grizzled old lord struck in. ‘A whistling maid and a crowing hen … ’
‘Her Majesty is descended from royal blood on both sides,’ King Nila said in a cold voice. ‘I think ye will find she is well aware o’ the gravity o’ her position.’
The grizzled lord looked very doubtful, but no-one wanted to insult the King of the Fairgean, a race known for their pride and temper, and so both he and the MacSeinn murmured something appropriate as they lifted their cups and drank.
The great hall was a sea of black. Every man, woman and child from the most lowly to the grandest was dressed head to foot in the colour of mourning. Many of them, having no time for anything else, had been forced to throw their entire wardrobe into giant vats of black dye made from oak galls, alder, meadowsweet, or even crushed blackberries, anything the city dyers could find to render material black, even if only for a few days.
Black swags of material hung above the mantel-placeand down the grand staircase, and because the curtains were all drawn across the windows, the hall was dim and gloomy.
Bronwen stood by the foot of the staircase, greeting those who came in and accepting their commiserations. Beside her stood her mother, dressed in a low-necked gown of oyster grey. Her black hair was cut in a straight fringe above her eyebrows and then level with her ears so it swung forward onto her cheekbones in two smooth wings, emphasising her exotic angular features and doing nothing to hide the gills that fluttered slightly just below her ears. Her eyes were icy blue, and one thin cheek was scarred with a fine fretwork of white lines, starring out from a central point, like glass that had been broken by a bullet.
Maya’s grey dress gleamed amidst all the black with the sheen of mother-of-pearl. Bronwen would have much preferred it if her mother had bowed her head to the conventions and worn deepest, darkest black like everyone else, but if Maya had had her way, she would have been dressed in a gown of her favourite crimson red.
‘But red is the Fairgean colour o’ mourning,’ Maya had said earlier that morning, smiling, when Bronwen had exclaimed in absolute horror at the sight of her in a dress the colour of blood.
‘But it is the colour ye wore when ye were Banrìgh, more than any other colour,’ Bronwen said, pressing her hands together in distress. ‘Your soldiers wore red cloaks in your honour, and the Seekers o’ the Awl long red robes. It is the colour most associated with the Burning, and the years o’ terror.’
‘Was I no’ in mourning then?’ Maya said, anger sparking in her eyes. ‘Forced by my father to wed the king o’ our bitterest enemy, and woo him into evil and madness?Forced to murder thousands and thousands o’ people to serve my father’s lust for revenge?’
‘I thought ye wore it because it suited ye so well,’ Bronwen had said, trying for lightness.
Maya laughed, lifting her heavy red skirts and giving a small ironic curtsy. ‘Aye, and does it no’?’ she asked. ‘Yet that is no’ why I wore it, Bronwen. Red is the colour o’ Kani, goddess o’ volcanoes and earthquakes, fire and destruction. I was upon Kani’s work and so I chose to wear her colour.’
‘Yet ye are no’ upon Kani’s work now,’ Bronwen said.
‘Nay, but I shallna be a hypocrite and wear the black o’ human mourning for a man whose death I do no’ grieve for.’
‘Please, Mama,’ Bronwen asked. ‘Please. If black means naught to ye, it should no’ matter if ye wear it.’
‘I have worn the black o’ servants’ garb for twenty long years as punishment for my sins,’ Maya replied fiercely. ‘I will never wear it again.’
‘Then grey. Dark grey is perfectly respectable.’
‘I have no desire to be respectable.’
‘But, Mama, red … it will cause such talk, such a scandal. Please … ’
‘And who are ye to worry about causing a scandal?’ Maya scoffed. ‘I thought ye delighted in thumbing your
‘Her Majesty is descended from royal blood on both sides,’ King Nila said in a cold voice. ‘I think ye will find she is well aware o’ the gravity o’ her position.’
The grizzled lord looked very doubtful, but no-one wanted to insult the King of the Fairgean, a race known for their pride and temper, and so both he and the MacSeinn murmured something appropriate as they lifted their cups and drank.
The great hall was a sea of black. Every man, woman and child from the most lowly to the grandest was dressed head to foot in the colour of mourning. Many of them, having no time for anything else, had been forced to throw their entire wardrobe into giant vats of black dye made from oak galls, alder, meadowsweet, or even crushed blackberries, anything the city dyers could find to render material black, even if only for a few days.
Black swags of material hung above the mantel-placeand down the grand staircase, and because the curtains were all drawn across the windows, the hall was dim and gloomy.
Bronwen stood by the foot of the staircase, greeting those who came in and accepting their commiserations. Beside her stood her mother, dressed in a low-necked gown of oyster grey. Her black hair was cut in a straight fringe above her eyebrows and then level with her ears so it swung forward onto her cheekbones in two smooth wings, emphasising her exotic angular features and doing nothing to hide the gills that fluttered slightly just below her ears. Her eyes were icy blue, and one thin cheek was scarred with a fine fretwork of white lines, starring out from a central point, like glass that had been broken by a bullet.
Maya’s grey dress gleamed amidst all the black with the sheen of mother-of-pearl. Bronwen would have much preferred it if her mother had bowed her head to the conventions and worn deepest, darkest black like everyone else, but if Maya had had her way, she would have been dressed in a gown of her favourite crimson red.
‘But red is the Fairgean colour o’ mourning,’ Maya had said earlier that morning, smiling, when Bronwen had exclaimed in absolute horror at the sight of her in a dress the colour of blood.
‘But it is the colour ye wore when ye were Banrìgh, more than any other colour,’ Bronwen said, pressing her hands together in distress. ‘Your soldiers wore red cloaks in your honour, and the Seekers o’ the Awl long red robes. It is the colour most associated with the Burning, and the years o’ terror.’
‘Was I no’ in mourning then?’ Maya said, anger sparking in her eyes. ‘Forced by my father to wed the king o’ our bitterest enemy, and woo him into evil and madness?Forced to murder thousands and thousands o’ people to serve my father’s lust for revenge?’
‘I thought ye wore it because it suited ye so well,’ Bronwen had said, trying for lightness.
Maya laughed, lifting her heavy red skirts and giving a small ironic curtsy. ‘Aye, and does it no’?’ she asked. ‘Yet that is no’ why I wore it, Bronwen. Red is the colour o’ Kani, goddess o’ volcanoes and earthquakes, fire and destruction. I was upon Kani’s work and so I chose to wear her colour.’
‘Yet ye are no’ upon Kani’s work now,’ Bronwen said.
‘Nay, but I shallna be a hypocrite and wear the black o’ human mourning for a man whose death I do no’ grieve for.’
‘Please, Mama,’ Bronwen asked. ‘Please. If black means naught to ye, it should no’ matter if ye wear it.’
‘I have worn the black o’ servants’ garb for twenty long years as punishment for my sins,’ Maya replied fiercely. ‘I will never wear it again.’
‘Then grey. Dark grey is perfectly respectable.’
‘I have no desire to be respectable.’
‘But, Mama, red … it will cause such talk, such a scandal. Please … ’
‘And who are ye to worry about causing a scandal?’ Maya scoffed. ‘I thought ye delighted in thumbing your
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