The Sin Eater's Daughter Read online

I look at her as I bow, and that’s when I see the prince.

  He is leaning toward me, his head tilted as if he is seeing me for the first time. His formerly inscrutable face is alive as he stares and my legs start to weaken, as though he were taking my strength to fuel the tempest in his eyes. Earlier I craved his attention; now I have it and it’s paralyzing me.

  My cheeks burn as I walk back to my seat, and I can feel his gaze follow me along the length of the table. No one else would dare to look too long at me in case the queen decides their glance offends her. But the prince does not have to fear losing his life. He is the only person in the world the queen would not cut down to have her way, and he must know it.

  Dessert is served, but I can’t stomach the rose pudding before me. The petals atop it are red and I move the pudding to cover them. The mood is somber now; the feast has the feeling of an Eating, as though we must all consume Lord Bennel’s sins and hope our actions are enough to appease the queen.

  When I put my spoon down, the prince is still staring at me and I get the impression he hasn’t looked away from me once since I sang. Worse, the queen is staring at him as he does, her mouth pinched and sullen, her fingers worrying at the medallion around her neck. The sun vanishes behind a cloud; the bright greens of the forest mute to gray. When the queen stands we all rise with her.

  “Ready the horses,” she commands. “We shall return now.”

  Within moments we are changing our slippers for our boots; the horses are led around so swiftly the grooms must have anticipated a hasty departure. We mount in silence and begin the procession back. I am grateful that I am behind the royal family, grateful I don’t have to worry about them watching me as I ride, and I twine my fingers into my horse’s hair, pressing against her and eking out the contact for as long as I can.

  The queen and the royal party ride at speed for much of the journey, though I don’t know how she manages it seated sidesaddle, and I’m thankful that she doesn’t demand I try to keep up with her. By the time I arrive back in the courtyard, bringing my mare to a halt amid the sweat-sheened flanks of the other horses, the queen has dismounted and is cutting a sharp path up the steps and into the castle, her husband and son jumping down from their own mounts and traveling in her wake.

  At the last moment, before he crosses the threshold, the prince turns back and looks at me. Again his gaze holds me to the spot. For three suddenly violent heartbeats, we stare at each other and then he turns into the castle, leaving me trembling inside.

  Dorin approaches to escort me, a man I don’t know at his side. I pull myself together, my fingernails making crescents in the palms of my hands where my fists clench tightly.

  “Good day, my lady.” Dorin bows. “May I introduce Lief, who joins your private guard from today?”

  I glance briefly at the new guard. “Good day, Lief.”

  “My lady,” he says. His voice is melodic and deep; there is something foreign about it, a slight upturn in tone at the end of his words that makes me look more closely at him. His eyes are green, darker green than my own, his light brown hair pulled back tightly in a ribbon against the trend of his peers; if loosened it would touch his shoulders. He doesn’t look much older than me. I’m filled with the urge to tell him to leave, now, while he has the chance, but instead I nod at him and then turn to Dorin.

  Dorin is staring past me and I turn to see what he’s looking at. Lord Bennel’s horse has been led in, riderless, and Dorin turns to me, his mouth tight.

  “To the temple, my lady?” he says, brushing away a bee that is buzzing around our heads.

  I nod. “Yes. May I have a moment alone with you first?”

  “Wait over there,” he tells the new guard, who bows and then smiles widely at me, a flash of pink tongue just visible, resting impishly between his teeth. It’s both disarming and infectious, and I find myself smiling back before Dorin clears his throat and Lief leaves us.

  When I am sure he is out of earshot, I turn to my oldest companion. “He’s not Lormerian,” I say in a low voice.

  Dorin shakes his head, looking at me with something similar to paternal pride. “Well discerned, my lady. He is Tregellian.”

  “The queen hired a Tregellian? To guard me?” I don’t even try to keep the shock from my voice. Although Lormere won the war and is now at peace with Tregellan, the queen is known for her dislike of its people and I’ve heard her call them lazy, sly, and feeble.

