Chapter 18

140

Chapter 18

‘Oriane.'

A voice, quiet, familiar. Oriane did not want to hear it. She did not want to hear anything.

‘Oriane, you need to eat something. Or drink some water.'

Why did she keep speaking? Did she not see that Oriane could not respond, even if she wanted to?

Silence fell again. It pressed on her, heavy, the same way the darkness pressed against her eyes. Someone held a candle beside her, but Oriane turned away from it, staring into the black.

A sigh, so quiet as to almost be inaudible. A gentle pressure on her arm, there and gone like an insect lighting briefly on a flower.

‘I'll come back later. Try to get some sleep.'

Oriane did as she was told.

‘Oriane?'

A man's voice this time, rich with sympathy. Kitt. He had not brought a candle, so the room remained in shadow. Oriane could sense him, over by the door.

‘Oriane, I … I am so sorry. I cannot … I don't—' 141

He cut himself off. He was kind to her, Kitt; he had been from the moment she had met him. The kindness was painful now, his pity keen as a blade on her skin. And that blade felt tipped with poison, too, for no matter how he'd treated her, he still worked for the king.

‘Is there anything I can get you – anything I can do?'

She was so tired that she had started seeing shapes in the darkness before her, like fish swimming in the deepest part of the ocean. Like black flames flickering against a black sky. She watched them without interest. Her eyes had begun to smart and sting.

‘I will not forgive myself for my part in this.' Kitt's voice sounded quiet, almost strangled. ‘I do not expect you to do so either.'

He was gone, but Oriane had not noticed him leave. She was still focused on the shapes, which now looked less like fish or flames, and more like blades.

She was on the floor, but did not remember how she had got there. The rug was thin, the stone beneath it cold. Oriane set her focus on that stone. She willed it to swallow her, to turn her to stone, too, and send her back beneath the earth.

Time passed. She did not know how much. Warm hands were upon her at one point, propping her up, holding water to her lips and making her drink. Smoothing her hair back from her face.

More time. Oriane was in bed now, buried beneath a mountain of quilts. Still she did not sleep. Or perhaps she did; there was no way to 142 distinguish sleep from waking, not now she was living in a nightmare made real.

‘The king is going to come soon, Oriane.'

When had Andala come back? Had she been here the whole time?

‘It's almost morning. He … he wants to make sure you will transform.'

To make sure? As if Oriane had a choice. As if her nature, and her stupid, selfish desire to share it with the world, had not brought her here in the first place. Of course she would transform. Of course she would sing another meaningless day into existence. Of course the cycle would go on.

She had never felt anything like the torrent of hatred that tunnelled through her at the sound of King Tomas's voice. There were others speaking, too; he had brought people with him, perhaps to help him make sure she would transform. But it was the sound of the king's voice that pierced her, the vile noise of it ringing in her ears like the echo of a thunderclap.

Light; an onslaught of light, after who knew how many hours in darkness. Oriane closed her eyes against it. The usual warmth in her chest felt muted today, as if her power, like her, had no desire to bring another day into being. The king's voice continued, and the other voices. She ignored them. Her eyes remained closed. Andala's hands – Oriane knew the feel of them now – guided her carefully out of bed. She stood, swaying slightly, throat dry, the pain impossible to swallow. The warmth behind her ribs grew hot.

Transforming brought no relief. She had not really hoped that it 143 would. She was still the same when she was the skylark, still Oriane, and as long as that were true there would be no relief to find.

There was no flight this morning, no triumphant swooping around an audience hall, no joyful song. The notes came as they always did, but Oriane remained on the ground, her wings tucked behind her as her song poured forth. And the moment it was done, she was human again.

Her eyes were open now. Someone had pulled back the curtains and extinguished the candles, and in the first pale, gossamer strands of morning light, Oriane could see the outline of the king. Tomas was looking at her, his face still in shadow, its expression indiscernible. And there it was again, deep in her gut: hatred. Oriane did not recall having felt it before, but she knew it for what it was now. She hated this man. It was his fault, all of it. And she would never forgive him.

