Scrivener's Tale (22 page)

Florentyna gasped as she saw a swan feather quill she recognised. ‘It's Chancellor Reynard's!' she said. ‘I gave it to him. It should have the royal sigil etched into the shaft.'

‘Indeed it does and it's why I had to come to the palace. I became terrified that the killer was connected with the royal household, but Chancellor Burrage told me it belonged to Chancellor Reynard.' He reverently handed the quill to Burrage, who passed it to Florentyna. She saw a speck of blood on the pristine white feather and felt her eyes misting. What had happened to Reynard and who was the naked stranger who carried this quill?

‘I can't say I know your stranger, Master Pel,' she said, ‘but I think we should make every effort to establish who he is because of this quill. Burrage, will you see to it that Dean Flek's corpse is brought to Pearlis immediately?'

Burrage nodded gravely.

‘Er, your majesty, I've brought him with me. His family lives in Pearlis.'

‘I'll have the body put in the chapel,' Burrage murmured.

She nodded. ‘I can't imagine viewing it will reveal much, but we should certainly assure ourselves that no possible clue is ignored. We will have Dean Flek's body delivered to his brother for burial and offer all help.'

Burrage continued. ‘Was there anything else, Pel, that this man might have said that we should know about?'

‘He was confused. I thought him drunk, as I mentioned, but I smelled no liquor on him. I know he was frightened and very unsure of where he was or why he was in the barn.'

‘Drugged, do you think?' Florentyna offered.

Pel looked uncertain. ‘He spoke clearly, didn't slur. Didn't strike me as violent or aggressive. He just seemed disoriented and genuinely scared. He asked me where he was and when I told him he looked baffled, as though he'd never heard of Morgravia or Briavel before.'

Both of them stared at Pel, astonished. ‘Did he say where he was from?'

‘He did, your majesty, but for the life of me I can't remember. I must be honest; I do recall not knowing the two places he mentioned. Neither was from the empire. As you can appreciate, in the church we are well versed with the towns and villages of our lands.'

‘Of course,' Burrage said. ‘Perhaps it was a tiny hamlet, though, or —'

‘I concede that, Master Burrage. But why did he look so bewildered when I mentioned Morgravia and Briavel? In fact, he admitted that he was lost.' Pel frowned. ‘I've been thinking about that conversation a great deal, trying to remember it in case it can give me a clue to this stranger. And he said the oddest thing.' They both leaned forward. ‘He said he was under a spell. That “she”, and I don't know to whom he referred, had brought him to this world from another.' Pel's voice had gradually lowered to a whisper even though they were alone. ‘He spoke of magic,' he said, sounding frightened.

Florentyna and Burrage stared at Pel as though he'd just begun talking in tongues.

‘From another world,' Florentyna repeated, remembering another stranger with a warning. Neither man responded. ‘Did you believe him, Master Pel?'

He looked surprised to be asked such a question. ‘At the time I just wanted him to be gone from the barn, my queen, for Master Flek gets deeply irritated if his security is breached. I didn't want a scene.' He gave a mirthless groan of a laugh. ‘I was certainly left with one though. I have no idea why he should kill an innocent. I don't know why I found a scrivener's quill with the royal sigil on it, and I don't understand talk about other worlds and magic. I am a simple man; you must forgive me for passing this problem on to the Crown. I didn't know what else to do but to tell you everything I could and return your quill. Oh, I believe his name may have been Gabriel.'

Florentyna listened and nodded. The name could be a lie, of course. ‘We're grateful that you came, Master Pel. I'm sorry for your loss,' she said. ‘Now, please, let us find you a bed in which to rest and some food. You may return home when you are ready.'

‘Thank you, your majesty, you're very kind. I hope the Crown finds him and I will be glad to bear witness against him.'

She nodded and watched the elderly man leave, escorted by Burrage to the door. Florentyna turned away, biting her lip in worry. The talk of magic had prompted a reminder of the man called Fynch, who had told Florentyna of the imminent arrival of a stranger — a magic bearer. She took a deep, steadying breath. She had to speak with Fynch again.

Pel's sinister tale also deepened the mystery surrounding her former chancellor's disappearance.

