Supplicant
“You’re going to be executed; you know that, don’t you?” Having said this, Simon lay back on Oliver’s bed and watched him pack, not appearing all that concerned.
“Well, I have robbed a great many coaches,” Oliver said philosophically. “I suppose that it’s only fair that I pay the price for that. Since I cannot give back the money now.”
“And Mother approves of this scheme?”
“I am the earl, and the head of this household,” Oliver said, all attempt at humor gone.
Oliver was the earl. It was time that he started acting like one.
He finished packing. He didn’t own that much: a few changes of clothing, including a suit that had been his father’s and that his mother had tailored to fit him. He would save that for his audience with the king, of course. He had some books and a few other effects, but there was no sense in taking them. Simon could have them if Oliver didn’t return.
“Karl says you’re doing this for the princess,” Simon said.
“I’m doing this for a lot of reasons,” Oliver said. “And that’s really all I’ll say about it right now, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine,” Simon retorted, and he rolled off Oliver’s bed.
He grabbed his crutches and hobbled out the door in as high a dudgeon as he could manage. Oliver watched without saying a word. He knew that his brother was worried and didn’t know how to express it. Oliver also suspected that Lady Emily had sent Simon to see how firmly Oliver was resolved to going to Bruch.
The answer was that Oliver had never been so committed to anything in his life. He had sat for an entire day and night in his room, thinking, and could not see any other path to take. It was partly to do with Petunia, it was true, but Petunia was merely the final straw, if anything. He wanted to tell King Gregor about the shadow creatures in the garden that night at the manor because he did not know who else could help her.
But in wondering how to help Petunia, Oliver had come to the realization that he could not be the one to help her because he could not even help himself. He was trapped. He could not continue thieving to support his people; he would be killed eventually, either by Prince Grigori or some traveler’s guard. But beyond that, he and Simon would never be able to marry, would never be able to further their educations or travel, but would spend their lives doling out stolen gold to their people, who dwindled with every season.
The older folk, who followed Oliver for his father’s sake, were dying off. And the young people were slipping away to find better lives. Oliver wished them nothing but luck, yet others spoke of them as traitors. So far as they could tell, no one had ever revealed a thing about the old hall or Oliver, though. Oliver used to entertain dreams of going too. Sneaking off in the night, making his way to Bruch or the Analousian capital of Amide, and finding work as … And here his imagination would fail him. Oliver knew how to do only one thing: rob coaches.
It had to stop. He was going to beg an audience with King Gregor, confess all, and seek help for his people as well as for Petunia. He was certain that he would not escape life in prison, that is, if the king didn’t order him executed. But he hoped that by turning himself in, his men might earn clemency, though he had warned them to prepare to flee with their families, just in case. And he hoped that by going directly to the king and confessing his connection to Petunia, strange as it was, the king would see immediately to his youngest daughter’s protection.
But Oliver was not planning on returning from this trip.
Karl appeared in the doorway of Oliver’s room and found the young earl slumped on the bed. His bag was beside him, and the sun was already rising. Oliver had meant to start an hour earlier. And, he thought, eyeing the pack on Karl’s back, alone.
“Where are you going? Taking your family away?” Oliver said halfheartedly. Karl’s wolf mask was hanging from its strap at his shoulder.
Knowing that it was useless to argue, and that Karl would only grunt in reply anyway, Oliver took up his bag and followed the big man downstairs. Outside the hall he found the rest of his Wolves waiting, all with packs, cloaks, and masks.
“You do understand that I’m going to give myself up?” Oliver looked each man carefully in the eyes. None of them seemed any more nervous than they did before a raid, which was either great folly or great courage on their part. He hoped for the latter.
“We’re just as guilty. More so, since we’re older and should know better,” said Johan, a grizzled man who had been Oliver’s father’s captain of arms.
“I was hoping that if I turned myself in, I could plead for mercy for the rest of you,” Oliver said.
“Lad, it’s foolish to assume that the king will punish you and not us,” Johan said. “Better if we all go. Besides which, it’s a two-day walk, and you’ve no food in that little bundle.” He shrugged the straps of his own pack, which was twice the size of Oliver’s and had a large cast-iron frying pan tied to one side.
He knew if he ordered them to stay, they would just disobey.
“It would be nice to have a decent meal or two before I turn myself over to Gregor,” Oliver admitted.
His mother was waiting at the outer gate. She kissed his cheek, her eyes bright but her face resolute and calm. He took her hands and squeezed them.
“I shall do my best,” he said to her.
“You always have,” she replied. She kissed his cheek again. “One piece of advice, my son. If you fail to get an audience, try to go into the gardens.”
“Queen Maude’s gardens?” He gave her a surprised look.
“Yes. There’s a man who works there, an old man, named Walter Vogel. Tell him what’s happening to the princess.”
“How could he … ? Why?”
“If you cannot find him, simply asking after him should direct you to someone who can help.”
“Very well,” Oliver promised, though he was still confused.
His confusion took his mind off what he would face in Bruch, though. While his mother and his people watched, Oliver led his men into the forest.
They were in Bruch and standing at the gates of the palace. The guards were watching them curiously, and Oliver knew that it was time. Their masks were hidden in their packs, they had stopped at a bathhouse to wash and put on their best suits, and Oliver had run out of excuses. He thought of Petunia, whom he had left three days before in that house with those creatures haunting her.
