Lŭ Lin, having left the Little Palace at the end of the east path, did not stop walking until she had reached the pavilion. The guard with the umbrella hastened to keep up, the umbrella outstretched over the Grand Steward’s head.
He asked her, “Which path will we take next, my lady?” and looked up with concern at the gathering rain clouds.
Lŭ Lin did not answer for some time. She stood under the protection of the pavilion, her hands and face still warm from the brazier the prince had arranged for her. To her left was the guards’ barracks, in the basement of which was the cell where the servant awaited his execution. At dawn tomorrow morning he would be given poison in a glass of wine. When he was dead, he would be taken away and buried without ceremony. His name would be stricken from the Palace House register. It would be like he had never existed at all. Not even Ávoth would be able to find him. At dawn tomorrow morning he would be dead.
“My lady?”
“South,” she replied, distractedly.
The guard bowed and turned to obey. Just before stepping from the pavilion onto the south path, he realized that she was not behind him. Turning, he saw her standing where he had left her, unmoved.
He said, “My lady Ăvan?”
This seemed to snap her out of her contemplation. She looked at him, then glanced at the barracks, and finally began down the south path.
Some hours after she had entered the Spring Courtyard, Lŭ Lin Ăvan finally departed it.
She had done what she had set out to do, a simple enough task made almost impossibly difficult by the particulars of the situation. This was only the second time in nine years that one of the Little Prince’s servants had breached his walls in violation of his oath of service, only the second time that someone from within this enclosed little world had been condemned to death by the king. They were not used to such matters. She had told herself this before she had entered the Spring Courtyard this morning. They were not used to such matters and would have to be soothed. The king expected this of her, to calm them, to calm their little world. She was expected to take care of his son, because he could not do so himself. Hidden among the Four Little Princes, the king’s son would be afraid. He would have questions. For a fraction of a second, she found herself wondering which of the four princes she had seen today had been him. Just before she could stop herself, she realized that she was recalling the first prince, the one at the end of the east path who had spoken to her today in a way none of them ever had before.
As quickly as she could, she stopped this line of thought. It didn’t matter. They were all the crown prince.
The entire matter worried her. Breaking the routine of the Little Palaces was significant enough. But there was something strange about a servant leaving one Little Palace in order to enter another. When she had heard this news, it had been the first question she had wanted to ask the servant. But then the king had issued his abrupt orders and her hands were tied. It worried her to think that there had been an attempt at communication between the palaces. Or worse, that one might have had ill intentions towards another.
What worried her the most, however, was that there might be something else to this that she was not able to see from her view as an outsider, and that her blindness would prevent her from protecting the crown prince. But as blind as she was, she was not half as blind as they were. She considered again the words the first Little Prince had said to her. And at the same time she tried to put them out of her mind. The king had given his orders, there was nothing left for her to do but obey.
The bodysword captain offered her a bow at the Spring Gate and remained there until she was gone and the gate was closed.
Coming through at last, tired, damp, and a bit ill at ease, Lŭ Lin was glad to see Sen Na waiting for her but was checked immediately when she saw the look of nervous apprehension on the girl’s fair face. At first she thought Sen Na was merely anxious from the long wait, or perhaps anxious because Lŭ Lin had gone without an umbrella.
But then a figure in black emerged from behind Lŭ Lin’s waiting carriage, a woman who had been standing just out of sight. When Lŭ Lin saw her, all the fatigue and nervous tension of the day intensified. A wave of sudden anger swept over her and it was all she could do to maintain her composure.
The woman in black moved like a shadow around the small wooden frame and tall wooden wheels of Lŭ Lin’s carriage. She slipped past Sen Na, the hems of her long black golt sweeping over the maid’s dampened slippers. She floated with delicate strides along the length of Lŭ Lin’s horse, which flinched a bit at the touch of her fingertips before it was settled again by the driver.
The woman, a member of the Palace House and one of the king’s highest ranking personal maids, was accompanied by another, a girl the same age as Sen Na, who carried her mistress’s umbrella with both hands and kept her eyes down.
Lŭ Lin watched without expression, though her hands inside her sleeves were clenched into fists. She should have known that this maid would cross her path today. She should have known that her spies would have alerted her to any trouble within the Spring Courtyard. After all, this maid was always watching — every corner of the Palace it seemed — and always appearing at precisely the right moment. And Lŭ Lin was too tired and distracted today to navigate her ceaseless scheming.
As the woman approached, Lŭ Lin lifted her chin a fraction of an inch and said, without bowing, “Good afternoon, Éna Lí.1”
The maid, Éna Lí — who also did not bow — wore the black of the king’s personal maids, but in a style that was her own. No other in the entire Palace House would have been permitted to wear black from head to toe as Éna Lí did, a costume that was very close to that of the Palace Housemaster. But, then, no other in the Palace House possessed the same power as Éna Lí. Power that should not have been possible for a maid, especially one so young. Though Lŭ Lin suspected that she was not as young as she seemed. By all appearances, she was no older than twenty-five. But she had been in the Palace longer than Lŭ Lin had been. Some whispered that she had served the mother of the previous king, though that was impossible, a rumor she had probably spread herself for her own amusement.
