by Callie Bates
I didn’t used to be like this, so emotional. Now it sometimes seems like I can’t hold back a single feeling. I need to be showing the guards my strength, and instead I feel so helpless.
The guards are staring, though most of them pretend not to. I wipe my face with the back of my wrist.
“We should all be mourning him,” I say, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “This is a failure of our kingdom. To kill the very people we’ve sworn to protect.”
There’s a silence around me, uncomfortable. Only the farmer takes off his hat and cradles it against his chest.
I grimace. If Elanna were here, if she said something like this, they might listen, but I know in my bones the only thing the Ereni guards are hearing is my Caerisian accent—and the only thing my Caerisian guards are hearing is my commitment to serve someone other than themselves. Many Ereni think letting more sorcerers into their kingdom is lunacy—they’re willing to accept the existence of Elanna, because she sort of belongs to them, but other magic workers? They don’t know them or trust them. The Caerisians, on the other hand, think we should shut down trade and seal the borders off with magic. Even if it were possible to do such a thing, we’d all be at one another’s throats in a matter of days.
And by now, some of them have probably figured out that El’s been captured.
“What if he was a bad sorcerer?” an Ereni guard whispers to his companion, just loud enough for me to hear.
I whirl on him. “No one deserves a death like this. No one.”
The man stares in surprise. Then his gaze narrows—into resentment.
I look around at the others, ignoring him. I meet all the eyes I can. Some flinch away; most stare back at me, by turns thoughtful, worried, and scared. “I will not tolerate this in Eren and Caeris. If anyone knows something about what happened here, or hears whispers about something that might happen elsewhere, you must tell us at once.” I turn to the farmer. “Rest assured, we will get to the bottom of this. I don’t want you or your neighbors to fear.”
I expect the man’s face to reflect his distrust of magic and all Caerisians. Instead he bows.
“If you can, milady, we’d be forever grateful.”
I don’t miss the warning, but even so, there’s a kindness in his face when he straightens. I want to take him back to Laon and sit down with him to tea and have him tell me all the things I could do better, to make all the Ereni look at me the way he does.
That would, however, be its own kind of inconsiderate, so I just say, “Master Farmer, if you ever come to Laon, find me. I would be curious to hear your thoughts on the future of our country.”
He leans back in surprise, then unexpectedly smiles. “Aye, I’ll do that, Your Majesty.”
“I hope you do.” I nod to him, and to the others say, “I want a thorough search performed. See if the culprits left any evidence. Write down the condition under which we found the body, and all evidence of this man’s identity. We’ll see if any of the other refugees in Laon know him, or of him. Master Farmer, I’m sorry to burden you with his burial.”
“I’ll see it done right,” the older man replies.
I reach across the stone wall and press his hand, and he looks at me with his faded eyes, deeply, as if he really sees me. I turn back to the coach, before the tears can start again.
CHAPTER FOUR
The man’s ruined face haunts me as we jolt toward Philippe’s family home. As the farmer said, it’s not much farther down the road, perhaps fifteen miles. I look at Philippe, but he won’t meet my eyes.
Thick rage is building in my throat. I want to shake him; I want to shout at him and demand he confess what he knows.
But I know that’s not the way to pull the truth from someone.
Besides, Rhia seems tired and confused. She didn’t even get out of the coach when we stopped, and seemed not to fully understand the explanation we gave about the murdered sorcerer. She’s dozing now. The last thing she needs is a shouting match.
So I chew on my lip and bide my time. Soon enough we pull up the long drive to the Manceau country house. It’s just as grand as I imagined, stately and made of the same honey-colored brick as the village we just left. Carven lions flank the doors, and three stories of black windows stare us down. I glare back. I’m in no mood to be intimidated by Philippe’s family wealth.
I help Rhia from the coach. Philippe tries to assist, but even groggy and exhausted, Rhia glares at him. Still, she leans on my arm, which tells me all I need to know about her state; Rhia Knoll would never consent to aid if she were in full self-possession.
