Part 11: Ash, dust

By Nina Windia

There was no guard, either at the bottom of the tower or at the entrance to the Queen's chambers. Which relieved Drypetis as much as it made her heart pound with anxiety. She'd made a bet with herself, earlier, that if the Queen had no guard, she'd go and speak with her. Mainly, because she didn't want anyone to watch and secretly laugh at her while she stood outside, dithering.

Drypetis pressed her hands flat against her thighs to try and still the shaking. It didn't help. She knocked anyway.

"Yes?" Queen Rosetta's voice responded tartly.

"Your Highness.. It- it's me, Drypetis. Can- can I come in?" as she spoke, she cringed to herself at how weak and pathetic her voice sounded.

"Come in."

Drypetis opened the door, and for a moment, she couldn't see the her. It took her eyes some time to register that the brown shape sat by the balcony door was Queen Rosetta. She was wearing a dull dress, head lent over her embroidery. The sunlight filtering through the window highlighted the grey streaks in her hair.

"Drypetis, this is a surprise. You haven't been to visit me in some time."

"I… uh, yes… um…"

"Don't worry yourself. You're not the only one." She looked up from her embroidery, setting the hoop down gracefully on her lap. She pointed to a silk brocade stool by the dressing table. "Get that and come sit with me."

She fetched the stool and sat beside the Queen, the apprehensive feeling in her stomach expanding like a balloon.

As though she was reciting old words for a play she'd had memorised for years, the Queen began: How was her father? Her mother? Was she well? Had she heard from her cousins recently? Were they well? Drypetis replied that yes, yes, yes, everyone was well, thinking to herself that actually her cousin Stefan was still drinking himself to an early grave and her father had fired three servants in a rage earlier that morning because the cook burned his toast. But, then again, that wasn't really what the Queen was asking about, after all.

This routine down, the Queen seemed to settle back in her chair, more at ease. Drypetis looked over at the embroidery in her lap. She'd done the Wyndian emblem, and for good measure, had begun surrounding it with several golden roses.

"Are you keeping up your needlework, Drypetis?" she asked, seeing her look.

She flushed. "You know I was never any good at it, your Majesty…"

"All the more reason to keep at it."

"Ah, yes, maybe you're right."

To her terror, the Queen handed it her the hoop. "That's the spirit. I'll let you finish the roses on this one. Just follow the lines I've started."

"Your Majesty… I couldn't…"

"Come now. Don't be shy. I don't mind."

Drypetis stared down at the piece of cloth, the world around her shrinking into white noise. How had she got into this? How could she get out of it? She was going to completely ruin the Queen's handiwork!

Her hands shook harder than ever. She tried to still them as best as she could and follow the Queen's lines.

The Queen, thankfully, was looking away, gazing out onto the balcony. "How are you enjoying the tournament, Drypetis?" she said.

Impossible, to embroider in a straight line and try to gauge the Queen's tone for an appropriate response. "Ah yes, it's— it's good," she said.

"Do you think so?"

"Uh…"

"I've been told people are picking favourites now. Do you have one?"

Well, there had been Prince Jaden, but he was gone now, thanks to her. She turned pinker than ever, hunching down over the cloth. "N-not really," she said.

"Did you know, a similar tournament was held for the hand of my great grandmother? Your great-great grandmother?"

"I did your Highness…"

"Of course, it was nothing compared to this. It's a great honour for Wyndia. They'll be talking about Wyndia and my daughter for decades after this. She should hold her head high."

Drypetis concentrated on her stitches. The Queen was silent.

She bit her lip. However was she going to broach the subject? Your Majesty, the King's mistress is planning on replacing you. Even the words in her head sounded moronic. She needed to make an opening…

"Um, your Highness, you know my friend Kleopatra…"

She glanced up from the cloth to see the Queen's mouth bolted down in a tight line. "Yes," she said, in so hard a tone a stab of anxiety hit Drypetis square in the chest. Of course. The Queen liked to pretend her rival and rival's children didn't exist. In fact, she wasn't sure if she'd even ever heard the Queen say their names.

Why did she have to be the one to do this?

"W-well… I was talking to her the other day, and she said, um. About Alexon and her, she said the King… the King's going to. I mean, he's planning to—"

"Drypetis."

She stopped dead. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. "Yes?"

