Belle had grown up in the understanding that any nobleman passing through the region would elect to stay at her father's palace. Avonlea-in-the-Marches was the last great house before the Southern Wastes, and those travelling there or across the wide sea that bordered their lands, would appeal to the hospitality of Sir Maurice, even if he were only a merchant king. After her mother's death, Belle had accepted her role as hostess, welcoming all comers at his side.
She could order simple suppers and sumptuous feats, plan balls, organise picnics and instruct the kitchen staff exactly what food and drink the menfolk would enjoy when they returned tired and dusty from the hunt. Belle could entertain ladies with twice her standing and three times her age, and knew the precise moment to fain a headache to neatly avoid the lecherous advances of elderly knights too far into their cups.
Avonlea had welcomed dukes, earls and princes, fairies, wizards and bards, yet none of these previous visits could possibly have prepared Belle for the agonising uncertainty of playing hostess to King George.
The Marchlands were of strategic importance to the king. The bustling ports and unspoilt farmland served to keep his capital city and his army fed during the lean years of war, and Avonlea's taxes were paid straight to the king's coffers, yet he himself had never visited the area before. Belle had spent a month preparing the house and staff in readiness for his arrival, yet the instant he had arrived in their midst, she had the distinct feeling that her efforts had been in vain.
King George was a cold, distant man, uninterested in galas or balls, and unlikely to be charmed by a pretty face or pleasing manners. He was only interested in ships, harvests, rents and tithes and inspected all with a jealous eye.
His arrival had been foreshadowed with whispers from the east; that the cost of grain had risen steeply and there were whispers of riots in the cities being brutally supressed. King George was cold to the point of ruthlessness and Belle could not shake the feeling that his presence in their lands would only bring danger and suffering.
Still, it was not her place to offer council, so instead she stood at her father's side, smiling and pouring endless cups of tea, hoping that the man would see his fill of Avonlea and leave them in peace.
Her father, well aware of George's reputation but secure in his own position, smiled woodenly as he gave tours of the dockyards and the arable lands to the south, and organised dinners and dances with the few noble families that lived close enough to make the journey. The King seemed unimpressed with his efforts, sitting in silence as the forced gaiety unfolded around him, one leather-gloved hand fingering the dagger at his side.
How Belle grew to hate that dagger!
It was ugly to look at, the dark metal somehow as cold and slimy looking as the bloat-toads that riddled the northern marshes, but worse was the feel of the thing. Belle could tell whenever King George was close because of the shivers that would pinch at her skin.
Yet if the dagger was an evil thing, it was nothing compared to the creature that it controlled.
True to his title, the King's Shade –Durza, although few dared ever utter his name aloud – was the King's constant shadow. If the dagger made her shudder, the misshapen wizard was enough to make her quake where she stood.
Belle's father had warned her to never look directly at the beast, and after disobeying his orders once, she was happy to comply. The Shade had vivid red hair that clashed with the cold pallor of his eyes, and terrible scars about his lips and face.
The servants whispered that once he had been a man, a wizard, but that the evil spirits he sought to control now controlled him, twisting him about from the inside. Belle had scornfully dismissed the rumours when first she had heard them, safe in her father's cosy castle by the sea, miles from the dark streets of the capital, but now, with the monster in their midst, she knew them to be true. Perhaps it was just foolishness, but Belle was certain she could feel the corruption inside him, the evil spirits churning beneath his skin
With the King, his Shade and a small army of retainers and advisers staying at the castle, it felt as if nowhere was free from the press of dark magic, and Belle longed for the day that they would leave. Her father did his best to make himself amenable to their guest, but there was no hiding his distaste for the King's costly ambitions.
"War, always war," he sighed to his chamberlain. "He won't rest until the whole world is held tight inside his fist. I just pray the upstart will name his price for our peace before the month is out and be gone!"
As Belle listened, she felt the cold tickle of dark magic creep across her shoulders and realised that the king or his servant were close. She could not share her father's optimism that the king was simply there to assess their wealth before increasing taxes or demanding more men. He had done both before without ever feeling the need to visit their lands. No, Belle grew more certain with each passing hour that his presence in Avonlea foreshadowed something far, far worse.
-x-
By the end of the second week, tensions in the palace were stretched almost to breaking point. The king's courtiers were demanding and rude, his soldiers a constant dark presence. The very mortar of the walls seemed to have become saturated with fear and decay.
Things came to a head, as Belle feared they must, one day over dinner.
Sir Maurice had invited every family within two days carriage ride, intending to bury the discomfort of the royal visit with laughter, food and song. Toasts were made to the king and his success in battle and to his long, glorious reign. The king sat in silence through it all, his grey eyes apparently focussed on the wall behind his host's head, barely touching the heavily laden dishes before him.