Philippe leads us into the house. It’s colder within than under the chilly breeze outside, and gloomy as well. Philippe has to ring the bell twice before a startled butler emerges from a back door. “My lord! We did not expect anyone. Please accept my deepest apologies…”
“The house should be ready at all times,” Philippe says with thinly disguised irritation. “See that guest chambers are made ready for Queen Sophy and Lady Rhia, and rooms for Her Majesty’s retinue. We’ll need a full supper for everyone.”
The butler gulps and hastily bows to me. “Majesty.”
“It’s quite all right,” I say, annoyed by Philippe’s rudeness. “Please make up my chamber last. My friend here needs rest and warmth first. Don’t put yourselves to too much trouble with supper, either. Something simple will be perfect.”
Philippe looks at me, his cheeks visibly flushed even in the dim light. He probably thinks I’m rude ordering his servants about. But after what happened this afternoon, he has no business being angry with me.
“Perhaps Her Majesty would take tea in the sitting room,” he says, though judging by his tone it’s not exactly a suggestion. “Your guards can escort Lady Rhia upstairs.”
I’m reluctant to let Rhia out of my sight, but I’m equally reluctant about Philippe. Of the two, he’s the one I need information from. So, patting Rhia’s shoulder, I release her into the care of the guardswomen and follow Philippe into the sitting room. It’s grand and formal, with thick carpets and a gilded fireplace, which the butler makes a quick business of building a fire in. I pace over to a window. Even though the house is cold, the grounds outside are well kept, complete with a topiary garden and some statues of nymphs.
“My mother’s doing.” Philippe, joining me at the window, nods at the nymphs. “She says it civilizes the place.”
Makes it more Paladisan, he means. I look at him. His profile is strong, his shoulders tense.
Quietly, I say, “Someone knew I’d be coming that way. That sorcerer was a message for me, not that poor farmer.”
“Coincidences happen.” He turns brusquely from the window. “It must have been someone local. The death was like the ones in the old stories.”
“I’m not sure I’m keen on these stories.”
“Don’t you have them in Caeris? How to kill a sorcerer?”
My mouth twists. “We like to keep our sorcerers alive.”
He casts me a skeptical look. “Not all of your sorcerers can have been good people. You must have had to put a few down.”
“Nonsense,” I say, but I think of Halmoen, the court sorcerer to an old Caerisian queen. They say he fought battles with creatures made of nightmares. Someone did kill him—and if the stories can be believed, they had to do it more than once. “Well, sometimes. But those aren’t the stories we like to tell.”
“Maybe not where you grew up, but I’ll wager they did elsewhere. My nurse was full of such things.”
“The Ereni have always been more tied to Paladis. And then when the empire invaded, they told those stories to suppress our magic…”
“Many of the stories come from the Paladisan conquerors, it’s true. But not all.” He paces toward the fireplace, back to me. “Here in the Low Hills, we have memories just as long as you Caerisians. This u
sed to be wild country. Sorcerers would hide high up in the hills to escape the witch hunters the Paladisans brought with them. Some of them caused trouble.”
I frown. It’s hard to imagine these bucolic hills overrun with fleeing sorcerers, two hundred odd years ago, but I suppose they might have been. It’s a good place to avoid the crown, if you can’t flee as far north as Caeris.
It’s also a good place to foster a rebellion.
A tap at the door interrupts my thoughts. It’s a maid, in a tidy apron, carrying a tray of tea and cake. My stomach growls. The nausea of a few weeks ago may have subsided, but now it seems I’m always hungry. I descend on the sofa beside the now-crackling fire and claim a plate holding a dainty slice of cake. I spoon the delicate sponge into my mouth. It tastes like heaven. And it’s gone in three bites.
Do I really care what Philippe Manceau thinks of my appetite? I smirk and help myself to a larger serving of cake.
