The Demon King. Cinda Williams Chima
Читать онлайн книгу.
shivers.
Since the apartment was in one of the turrets, it was smaller than the rooms originally assigned to Raisa. But it felt spacious, since she had a view of the town and the mountains on three sides.
She’d dragged the bed into the space between the windows, and when it snowed, she felt like the fairy princess in the snow globe her father had brought her from Tamron years ago. On clear nights she pressed her face against the glass, pretending she was soaring in a winged ship among the stars.
Best of all, she’d discovered a sliding panel in one of the closets, which revealed a secret passageway. It snaked within the walls for what seemed like miles. The passageway led to a stairway, and the stairway led to the solarium on the roof, a glassed garden that was Raisa’s favorite place in all of Fellsmarch Castle, even though it had fallen into disrepair.
When Raisa pushed open the door to her rooms, she found her nurse Magret Gray waiting for her. Magret was a formidable woman, tall and broad, with a lap that could accommodate several small children.
Magret wasn’t really her nurse anymore, of course, but she still wielded an unwritten authority that came from changing royal diapers and scrubbing royal ears and even swatting royal behinds. Raisa’s bath was already steaming on its little burner, and fresh underdrawers were laid out on her bed.
“Your Highness!” Magret said, looking aghast. “You are a terrifying sight, to be sure. The Princess Mellony said you were worse off than she was, and I did not believe it. I do owe that young lady an apology.”
Right, Raisa thought. If there ever comes a day that I can’t get into more mischief than Mellony, I’ll cut my own throat.
Raisa’s gaze fell on the silver tray just inside her door on which Magret left messages and mail and calling cards. Suitors had begun buzzing around like flies on a carcass as Raisa approached her sixteenth name day. On any given day there’d be five or six elaborate gifts of jewelry or flowers, mirrors and vanity sets, vases and works of art, plus a dozen engraved invitations and letters on embossed stationery, mostly proclamations of undying love and devotion, and proposals that ranged from bland to indecent.
Some of the gifts were too elaborate to accept. A pirate prince from across the Indio had sent a cunning model of the ship he proposed to build for her so she could sail away with him. The queen’s secretary had answered on Raisa’s behalf, politely declining.
Raisa kept the ship model, though. She liked to sail it on the pond in the garden.
Truth be told, Raisa had no intention of marrying anyone any time soon. Her mother was young—she would rule for many years yet, so there was no need to rush into the confinement of marriage.
If Raisa had her way, her wedding would be the culmination of an entire decade of wooing.
Which made her think of Micah. He would be at dinner. Her heart accelerated.
Centered on the wooing tray was a rather plain envelope.
“Who’s this from?” she asked, picking it up.
Magret shrugged. “I don’t know, Your Highness. It was outside your door when I came back from the midday. Now sit so I can get you out of those boots.” She said those boots in a decidedly disapproving way.
Raisa sat down in the chair by the door, still studying the envelope while Magret tugged at her boots. They left smears of mud and ash on the nurse’s pristine white apron.
Raisa’s name was written on the front of the note in a neat, upright hand—naggingly familiar. She tore it open and unfolded the page inside.
Raisa, I’m home. Come find me if you get this before dinner. I’ll be in the usual place. Amon
“Amon’s home!” Raisa cried, surging to her feet, one boot off and one on. She gripped Magret’s elbows and danced her around the room, ignoring her outraged protests. She felt rather like a tugboat towing one of the big ships in Chalk Cliffs Harbor.
“In the name of the sainted Hanalea, stop, Your Highness,” Magret said, struggling for dignity. Wrenching her arms free, she began pulling off Raisa’s jacket.
“No!” Raisa said, twisting away. “Hang on, Magret, I need to go find Amon. I need to find out what he—”
Magret planted herself in front of the door. “You need to get into that bath and scrub off. If he sees you in this state, you’ll scare him half to death.”
“Magret!” Raisa protested. “Come on. It’s just Amon. He doesn’t care about—”
“Amon’s kept this long, he’ll keep a little while longer. You’re expected at dinner in two hours and you smell like you just came out of the smoker.”
Still grumbling, Raisa allowed herself to be stripped of the rest of her clothing and climbed into her bath. She had to admit, it felt wonderful. The hot water stung her many cuts and scrapes, but soothed and relaxed her aching muscles.
Magret dangled Raisa’s charred shirt and leggings out at arm’s length, wrinkling her nose. “These are going straight to Ragmarket,” she declared.
“Please, Magret,” Raisa protested, horrified. “You can’t throw them away. They’re the only comfortable clothes I own.”
Scowling, Magret pitched them in the laundry basket.
It took all of the two hours for Magret to make Raisa what she called “presentable.” Magret produced a new dress that she’d made over from one of Marianna’s old ones. It was a pleasant surprise—less fussy than the dresses Marianna chose for Raisa, a simple fall of emerald silk that draped her body, cut low enough at the neck to be a bit daring.
Magret coaxed Raisa’s still-damp hair into a coil and pinned it up on her head, then set her gold circlet on top. To finish, her nurse added Raisa’s briar rose necklace—a gift from her father, Averill Lightfoot. Briar Rose was her clan name. He called her Briar Rose, he said, because of her beauty. And her many thorns.
When Raisa finally entered the dining room, it was already crowded. A string quartet tuned up in one corner, servers with trays circulated through the room, and the usual court grazers swarmed about a side table laden with cheeses, fruits, and wine.
She quickly scanned the room for Amon, though she didn’t really expect to see him there. Unlikely that he’d be invited to mingle with the aristocracy.
Across the room, Raisa saw her grandmother, Elena Demonai, Matriarch of Demonai Camp. She stood with a small group of other clan, wearing the flowing, elaborately embroidered robes they reserved for special occasions.
She went and took her grandmother’s hands, bowing her head over them in clan fashion.
“Good day, Cennestre Demonai,” she said in Clan.
“Best to speak the lowland language here, granddaughter,” Elena replied. “Lest the flatlanders think we’re passing secrets.”
“Have you heard anything of my father?” Raisa persisted, still in Clan. Annoying flatlanders was one of her few sources of entertainment these days.
“He’ll be home soon,” Elena said. “For your name day feast, if not before.”
Her father had gone south on yet another trading expedition, crossing Arden to We’enhaven and beyond. Risky in wartime, but in wartime, trade goods brought high prices.
“I worry about him,” Raisa said. “They say the fighting is fierce in the south.”
Elena squeezed her hand. “Your father was a warrior before he was a trader,” she said. “He knows how to take care of himself.”
Take me back with you to Demonai, Raisa wanted to say. I’m already tired of being here, displayed like a jewel in an ill-fitting setting. But she only thanked her grandmother and turned away.
A dozen youngling courtiers had claimed space by the fireplace.