‘Leave,' she said, in a voice she did not recognise as her own.

To her surprise, he did.

Oriane stood, frozen to the spot. Her hostility was dissipating quickly. She wanted it back. In its place was something worse: a fresh torrent of grief, pain cascading through her, a sorrow so profound it was like a physical weight. Oriane staggered beneath it.

‘Easy.' Andala was there, a firm arm around her waist. ‘Easy.'

She let herself sink back, Andala lowering her to the bed. It hurt. Everything hurt so badly.

‘Do you want to be alone?' A murmur, careful and low.

Do I want to be alone? She already was. She had never been so alone in her life.

‘No,' she choked, the word catching in her narrowed throat.

For a moment, no response. Then Oriane felt a weight on the bed beside her. A hand, once again, tentatively smoothing back her hair.

She closed her eyes and prayed for the darkness to drown her. 144

If she had not had to call each day into existence, she would never have known how much time was passing. But five times Oriane had been forced to let the king into her chambers, five times she had changed and sung and changed back again as quickly as she could; so five days must have elapsed between now and that unspeakable morning.

Andala stayed with her most days, leaving for a while in the evenings, then returning briefly with tea to help Oriane sleep. It worked, surprisingly. Oriane did not know what was in the brew, but she drank it gladly, for it sent her deep into a dreamless dark. She asked for it during the daytime, too, but Andala always refused.

‘It can be dangerous, this stuff,' she had said, staring down at the tea tray in her hands. ‘I know it helps, but … It would not do to drink it all the time.'

Oriane did not have the energy to argue.

She did not argue either when Andala, on that fifth day, broke the news that Tomas was coming to speak with her. He had avoided her entirely apart from witnessing her dawnsong each morning, but this afternoon he would be coming back.

‘What does he want?' Oriane asked. Her voice felt scratchy, hoarse with lack of use.

‘I think …' Andala hesitated. Oriane dragged her eyes away from the window, which she had allowed Andala to open a crack. Andala was looking at her almost apologetically, as if she wished she did not have to relay this message.

‘What?' Oriane prompted.

‘I think he still wants to hold the solstice ball, the one that people from all over attend every year. And I think …' Andala looked 145 pained, her dark brows drawn together like ink strokes on her forehead. ‘I think he intends to have you sing.'

Oriane could not speak. The king's audacity took her breath away.

She stayed silent as Andala left, as King Tomas arrived and said his piece. Andala had been right; he was still planning to hold the solstice ball, two days from now, and it would serve as Oriane's introduction to the world. Guests and delegates from all over the kingdom and beyond would be arriving over the coming days. The festivities would begin in the late evening, and Oriane was required to be present for their duration – mingling with the crowd, being watched and questioned and fawned over, until it came time for the dawn.

The king barely looked at Oriane as he spoke. Questions ran through her mind: what did he hope this performance would achieve? What would happen to her after? But they were dull, muted, not important enough to justify the energy she would need to voice them.

‘Your maid will prepare you for the ball, and remain with you for its duration,' the king was saying now. His voice sounded distant, as if Oriane were underwater and he above. ‘You will be expected to—'

‘ Expected? ' The word burst from her as she swung violently, dizzyingly, from black grief to burning fury. ‘What right have you to expect anything from me?'

Oriane ripped back the covers and rose from the bed, so quickly it set her head spinning. She stood only a few paces from the king now. The candle he held cast a glow between them, throwing his face into shadowed relief, illuminating the faint expression of shock that had appeared there.

‘What right?' Oriane demanded. Her voice was strong now, her head clearer than it had been in days. The energy she'd struggled to 146 find before blazed through her, an inferno in her veins. ‘What right have you to keep me here like some treasure to show to your subjects, even now, now that my father is dead because of you?'

In the gloom, she saw Tomas's throat constrict, his jaw tighten.