Despite his apparent disinterest, the mood was jovial, and all might have been well had not one of the guests raised his cup for one final toast.
"To the Lord in the West!" he shouted, wine sloshing to stain the tablecloth below. "Sir Maurice, the Merchant King!"
Belle sunk back into her chair as the cry was taken up by the revellers, her eyes fixed on the king. The sound of the cheers seemed to break through his apathy and his eyes flicked over the guests in interest before he climbed to his feet.
The silence that followed was so complete that the staff could be heard as they brought more dishes up from the kitchens. The guards at the doors – one of the kings for every one of Avonlea's – stood a little straighter, their oiled leathers creaking.
King George held his cup high and nodded his head towards Sir Maurice.
"To my host," he announced quietly, his voice carrying to every hushed corner of the room. "The Merchant King."
There was the distant clang of a pot being dropped and the ribald laughter of the stable boys at play before the noise swelled back into the hall and every guest took up their king's toast. Belle rose to her feet with the rest, using the confusion to slip from the room.
As she past the head of the table, the Shade turned to watch her leave, his ruined mouth pulled back into something resembling a grin. The air around him was heavy with the scent of cinnamon and cloves, somehow warmer than the already overheated hall.
Belle barely made it to her chambers before her nausea overtook her, forcing her to her knees. Her shoulders heaved as her nervous stomach expelled the rich meats and heavily spiced wines that had been so carefully prepared to her orders.
She wept then, hot bitter tears of fear and frustration. She had the terrible feeling that danger was coming to Avonlea and there was nothing she could do about it. In this game of wars and intrigue she was just the unmarried daughter of a border knight, just another counter on the board.
-x-
Belle barely slept a wink that night, only to sink uncomfortably into confusing dreams a little before dawn. When Matty gently shook her shoulder just a handful of hours later, Belle awoke with a cry, certain that the worse had come.
"Wakey, wakey, Lady Belle," Matty chided. "The water's getting cold and there's nothing worse than chilly water for a morning wash."
Belle pushed herself up onto her elbows and watched as Matty laid her fine gold dress across the foot of the bed. It had been specially made for the king's visit and was by far the most uncomfortable thing she owned.
"Hurry up, miss," Matty bid her. "The king plans to leave after breakfast and you'd best not keep him waiting."
"He's leaving?" Belle asked, climbing from the bed. "Has anything happened?"
"No," came the answer. "And nor will it if you don't hurry up so that I can get you into this frock."
Belle hurried through her ablutions and practically ran down the wide stairs to the east facing salon where breakfast was to be served. Even if Matty hadn't advised her where to go, Belle could have deduced as much from the sheer number of royal guards that lined the hall outside.
Thankfully she arrived in good time to sit dutifully at her father's elbow as he and the king broke their fast. Belle let the footmen load her plate with tempting titbits, but found that she could do little more than toy with her food. The prospect of the king's departure after so many days filled with stress and uncertainty seemed almost too good to be true.
Please, she thought. Let him leave and take his soldiers and his Shade with him, and never come back!
Breakfast was something of a non-event. The king made his repast in contented silence, apparently unaware of Belle's nervousness or the dark looks Sir Maurice sent his way. Once he was done, he dabbed at his lips with his napkin and rose to his feet, addressing the attendant who stood behind his chair.
"We will depart shortly. If we set a good pace we should make cross the eastern downs before nightfall."
Turning to his host, he smiled. "Will you farewell me at the gate?"
It was sweetly phrased, but Belle could hear the command in his voice. Sir Maurice evidently heard it too, for he rose to follow the king out towards the large entrance hall, Belle following behind.
Durza stood silently by the great doors. He never joined his master at the breakfast table, something for which Belle was profoundly grateful. She could never share a room with him without being hyperconscious of the magic that rippled just beneath his skin, lapping at the edge of her senses. Outside, Belle could see the vast body of the king's court and outriders threatening to overflow the large courtyard, all awaiting the king's command to depart. A groom was walking King George's black charger back and forth, keeping the horse's muscles warm in the cool morning air.
He really was leaving.
Duza strode to his master's side, coming to rest just a few scant inches from where Belle stood, and watched impassively as the king pulled on his riding gloves and allowed a page to fasten his heavy cloak across his shoulders.
Belle's father frowned at the spectacle. Almost three weeks of uncertainty and their guest was apparently leaving them no wiser than when he had arrived.
"Well?" Sir Maurice asked. "You've seen Avonlea for yourself. What is it that you want from us?"
"I simply wished to see the borderlands for myself. I had heard tell of their beauty." He paused to pull on his riding gloves. "My chancellor will advise me how your prosperity should be channelled for the benefit of the kingdom." He regarded his host with cold interest. "I see that you have grown very self-sufficient, out here on the edges of my lands, so far from the strife that has beset the other cities. I pray you do not forget who is king."