“They should have brought more food,” he says, though he hasn’t even touched the cake. (More for me, I suppose.) Instead he sits there, jiggling his knee and holding his teacup without drinking from it.
I wolf down the rest of my second slice, then pause while I consider how quickly I can safely eat the rest of the cake. “Did the people here support our bid for the throne?”
Philippe’s gaze snaps to me. Slowly, he says, “Some did, I suppose. It’s a long way from Laon.”
I cover my skepticism with a swallow of tea. The farmer made it perfectly clear that the locals take an interest in what happens in the capital, whether the nobility believe it or not.
“So,” I say. “These Rambauds. Tell me about them.”
Philippe hesitates, running a hand along the back of his neck.
“You must know them well,” I prompt him. “They’re your neighbors.”
“Yes,” he agrees, still reluctant. “They’re cousins of the Eyrlais, and of my family as well. Their lands extend from our border to the Ard, and well south.”
So their lands abut the border with Tinan. “They must be wealthy,” I note. “We passed a good number of prosperous farms.”
Philippe has an aristocrat’s disdain for money talk; his chin lifts. “They would be, I suppose, by any measure.”
I let my glance wander around the elaborate room.
“Excuse me.” Philippe gets to his feet. “I need to see the butler about—about supper. You stay here and enjoy the cake.”
There’s nothing I would prefer more, but the minute he leaves, I jump to my feet and follow him, easing the door open. Two mountain women stand guard outside it. They must be exhausted after the long journey today, but their hardened faces don’t show it.
I start to ask them where Philippe went, but one simply points. I smile at her and hurry off, past the butler’s door, into the depths of the house. The corridor takes me past a silent dining room and two darkened salons before ending at a quiet door on the right. Philippe’s voice murmurs within. I step as close as I dare. The open door reveals bookshelves full of matching leather tomes. I listen hard.
“…Anything from my mother?” Philippe is demanding. “Letters, orders for money…”
Another man replies. The butler, from the sound of it. “She did have funds withdrawn from the bank, almost a month ago now. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know more.”
“Did she leave any sort of instructions? Anything she ordered to be kept secret?”
“Not at all, sir.” The butler sounds scandalized. “The last we heard from her was the day she and Duchess Rambaud passed through on their way to Tinan.”
“Did the duchess leave any instructions?” Philippe asks.
“What are you saying, sir?” the butler exclaims. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, it sounds as if you’re accusing my staff of something we did not do.”
“Of course not. I do apologize.” Philippe pauses. “It was only Duchess Hermine with Mother, was it? Not the duke himself?”
“No, sir, only Duchess Hermine and the children. She said they were going to meet Duke Rambaud in Tinan.”
“I suppose Duke Aristide had already taken shelter with King Alfred,” Philippe says, but he seems to be talking to himself. He sighs loudly. “Assemble the staff, would you, before supper? I would like to know more details about my mother’s time here.”
“Sir, I would not permit any member of my staff to—”
“I know. But you know what my mother’s like.”
The butler simply says, “Yes, sir.”
I bolt back to the nearest deserted salon just before the butler emerges from the study. I stuff myself behind the door, peering through the slit into the corridor. The butler passes me. I wait. And wait. Finally Philippe emerges, taking brisk strides down the hall. I slip out behind him. He left behind the faint odor of brandy, a note above the dust and the chill.
Whatever else he’s hiding, I have the feeling Philippe Manceau does not care for his mother.
* * *
—
RHIA’S ALERT WHEN I knock on her bedchamber door an hour later, lying on a sofa in front of the fireplace. She grimaces at me. She’s clutching a hot-water flask to her head. “I’m not myself. A Knoll should never be caught lying down!”
I laugh, coming into the room, but the truth is her weakness has worried me, and beneath the bluster, I can see she’s scared herself. She fiddles with the hot-water flask.