With a smile that barely moved her fair white cheeks and gleaming lips, Éna Lí answered, “Grand Steward Ăvan, my old friend. My maid and I were just taking a walk through the gardens in the old residence of the queen consort and happened to see your lovely carriage. Suddenly I was overcome with a desire to see you.”
Lŭ Lin regarded her with thinly veiled disdain, then she gazed to the east, in the direction of the queen consort’s long-vacant residence.
“My dear Éna Lí,” she answered coolly, “I’m sure you’re aware that the queen consort’s residence is not a place where one may merely walk whenever one desires. For this you need—”
“The permission of the Palace Housemaster.” Éna Lí smiled again. “It is good of you to continue guarding the residence of the late queen consort so vigilantly. But of course I would never venture lightly where I am not permitted to do so.”
She then made a show of looking around and seeing, as if for the first time, the Spring Gate before them. “Grand Steward Ăvan,” she said, her eyes wide. “What brings you to this part of the Palace?”
Lŭ Lin tilted her head. “My duties take me to all corners of the Palace, Éna Lí.”
“But this corner—?”
Lŭ Lin sighed and turned from the maid, unwilling to dance like a puppet to her plots and petty schemes. She had enough to think about and she was already very tired from the long morning in the Spring Courtyard. Just as Sen Na had put out the stool for her mistress to step into her carriage, Éna Lí’s face suddenly twisted into an almost monstrous expression of theatrical concern.
“My dear Lŭ Lin,” she exclaimed, reaching out to touch the Grand Steward’s damp shoulders. “You have no umbrella.” She glanced disapprovingly at Sen Na. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. Your little maid is Ăvan and not Hŏnol.2” She referred to the Palace House, Hŏnol, from whose ranks came all the maids and servants of the Palace. “If she had been Hŏnol I would have taken her away myself and punished her properly. I’m afraid I’m not qualified to punish maids of the Ăvan House, however.”
Sen Na had grown pale, but she remained quiet and still. It was no secret in the Palace that Lŭ Lin cherished Sen Na and was vigilantly protective of her. She knew that Éna Lí didn’t care about Sen Na or her performance as a maid, but was merely trying to unsettle Lŭ Lin. This was her way, to tenderize her prey with little attacks until they were too fatigued to withstand her primary assault. Lŭ Lin would have liked very much to put Éna Lí in her place, but the truth was that the maid had become someone on whom the king relied heavily, as she had made a reputation for herself as the most capable servant in the entire Palace House. Lŭ Lin had once heard His Majesty joke that Éna Lí seemed able to read his mind. The king would not have patience for petty quarrels within his household. And Lŭ Lin did not want to risk falling out of his favor.
Éna Lí’s lingering fingers slipped down from Lŭ Lin’s shoulders to the cuff of her sleeve, as if she wished to grasp her hand affectionately. Lŭ Lin did not move, keeping her clenched fist inside her sleeve. And so Éna Lí’s hand went instead to the gold medallion dangling from Lŭ Lin’s belt, the medallion of the Palace House.
“If you had permitted me to assign a Hŏnol maid to you when yours died, you would be much happier, I’m sure. The Ăvan House is not suited to Palace life, I think.” She smiled at Sen Na, who looked fixedly at the ground.
Lŭ Lin wanted to scoff at that. As if it was within Éna Lí’s rights to assign a maid to the Grand Steward’s residence. They both knew that power belonged solely to the Palace Housemaster. And despite all her schemes and ambitions, Éna Lí was not the Palace Housemaster. Not yet, at least.
Lŭ Lin casually swept her arms down the front of her golt, as if to smooth the fabric, brushing away Éna Lí’s grip on her Palace House medallion. She said, “My Housemaster made known to me his wishes regarding Sen Na and it was in my power to fulfill them. After all, it is a terrible thing to lose one’s parents.” She looked into Éna Lí’s cold eyes and added, “But at least she was not Houseless.”
Éna Lí did not blink, but her cheeks twitched. Her little maid glanced at her, pained.
Some years ago, when this mysterious servant’s influence in the Palace House had become conspicuously more pronounced, Lŭ Lin had begun to investigate her history in secret. She knew for certain only that Éna Lí had originally been called Adníothan3, which was a name not of the Láokoth tongue, but of Ethadux, the tongue of both Srenléth and Brenigev.4 Lŭ Lin’s spies had found hints that she had been born in Srenléth, a product of an affair between a Láokothian and a Srenléthan, who had been unwelcome among the latter and therefore came instead to Láokoth to make her future. Unclaimed by her Láokoth parent, she had, prior to coming to the Palace, been Houseless. A fact she endeavored to conceal, as someone who had not been born to the Palace House was not eligible to become Housemaster. Lŭ Lin could not prove this fact, because someone — probably Éna Lí herself — had altered the Hŏnol House register years ago; it was, in point of fact, useless information. But she liked to remind Éna Lí that she was aware of it. Little else seemed to have power enough to break through the thick veneer of arrogance that shrouded the woman.