It was the moment to declare fealty, Belle understood. To kneel and pay homage to the tyrant king and be grateful that he had not asked for more.
Turning to her father, she could already see his pride – a pride that had already chafed at playing host to a man he despised – unwilling to bend at the knee and humble himself before his liege. Instead he pulled himself to his full height and glared down at the king.
"How could I forget?" he demanded. "We send every spare bit of grain to your stores and our gold to your coffers. If the taxes on the ports rise again we will lose all trade."
Beside her, the King's sorcerer shifted slightly, his long red hair stirring with the motion. His scent crept over her, a mix of cinnamon, hot sand and fire, and Belle swallowed convulsively. King George filled her with cold terror, but this creature, with his dead eyes and scarred skin, made her fear for her very soul.
"Father," she cautioned, her voice high and reedy. The shade turned to watch her, his gaze like a physical touch upon her skin. It tickled between her shoulders, causing gooseflesh to rise along her arms.
"No, Belle," Sir Maurice thundered. "The man must be made to see reason!"
Quick as a flash, the shade had crossed the room to take her father by his throat. Belle heard herself scream as she scrambled towards them, but her way was bared by the king's guards. She looked to her father's men, screaming for them to aid their lord, but they were outmatched by the sheer number of royal guardsmen. A gloved hand was clamped roughly over her mouth and hall was plunged into sudden, shocked silence.
"I think it is you who must be made to see reason, old man." The king's voice was quiet and controlled, but it carried easily across the Great Hall, in sickening parody of his toast made only nights before.
"I'm not afraid of you or your puppet!" Maurice retorted, finally giving voice to the disdain he's tried to hide. "These lands have belonged to my family for nearly a thousand years and if the people are loyal to you it is only because they are loyal to me first. You kill me and you will find yourself in the middle of a civil war with your supplies cut off."
King George raised an eyebrow.
"You really aren't afraid, are you?" he mused. "How every novel. Durza, release him."
Maurice fell to his knees, red-faced and gasping for breath, but with every ounce of his fierce dignity still intact.
"You're right of course. I need your support. Durza," he ordered casually. "Take his daughter instead."
Belle was seized roughly by the arm. She tried to twist away, but Durza's hold was unbreakable.
"My shade will take your daughter to his castle as my ward," George informed his host, his tone almost conversational. "Oh, you needn't worry, her pretty face won't appeal to him; he ceased being a man many years ago. So much so, someone will probably have to remind him to feed the little thing."
Sir Maurice looked like he would like nothing better than to throw himself at the king, fists first, but the sight of his only child in the grasp of the dark mage had him frozen with a fear that the king had failed to instil in him.
"Now," George announced happily. "This is what is going to happen. You will continue to send grain and produce to the city. A small part of that will then be sent on to the Dark Castle with instructions for your precious daughter to be fed. If the supplies stop, her meals stop. If you speak out against me or withdraw your support, Durza will kill her slowly."
-x-
Belle had no idea how she came to be in her chambers as she was certain that her trembling legs could not have carried her there. All around her was a flurry of movement as Matty and Hannah crammed her trunk with hastily folded linens and clothes. Belle felt herself swaying and realised that the tight laces of her fine dress were being undone.
"You'll need your warmest things," Morag, her mother's lady's maid was telling her. "They say the Dark Castle sits atop a mountain. Of course they also say that the Shade lives in a palace made of fire and ash, but those thick boots of his look better suited to dealing with snow than hot coals. Step out, sweetling."
Belle automatically stepped out of her heavy skirts to sit on the edge of the bed so that her kid slippers could be replaced by stout boots, before rising again to be bundled into her velvet walking dress. Morag led her to the dressing table, pushing her down onto the low stool before winding her hair into a tight braid that could be pinned neatly under a hat.
"You're going to have to be brave for your father," Morag chided her gently. "And for all of us. There's far more resting on you than some taxes and corn."
Belle blinked stupidly at the older woman's reflection. "I will be brave," she insisted. Her voice quavered, belying her attempted courage. "But I do not know what I am to do. He's so powerful. When he looks at me I can feel the darkness in him as if it were crawling across my skin."
"There now, that'll do you," the older lady commented, securing her hair with a last couple of pins. "Matty, call the men to come and collect the trunk. Hannah, fetch your mistress' felt hat down from the wardrobe."
In the new burst of activity, Morag pulled her into a tight hug, leaning to press her face against Belle's. When Belle met her gaze in the mirror she was shocked by the fierce expression on the matronly woman's face.
"Listen to me, child," she hissed. "All the stories are the same – the Shade is bound by his vows. A contract with him cannot be broken, do you understand?"
"No," Belle sobbed. "What are you telling me?"
"His word, Lady Belle. Get him to give you his word!"