Chapter Two

“You’re not Jens-Kjeld,” Queen Margarethe said. She tried to pull herself higher but ended up slumping halfway against the pillows, mauve silk and feather-fluff boxing her shoulders and salt-white hair. She stuck out a whiskered chin and pursed her lips, drawing the wrinkles around her mouth taut. “ Jens-Kjeld .”

I peeled back the duster, the duvet, the knitted throw embroidered with geese and tiny peonies, and found her feet nestled between the sheets. The bandages wrapped around her heels were crusted yellow with puss and black with blood.

“No,” I said, uncorking a bottle of vinegar and cradling her heel in my palm. “I’m not.”

Queen Margarethe waved her hand. “I don’t like being waited on by some silly assistant.”

“Apprentice,” I corrected.

“I don’t care who you are. Fetch Jens-Kjeld.” She made a point of peering around me and into the hall. “Jens-Kjeld?” Her voice cracked. “Jens-Kjeld?”

I scrubbed away the puss and blood, taking care not to tickle her toes.

The ships must have been closer than we’d thought, or they’d been faster. Or maybe the mist made it hard to see.

Nothing else made sense.

Queen Margarethe lifted her heel out of my hand and rolled to her side, shoving the quilted duvet off her lap. “Where’s Jens-Kjeld?”

I grabbed her heel and pulled her back.

We’d had this conversation yesterday, and the day before that. In truth, we’ll probably have it again tomorrow, the next day, and every day until the royal physician returned with a cure for the king’s madness.

But I didn’t say that. Instead, I forced a smile and said, a little too cheerily, “Your feet are looking better.” A lie, but the old woman loved to be puffed.

Queen Margarethe sank into the knot of pillows, a glass doll in a padded box. “Of course, they’re looking better, you twit. Jens-Kjeld’s been taking care of them.” Still, I caught the shadow of a smile tugging at her wrinkled lip.

I smoothed calendula honey over the bedsores and fumbled behind me for the bandages.

Someone—probably the queen’s maid—had thrown open the windows. Ocean air, still thick with fog, rinsed away most of the queen’s sour smell and the rose perfume she tried to cover it with. But up close, with her withered heel sitting in the palm of my hand, I smelled the way death clung to her bedsheets.

She was fading. Fast.

A dying queen, a mad king, a drunkard prince who went to Gormark and hadn’t been seen in eighteen months.

“Tell Jens-Kjeld to come next time,” Queen Margarethe said, patting the pillow beside her. “Tell him I deserve the best. Tell him it’s not enough that he sends his assistant.”

Not enough.

Those words curled like an eel in the pit of my stomach, but I forced another smile and shoved the vinegar bottle into my bag. “He’s in Nysklland, remember?”

“Nysklland? Oh my. What’s he doing there?”

“Searching for a way to help your husband.”

We’d talked about this. She knew this. Still, Queen Margarethe looked at me like I’d sprouted fangs and grown horns. “Why couldn’t he have one of his assistants do that ?”

Because it’s for the king? Because medical texts are dense? Because the bookish royal physician would rather spend his time in the library than dealing with you? But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I slipped a fresh pair of lacy socks onto her feet—inside out, so her fictitious trolls wouldn’t get them. “I’ll pass your message along.”

Then I left.

I hurried through the lacquered halls, past glittering marble busts and vases of buttercups, my head down, hands tangled in my skirts. The windows had been propped open and a thin drizzle flecked the sills and thick cobalt rugs, fogging the glass.

The fact of the matter was, I was searching for a cure to King Christian’s madness. Jens-Kjeld preferred Stefan as his successor, but finding a cure would tip the odds in my favor. So, a few months back, I’d struck up a correspondence with Gormark’s royal librarian. We’d made an arrangement—I’d send him oatmeal salve for his wife’s eczema and he’d send me books. If I finished my rounds quickly, I could spend a few hours reading the newest one, a white leather volume with crabbed text and a grassy smell.

The bells pealed, marking a new hour. I gritted my teeth and walked faster.

I hadn’t had much time for research lately. Two days ago, every guard came down with a violent case of the stomach flu, and the week before, Costall Bridge collapsed, killing seven people and injuring half a dozen others. It hadn’t always been like this. When I started at Karlsborn Castle, things had been slower, plenty of time to read and learn, but lately, there seemed to be one disaster after another.

From around the corner, there was a snicker, a snort. Then—“I heard they kill boars and use their tusks as cups.”

Katrina .

She stood next to a lowered chandelier, her arms wrapped around swaths of organza curtains. She beamed at the lamplighter. “What do you think?”

The lamplighter snuffed the candles and hoisted the chandelier to the ceiling. “I heard they don’t even bother with cups. I heard they drink straight from the animals.” He winked. “Like brutes.”

