The countess was attempting to concentrate on sorting her correspondence, but her gaze often left the letters and reports to fix upon Sophia, admiring her delicate beauty and wondering irritably, not for the first time, how the queen could ever refer to her daughter as “homely and plain.”
Sophia felt the countess’ eyes upon her and lifted her head to smile at her. Sophia’s face-minus the rouge, which she invariably rubbed off when she was out of her mother’s sight-was sweet and winsome and pale, too pale; the pallor of illness, not of fashion.
Sophia had long suffered from severe headaches. The headaches had been mild when she was young, but they were growing more frequent and more severe. The king had brought in physicians and healers from around the world to treat her. She had been examined by the best, but no one could find a cause for her ailment. Sophia did not have poor eyesight. Her vision was perfect. She had never suffered a head injury. She did not exhibit symptoms of a brain disease; no seizures, no bleeding from the nose or ears.
The physicians and healers had tried numerous remedies, everything from bleeding to leeches to potions that made her throw up. None helped. When the attacks came, her screams could be heard in distant halls and corridors. The pain was so bad the servants often had to lash her arms and feet to her bedposts to keep her from thrashing about and hurting herself.
Both parents suffered almost as much as Sophia; the king because he truly cared about his daughter and the queen because she did not know how she was ever going to find a husband for her afflicted child.
“I am glad you are feeling better today, Your Highness,” the countess said with her customary cool politeness, as she continued to glance through her correspondence. “I heard you were ill last night. Was the pain very bad this time?”
Sophia flushed, pleased that the countess was taking an interest in her. She spoke somberly, yet rapidly, as though glad to talk about it. “The pain was horrible. It felt like someone had stabbed a hot, burning knife into my skull. When it comes, I can’t think about anything except the pain and trying to make it stop. Mama wanted me to take that bitter medicine the latest physician gave me, but I hate the way it makes me feel, as though I’m wrapped in a thick woolly blanket, and, anyway, medicine doesn’t help. I know the pain is still there, beneath the blanket, and that makes it worse. I drank the medicine to please Mama, but I spit it out after she left the room.”
Sophia started to say something, then bit her lip and fell silent.
“Yes, Your Highness, what it is?” prompted the countess.
“The medicine makes me sleep, but it doesn’t stop the bad dreams. I think sometimes the dreams are worse than the pain.”
The countess stopped sorting to look with concern at her young friend.
“Was it the same dream, Your Highness?”
“Yes, my lady. I am in a cave lit by torches. The cave is cold. I can see my breath and I’m not wearing anything except my shift. Something is chasing me and I’m running away and the cold air makes my chest hurt. I stop because I can’t breathe and hide behind a boulder, but I keep hearing the booming footsteps coming after me. I can sense its hunger. It wants me. I start running again, and the footsteps keep coming: boom, boom, boom.”
Sophia’s voice dropped. “What is most horrible is that it knows my name. It calls out to me, and when it does, I wake up.”
Her brow furrowed. “Even when I’m awake, I can hear the footsteps sometimes: boom, boom, boom. I can even feel them coming up through the floor.”
The countess was troubled. Sophia had told her about the dream before. The dream was always the same, with little variation, as if the girl were describing something real, something that had actually happened to her. Cecile was wondering whether or not to mention this to the king, thinking it might be a new symptom, when her thoughts were interrupted by her servant, Maria, coming to whisper that Benoit was waiting in the wardrobe and that he appeared agitated.
The countess rose languidly with a rustle of silk, her skirts falling in graceful folds around her.
“I must leave you for a moment, Your Highness. While I am gone, I want you to locate Travia and Estara and the island of Braffa on your map.”
“I already know where they are, my lady,” said Sophia, shyly proud. She pointed out the two small continents on the map.
“Then be ready to discuss the deteriorating political situation between these two nations and how it relates to Braffa and to Rosia when I return,” said the countess.
“Yes, my lady,” said Sophia.
She picked up the spaniel and held him poised over the map.
“Now, Bandit, you must find Braffa…”
The countess, not expecting formal visitations, was dressed for comfort in a voluminous and exquisite white cambric chemise. Maria fetched a green moire dressing gown, which the countess put on over the chemise, then entered her wardrobe.
Benoit rose respectfully and made an attempt to bow, staggered, and nearly fell. The countess ordered Maria to fetch brandywine. Benoit drank it, and some color returned to his wrinkled cheeks.
“Please, sit down,” said the countess.
She herself remained standing, an indication that Benoit should not expect to linger.
“You’ve come about Stephano.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Benoit, seating himself.
“The last I heard my son and his ‘Cadre’ were planning to travel to Westfirth.”
“They are on their way there now, my lady,” said Benoit. “They were somewhat delayed.”
He went on to tell her about the challenge in the park, how Stephano and Rodrigo had gone to the duel, how both had been certain Rodrigo would be killed, but that Stephano had hoped to be able to find a way out of it and had ordered the Cloud Hopper to be ready to sail, how Benoit, fearing the worst, had gone to the houseboat to await the dire news.
“I do not know what happened at the duel, my lady,” said Benoit. “Master Stephano was not at leisure to tell me, what with the men shooting at us. Did I mention to your ladyship that I shot one of the assassins?”
“Twice,” said the countess coolly.
She listened with her usual calm languor, evincing no emotion. “My son was wounded, you said.”
“Yes, my lady. Shot in the shoulder,” said Benoit, adding with a certain pride, “He was shot up worse than that during the war. He’ll survive this one. The Trundler woman, Miri, is an herbalist like most of her kind. She will see to it that he pulls through.”
The countess did not evince much interest and shifted to another topic. “Tell me more about this man with the gun with the rifled bore.”
“Monsieur Rodrigo called him ‘Sir Richard Piefer.’ According to the master, he laid claim to be a Freyan nobleman. He spoke with a Freyan accent.”
“Can you describe this Piefer?”
“The master would be able to do so. I regret to say that I only saw him from a distance, my lady, and he was trying to kill me at the time.”
The countess’ lips twitched slightly. “Is that all you have to report, Benoit?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Do you know if Monsieur Rodrigo has been apprised of the death of his father?”
“Is his lordship dead, my lady?” Benoit asked, astonished.
“I fear so, Benoit. The ambassador was gunned down as he was leaving the office of the Estaran Minister of the Exchequer. The Estarans have arrested a Travian revolutionary, who happened-most conveniently-to be in the vicinity. His Majesty King Alaric has sent a strongly worded letter expressing his outrage at the death of his ambassador and demanding a full investigation.”
“I see,” said Benoit. The old man’s eyes moistened. “Monsieur Rodrigo will be most affected by this tragic news. I will write to him immediately.”
“You may also write to Monsieur Rodrigo that he should avoid returning home. He is wanted for the murder of young Valazquez. I was wondering what this ridiculous charge was all about. Now I know. The matter will be resolved, but the negotiations may take some time. I will send you word when it is safe for Monsieur Rodrigo to return.”