  “She has. He’s—” He slaps the bee away again, and then it dives at him. He yelps as it stings him on the forearm, and bites his lip to stop himself from cursing.

  “Are you well?” I ask.

  He shrugs, peering at the wound. “Don’t worry, my lady.”

  “Is the sting out? You must get it out, and swiftly.”

  He examines the wound, the skin ringed red around the puncture, then tweezes the sting out with his fingernails, dropping it to the floor in disgust.

  “You should get a poultice,” I tell him.

  “It will be fine, my lady. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

  I’m about to protest when he continues speaking. “As I was saying, he’s good,” he says with stern deliberation. “Despite his origins. He bested all of her own guards and”—he pauses—“and me, my lady. He’s swift. And he claims to have no love for Tregellan. The queen says he’s able to protect you and that she’ll sleep better knowing that, Tregellian or not.”

  “I sleep well with you on my door,” I say huffily, and he smiles swiftly before assuming his standard professional frown.

  “Thank you, my lady.” He bows, absently rubbing at his arm. “Come, Lief,” he calls, and Lief trots over like an eager puppy. It makes me sad, because he reminds me of myself when I first came here.

  Once in my temple I close the doors, but instead of kneeling before the altar I pace the room back and forth, fueled by anxiety. Lord Bennel, foolish Lord Bennel, why would he allow himself to get so drunk? Why couldn’t he stay silent? What was he thinking, to make such a mistake when the queen was already riled from his stupid questions about fairy tales? And the prince, why does he notice me now? Why does he stare at me?

  As the shadows move across the walls I light the incense and kneel before the altar to ask for Næht and Dæg’s aid, to help me see what this means.

  I don’t mean to be ungrateful, I tell them. I truly don’t. I know they have blessed me. And haven’t they only given me what I wanted? I wanted to come here and here I am. I wanted to marry well and I’m going to marry a prince. They have granted my prayers and now I’m living the life of my dreams. I am lucky. I am privileged.

  I’m a tool, a knife.

  I look up at the Gods’ totem, the vast metallic sculpture showing the sun eclipsing the moon, or the moon eclipsing the sun, depending on the light in the room. For half of the day the gold is cowing the silver, but as the light changes the silver takes over the gold.

  “Will I help the villagers?” I had asked the queen when I’d first been anointed. I had visions of standing on a podium, singing in front of the realm, flowers thrown at my feet as I blessed the crowd, my sister gazing up at me with proud, shining eyes. “Will I visit them and sing for them?”

  “Why would you do that?” the queen asked.

  “So they know they are blessed.”

  “Twylla, as you are Daunen Embodied, so the king and I are the worldly representatives of Næht and Dæg. That is how the villagers know they are blessed, because we exist. Yours is a gift meant only for a chosen few to appreciate, because only a chosen few can understand it. Besides”—she paused, looking at me with pity—“we have to protect you. They will resent your good fortune, they will resent the fact that you’ve been chosen by the Gods to represent Daunen and to become our daughter one day. Better that you stay in the castle, where your guards and I can protect you from them.”

  * * *

  Time passes and I rise, stiff-kneed from praying for so long. I light the candles, pacing now to keep warm as the light
fades. It’s colder in here than in the main castle, and the walls are whitewashed and clean. There are benches around the edges for people to sit on, though no one ever comes here but me. The walls are adorned with screens; though I’m a terrible seamstress, every now and then I try, and so there are numerous scenes of suns and moons mounted on the painted stone. I’d like to stitch flowers, wildflowers, but the queen wouldn’t approve. She might accept it if I embroidered cultivated, expensive blooms, but I’ve never found those as lovely as the flowers that grew near my old home, and she won’t tolerate those.