I tried to duck around them, but Katrina was faster, nearly dropping the curtains. “Isy!” Her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink and several wisps of hair had fallen out of her lopsided bun. “The ships? Henrik says they’re from Volgaard. Everyone’s scrambling, and I mean everyone . The minister of trade wasn’t even out of bed! Kitchen’s supposed to serve them, but no one knows what they like. We’re taking bets. Animals or cups. What do you think?”

Ships from Volgaard? That was strange. Volgaard was a recluse of a country, curled tight like a fist and just as hostile. I thumbed the buckle on my medicine bag. “Do we know why they’re here?”

“That’s the mystery of it,” Katrina said. “No one knows.”

“I’ll buy you in.” The lamplighter—Henrik—dug in his pocket and flicked a silver gyllie in the air. “Do they drink straight from animals or use cups?”

Katrina snickered. “Definitely from anim—”

“Isabel?” Frue Andersen stood at the end of the hallway, black dress stark against the pale blue tapestries and pearly damask walls.

Katrina pulled the organza off the floor and the lamplighter shoved his hands in his pockets and walked in the opposite direction.

“Ships have ported,” Frue Andersen said, “from Volgaard.” She paused, letting the words sink in. The tip of Katrina’s lopsided bun peeked around the corner. “King Christian insists on greeting them himself. Is there something you can give him so…”

So he doesn’t have another breakdown? So he doesn’t have a repeat of yesterday, when he came to breakfast believing he was a bear, believing the world was on fire, believing he was on fire, scratching his skin, calling it fur, making it bleed. Stefan had to give him s?ven, had to press the warm cloth to his nose and hold it there until he slumped forward and fell, snoring, into his bowl of porridge.

Why wasn’t Stefan helping now? He’d been tasked with the King; I’d been tasked with the queen. Two apprentice physicians, two ailing monarchs.

I licked my lips, still salty from this morning on the bluffs. “Valerian. And lavender.” A cure for nerves, not for madness.

Still, the tension eased from her shoulders and the lines on her forehead smoothed. “The king’s meeting them in the Rose Room.”

I nodded, curt, adjusting the strap on my pack.

“And Isabel? Be discrete. We don’t want the Volds to know he’s slipping.”

The door to the Rose Room was ajar, the smell of ink and leather oozing into the hallway, musky and rich, mixed with the crisp of rain.

My fingers brushed the handle, and I readied myself for the vase of buttercups to be thrown at my head or for screaming or scratching or the snarls of a man who teetered on insane. I could do this. I’d managed worse before.

The guard stationed outside cocked a bushy brow. “You sure you want to go in there?”

“Yeah. Why?” This shouldn’t be hard. Find the king, administer the valerian and—

“Unacceptable. Irresponsible. Lazy .” The whispered words came from inside the room.

I paused, the metal scrolling cool against my palm.

The guard’s mustache twitched. “Because of them .”

From inside, there was a pause. Then—“Understood,” said a second speaker.

“It was weak and reckless,” whispered the first.

“I know.”

“Embarrassing.”

I cracked the door.

Inside stood a Vold about my age, wheat-colored hair and a thick traveling cloak wrapped around his shoulders, as if he’d just stepped off the boat. His hands were clapped behind his back, high cheekbones and a harsh mouth. Handsome in a stormy sort of way.

“A stain on House Rythja’s name,” said the first speaker. His back was to me, though he seemed older than the other one. “A stain on my name.”

The handsome Vold kept his face forward, his expression fixed.

The first leaned forward. “Nothing to say?”

The handsome Vold’s lips pulled back from his teeth. His eyes went feral. “What do you want me to say? I’m weak? I’m worthless? I’m sorry ?”

My hand hovered on the handle. My heartbeat thrummed through my fingertips. Ba-dum, ba-dum .

A scrape. “You’re valuable for one reason,” the first speaker hissed. “Don’t make me regret my decision.”

The door flew open and the first speaker stormed out. Hard. Angry. Rainwater clung to his hair, misted his beard, the droplets glittering like knives. A fur had been wrapped around his shoulders, curly and tan. A sheep, or maybe some sort of goat. Beneath it, a red cape swirled.

Our eyes met, his gray as steel. The corner of his mouth tugged into a sneer.

The guard glanced between the door and the man. Door. Man. Door. “Watch the other one,” he said, then hurried after the man.

I took a shaky breath.

Okay. Volds. But I could do this. King. Valerian. Be discrete.

I shouldered my way into the Rose Room.

The handsome Vold had balled his hands into fists. His chest heaved and a lock of hair slipped over his forehead. Beneath it, his eyes burned.

“You…okay?” I asked.

“Fine.”

Okay. Ignoring him, and back to the king. I glanced around. Dark credenza. Lambswool settee.

So King Christian wasn’t in the Rose Room.