‘It is for the good of the people,' he said in a low, slightly strangled voice. ‘What happened with your father was … I never intended for him, for anyone, to come to harm. The guard who acted so rashly has been punished—'

‘What good is that to me?' There was a bitter taste to her words that Oriane savoured. Better bitterness and wrath than the agony of grief. ‘Will punishment undo his actions? Unmake the blade that he put through my father's chest?'

She expected a retort, some justification or pretty, kingly speech, but none came. Tomas was silent. In the light of the wavering flame, his eyes looked shadowed, like the gaping sockets of a skull.

‘Get out,' Oriane whispered. That it was a king she addressed in such a way did not matter.

Tomas did not move. He was still staring at her in dim light, an odd look on his face – something like regret, or was it fear?

‘Get out! ' Oriane screeched when he continued to stand frozen. And to her surprise, the king did as she said, the light disappearing with him.

For a while, Oriane stood there, silent, alone. Gradually her heartbeat slowed and her breathing returned to its normal pace. Her eyes closed as she sagged a little, the anger that had infused her moments ago leaving her like blood flowing from a wound.

‘Oriane?'

A different voice now. A woman's, soft and hesitant. Oriane had not heard the door open or anyone come in. She opened her eyes and saw a blurry orb of candlelight hovering in the gloom. 147 A small figure was behind it, glowing white behind the flickering flame. Hana.

‘Your Highness?' Oriane asked, as politely as she could manage. Hana was not her brother, but it was still difficult to talk to her. To talk to anyone.

‘I won't bother you long,' Hana said softly. She took a step closer, so that Oriane could just make out her features. Her gaze was searching, sorrowful, earnest. ‘I … I cannot tell you how sorry I am for your loss,' she went on. ‘I don't presume to know exactly what you are going through, but I do have some understanding of … the place you've gone.'

Inwardly, Oriane recoiled. She did not want anyone trying to relate to her, to understand her right now. But Hana pressed on, seeming to sense Oriane pulling back, and taking a different tack.

‘I am sorry that Tomas is still holding you here, after … after everything that's happened. But please, Oriane – please believe that he did not ever mean for this to happen. He was only trying to help—'

‘To help who?' Oriane snapped. The rage was rising again, like a spirit taking hold of her body; there was little she could do to stop it. ‘Who warrants the kind of help that kills a man in his home and holds a woman prisoner?'

Hana closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were hollow, the effect unsettling even in the half-light.

‘Nobody,' she muttered. ‘Nobody is worth that.' Hana made her way to the door, her white-blonde hair falling over her face as she turned, hiding it from view. ‘I really am sorry, Oriane. For everything. More than you know.'

148 When Andala returned to Oriane's rooms, late enough for the sky to have painted itself black, Oriane was pacing feverishly before the window, her hands clenched in tight fists by her sides.

Andala said nothing, merely sat on the window seat and waited.

‘What does he want from me?' Oriane burst out eventually. ‘What does he think is going to come of having me here, having me sing in front of everybody? Does he think his people will love him better for it? If they do not love him already, then I fear that I can do nothing to change their minds. And why should I want to?' she spat as an afterthought. ‘Perhaps they do not love him because they see what he really is – weak and heartless and willing to let others die for his whims.'

Still, Andala did not speak, just watched Oriane as she slammed a hand against the stone wall. Oriane closed her eyes, her burst of energy fading. What did it matter what the king wanted with her? He would get it, whatever it was. She had little choice in the matter.

‘I've never hated what I am before, Andala,' Oriane whispered, still supporting herself against the wall with one hand, her other arm wrapped around her middle, as if to hold herself together. ‘I have always thought of it as … as a gift, or a legacy. One that I was proud to carry on from my mother. But now … I just wish I could be something different. I wish I was anything other than what I am. I wish none of this had ever happened.'

Her eyes were closed, but she sensed it when Andala moved near her. She stood close beside Oriane now, her proximity sending a barely detectable hint of warmth through Oriane's icy veins.

‘I know how you feel,' she murmured.