  Two years past we were riding out on a picnic as part of the prince’s seventeenth harvest celebrations, the last time I saw him before he left for his pilgrimage. It was a beautiful day in late spring, warm enough for us to leave our heavy cloaks behind and wear our light summer raiment. As we rode through the kitchen gardens we were suddenly caught in a wall of white fuzz: dandelion clocks, thousands of them, dislodged by the steps of the horses and swirling around us. It was like magic, like snow falling when snow shouldn’t fall, a storm in the sunshine, and I laughed aloud for what felt like the first time in forever. To feel the softness of them against my face, to see nothing but white before and all around me. As the haze cleared I saw the prince’s face, glowing and upturned toward the sun. For a moment he caught my eye and we smiled at each other, happy to have been in such a place, to have seen such a thing.

  Later, each gardener lost the index finger from his dominant hand for allowing dandelions to grow in the kitchen gardens unchecked and in such high numbers; the cook lost both her little toes for suggesting the queen might eat the leaves and roots of weeds in her salad, or drink them in tea. The queen had wanted her thumbs, but that would have left the cook unable to do her job. The queen called it mercy. Again.

  * * *

  Outside the temple I can hear murmuring through the open door as Dorin drills the new guard in his role.

  “Who is my lady?”

  “She is Daunen Embodied, embodiment of the daughter of the Gods.”

  “When is the Telling?” Dorin coughs wetly.

  “Are you well?”

  “Answer the question, Lief. When is the Telling?”

  “On the last day of the waning moon,” Lief replies.

  “What is the Telling?”

  “An ancient ceremony to prove my lady’s willingness to work for the Gods and that she is their chosen vessel. My lady gives a drop of blood to mix with the Morningsbane, and then drinks the mixture as an act of faith to assure she has the Gods’ favor.”

  “When may you touch my lady?”

  “Never. It would kill me if I did.”

  “Who is permitted to touch my lady?”

  “The queen, the king, the prince, by divine right.”

  “And who else?”

  “No one. Only the anointed can receive my lady’s touch without death coming for them.”

  “Good enough, for now,” Dorin says grudgingly.

  I smile, and then wrinkle my nose. The smoke from the incense snakes around me and it reeks of jasmine. I tip the incense out of the brazier, crushing it under my foot. Someone must have sent the wrong kind; I have frangipani in here, not jasmine, never jasmine.

  “Twylla.”

  I turn sharply, stunned to find the prince on the threshold of my temple, watching as I viciously stamp on the incense. I dip into a bow, feeling light-headed as he enters and walks toward me.

  “Do I disturb you?”

  At first I’m too shocked that he is in my temple, speaking to me, to respond immediately. “No, Your Highness. Not at all,” I manage after a moment.

  “I haven’t interrupted your prayers, then?”

  “No, Your Highness. I wasn’t praying, as such. I was …” I trail off limply.

  He nods, his lips suggesting a suppressed smirk, before he peers around the room. “Did you do all of those?” He nods at the screens.

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Do you not tire of always creating the same images?”

  I look from him to the screens and he watches me, his dark eyes shrewd. Before I can decide how to reply, he speaks again.

  “I enjoyed your performance today.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  “I also wanted to say that I appreciated the … theatrics.” He emphasizes the last word and my chest tightens. “Though it didn’t end in the way I’d hoped, it was still heartening to see some things have changed since I’ve been gone. There aren’t many here brave enough to be theatrical if the occasion calls for it. I’m glad you’re one of the few.”

  Again I’m lost for words. He says theatrics, the same word the queen threw at me, but he says it approvingly. Why? He made no move to save Lord Bennel, so why would he be pleased that I’d tried? When I look at him his eyebrows are raised as he waits for a response, but I have no idea what to say that isn’t treasonous or accusatory.

  “When will you sing again?” he says at last.

  “Tomorrow, Your Highness. It is my monthly audience with the king.”

  “And when after that?”

  “When I’m told to, Your Highness,” I say, realizing too late how churlish I sound. Before I can add something more courtly, he speaks again.

  “So Daunen Embodied sings only as the king wills it?”

  I don’t understand. “I sing at the king’s and queen’s pleasure.”

  He nods, then looks at the walls again and frowns. “You should stitch flowers. I’ve always liked dandelions,” he says, stunning me again, before he turns briskly and strides away. I don’t have time to bow to him before he leaves the temple.