The Vold scrubbed a hand over his face. “Actually, could I get a drink?”

I backed toward the door. So where was the king? Had he been here and left? Or was he in transit? Don’t let the Volds find out he’s slipping . Those were my instructions, but if the older one ran into King Christian in the hallway, who knows what would happen. Well, I knew. Bad things. The worst things. So, should I leave to look for him or should I stay here? What if I couldn’t find him? What if he was off terrorizing someone or ruining something or—

“Make sure it’s strong,” the Vold continued. “Vodka? Or do you have absinthe?”

Or maybe the king was hurting himself . Last week, we’d found him trying to climb out a second-story window, and now the Vold was watching me, his eyes gray as cinders, gray as smoke. Light gilded his hair, and I needed to find the king, but a drink, the Vold wanted a drink and—

“Do you know how to use a cup?” The words dropped out of my mouth. Worse, they seemed to float between us, suspended on some invisible thread. Save for the rain pattering on the windowsill and the billow of curtains, the room became very, very still.

The Vold blinked once, blinked again. “Do I know how to use a…cup?”

Heat rose in my cheeks. “I, um, heard some of you don’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “My horse, maybe. But what would I use?”

I didn’t answer. I needed to find the king. Speaking of—

“You, uh,” I bounced from one foot to the other, “haven’t seen King Christian, have you?”

He turned to the map, stretched and pinned and hanging in a dark wood frame. “No, I haven’t seen your king.”

“Great. Well, goodbye.”

I guess I was committing to scurrying around the castle. But what if King Christian walked in the moment I walked out? Isn’t that how these things worked? As soon as you went to look for someone, the person magically appeared in the place you just left? So, if King Christian was on his way here, maybe it was better to wait. Lest he terrorize this stormy, sort of scary-handsome Vold.

Said scary-handsome Vold was now wandering around the Rose Room. He picked up a magnifying glass. Looked at the inkwell. Inspected the map.

Was this allowed? Were they allowed to wander?

The Vold leaned closer to the map. His fingers skimmed the empty arch of a country simply marked “ VOLGAARD.” No other detail beyond that. Stark white and barren compared to its neighbors, Larland, Gormark, and the Sanok Isles.

“There should be a city here.” He tapped the left corner of his empty country. “A mountain range here.” He traced down the middle. “A river.”

For a moment, I could see it, too—the black ink whorls of cities and forest-land, the jagged cut of a snow-capped mountain range, the narrow curl of a river, carved in pen and ink. A country almost as full as its neighbors, but not quite. A country that left just enough space for wild things and wild people.

“It’s a shame your cartographers left it blank.”

I glanced at the door. “Well, maybe your king shouldn’t have sent back our ambassador’s head on a spike.”

The whorls on the map disappeared with a pop . His lips flattened. “That.”

“And slaughtered every merchant who set foot on your shores.”

“Slaughtered them, did we?”

Another glance at the door. Okay. Yes. Be patient. I let out a shaky breath and turned back to the Vold. He quirked a brow as if he found the idea of murdering our merchants amusing.

“You sent back their bloody hearts,” I said. “Floated them across the sea in cedar boxes.”

Wild, wild, wild , that blank country seemed to say. Wild things, wild people.

He shrugged. “Hearts tend to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Find their way home.”

A long pause. Long enough for the lamplighter’s words to dance round my brain.

Like brutes .

Brutes, indeed.

What sort of people would carve up bodies and return them piece by piece? What sort of people would send back the head of our ambassador on a spike, eyes stitched shut, a rotted heart and a bloody letter shoved in his mouth: We do not care that you no longer fly under Larland’s flag. We have no interest in relations. Regards.

And so Volgaard was left blank, a statement as much as a question. We do not know you. We have never known you. You are not our friend, our partner, our ally.

“Perhaps we haven’t been so kind to our young neighbor,” the handsome Vold murmured. “But this is as much for you as it is for us.” He took two steps, closing the distance between us, and reached toward my face…

My heart roared in my ears, and all my nervous energy returned.

He plucked something from my hair, the back of his fingers brushing my temple. “You had a leaf.”

Like brutes .

The door swung open, and the king shuffled in, his shirt half-tucked, boots unlaced, silver-white hair falling out of his ribbon. Pink rimmed his lips and a sore puckered at the corner of his mouth, almost a shaving nick, but the king’s barber did not miss.

King Christian’s eyes slid over me, and he smiled wide, a little mad. “He comes, he comes. Red hair, red teeth.” He took a wobbly step in my direction, then another.

The cherub-cheeked minister of trade hooked an arm around the king’s shoulders and shepherded him toward the settee.

“Ingrid,” the minister said, but I didn’t bother correcting him. “Be a dear and bring us something to drink.”

The handsome Vold caught my eye, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “In cups, preferably.”