Chapter Four: A Cage of Velvet and Ice
The seaside villa, they said, was for Selena's absolute rest. Correspondence, they claimed, would only agitate her fragile nerves. For three months, Ariyana received no letter, heard no word. The excuses were delivered with Queen Clara's perfect, sympathetic smiles.
"The ravens are so unreliable in winter, my dear."
"The physician insists on complete isolation.For her own good."
"We must be patient,child. Grief has its own season."
Ariyana learned the shape of her cage. It was not the dungeons; it was the opulent, lonely periphery of palace life. She was given a small, pretty room in the East Wing, as the King had ordered, but it was far from the royal family's chambers. A silent, elderly maid named Hilda attended her—a woman with kind eyes but a mouth sealed by fear.
Her education, the King had decreed, was to continue. Queen Clara arranged it. A droning, myopic tutor arrived for two hours each day to teach her history—specifically, the glorious, unwavering history of Valerius and the Magnus line. Lessons in music were with a sharp-tempered mistress who sighed at Ariyana's capable but unremarkable fingers on the harp. There were no more lessons in botany, in astronomy, in the languages of far-off continents she had studied with her mother. Those books were "lost in the move."
Queen Clara's cruelty was a subtle, chilling art. It was never a blow, always a deprivation. It was the "gift" of a beautiful, flimsy dress for a winter banquet, while Lily wore velvet and furs. It was the suggestion, kindly made, that Ariyana might prefer to take her meals in her room, as large gatherings could be overwhelming for a child of her… background. It was the constant, gentle repositioning of her from the King's sight at court functions, a guiding hand on her shoulder steering her into shadows.
King Alden, when she did see him, was a distant, storm-clouded figure. He would nod to her, his eyes softening with a pained recognition. "Are you well, child?" he would ask, his voice gruff. Before she could form any answer beyond a curtsy and a "Yes, Your Majesty," he would be drawn away—by a minister, a general, or the graceful, insistent touch of Queen Clara on his arm. "My lord, the envoy from Korburg awaits…" He knew them, Ariyana thought. He knew his wife and her children were capable of ice. But he was a king drowning in a realm, and a promise to a dead friend was a stone in his pocket, not a compass for his daily rule. His guilt was present, but it was not protection.
The mockery from Lily and Cassian was less refined, a sport to break the monotony of palace life.
Lily's was a sharp, needling variety. "Does the little ward require another cushion?" she'd ask in a syrupy voice as Ariyana struggled to sit properly in a heavy court gown. "Our furniture must seem so very hard compared to what you're used to." She would "accidentally" spill a tiny drop of ink on Ariyana's parchment, clucking in false sympathy. "Oh, clumsy me! Now your lines are all spoiled. But I suppose it's no matter; it's not as if you'll need fine penmanship."
Cassian, at sixteen, was cruder. He would mimic a knight's death throes when she walked by, eliciting giggles from his sister and their circle. He'd "forget" her name, calling her "the Foundling" or "Aric's Afterthought" just loud enough for her to hear. His favorite game was to send her on futile errands. "The Queen requires a spool of golden thread from the north turret, immediately," he would command, knowing the north turret was a dusty, abandoned place a half-mile's walk through cold, servant-only corridors. She would go, every time. To refuse was to invite greater attention.
Through it all, there was Theodore. The youngest prince was a steady, quiet flame in the gloom. He was eleven, all earnest eyes and unruly brown hair. He did not have his siblings' cruel brilliance or Edwin's intimidating sharpness. He had kindness, and he spent it on her freely, despite the disapproving looks from his mother.
He would slip into the solar during her tedious lessons and leave a perfect, glossy chestnut on the corner of her desk—a treasure from the stables. He taught her the secret, winding way to the palace kitchens, where a sympathetic cook might give them warm honey-cakes. When Cassian's taunts grew too loud, Theodore would sometimes, with a surprising firmness for his age, say, "Leave her be, Cass. It's not clever."
One bitter afternoon, bundled in a cloak too thin for the weather, Ariyana was shivering in the walled herb garden, trying to remember the medicinal properties of sage from her mother's lessons. Lily and Cassian found her.
"Talking to the weeds, Foundling?" Cassian sneered. "Do they answer back in your peasant tongue?"
"Perhaps she's looking for her future," Lily laughed, adjusting her fur muff. "A nice, sturdy gardener to marry. It would be a step up from charity."
Ariyana kept her back to them, her small hands clenched in the frozen dirt.
"She's ignoring us. How rude," Cassian said. He scooped up a handful of slushy, half-melted snow from a shaded corner. "Needs to learn respect."
Just as he drew his arm back, a voice cut through the cold air.
"What are you doing?"
Prince Edwin stood at the garden arch. He was not wearing a cloak, just his dark tunic, seeming impervious to the cold. His gaze moved from his siblings to Ariyana's stiff, small back.
Cassian lowered his hand, the snow dripping. "Just having fun, brother."
"Your fun is juvenile and tiresome,"Edwin said, his voice devoid of anger, only cold assessment. "Father is looking for you. Both of you. Something about your atrocious geography scores."
Grumbling, the two left, shooting venomous looks at Ariyana as they passed Edwin.
He did not approach her. He remained at the arch, a silent, dark sentinel. Ariyana finally turned, her face pale, her eyes dry but blazing with a humiliation she refused to let them see.
Edwin studied her for a long moment—the mud on her dress, the defiant set of her jaw, the vulnerability she couldn't fully hide. He had seen the mockery, heard the whispers. He had done nothing. He had told her kindness was a mistake.
"Theodore looks for you," he said finally, the words crisp in the frozen air. "He has a new book on star charts. He thinks you'll find it of interest." A pause. "It is in the library. The real library. Third aisle. Don't let the librarian send you to the children's folios."
Then he turned and left, leaving her as abruptly as he had appeared. It wasn't protection. It wasn't kindness. It was, perhaps, a simple, stark transaction: a piece of useful information, given because her father had been a true knight. A reminder that knowledge was the only currency that mattered in their gilded prison.
That night, Ariyana crept to the real library. She found the star chart book. Tucked inside its front cover was a single, perfect chestnut, and a note in Theodore's messy script: For your collection. - T.
She clutched the nut, its shell hard and real in her palm. She looked at the endless shelves of books, a fortress of knowledge. She thought of Edwin's cold, unhelpful help, of the King's absent guilt, of the Queen's smiling malice.
She was eight, and she was learning. The cage had many bars: some of velvet, some of ice, some of whispered poison. But she was not just a bird inside it. She was a student of its architecture. And one day, she vowed silently to the stars on the chart before her, she would learn how to pick its lock.