37
The crack of iron cleaving wood shot through the open window of Merit’s chamber. Outside, sullen-eyed slaves chipped at the wedding platform, splitting the logs and carrying them away. The Night Wedding was over and the platform was nearly half disassembled. Two days had passed since the ceremony. Kepi had married Dagrun; their kingdoms were united. She had waited impatiently for Dagrun to come to her chamber, or to summon her to his, but there had been no sign of him so far. Perhaps he had heeded her words too deeply and was intent on making certain his new bride was with child before he laid his hands on Merit. Perhaps she had been too restrictive. No matter. She would remedy the situation soon enough and erase all memory of her sister in his mind. It was doubtful that Kepi had even made an impression on him. All Merit needed now was news from Shenn—word that the deed was done and Ren’s claim to the throne was ended.
But that news had not arrived.
More than a week had passed since Shenn had left for the Shambles, but she had not heard from her husband. There were Feren outposts along the northern edge of the Shambles and Harkan outposts along the southern. When her husband left the sacred hunting grounds, he could send word to her. But he hadn’t.
She wondered if he had failed her.
The door creaked open.
Ahti entered without knocking. “Dagrun called for you—he requests your presence in the Chathair.”
“The Chathair? Why?” she wondered aloud. And if Dagrun wanted to see her, why not just arrive at her chamber as he had in the past? Why did he need to speak to her in a formal setting?
“I … I don’t know,” Ahti said, her face blank.
“He gave no reason?” Merit asked, but the girl only shook her head.
Sensing that she would learn no more from her waiting woman, Merit thanked Ahti and went out, shutting the door behind her. Why would Dagrun summon her to the seat of power?
Unfamiliar with the corridors of Caer Rifka Merit lost her way, but only briefly. Stumbling down a corridor she caught sight of a tall and soaring chamber, a space so vast that it could only be the Chathair. Slipping between the open doors, smelling fresh pine and lotus, she entered the vast hall, a round space of indeterminate depth, cluttered with statues and carvings. Past a block of stone she gazed up at a sight that took her breath away: blackthorn columns whittled to an almost ethereal thinness filled the hall. They were not ordered in neat rows like the monuments in Harkana but staggered almost at random, giving the effect of a finely carved forest, gleaming in the torchlight. Merit pushed through the columns and caught sight of the Chathair itself. It was a simple stool carved from the same silvery-gray wood as the rest of the chamber, its four faces inscribed with strange characters. Behind the stool, in a place where the slender columns parted, stood a thing that appeared, at first glance, like a dead tree, but was in fact a monumental sculpture. It was the Kiteperch. She had heard of it, but never imagined it would be so enormous. A proper king of Feren held the kite as a symbol of his throne and his power. When he sat upon the throne, the kite roosted above him on the perch. In Feren legend, the kite was joined on the perch by all of the forest birds. They cried a great and solemn song, the Dawn Chorus, to announce the reign of a new king. Dagrun had no kite, he had not undergone the vigil and so the perch was empty. As far as Merit knew, no kite had sat upon the perch for fifty years. The previous king, Barrin, had earned his kite, but the creature had quickly abandoned the king, casting doubt upon Barrin and his rule.
“Is this your first time in the Chathair?” The words belonged to Dagrun. He emerged from behind a spindly white column. “I first saw the tree when I was a boy. There was no kite upon it, the Kiteperch was empty then as it is now,” he said, moving closer to the tree and touching it. “See that opening?” He pointed upward, to a place where the thatched roof parted to reveal a blue patch of sky. “It’s called the Wind’s Eye, it’s where the kite enters. In past days, the birds of the forest would descend through the Eye, swarming the chamber, alighting on the great perch, cawing wildly. It was a gruesome sight, or so I am told. I rather like it without the creatures.”
Merit nodded. While she shared some interest in the superstitions of the kingdom, she was more interested in why Dagrun had summoned her to the throne room and not his bedchamber.
“I haven’t heard from Shenn if that’s why you summoned me,” she said, thinking that perhaps he too shared her worries. He had asked about Shenn once before, at the Felling.
“This isn’t about your husband. I’m certain he will be successful in his endeavor—no, this is about Barca.”
“The rebel?”
“He has changed course. He is not yet ready to strike at Solus, but he is strong enough to strike at a less formidable opponent.”
“Harkana?”
Dagrun nodded. “Are your men prepared?”
“Of course we’re prepared. From the moment he breached the Coronel, we guessed he might advance on the Hornring.” It was true, they had anticipated Barca’s actions, but she had not guessed that he would move with such swiftness.
She understood now why Dagrun had not summoned her to his chamber. This was a matter of state, about the safety of her kingdom. He had summoned her as a fellow monarch to discuss their common enemy. “Why haven’t my messengers reported this news?” she asked.
“Barca is using an army of outlanders to attack from the north while his troops approach from the south. The outlanders may have captured your messengers.”
“Are the roads blocked?” she asked, her voice raised just a little.
“No, the ways are clear, but they are dangerous,” he said quietly.
“I must go then,” she said, knowing she had no other choice. Harkana was without its ruler. “I must leave immediately, and arrive in Harwen before Barca. I cannot be trapped on the wrong side of his lines.”
“Of course.”
Her thoughts were spinning. “Harkana will take the rebel with ease. He will find our troops are not as soft as the Protector’s guard. Even now I’ll wager that our troops are testing him.”
“I have no doubt,” he said. “But must you go so soon?” he asked, his voice lower, and he moved closer to her, whispering in her ear. “Can it not wait until tomorrow? Perhaps, after tonight.”
After tonight and the promises they had made each other would bear fruit.
She had waited for this, had wanted this ever since they had met a year ago. Why had he not come to her earlier? It was two whole days after the wedding. Why had he not sought her out before now? He had wasted time and now she was out of it.