She wished Darcelle would be a friend and confidante, but it seemed that since the marriage proposal her sister was becoming increasingly bored with life as the spare heir and not especially interested in Florentyna's needs. Darcelle wanted a crown of her own and her new husband-to-be would provide it. And then she would likely consider herself Florentyna's equal. Despite her love for Darcelle, Florentyna knew they had grown apart, especially since the announcement of marriage and particularly with her choice of husband. But Florentyna had refused to dwell on King Tamas and her sister being wed. She would be happy for them, and Cipres was a long way from Morgravia.

Along with Reynard's disappearance, Florentyna was feeling increasingly isolated, to the point where the only trustworthy companions she could call upon were Burrage, in his seventh decade, and Felyx, her champion, who quietly resented his ‘nursemaid' role.

‘Do you need company?' Burrage whispered, interrupting her thoughts as she began to walk away.

‘Just want to clear my head,' she assured. ‘I'll be fine.'

‘In the grove?'

She found a smile. He knew her too well.

‘Felyx will accompany you,' he said, walking to the chamber door. She wanted to be truly alone but knew that was about as likely as two moons appearing tonight. She sighed quietly as she watched Burrage whisper to someone outside the door.

Soon enough, Burrage returned with her nursemaid. Between them they shared one hundred and fourteen summers. Florentyna could use some male company of her own age, as these men always felt the need to advise and counsel, rather than simply listen and let her reach her own conclusion. And there was so much to consider in Pel's curious tale.

Florentyna wished now that she hadn't treated Master Fynch with such indifference. She had allowed others to sway her attitude toward a man she had inherently trusted. There was something about his eyes — so bright and amused, and yet she'd had the impression that the wisdom of centuries lurked behind them. Had he thrown open a window onto something she could not yet see, but was out there?

Magic had been openly accepted as a fact of life in her great-grandfather's time. It could hardly die out, could it, even though she'd read the history tomes that said people had tried to stamp it out by burning so-called witches?

Felyx quietly followed her from the throne room. He was a senior, trusted man from the Royal Blades, a special unit of soldiers set up originally by Cailech to guard his queen.

‘Chancellor Burrage says I must return you by midday, your majesty,' Felyx said, catching up with her and interrupting her gloomy thoughts as she left the palace to emerge into the sunlight of the bailey. It helped a little to feel the warmth, thin though it was today. Felyx's sword clanged at his side and his leathers creaked. She was used to it, but today the sounds only added to her annoyance.

‘Does he?' she said, although it didn't come out as a polite question. More of a sneer.

Courtiers, soldiers, maids and pages all began bowing as she approached and stayed bent in her wake, but Florentyna uncharacteristically acknowledged no-one. Felyx caught the gate as it carelessly swung back on him then closed it quietly. He was used to this route. It was the queen's most regular one when she chose to escape. She stomped ahead toward the private grove planted by Cailech for his beloved Valentyna.

Gone was the usual cacophony of the great palace known as Stoneheart — apart from the soft ‘clank' of Felyx behind her. The noise of people and their daily work was replaced by birdsong and the rustle of trees swaying in the gentle breeze. The comforting, regular gurgle of water ran in a stream that traced a narrow path nearby.

‘I'm going to the pool,' she said, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘I would like to be alone.'

‘Yes, of course, majesty. I'll do a sweep of the grove to ensure all is well. And when I return I will wait for you here,' he said.

‘Thank you,' Florentyna whispered and was already moving away from Felyx before he'd finished speaking. She threaded her way through the grove of majestic belaqua, with their huge gnarled limbs and fabulously bright-green heart-shaped leaves, and immediately her burden — whatever it was — felt lighter. She moved to her favourite spot: overlooking a tiny rock pool, away from the foaming rush of the stream that cut through the grove and moved on its busy journey to join the River Tague. That river began in the Razor Mountains and flowed south to separate Morgravia from Briavel.

Before she sank down beside the pool, she snapped a leaf from a low branch and stroked its velvety length, marvelling that its underside could be so rough and hairy. She crushed its tip and let the lemony oil perfume her fingers as she brought the leaf close to her face to inhale the heady scent. Emperor Cailech must have been quite a romantic at heart. There was a tale that he'd hunted all the nine kingdoms to get the most beautiful tree to plant for his Valentyna.