Lŭ Lin went on, “Is it not a beautiful thing for such a poor child to be able to rely on her House so completely?”
Éna Lí drew her hands into her sleeves and smiled sweetly. “Indeed, you are right.”
Too irritated and tired to continue playing Éna Lí’s usual games, Lŭ Lin made a second attempt to excuse herself. “I must apologize,” she said, turning to leave, “I am very busy.”
“Indeed you must be,” the maid replied taking a step after her. “After what has happened, no doubt you must be concerned about the security of the Spring Courtyard.”
And there was her primary assault.
Sen Na flinched in alarm. Lŭ Lin steadied her with a glance, though the girl was right to react so. Not only was Éna Lí openly admitting to knowing what had happened in the Spring Courtyard, she was attempting to suggest that the Grand Steward was failing in her most important duty. It was a predictable tactic, of course. The Grand Steward was the only real opposition to her growing power in the Palace. Éna Lí knew the king still favored Lŭ Lin and always heeded her advice. She also knew that Lŭ Lin would never allow her to be made Palace Housemaster. This was not Éna Lí’s first attempt to undermine her. But it was her clumsiest. Because despite all the rest of it, this maid seemed to have forgotten that speaking in this way was forbidden. Even the guards on either side of the Spring Gate had looked at the Grand Steward with startled eyes.
With one glance from Lŭ Lin they bowed and then turned to face the wall. Éna Lí watched with interest.
The Grand Steward approached her and took the umbrella from her maid. The girl resisted for a moment but one withering look from Lŭ Lin caused her to drop both hands and back away several steps. Éna Lí glanced at her.
“You have been in the Palace even longer than I have,” Lŭ Lin said, holding the umbrella over their heads. The way it cast a shadow on Éna Lí’s face made her eyes seem to glow unnaturally. “You have had even longer to become accustomed to the rules here.”
Éna Lí smiled, still watching Lŭ Lin with interest bordering on amusement.
“It is true, my dear Éna Lí, that some outside myself and His Majesty may, from time to time, have occasion to become aware of various happenings within the Spring Courtyard. But none, not even myself, may ever speak of these happenings, speculate on them, or gossip about them.”
Éna Lí’s smile remained unmoved.
“Now, you and I have known each other for many years, so it would sadden me greatly if something were to happen to you. So I will see to it that these guards and my own attendants tell no one of what you have just said. After all, Éna Lí, the punishment for speaking in any way about matters within the Spring Courtyard is death. And it is my sworn duty — as bestowed upon me by His Majesty, who guards his son most vigilantly — to see to it that that punishment is carried out swiftly—” she took a step closer “—in the event that I hear of anyone breaking this most singular rule.”
As the rain began again, Lŭ Lin let the umbrella drop onto the paved stone path, where it collected rain water like a bowl. Sen Na appeared instantly, holding a blue umbrella over the Grand Steward.
Lŭ Lin did not bow as she walked to her carriage and let Sen Na help her inside. Éna Lí was still standing next to her overturned umbrella as the Grand Steward drove away, the same unmoved smile still upon her face.
When they were some way down the paved stone path, Lŭ Lin took Sen Na’s trembling hands in hers.
Having finally extricated herself from Éna Lí’s slender talons, Lŭ Lin was suddenly overwhelmed by how exhausted she was. For a moment she let her head rest on the cushioned wall of the carriage.
If only she could find the spies who had whispered to Éna Lí about the matters inside the Spring Courtyard. Could it have been the last rotation of guards assigned to the pavilion? No, they wouldn’t have known about last night’s incident. She herself had received the news from a messenger, one of the guards at the Spring Gate. He had been alerted by the pavilion guards, who had captured and imprisoned the servant. According to the protocols, this message could not be written and had to delivered in person. Lŭ Lin had been pulled out of bed to receive the armored Spring Gate guard who had delivered the information exactly as it had been given to him. She had then taken the guard with her to deliver the news to the king. And no one else had been in the room with her and the king, save the guard.
No doubt the king’s residence had ears, of course. But she feared it would be impossible to find and remove them. Éna Lí’s endless schemes were something Lŭ Lin was more or less willing to tolerate. But she must never be permitted to make use of the crown prince in the pursuit of her ambitions. Lŭ Lin would need to think of way to put an end to her access to the Spring Courtyard. But right now she was too tired and there were more important matters to attend to.
When the carriage was well out of sight, Éna Lí’s maid hurried over to dump the rainwater out of the umbrella and hold it over her mistress’s head. But Éna Lí turned to her and slapped her across the face. The wet sound echoed even in the downpour. The girl gaped in horror and held her bleeding lip. Éna Lí slapped her again and she cried out in pain.
“No one,” Éna Lí whispered in a terrible voice, “is above me but the king. Do you understand? In my presence, none may command you but me.”
The girl fell to her knees, sobbing. “Yes, mistress!” she cried.
The guards at the Spring Gate paid no mind to the crying maid or her beautiful mistress. They stared straight ahead as if accustomed to such occurrences.
EE-nah-lie
HIY-yoh-nole
Ad-NIY-oh-than
The northern-most nation of the Níogoln continent