I settle down in a wingback chair across from her. Climbing the short flight of stairs up to this room left me more winded than usual, but I’ve had a light meal in the bedchamber that belongs to Philippe’s mother, and I feel decidedly more human.
“Did you get anything to eat?” I ask Rhia.
“A maid brought in some soup. I wasn’t very hungry.”
Rhia, not hungry? This, too, is unlike her. “Did you eat it?”
“Oh, yes. I never turn down a meal.”
I smile, somewhat reassured, and lean back in the chair, closing my eyes. It feels indecently comfortable and for the first time in weeks, with only Rhia beside me, I feel almost like my old self. Not that Rhia is always an easy presence, but she’s Caerisian, and a mountain woman besides. You always know where you stand with Rhia Knoll.
She eyes me. “So you had a chat with Manceau.”
“He told me about his mother—and then I overheard him talking to his butler after. It seems his mother fled to Tinan with some other disgruntled nobles—including Rambaud’s wife.”
Rhia gives a low whistle. “That explains a lot.”
“It explains why the nobles were so eager to have Philippe elected to council.” I pause. “The butler claims no one’s heard from Philippe’s mother since she left, but she’s withdrawn funds. If she’s done that, she might be in touch with someone here—and she might be involved in the sorcerer’s death. I think Philippe suspects her, along with the Rambauds.”
“Well, if she ran off to Tinan, she probably loathes sorcerers.” Rhia considers. “And us.”
“Probably. Philippe asked the butler if his mother had left any instructions behind.”
Rhia arches a brow. “So you didn’t just overhear them; you were listening in on their conversation! Look at Goody-Goody Dunbarron, eavesdropping.”
I offer her a prim smile. “Merely listening to the voices of my subjects.”
“Ha! Well, did you confront him on it?”
“No, not yet. I don’t want him to clam up. I’m playing it out.”
She toys with the fringe on her throw. “The ministers keep bothering you to marry. Isn’t Manceau one of their prime candidates?”
“He seems to be,” I allow, though the ministers haven’t named him outright—and I’m not sure I trust him enough to even consider it. I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to forget how my last visit to Laon ended, with the ministers informing me that a bast
ard queen would look more legitimate if she were married. And how I snapped back at them that I wasn’t a heifer for them to breed to the highest bidder. And how the minister of agriculture grumbled, She’d be a lot more tolerable if she were.
Getting along so well, my cabinet and I. I realize I’m grinding my back teeth together just at the thought of talking to them again.
“You could just ask him,” Rhia says. “About the marriage, and about his mother and the murder.”
“I could.” But I won’t. Not yet.
“It’s what El would do. She’d demand answers.”
“That’s why she wouldn’t get any.” I pause. “Wouldn’t you demand answers, too?”
But Rhia Knoll, normally as irascible as a knife, hesitates, fingering the hot-water flask. At last she says, “I’m starting to wonder if the way you do things isn’t better. It’s a lot more tedious, don’t get me wrong. But they still don’t trust us, Sophy, the Ereni. Or the ministers and nobles, at least. The common people stand behind our cause, for the most part, and I like them well enough. But when you feel as if someone’s sneaking up on your back, sometimes the best thing to do is draw them closer before you spring.”
“I suppose.”
“And…” She worries at the flask. “My father’s on the front. If anything happens to him, I might get elected to replace him. I might become the warden of the mountains.”
I look at her, with her delicate-seeming face and wisping black hair and forearms strong enough to crush a man’s skull. “Do you want that?”
“Did you want to be queen?” she counters.
I don’t know how to answer that. Of course I felt I’d be better at ruling than Finn, my half brother, whom I wanted so much to like but found myself unbelievably exasperated with. But I was thinking like a child, I realize now, as if ruling a kingdom is the same as writing an essay on history or taking an oral exam—something where the definitions of skill and quality are clear-cut and where you’re rewarded after. There aren’t any rewards here, not really. And there isn’t simple or universal approval, just because I claimed the throne and Ruadan educated me well.
