Chapter 1: The winged bull was the first thing that greeted me every morning. It wasn't a real bull, of course, but one that was stitched into the canopy above my bed. I suppose it's so anyone who slept in it was reminded right away whose house they were waking up in. I couldn't forget, not really, even without its angry, flaring nostrils and silver-flecked wings. Me and the bed both belonged to the King of Orstral. Winter had begun its cold creep into the north. The moun-tains I could see from the window of my chamber, blue and purple in the haze, had caps of white on their heads. The first frosts had long since drawn their crystal fingers across my window pane, and the smell of pine was everywhere in the palace as it busied itself to prepare for Yule. Back at the orchard, Mama was stirring the suet for the pud-ding, every day adding a splash more of the dark rum she bought just for the season. When we were small, me, Ether, and Jon would fuss over who got to stir each morning before breakfast. Each turn of the spoon came with a wish--usually for a foolish thing or trinket that would sometimes appear on Long Night. I couldn't help thinking what Mama and Ether might wish for this year as they stood, spoon in hand, in an unusually quiet kitchen. I gave the winged bull a hard look from my pillow as I ran my fingers over the smooth willowbark of a figurine with a cheer-fully burning acorn in the cage of its belly. I'd been careful to hide the gift Lark'd given me back in Presston when we were first acquainted--in the sturdy nameday box made for me by Papa. But some nights, the only way to quiet my noisy head was to take the Jack from its den beneath my Allcloth and let the glamour lull me to sleep. A tap at the door let me know my lying-about-and-feeling-sorry-for-myself time had come to an end. The hinges creaked and the familiar figure of my friend Lark slipped in--a dark silhouette in front of the bright window. "Tides," she gasped. "It's colder'n a toad's belly in here! You forgot to close the drapes last night." "Didn't forget," I mumbled as she scuttled toward the hearth to make up the fire. "I just wanted to look at the stars." She clucked her tongue. "Stars'll still be there in summer, y'know. No need to turn your chamber into an icehouse!" I sat up, hugging my knees under the quilt. "I was trying to pretend I was looking out my own window. It keeps the bad dreams away." Lark poked at the smoldering logs with the fire iron. "Don't remember the last time I had a good dream." Shame pricked at my heart. I may have belonged to the king, but at least I enjoyed a measure of comfort. Instead of making merry with the rest of the Ordish clans at the Southmeet in Farrier's Bay, Lark was trapped in Bellskeep--a servant, even less her own master than I was. My servant, indentured to the king until her father could raise the coin to buy her and her brother, Rowan, back. I patted the down mattress. "Come warm up while we're waiting for the fire to do its work." She looked toward the door warily. "Don't worry, no one's gonna bust in. If anyone complains that I'm tardy, I'll just tell 'em I was being a slugabed." Lark didn't need more persuading. She climbed up to join me beneath the quilt, taking care not to crease the fine indigo silk dress she'd been given to accompany me on important occasions like the one that morning. She laid her head on the pillow with a sigh of relief. "The hearth in the indentures' hall burns all night, but it's still not much warmer than out-of-doors since the season changed." She raised her hands to her lips to blow some feeling back into them. "Mother's teeth!" I exclaimed. "What happened to your fingers?" She turned them over to look at them, wincing at her ragged red nail cases. "The fabric bunched funny on one of Lady Monkford's gowns and I got the hem crooked. Her ladyship complained to the seamstress, so I spent last evening in the laundry. The lye Mistress Gibb uses is wicked strong." I took her hands in mine, all cold and cracked, thinking of how warm they'd been in the summer when she'd first led me aboard her barge, the Briar. "A few nights ago, I did dream Papa came to get us," she said softly. "The River was a real river, and all the barges sailed under the bridges and right to the palace. It was good, but I was so sorry to wake up, I'd rather not have dreamed it." I'd held my peace long enough. I hadn't spoken of it before--not to Lark or anyone--but I couldn't bear the sorrow in her eyes anymore. "It's not gonna be a dream much longer, Lark." "What d'you mean?" "I made a bargain. I hope it'll have us both home before the snowdrops bloom." Lark sat up like a shot, looking more alarmed than pleased. "What sort of bargain?" I shushed her. "One the whole palace don't need to know about, so keep your voice down!" "Only, there ain't a soul here you should be making bargains with!" she whispered furiously. "Not for you, and certainly not for me and Ro! You can't trust no one." "I got dragged here so the king would know who to trust, in case you forgot!" It was the very reason I wasn't stirring the pudding bowl in Mama's kitchen. All because I could see lies. No one could tell one--not about a plot to topple the kingdom or what they had for lunch--without me knowing. Non once compared a lie to a wall the truth had to find a way round. And while I couldn't exactly see the truth, I could at least see the cracks in the wall where it was leaking out. A vivid wreath of color rounded the liar, intangible as will-o'-the-wisp, but revealing all manner of shame and fear, kindness and ill intentions. The Ordish, who knew more about augury than most folk, called it a cunning. I called it a curse. "Course I didn't forget," insisted Lark, slipping out from under the quilt and heading to my wardrobe. "It's just . . . there's things we don't know yet! Like who the fella from the Southmeet was--the one with the port-wine stain who got Jon's lot to attack your carriage. Or who's burning the grain stores!" I frowned. Two days before, the news had come of another grain store out by Clifflight Watch going up in flames. Folk were blaming the Ordish, but my brother, whose life was now inter-twined with the people of the river, told me there wasn't a man, woman, or child among them who'd do anything so wickedly wasteful. And even worse, hunger was starting to pinch bellies from north to south. Less grain meant less flour. Less flour meant less bread, and less bread meant folk had to part with more coin to buy it. If it was meant to turn Orstral further against the Ordish, it was working. "I'm not saying . . . ooh, cold!" I yelped