People anticipated a gorgeous flowering tree and yet what he brought home was a strange, dark-looking row of deciduous saplings that were little more than twigs. But they grew fast and they grew strong. They yielded no voluptuous blooms but he was said to have joked that the leaves represented the union of Valentyna and himself: ‘the rough north joining with the smooth south'. Then his romantic side had shown itself and jongleurs sang of his claim that each leaf was akin to one of his heartbeats; and each leaf-fall left a carpet of green hearts on the grove's floor that represented a year of heartbeats of his life given in love to his queen. Florentyna had adored the story since she was a little girl and came to the grove because she knew Valentyna had loved this place too.

She wanted love of that nature in her life … a strong, romantic man who would bind himself to her. She'd never said this to anyone — not even Darcelle — but Florentyna, even as a princess, had never desired a ‘prince' with his own realm. She didn't even need a king, even though she was sure Reynard, and now Burrage, had constantly considered options that might offer the right alliance. She already presided over a powerful region — it didn't need to be broadened by marrying another powerful heir or king. It needed to be cared for, nurtured, protected … just like she did. And what she didn't have was anyone who loved her. It was a pathetic-sounding whine, even for her private thoughts, and she shook her head free of it.

She tossed her leaf into the water and watched it float, drifting gently to the edge, barely disturbing the surface, where she noticed her reflection, caught sight of the droop of her expression. Is this how she appeared to her courtiers, her people? Looking at her image, she saw sadness staring back at her. Just as she was about to dive into self-pity again, she could swear the face of a wolf appeared in the reflection, snarled at her and just as quickly disappeared.

Florentyna sat back, astonished. The beast she'd seen in that flash was magnificent and of such a curious colouring, like cinder toffee. It had possessed glowing, deep yellow eyes; instinctively, she felt it was female.

She shivered, despite her soft wrap of gleaver wool.

When her mother passed away from the shaking fevers that had swept the empire, she and her sister had been put into the temporary care of Twillie — the oldest member of the palace, she was sure. Twillie had been her mother's servant since childhood and, despite her own mourning, had ferociously and happily embraced her role of caring for the girls. Twillie already knew that while the baby, Darcelle, could be quietened with soothing songs or sticks of sugar, the only way her sister would be still was to listen to the old stories. And Twillie had a wealth of them. She was from Tolton Heath in the far northeast of Briavel, one of the villages that dared live close to the border of the Wild.

The people of this area were full of tall tales of magic and mystery, and Florentyna loved Twillie's stories. She learned about giants and small-folk, of dragons that once flew the land, and especially about the dragon king, who was so old he no longer remembered his own name. One story told of how a boy from Morgravia had braved the dragon king and flown on its back. The dragon king and boy had cleaved so close in heart and mind that the child straddled the realms of men and beast as a king himself. According to Twillie, he became the conduit and protector of their empire.

It was a fantastic story that fed Florentyna's imagination. She listened wide-eyed to other tales — of brave men who fought the gilgerbeasts and feisty women who rode the unicorns of old. She trembled at the stories of ogres who roamed the caves beneath the Razors, of great sea serpents who sank ships, and of demons who created havoc to lighten the boredom of their eternal, ethereal lives.

Florentyna knew them all by heart and had argued heatedly with her father, even though she was only eight summers, that they were legend, not myth. These people and creatures
had
existed. As she grew older, she kept her thoughts to herself in this regard for fear of being considered blasphemous in a world that now ignored its former awe and, indeed, fear of magic. Everyone she knew sneered at the notion that magic existed. Florentyna had often wanted to ask them why, then, did the zealous Zerque Stalkers ever exist if not to stamp out magic? Why, even in more recent times, in the reign of King Magnus, were they still burning women accused of witchery? Granted, history told her that Magnus had done much to stop inquisitors, but Confessor Lymbert had still had ‘fun' in his dungeon with poor wretches accused of being witches. The last victim recorded was a girl younger than herself. Florentyna knew her only by the single name of Myrren. What a terrible trial she had endured before her burning.