Page 68 of The Crimson Throne
“Samson. And yes. You?” I nod toward the main room and the raised voices, Darnley yelling at other stable hands. “He leaving you alone?”
“I can usually avoid him. I—I—” He stammers. “Thanks. For what you did when he got here. My da wanted to thank you too.”
I shrug. “Just stay outta trouble, all right?”
“Yer one to talk.” Callum snorts. “Riding out with him? What for?”
I chew my words as I tuck my bags under a table. Callum nods when I glance at him, seeking unspoken permission, and by the time I straighten, it’s on my tongue to ask him to help, to report any oddities of Darnley to me. Kids see way more than anyone gives them credit for; it’s why the group I lived with in Southwark started Hal and others like him out so young.
But Callum’s eyes are wide and clear, and he’s got at least one parent who loves him and a home and food regularly. And right now, he doesn’t fear me.
Callum’s trust is velvet soft around me. When will it change? Doesn’t seem to be more than a few weeks before everyone I get close to starts glaring at me.
In another life, in another time, I’d have been just like him, working hard and scurrying through duties and just…existing.
No, he’ll stay out of this mess. I can handle this on my own.
“Can’t say no to the king consort,” I tell him as a reason for why I’m going out with Darnley. Then I make an exaggerated gagging face, and he giggles.
The sound’s a balm on all this shit I have to do with Darnley. On the big, gaping uncertainty over my heritage.
So as I leave the tack room, I’m smiling, and it’s real, and I wonder how long I can hold on to feeling like I’ve got a breath before these waves yank me back down.
17
Alyth
Stirling Castle is transformed.
There’s what the servants and hired workers have done, of course. An entire recreation of a castle in the Great Hall, smaller than real size but tall enough to scrape the ceiling and big enough for a dozen or more men to participate in mock battles over the wooden fortress painted to look like ancient stone. The regular banquet tables have been removed from the hall, replaced with an enormous circular one so that Mary can pretend to have knights of the Round Table. Torches and candles burn brilliantly, casting long shadows as guests start to arrive, bedecked in their finest gowns and kilts.
But I notice the other details. Kitty and the rest of the brownies of the castle have made sure the entire hall is spotless. The candles dare not flicker, much less drip wax on the rugs. Various members of court who are Leth, such as Lady Reres and Captain Cockburn, have cast glamours over parts of the castle, adding a hint of true magic to the festivities. The laird of Strathglass asked my permission to invite the will-o’-the-wispsto glitter near the ceiling, and I let him, but only after he swore to keep the pesky things away from the fireworks.
To regular humans, everything will look a little extra shiny. To the Leths like me, this is a rare night to show off.
The goddess of the River Forth even summoned a cadre of caesg to come sing. I’m sure it appears as if the river is oddly full of salmon too clever to be caught, but any Leth will recognize humanoid bodies attached to the fish tails, grayish skin stretching over a humanlike torso and a spiky fin poking up where hair would be on the head. I’ve seen pictures of sirens and mermaids, and I suppose the caesg match that broad definition, but they’re far, far wilder. The only human thing about them is part of their torso.
The normally silent river burbles, and the reeds whistle in the wind…to the humans. But even here, I can catch some strains of the fae melody drifting from so far below up to the castle. The caesg song lilts in and out of the lute and harp playing in the Great Hall. While the bards in the hall perform popular tunes, the caesg sing blessings for the young prince of Scotland. A baby’s christening is important to the fae; the legends are true enough on that. There is magic in names, even human ones.
The Green Lady and her glaistigs have not yet arrived, but neither has Darnley. Or the queen. Not unusual, but I make a point to stop near Lady Reres. Most of the guests wear masks of silk and lace, some with even more elaborate headgear, but Lady Reres has enhanced her mask with magic. I’m not sure I would have recognized her had I not been able to see past the illusion.
“Nice,” she says, eyes skimming over my own mask.
Mine was one of the rare gifts from my father, left for me on the windowsill at the castle. He does that sometimes. I know better than to assume that he chose the silver mask for me personally, but he caresabout appearances and the way I’m perceived in court. If I wear the same gown too often, a new one appears in my trunk. When my velvet ribbon that I wore as a necklace broke, a gold chain replaced it. He sends sprites, I think, or some other fae—he never comes himself. He doesn’t want to interact with me; he only wants to make sure I represent him well. And he’s always happy to take the credit for his gifts. This mask came with a sprig of rowan berries—his mark.
I’d toss the gifts, but they’re usually pretty decent.
The mask is no different. It looks like lace, but rather than being tatted with silken thread, it’s made of solid silver, the hollow bits lined with an iridescent material that glimmers in the light. I know of no material with such prismatic sheen, but so far, only the Leths have noticed it.
“Your father cares for you,” Lady Reres comments.
He cares for how I make him look, nothing more. I am his reflection, just as this court is a reflection of his.
“Did the baptism go well?” I ask, ignoring the comment.
She nods, a bob of her chin. “Some fuss from a few of the Protestants.”
“Ridiculous,” I mutter, shaking my head. What did the silly men expect to happen? They’d burst into flames for hearing mass in Latin? “But nothing else amiss?”