He gave one of the guards a cold look, pretending that he had not been gawping at the palace for the past few minutes.
“We wish to see King Gregor,” Oliver said.
“Do you have an invitation?” The guard on the left looked past Oliver as though he already knew the answer.
“We … do not have an invitation,” Oliver said, doing his best not to sound sheepish. “But we will wait until the king can see us.”
“You might be waiting a long time,” said the guard. His face softened a little. “Send a servant with a letter stating your business. The king’s secretary will arrange an audience.”
“How long with that take?” Oliver felt like his heart was in his shoes. His people could wait, but he had a feeling that Petunia could not.
“No more than a month,” said the guard.
“A month?” Oliver gaped at the guard.
What if he had urgent news for the king? No wonder Oliver’s mother had given up trying to get an audience all those years ago. Save for the upcoming double wedding of two of Petunia’s sisters, all was relatively quiet in Westfalin … and it might still take a month to speak to the king!
“I don’t think you understand, we have very important—” Oliver began.
There was a clatter of hooves on the cobbles of the square, and the guard’s face became stern. He put out an arm as though to brush Oliver aside.
“Make way,” the man said in a strident voice. “Make way!”
Oliver looked around and then hurried to step aside. Four horses with elegantly dressed riders—two young women and two young men—were coming toward them. The couple in front were laughing, and Oliver could see that they were at ease in the saddle. Behind them, the other couple’s horses were considerably slower and older, something that their riders appeared grateful for.
“You see,” the young man at the front was saying to his companion, “she’s got a perfect gait, even here in the city.”
“I suppose,” said the young woman, looking lofty. “If I cannot have a cavalry horse, this mare is quite fine.”
The young woman behind her started to shrill something about cavalry horses being unsuitable and dangerous, but Oliver had stopped paying attention. He was trying to get the attention of the young woman in front, bowing to her and trying to make his expression pleading.
He was sure that the young women were two of Petunia’s sisters. They were enough like her to give him a little pang, particularly the one in front. She wore a plum-colored riding habit with a daring little hat pinned atop her black hair.
“Your Highness, I’m here on a very important matter,” Oliver blurted out.
“Don’t bother the princesses,” the guard snapped, stepping forward to take hold of Oliver’s arm. Behind him, Oliver heard Karl and one of the others moving closer.
“What’s the matter?”
The princess in the plum-colored gown had reined in her horse and was looking at him curiously. The other riders all reined in as well, and the young man at the front moved his horse around so that he was closer to Oliver, looking wary. The other princess, in blue, leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Poppy, don’t!”
“I need to speak with your father, Your Highness,” Oliver said. “It’s very urgent. It concerns Princess Petunia.”
Poppy’s black brows shot toward her rakish hat.
“You’d better come with us, then,” she said.
She signaled to the guards, who hurried to open the gates. Oliver and his men followed the four horses into the courtyard. The riders gave their mounts to the grooms, and then Poppy took the arm of her betrothed, a tall, blond young man who Oliver vaguely thought might be Norsker or possibly a Dane. A prince, either way, Oliver thought with a little bitterness. Not just a mere earl.
The other sister must be her twin, Daisy, he decided. She had slightly lighter hair and eyes, but their faces were very much alike (save for her suspicious expression), and her partner was a young man with black hair and swarthy skin. The heir to some southern principality, Oliver remembered. Venenzia? That seemed right. Even in the forest, they were able to glean a little royal gossip.
Poppy sashayed into the palace without looking back, taking off her gloves as she went. In the front hall, she asked the butler if her father was still in the council room, leading them all up a broad oak staircase without waiting for a reply.
“Your Highness,” the butler called out weakly. “His Majesty is with his ministers of state.”
“This young man has news of Petunia; they will surely want to hear it,” Poppy said airily.
But at the gallery at the top of the stairs, she turned to Oliver.
“Will they?” Her dark brows were drawn level, and her look could have skewered a braver man than Oliver.
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “It may be a … matter for the family only.”
“We shall see what Father thinks,” she said, continuing up the stairs. “He becomes irate when he is left out of things.” Then she stopped again. “Is Petunia all right?”
“I hope so,” he replied.
She nodded as though that were the correct answer, and led them all to a broad wooden door at the end of the gallery. She knocked twice but then swung open the door without waiting, sailing into a room that contained a long table, several tall chairs, some very startled gentlemen, and the king.
“Poppy!” The king’s face turned red in an instant, and he rose to his feet. “Who are these people?”
“I’m terribly sorry, Papa,” Poppy said, not sounding even slightly remorseful. “But this young man has an urgent message concerning Petunia.”
Oliver bowed to the king. Then he waited. He wasn’t sure what to do. He was fairly certain that he wasn’t supposed to speak first, but the king didn’t say anything. He was also afraid to rise without permission.
“Well?” The king’s roar made Oliver jerk upright out of his bow. “What is this message?”
“I— It’s— I—”
“Spit it out, boy!”
“You see, sire, my name is Oliver, and I—”
“Am I supposed to know you? What are you yammering about?”
“I abducted Princess Petunia last week. I didn’t harm her; I delivered her to the Grand Duchess Volenskaya, but now she is in terrible danger,” he said.