  I stare after him, openmouthed. He sought me out. He came to my temple. But why? Because of Lord Bennel? And telling me to stitch dandelions. Does he remember? I look at the totem, hoping vainly to find my answer, but there is none.

  Discontent and confused, I sit on one of the benches, trying to put my thoughts into some kind of order. When I see night has fallen, I give up, offering a swift murmur of thanks to the Gods before I summon my guards and return to my tower.

  The moment I cross the threshold I know I’ll find no sanctuary there, either.

  * * *

  I pause in the doorway and gasp, a brief start, but enough for Dorin to notice.

  “Step aside, my lady. Lief, secure the tower door.”

  Lief heads down the stairs and Dorin draws his blade and circuits the room, glancing behind the long golden curtains and under the bed, checking behind the screen of my bathing area and in my privy. My tiny wardrobe contains no threat. He can find no sign of what may have disturbed me.

  That’s because the intruder is long gone, having left their calling card on my bureau.

  Dorin raises his eyebrows as I re-enter, a calm smile on my lips.

  “Forgive me, I thought … I believed I saw a shadow at the window … Perhaps a bird? An owl?” I say.

  He isn’t fooled and his expression is thoughtful as he moves to examine the glass. My solar takes up the second and topmost floor in a small tower in the west wing. It is mine alone and there is no possibility someone could climb to my room; the walls are bare and slippery outside.

  “My lady”—Dorin looks from the window to me, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead—“are you well?”

  I nod my head, smiling as much as I’m able, and a shadow passes over his face. He knows I’m lying, but he’d never press for the truth, and so he nods in return.

  “I’ll be outside, my lady. Should you need anything. At all.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  I wait for five heartbeats after the door has closed before I cross to the desk, lifting the folder and opening it, my pulse racing. There’s no note included, nothing to indicate who my mysterious benefactor is. But I know.

  “You should stitch flowers,” he’d said.

  The folder is full of pictures of flowers, his mother’s favored blooms: roses, poppies, irises, all those that grow in the manicur
ed gardens of the castle. But there at the back is one small, faint sketch of dandelion clocks, on a scrap of paper no bigger than the palm of my hand. I study it, smoothing the creases from the paper. It looks as though it’s been folded and unfolded many, many times. I didn’t know he could draw this well. But then I don’t know much about my future husband at all. I wonder if it is an order, or a test, and I don’t know what I am to do.

  I take the sketches and lay them on my bed, marveling at the detail. Does he mean for me to keep them, or are they a loan? I take them back to the desk, placing thin parchment over them and begin to trace them as best I can, taking extra care over the dandelion one. I will leave the folder on the bureau. He can collect it when he wants to.

  * * *

  Later that night, after I’ve dined, I pull out my silks and begin to sort them. I’ll use pink for the roses, soft pink, the color of my sister’s fingernails when she was a day old. Rich indigo for the iris. A muted red for the poppies, not bloodred, not terror-red. And white, snow white for the dandelion clocks. White so pale you’d have to hold it up to the sun or candlelight to see the flowers.

  I lay the colors out, side by side, stroking them. I will make a screen of these flowers as if they had grown together in the wild, all entwined and unfettered, climbing together as their kind are rarely allowed to. And in between each stem I’ll hide a dandelion clock. The queen would hate it and though I know she’ll never see it, the thought pleases me. By some miracle that night I sleep well, dreaming of flowers and dark eyes.

  * * *

  The following morning I ready myself for my visit to the king. The Telling happens on the last day of the waning moon, a time of natural endings and death. The day after it, the first of the new moon, the queen takes her closest courtiers on a brief pilgrimage to the sacred pool at the base of the East Mountains, where she spends the whole day, sunrise to sunset. The water pipes up hot from under the mountains into a mere, the same mere Lormere is named for, and it’s reputed to help a woman make a child, though it’s never spoken of so bluntly. The new moon is a time for new life. New beginnings.