The Steel Princess

Chapter 3: A Blank Slate

Author's note: I got attacked by a migraine yesterday, so this post is later than I would have liked. But! It's here now, and the next chapter will be up on Friday. Enjoy! :)

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Morning crept into Skye's room in honeyed sunshine and a whisper of servants' feet. One of them must have removed her boots in the night, and pulled a blanket over her, but they didn't seem to dare speak now. She ignored them, staring up at the canopy above the bed, imagining rivers running through the folds of fabric, and cities built upside-down onto the drooping hillocks. Tracing maps in her head - of Imaldra, of Celiande, of a dozen other cities the Conclave had made her learn - was better than thinking of her family, her position, of anything at all.

In the end, hunger drove her upright. A platter had been placed beside the bed, fresh white bread and butter, apricot jam on one side, strawberry on the other. Skye didn't have much of a sweet tooth these days, and had grown used to training on a growling stomach every morning before breakfasting on hard cheese and cured meat. She could imagine, though, the kitchen maids carefully arranging the platter, cutting the bread to exacting thickness, even hunting through the dewy gardens for the perfect flowers to make the posy beside the plate. Long before her years in the Conclave, her father had taught his children not to be ungrateful, so without hesitation, she ate.

"I know you're there," she said, around the first mouthful. "Are you going to hide all morning like a mouse? I didn't know you Shenlanders were so timid."

If he was offended, her guardian didn't show it. Josselyn stepped from the shadows of the antechamber, his gait smooth, his face impassive. Skye studied his weaponry - a short sword suitable for fighting in close confines, a slender dagger, three throwing knives just visible behind his back - rather than look him in the eye. She had the feeling she'd see nothing but contempt, even if he didn't have his sister's outright animosity; she didn't think apologising for last night's outburst would change that, either. If the Kadvalaers wanted to hate her for their parents' exile, they were free to do so, and Skye suspected they'd go on hating her whether she smoothed things over or not.

Not that she could read any of that in Josselyn's face. "The Council is expecting you, Your Highness," he said, and that was all.

Skye kept chewing. Nothing from her guardian about hurrying things along, about making sure she wasn't late, about not keeping her counsellors waiting. No, that wasn't his place; indeed, she wasn't sure whose place it was, now. Maybe, if she was to be queen, no-one's at all.

She pushed the platter aside, rolling from the bed in last night's rumpled clothes. "You know, the Emperor has a dozen sworn warriors - his blood guard - all of them bound to protect him until they die. If they break their oaths, he makes them cut off their own left hand."

For the first time, Josselyn's grey eyes flicked to her. "We have no need of blood oaths, Your Highness."

Skye grunted. She hadn't really intended to question his loyalty. Somehow, all she'd wanted was to see him rattled, to shake that placid exterior. Apparently, she'd have to try harder.

The maids rushed in as soon as she'd finished eating, and Josselyn returned to the antechamber whilst they picked out her clothes and fussed over her hair. No-one insisted on a gown, at least, just tight breeches and shirt, with an embroidered jacket over the top. They wouldn't let her tie her hair into its usual knot, though; that went into an intricate braid that would probably take her an hour to untangle later. She was surprised to find how long her hair had grown, and how tanned her face was. Somehow, the version she pictured of herself was always twelve, skinny and graceless, sallow after a lifetime under grey Eskelene skies. The Conclave had never had a surfeit of mirrors.