossip and a certain amount of awe from the male members of the court. I spent more than a decade here, when I was young, roaming the hallways and hiding in unknown corners with a burning anger in the pit of my stomach. How can she know this place better than me?

A final turn and we slip into an empty set of chambers. Vast and ornate, I know where we are now. This is the right wing of the palace, the nobles' quarters, where the tapestries on the walls are still brilliant in color, where every surface is covered with velvet or silk, where the beds are larger than anyone could ever need. Behind us, the back of the bureau clicks quietly closed again. She slips out of the bedroom and away, toward her small sitting room, reaching up to unpin red hair and let it cascade down her spine as she does so. I follow her reluctantly, woodenly, my mind now beginning to race. I can taste how dangerous this is.

When I finally slip out into the sitting room, she's sprawled gracefully out on her sofa, fingers caressing through her hair, smoothing it down over her shoulder. She would look decadent and careless, it would be lounging, except for the attentive way she watches me with her eyes narrowed and head cocked to the side. Appraising, judging, I am not sure what that look means until she holds out a hand and smiles at me, one find eyebrow twitching slowly upward.

"Take off your cloak." An order. She expects me to obey but I hesitate, my heart jumping up into my throat, and instead stare flatly in her direction. Her smile tightens and that eyebrow creeps higher, her jaw slowly lifting.

"I would rather not, My Lady." Keeping my soft, flat tone of voice, expression still carefully schooled into calm. The realization that this is a battle of wills I can never win slowly creeps over me as she rises to stand. Slow, creeping steps drag her up before me, a hand settles against the side of my neck and slides over my shoulder, catching at that cloak and dragging it carefully downward. I should stop her, but I cannot look away from her eyes, from that teasing smile on her lips.

Black cloth finally tumbles down my back to pool at my feet. Her gaze shifts away from my face to the mess of mangled feathers that is plastered at awkward angles against my spine. A hiss escapes between my teeth, shaky, and I realize that I have lost my mask, the anger and the frustration and the terror are starkly visible across my face. Elegant hand flutters against my back and I wince, tense, eyes falling closed as she works feathers between her fingers, taking in the rough texture, the awkward angles.

Then that touch is gone, cloak settles neatly back into my arms. I crack my eyes open and tilt my head slowly, carefully, to meet her steady gaze. She is smug, and rightly so. She holds all the power in her tiny hands. She has won whatever game she was playing. I want to ask her what she wants of me, why she has done this, but I barely open my mouth before that haughty voice kicks in again.

"Tomorrow night, as soon as you can, find your way back here." And I know a dismissal when I hear one.