The Queen pointed to the cloth, Drypetis' appalling mess of stitching. Her voice was hard: "You've ruined it."


The door closed behind her, and she fell back against the wall, her breath catching. She didn't know which she was more: miserable, or relieved to be out of there.

She could almost hear her father's words in her ear: You've messed up again, Drypetis. Can't you do anything right?

She relived the conversation with the Queen again in her head, wincing to herself as she did so. She pushed it from her mind. She'd tried, right? She'd tried to say something. It wasn't her fault.

She headed down the spiral stairs, quickly, trying to outrace her tumbling thoughts. She walked so quickly without watching where she was going that she hit something— or rather, somebody, hard. Grabbing hold of the stone railing with both hands she gasped, "Sorry! I'm so sorry!"

It was Princess Nina she'd run into. She was crouched down on the stairs, with one hand clutching the railing, the other she held to her forehead. She must have knocked her head into the wall, Drypetis realised.

"Nina, I'm really sorry," she said, crouching beside her, offering a hand— she wasn't quite sure for what. "Are— are you okay?"

The princess pushed the hand away, and rose to her feet. "I'm fine." She winced, and dropped her hand from her forehead, glancing up at Drypetis. Then her eyes drifted up the staircase. She said, "Did you visit my mother?"

"Y-yes, I did." She felt so embarrassed she wanted to go hide somewhere. Why did Nina want to talk to her anywhere? Nina never spoke to her.

"Surprised the shock didn't kill her." She spoke quite wryly, looking not at her, but up at the staircase. Nina rarely looked at anyone when she spoke to them. Maybe only Drypetis noticed because she'd spent her whole life trying to avoid other people's eyes, herself.

"Are you going to see her?"

Nina nodded. Said, "She asked for me," as though it was a disclaimer.

When the princess didn't say her goodbyes and walk straight away, Drypetis wondered what to do. She was touching her forehead, no doubt where a bruise was already forming under the skin. Drypetis should say something.

"Are— are you enjoying the tournament?" she said. Nina smiled to herself, readjusting her hair.

"Not particularly. Are you?"

Immediately, Drypetis wished she'd never asked, or even started this conversation.

"Ah, not that much, really…"

"Really? I thought it'd be your thing."

"Um…" she said.

"Lots of good looking guys in the palace, for a change," Nina said. Straight away, she flushed. Was she trying to say something? Had, somehow, she found out about Jaden?

"Are… are you rooting for any of the suitors?" she said quickly.

Nina shrugged. She gazed at a spot above her head. "Why bother? It's not like I get a choice either way."

Quite suddenly, and quite puzzlingly, Drypetis felt for her cousin. The feeling took her completely by surprise. Though they'd grown up together, they'd never been friends, and in the last few years had barely even spoke to one another. She'd not expected to feel empathy, just as, no doubt, Nina did not expect to receive it.

She said, "We will miss you when you're not here, Nina…"

When Nina's eyes met hers, it was like a jolt of electricity ran through her. They were cold, hard, like two river stones.

"Liar," Nina said.


"King Philip, I hoped to have the chance to speak to you."

The evening festivities were once again, full swing in the hall. The candles were lit, plates piled high, musicians playing. A space had been cleared in the centre of the room: tonight, Philip was hosting one of of Wyndia's famous dance parties.

Locke approached Philip at the high table. Philip, whose cheeks were pink with wine patted the space down next to him on the long couch.

"Yes. Yes. Join me. Do. You're Locke, Brynhildr's son, aren't you? Call me Philip." As Locke sat, Philip peered at him, his eyes looking rather glazed. "Yes, I remember you. You came to Wyndia with Brynhildr, didn't you?"

"Quite a few years ago now."

"Oh? And are you enjoying being back in Wyndia? Must bring back memories."

"It does. And it's a beautiful city." Philip nodded appreciatively. The words didn't mean much: they were just form. But all the same, form must be abided by. Squinting his eyes, he stared harder at Locke.

"Nasty scar. Where's it from?"

A serving girl approached, and offered a basket of honey-coloured apples. Locke took one, and took a bite. "Training accident," he said. And he held up the apple to the King. "Have you tried one of these Philip? They're very good."

"They're from our orchard, sire," said the girl. "Would you care for one?"

Philip waved the basket away in displeasure. "Apples? What do I want with apples? Get more more wine, girl."

