Bearers of the Black Staff

PHRYNE WASTED NO TIME after leaving her grandmother, making her way back through the woods and along the paths and roadways toward the Council hall and the chambers of the ministers. She could not stop thinking about what her grandmother had told her of Isoeld. All the anger and disdain she had felt earlier for her stepmother, all that she had thought she might be able to let go of, surfaced anew, white-hot and razor-sharp. She had not wanted to believe any of the rumors; she had wanted to dismiss them as lies. When Isoeld had confronted her, she had felt shame and embarrassment at her suspicious behavior. She had wanted to be wrong.

Now what she wanted was something else entirely.

She detoured to the healing center long enough to confirm what she already suspected was true. Isoeld was not there. She had gone home early, fatigued and not feeling well. She worked so hard and cared so much for the sick and injured, the healer to whom Phryne spoke said in quiet praise. It was just too much for her. You can tell she is fragile.

Phryne kept her thoughts to herself and her mouth shut.

She entered the Council chambers and made her way down the hall past closed doorways to the offices of the first minister. When she arrived, she found those doors closed as well, but she put her ear to the door, listened to the silence, and then knocked anyway. Nothing. She waited a moment and knocked again, louder and more insistent. Again, nothing. She stood there, undecided for a few minutes longer, and then turned away. She felt an odd mix of disappointment and relief. Maybe her grandmother was wrong after all.

She left the Council hall and walked back across the grounds of the palace toward her home, pondering. She was almost there, approaching through the gardens, when she saw the door to the toolshed open and Isoeld appear. Carefully, Phryne took one step back behind the screen of a clematis trellis, where she stood perfectly still. Her stepmother glanced about, not seeing Phryne as she did so, and then closed the shed door and walked toward the house in a relaxed but purposeful fashion, brushing back her long blond hair.

Phryne waited where she was, unmoving.

Several minutes passed. Nothing happened. She waited some more. Then the door to the shed opened a second time, and the first minister stepped through. Phryne experienced a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to scream out, to rid herself of the sudden rush of feelings. She wanted to fling herself on Teonette and choke the life out of him. She wanted to hurt him so badly he would beg for forgiveness.

But instead, she kept silent and waited until he was walking away, moving back toward the Council hall and the trellis behind which she hid, and when he was almost on top of her, she stepped in front of him.

“Good day, First Minister,” she greeted him brightly.

Teonette, tall and handsome in a sharp sort of way, was visibly startled. His dark eyes fixed on her with mingled disbelief and shock. “Princess, ah … good day to you, as well.” He took a steadying breath. “Have you been working in the garden?”

Trying to find out what she had seen. She gave him a smile. “No, I was just returning from a visit and stopped to admire the clematis. And you, First Minister? Admiring the flowers in our gardens?”

The tall man’s smile was rigid and uncomfortable. “No, just picking up something from the house for your father. Some papers.”

He did not offer to show them, and she did not ask to see them. What was the point? Instead, she nodded as if this were all perfectly understandable and started to turn away.

“Oh,” she said suddenly, turning back. “You have something at the corner of your mouth. A smear of color. Are you bleeding?”

Teonette’s hand flew to his mouth, rubbing quickly. But when he looked at his fingers, there was nothing there. Phryne smiled brightly when he looked back her. “I think you got it, First Minister. Good day to you.”

And she sauntered away, humming to herself.





TWENTY-THREE




WHEN THE OLD MAN RETURNS, ONLY A WEEK has passed, and yet to the boy it looks as if his mentor has aged a lifetime. He is grayer than before, weary around the eyes, and sad to the bone. The boy doesn’t need to ask if the old man’s visit was successful. He can tell at once that it was not.

“He would not heed me,” the old man tells him. “He barely listened to my advice and did not give even the smallest indication that what I said mattered. He smiled and changed the subject and without saying so dismissed me as surely as if I were no longer relevant.”