Sorrow had had enough – enough of watching, enough of thinking. She beckoned Shenai back to her and took a glass of wine from the tray, draining it in one. She wiped her mouth savagely with her sleeve, and replaced the glass with force. Nodding at the bewildered servant girl, she left, stalking past the group who’d now moved to sit around a table as though in their own personal inn, and left them behind.
Adrenaline coursed through her and she picked up her pace, running through the palace, startling the guards on the doors, who were almost too slow to open them for her. When she arrived back at her rooms she dismissed Shevela, who’d been waiting for her, and threw herself down on to the bed. Sorrow grabbed one of the pillows and screamed into it, holding it against her face as she shrieked, over and over, wordless cries, until her throat and lungs burned. She threw the pillow down and lifted it again, punching and pummelling it; it was Balthasar, and Samad, and Kaspira, and Lincel. It was Vespus, and Harun, and Mael. It was even Rasmus, who’d left her, even though he’d had to.
When the pillow exploded suddenly, filling the air with feathers, Sorrow stopped. She collapsed on to her back and watched the white down fall around her, on her. She remembered Rasmus telling her about the weather in the northern mountains of Rhylla, and how his people would attach wooden slats to their feet and slide down its icy slopes for fun. She closed her eyes, and let the feathers blanket her like snow.
She woke to screaming.
She sat up immediately, sending the feathers flying, and was already on her feet when the door to her bedroom was thrown open. She braced to attack, relaxing only slightly when she saw Irris there.
Her friend stood, momentarily silenced by the feathers swirling around the room.
“What is it?” Sorrow gasped.
“Your father.” Irris stared at her, her eyes wide and frightened. “It’s your father, Sorrow. He’s dead.”
No Constant but Change
Harun had been found collapsed on his bedroom floor by his valet. On the dresser was a ragged pile of Lamentia, a used piece of card rolled into a tube beside it. It was obvious what had caused his death.
By the time Sorrow arrived, still dressed in the clothes she’d been wearing the day before, he’d been moved to his bed to give him a little dignity, his eyes closed, his hands resting on his sunken chest. The curtains had been drawn, and the lamps at the wall lit, and it was by this dim light, eerily reminiscent of his rooms at the Winter Palace, that Sorrow approached the bed to see her father.
He too was still wearing the outfit he’d worn to the impromptu party, and against his waxy skin the colours were hideous, the tunic marked with dark stains. Though someone had been thoughtful enough to clean his face, she could see dark flakes of blood by one nostril, and a smear of something white and crusted, making a trail from his eye. She turned away, remembering Alyssa.
She’d been in the room for a few seconds before others began to arrive in exactly the same manner she had, rushing to the room and halting on the threshold as though an invisible door stopped them, until their eyes found the corpse. Then they filed in, one by one, taking a spot around the bed. Samad, Kaspira, Bayrum, Balthasar: the entire Jedenvat came. They made space for Charon’s chair when he arrived, but no one spoke, their heads bowed and hands clasped reflexively. The fact that no one was crying spoke volumes to Sorrow. The fact no one expected her to cry said the same thing.
She looked down at him, waiting to feel something – anything. Not grief, that would be asking too much. But some sadness, or at least pity? Even anger?
There was a trace, then, of regret. Not for him, but for who he could have been. Thanks to Charon, and her grandmother, she’d been parented. Loved, even. But Harun had given up eighteen years ago. He could have loved her. He could have chosen to live for her, and to build a better life for her. But he hadn’t. So it was relief that crawled through her. Never again would she have to wonder when, or if, this day would come. Never again would she look up at a knock at the door, and brace herself for this news.
How callous you are, she thought. Your only remaining parent dead, and you’re barely sorry.
He was a terrible parent, in fairness, Rasmus’s voice whispered in response. And if your roles here were reversed, he’d probably be doing a jig.
Then Mael arrived. His hair was wild around his head, as though he’d dragged his hands through it a hundred times. His eyes were wide, and when they found Harun he let out an anguished cry that pierced Sorrow. The Jedenvat fell back as he approached, and Sorrow saw Vespus appear in the doorway behind him, paler than usual.
“But he promised.” Mael’s voice cracked. “He promised he’d stop.”
He looked at Sorrow, as if asking her to confirm it.
Here was the grief that was missing from the room. In a boy who never knew the dead man.
Before she could stop him, Mael gathered Sorrow into his arms, crying softly on to her shoulder. She could feel tears soaking into her tunic, his body racked with sobs. She patted him awkwardly, feeling almost embarrassed at his outburst, as though she was intruding on the grief of a stranger.
Which he was, she reminded herself. No matter what Harun had believed, this boy was still a stranger to her.
Over his shoulder she met Charon’s eyes, surprised by the flat expression in them as they stared at Harun. They softened when they met hers, and he raised his brows as though asking if she needed help. She shook her head once, keeping a loose grip on the bereft boy in her arms.
Seemingly deciding the scene was too much, Bayrum bowed to Sorrow before leaving. The rest of the Jedenvat quickly followed, murmuring soft condolences as they went. Finally, when only Charon and Vespus remained, Mael released her, and Sorrow found herself taking a deep breath, drawing air into her lungs as though starved of it.
“I’m sorry,” Mael said immediately, like a child.
“I, too, am sorry for your loss,” Vespus said before Sorrow could reply. “For both of your losses.”
“I don’t understand.” Mael’s voice was raw. “He said he’d never do it again; he sent orders to Istevar saying every trace of it was to be removed from the palace. He signed papers that said taking it – even having it on you – would land you in prison. I saw it! I saw him sign and seal them.”
Mael pushed his hands through his hair again, and Charon shot Sorrow an urgent look she couldn’t read. To cover her confusion she pulled a stool out and sat next to the bed.
“That’s the nature of addiction,” Vespus said softly, sounding in that moment so much like his son that Sorrow shivered. “It makes you a liar. I’m sure in that moment Harun believed he could stop taking it. Then later, back here…”
They all fell silent, their eyes moving to the dead chancellor.
“I know this is a terrible shock,” Charon said, his voice kind but firm as he turned to Sorrow. “But I’m afraid we have some decisions to make.”
“Decisions?” Mael asked, his voice bewildered. “Oh, I suppose – the funeral.”