Locke watched as the girl vanished, as though she'd never been there. Then another servant was by his side, filling Philip's goblet. "Better. Much better. I don't want to see this glass empty tonight, you hear me?"

Locke's eyes roamed over the high table. Sat not far down was a young boy he knew now as Philip's bastard son. He couldn't be more than ten years old. He slouched in his seat, looking deathly bored. Beside him was the boy's mother, a string of sparkling jewels around her neck. She saw him looking, and smiled at him. Locke nodded back at her.

He was suprised however, when she stood from her seat and came and joined them, sitting by Philip's side and placing a possessive hand on his knee.

Well, things really had changed in Wyndia.

"Introduce us, darling," she said to Philip. "I want to meet your charming companion."

"My name's Locke, Madam," he said. Reaching across the King, she held out a hand for him. Obligingly, he kissed it.

"Eurydyke. Charmed," she said. "Where is you're from?"

"Dracon, to the north. You've heard of it?"

"Have I? They used to tell tales about it when I was a child. Incredible. You look so much like an ordinary man."

Having come upon this attitude more than once, Locke smiled patiently.

"If you wanted to, could you turn into a dragon right here?" she asked.

Philip boomed with laughter. "Woman! You're too much. He'd take the roof down with him."

Eurydyke raised a hand to her mouth, mock hurt. "Why, Philip. You know I was being hypothetical."

She moved in closer, to whisper something into his ear, a casual, intimate movement. Philip chuckled, a deep sound from the base of his chest. He downed the rest of his wine and called for more.

"I know why you looked familiar now. I recognise your brothers in you. Your family is doing well in the tournament, isn't it?" She interjected herself, " — What are your brothers' names again?"

"Sevvy's the youngest. Ryu's a few years younger than me." He wondered how long the King intended to let her sit by his side. He came to speak with Philip, not his mistress.

"Yes, that was it. Your brother Ryu, particularly. The resemblance is uncanny." This wasn't the first time someone had noted this to him. Locke saw it himself, more and more as Freyja got older, continuing to act and dress as she did. And the resemblance never failed to disturb him each time it appeared.

Locke was brought back to the party, as Eurydyke enquired, "Don't you think so Philip?"

Philip, in the middle of taking a drink, was too busy to answer.

"With all that said," she went on, "I— ah." Her head turned. Her daughter Kleopatra was making her way through the crowd to the next table with a friend, a pretty pale awkward girl. "I better go. I need to have a word with Kleo." She kissed Philip on the side of the mouth and left them alone. By this time, Philip was looking distinctly purple. He was shaking his head, almost in slow motion.

"Women," he said. Locke wondered how long he'd had a drinking problem.

"Though… she's got a point. Your brothers are both in the finals. Don't you think you're letting the side down?" he said, grinning. "My daughter not good enough for you?"

"I'll speak frankly. As lovely as your daughter as, I'm not here for her hand. I actually already have a wife." And, did he miss her. There had been times over the past weeks when he was on the verge of walking out. He reminded himself of the political importance of his presence. Though, at times, he felt more like he was babysitting his siblings. He kept the facade of calm up, but he was in constant worry. So much could go wrong. Sevvy just being Sevvy, seducing the daughter or an important house— and Freyja… he didn't even want to think about that.

"Any children?" Philip asked.

"Three daughters. Very young. The twins are just under a year."

"Hah! Good luck. You're going to need it."

"We've another on the way, as well." A smile crept onto his face. He kept being told he talked too much about his girls. Well, so what? They were his.

"You crazy man!" said Philip. "You've got to put it away."

"We want to have a large family." He hadn't, at first. He'd never even thought about children. But after Meriaten was born, seeing her tiny perfect little hands and feet, he thought he would mind having half a dozen. He missed them, now, wondering if Astrid and Salla were starting to crawl without him.

The King shook his head. "Two were plenty for me. And girls! Too much trouble. Mine caused so much mischief my sister, their nanny, moved to Rhapala. They used to drive her mad." Although he complained, a smile rose to his face as he gazed into the past. "She used to come to me, complaining Nina had got into the pond and ruined her clothes, and, of course, Christina had got into after her. They insisted on doing everything together. Though of course, things are different now. Christina's very involved with the temple, and…"

Locke listened, with widening eyes, waiting for it to hit Philip. When it did, he simply said, "Right." His words trailed off. He stared at his wine, as though he wondered what he was doing with it.