as my bare feet touched the stone floor. I danced on tiptoe over to the rug in front of the hearth. "I'm not saying I trust her in particular, but I'd know if she was trying to play me false." The Ordish girl looked at me suspiciously as she laid my morning clothes on the bed. "She who? The princess?" "Not her," I whispered, motioning Lark closer. "Lady Folque." The dish of gold hairpins she was holding dropped to the floor with a clang, sending its contents skittering across the floor like bright minnows in a creek. "Have you got river mud for brains?" Lark exclaimed, drop-ping down to retrieve the pins. "That woman's a snake! You should hear the things folk around the palace say about her." I bit back a rough answer as I joined her on the floor. I thought she'd be dead pleased to hear my news. "Well, those folk ain't got a cunning like I do, and I know she'll keep her word!" Lark didn't look convinced. "What's she promised you, then?" According to Master Iordan, when a king or queen loses the throne, it's usually 'cause they end up losing something more important--like a war. Or, if they're real unlucky, their head. Me and Lady Folque had more'n a few things in common--we were both cunning. We both wanted what was best for Orstral. And we both thought what was best for Orstral would be if Alphonse Renart wasn't king anymore. But the king didn't have to fear losing his head--while my cunning just exposed the lies people told, Lamia's was of a useful sort for our aim. Her cunning, in small doses, could change minds. In large doses, it could be deadly. My fear of the councilwoman had vanished like fog when she told me the story of her elder brother--who she begged to save her dog, lost to a raging spring flood when they were whelps. Hit by the full force of her cunning all at once, the boy waded in and was lost, right along with her pet. It's the sort of tale I'd've took for made-up, but there was no deceit in it--just a woman, sorrowful and guilty over the loss of her brother. Her idea was simple; for the good of the coun-try, she'd persuade the king to step down, leaving the throne to his daughter, Saphritte. The princess didn't care for keeping up any sort of quarrel with the Ordish, so the river folk's troubles would soon come to a halt and the indentured whelps would be returned. Orstral would be content again. Lark and Rowan could go home. And, though Lamia Folque didn't know it, so could I. The princess had struck me a bargain--when she came to the throne, I'd be allowed to return to the orchard. As for the no-gooders trying to make the Ordish look bad . . . we could get to the bottom of that later. Lark sat back on her knees, taking in my tale. "She's going to talk the king off the throne? And then just . . . go home? That don't sound very like her." "She's leaving her council seat to her daughter. I guess she'll go back to Folquemotte and do . . . whatever it is people with coin do in their free time." We got to our feet and Lark helped me out of my nightdress. "If she cares about Orstral so much, why can't she just do it herself, without telling anyone else?" she grumbled. "What's she want with you?" "Folk'll believe me, that's why!" I answered, wriggling into my shift. "The princess, the king, the council--I mean, I still can't say anything that's untrue, but the truth I do tell's got weight to throw behind her cunning. We've had no chance for a jaw outside council meetings, but someone slipped this under my door last night." I stuck a hand between my mattress and the board beneath. The thick, cream-colored paper was folded tight, the wax seal with the dancing rabbit broken open. I handed it to Lark as I put on my greatcoat. "'You are cordially invited for tea and conversation with His Majesty and Lady Folque tomorrow at the fourth afternoon bell,'" she read, shaking her head. "Sounds to me like she's just invited you for a cuppa and cake with the king." "Don't you see? She's ready to start trying and she wants me to help! It makes sense, with the wedding coming up and all." Yule and the tales of burned grain stores weren't the only things stirring up the city. In two weeks, Saphritte would marry Hauk Eydisson, the second son of King Bram and Queen Arnora of Thorvald. Though the prince and a few minor nobles had been in Bellskeep for months already, the rest of the northern folk would be descending on the city in just a few hours. The fact that Lark'd even got a new frock for the occasion told me the palace wasn't sparing any expense for their arrival. I'd heard whispers round the castle of Thorvald's fierce warriors and strange cus-toms. Gareth said another steward told him King Bram once wrestled an ice bear and won. Master Iordan sniffed at that rumor, telling me it was "truly quite impossible, as an ice bear weighs nearly a ton, stands over six feet on its hind legs, and has claws the size of kitchen knives." The inquisitor was almost always right, but he sure knew how to ruin a good story. "Master Iordan's been making sure I know a bit before the northern court arrives. Go ahead," I bade Lark eagerly as she pulled a large leather belt round my waist. "Ask me how to say 'good morning' in Thorvald." She wasn't ready to let go of my deal with Lamia Folque, but she indulged me. "All right, how do you say 'good morning' in Thorvald?" "Goden morhen," I pronounced carefully. "Now ask me how to say 'good night.'" She sighed. "How do you say 'good night'?" "Goda noght. Now ask me how to say, 'You've got a face like a cat's rear end.'" Lark's fingers fumbled on the belt. "Why in Deep's name did Master Iordan teach you that?" "Oh, All, it wasn't the inquisitor! Prince Hauk said it to one of the fellows at the table and all the Thorvald laughed. The princess would only tell me what it meant if I promised not to repeat it in polite company." I pulled on my warm fleece leggings and boots just as there was a sharp knock on the chamber door. I'd know the sound of those knuckles anywhere. "Goden morhen, Gareth," I called. The steward's freckled face popped round the door. "Did that mean 'come in'?" "Close enough," I told him. "We won't be a second." Lark held up my great golden brooch, shaped like an eye, set with a radiant sapphire. She carefully poked the pin through the lapel of my coat. "Be careful," she said, quiet-like, so Gareth couldn't hear. "Promise me you won't get so wrapped up in your cunning that you forget how to see round the end of your nose." I put one hand over hers. "We're getting out of here. I promise you that." Excerpted from Riverbound by Melinda Beatty All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