"Philip, I'm sorry. Please accept my condolences. Her death came as a huge shock to us all." As he said the words, he felt that they lost their meaning as soon as they left his tongue. What did such words even mean? How were condolences meant to help anyone? They didn't help him, when his sister and father were killed, and he had to step up as the man of his house.

There was a stirring in the crowd. He looked up to see Princess Nina's gold head of hair, as a servant led her up to the table. She chose a couch and sat on her own, staring out into the crowd.

Locke thought, she understands. You grieve alone, in silence. Words mean nothing. They're ash, dust.

In one violent motion, Philip tipped the entire contents of the goblet down his throat. Far too loudly, he called for another one. One of the suitors approached Nina and Locke saw him ask her for a dance. She shook her head. More of them came. One by one they asked for her hand to dance, and one by one she turned them down.

The King had drunk far too much. He was gazing at his daughter in open resentment.

"The wrong one," he said. "The wrong one died."

"You don't mean it, Philip," said Locke, all the while thinking, he does. He could see it in his eyes.

"You wait," Philip said. "They're sweet enough as little babes. But they grow up. They resent you. They refuse to obey you. They—"

With a start, Locke recognised the suitor stepping up to speak to Nina. It was Freyja. But what in the world was the girl doing?

Philip snorted. "Good luck. She won't dance with him. She's never done what's expected of her. She—" The King went silent. Locke, too, sat and stared. Freyja had offered Nina her hand, and she took it.


"Why?" Nina said. "Why do you want to dance with me?"

Ryu took the Princess's hand and helped her to her feet. He was aware that more than one person was staring. "To tell the truth, I'm not sure myself," he said. "I just want to, I guess."

"You guess?" she was smiling. "How unromantic."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Romanticism is for fools," said Nina.

"You've no poetry in the soul?"

He led her out onto a space on the floor. Other couples moved out of the way for them, others stared.

"Poetry in the soul. Empty words. When it comes down to it, what do they mean?"

"Most words don't mean much, when it comes down to it," Ryu said. "Yet we say them anyway."

"Why?" she asked. "Everyone's so afraid of uncomfortable silences. What do we find so comforting about all the noise?"

"Who knows," he said softly.

"So you've no answers either."

"The only answer I've come to in my twenty two years is that people, and their logic, are ridiculous."

Nina laughed, a sweet sound.

"I've an admission to make," Ryu said. "I actually have no idea how you do this dance."

"And yet you asked me? How audacious!" and yet the smile she wore like a rosette showed she was anything but offended. "I've an admission of my own. I'm probably the least graceful Wyndian princess who ever lived."

"And yet, you still said yes. Why?"

"Why? Maybe I just wanted to, I guess." They were stood, static in the middle of the floor, an immobile cog. The room twirled around them. Slowly, Ryu started to smile.

The thought came to him: What a marvellous girl.

"Well," he said, "this is going to be good fun, isn't it?" He held out his hand and Nina clasped it: it was very hot and soft.

He was aware by now that at least the half of the room was staring at him and the Princess. Somehow, however, it didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. It was almost the same feeling as when he fought; a sense of wild elation took of him by the hand.

Nina clasped hold of his other arm, and hoisted it around her waist. He let her lead; she twirled him around, following no set steps. Other dancers stepped back to make room, she twirled him around so vigorously they almost knocked a duke and his partner over. As they span, the room swirled round, a mass of colours and lights. They beamed at one another.

Quite suddenly, the song ended. The players put their instruments down. A flash of blue caught Ryu's eye, and he noticed that Locke was sat with the King. He was looking unsufferably sullen. Ryu smiled at him, exposing his teeth.

"Pardon me to intrude, sir." Ryu's head turned back. One of the suitors, a mousy looking gentleman took hold of Nina's hand. "Princess, could I please have the honour of this next dance?"

Nina slid her hand from the man's grasp. She caught Ryu's eye.. "Pardon yourself sir," he said, slipping his hand around Nina's waist. "The Princess already has a dance partner for the night."

That moment, the players begun again, a cheerful, lilting tune, and away they went.


As Nina and Ryu twirled each other round, woefully out of step, not even in the correct style, stepping in everyone else's way, Locke and the King sat, stared. Each, for his own reason, shocked into silence.

"Locke," the King said. "What did you say your brother's name was again?"


To be continued.