The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  Guilt and grief settle in my chest, heavy as stones.

  Wherever she’s going, I’m coming with her. I button up my coat with a sigh. So much for that bath I was hoping to get, and the emperor’s letter.

  Teofila leads us out of the palace. Darkness has swallowed up the city streets. We’ve emerged through a side door—the palace has so many entrances and exits, I don’t know half of them—and out into a quiet street. Beyond the bare trees, a shoulder of rock and grass rises. The Hill of the Imperishable, with its ring of stones. Elanna’s favorite place in Laon, aside from the greenhouse.

  But Teofila doesn’t make for the path leading up to the tall, eerie stones. Instead we turn left and make our way north, passing the fine terraced houses of the nobility. I am entirely lost, but she doesn’t seem in the mood to speak.

  Then the houses peter away, and we’re on a rough, muddy track climbing onto a high ridge of rock that arches like a spine over the city. Suddenly I know where we are. “The Spring Caves?” I say aloud.

  Teofila doesn’t answer. We’ve reached the height of the ridge, and the city glows below us, the warm ambience of its lanterns and lamps interrupted by the black curl of the Sasralie. I pause for a long moment, the wind tugging at my hair. This is the first time I have ever thought Laon beautiful.

  “Come,” Teofila says, just that one word.

  She’s making for the hollow in the ridge—the black mouth of the Spring Caves. Even I, the resident Caerisian, know the people of Laon have used these caves for centuries to hide, to survive. Hundreds of people supposedly packed in here during the Paladisan invasion—a haven right under the conquerors’ noses.

  But what on earth does Teofila want with this place?

  My shoulders have tensed, but I follow her into the cave. It’s fronted by large, flat rocks; a trickle of water mutters between them. Teofila is ahead of me, the lantern’s light a startling gold in the darkness. I only have to duck briefly, to enter.

  Then the ceiling rises. Teofila straightens, and so do I. We’re standing in a vast shadowed cave, its roof soaring high, cobbled from old river stones. In the cave’s center, black water purls from beneath a small raised stone. The rocks are littered with objects—necklaces, shriveled flowers, cups and bowls. A small statue sits next to the stones—a woman with her hands on her swollen stomach. I instinctively touch my own.

  “What is this place?” I whisper, though I know a holy spring when I see one. There’s one at Cerid Aven, too, at the base of the Sentry Rock. Teofila took me there after my first bleeding, and I washed my hands three times in the cold water while we prayed to the lady of the springs, and I left behind a necklace made of red beads. But the spring at Cerid Aven is a comfortable place—a soothing one. Not like this.

  Teofila has crouched before the spring, and I follow suit, understanding what the flowers are for now. I hand them to her, and she sets them beside the goddess’s statue. Then she props her chin on her fists and squints at the water. She goes very still. She doesn’t speak, yet a humming sound resonates from her, forceful and yellow. I wonder if it’s the sound of her prayers. Then I shake my head. I can’t hear that, not really.

  I study the black water, too. It’s cool in here but not cold, and there is a lingering smell of the resin other women have burned. I wonder who still comes here, when the Paladisans tried so hard to stamp out the old gods and drive our worship aboveground and indoors. I rest my hand on my stomach, looking at the water. For the first time in days—perhaps months—my mind finally quiets.

  It’s so soft at first I think I’m imagining it. A dark, pulsating hum that spikes over and over into a high, frenzied note. Instinctively, I turn away, but the sound isn’t coming from anything audible. Instead it seems to be humming through the very air into my skin. Pouring itself, dark and crimson as a wound, into my mind.

  “Do you hear that?” I whisper.

  Teofila just grunts. She’s crouched even lower, whispering. Straining.

  A prickle runs up my back, not entirely unrelated to the water dampening my face and clothes. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying…” She draws in a breath. “…to work magic.”

  “You—”

  I stop. Something is happening. A pressure is building inside my body, the way it did when Elanna flooded the Ard. My breath goes shallow.

  Because this feels like a flood. And I realize the sound I heard isn’t simply permeating the air. It’s pulsing off Teofila in waves like heat, an endless, burning repetition. For a moment, I don’t just feel it or hear it; I see it, too—a momentary crimson glow. I blink and the color fades, lingering only at the corners of my vision. But still there. Still red.

  She sits back with a long, tired sigh and rubs her head. “I thought, with the magic coming back…”

  “Didn’t you feel it?” I can’t believe she doesn’t sense the magic she attempted. The air is still humming.

  “There’s…something.” She frowns and doesn’t continue, and I realize that she must sense it but be unable to do anything with it.

  She can’t use it to save Elanna, or even, simply, to see her.

  I start toward her. The sound is still pulsing from her, though I hear it more faintly now that we’re talking. “Teofila…”

  But she doesn’t respond to my tone of voice, or to my outstretched hand. With a grunt, she pushes herself to her feet. Her face is colored by a grief I can’t mitigate. Tiredly, she says, “Let’s go back.”

  * * *

  —

  I AVOID THE emperor’s letter, though I know it does me no good. I busy myself settling Teofila in her rooms and ordering supper for her, but when I try to eat with her, she just says, “You’re still in your traveling clothes, Sophy! You should have a bath and go to bed.”

  It’s clear she wants to be alone. There’s an ache about her, so deep it bows her shoulders. At another time, I might put my arm around her shoulders, play her some music, send for hot chocolate. But this time the hurt is too great to be soothed by such small comforts. This time, it’s my fault, too. I have never failed Teofila this profoundly before.

  So I leave her, even though tears sting my eyes, and make my way back to my chambers.

  My maid, Fiona, greets me when I enter. “Miss Sophy!”

  I smile. “Hello, Fi.” She’s known me for years, ever since Teofila decided it was time for me to have my own maid when I was fourteen. She comes from the town outside Cerid Aven, serving the Valtais the way her family has for generations. She has a quick smile and an efficient touch, though as always there’s something distant about her kindness. I have never forgotten she’s the servant and I the lady, especially now that I’m queen. It always leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “I have a hot bath for you,” she says briskly, “and a change of clothes as well. I must say, you smell of the front.”

  “You mean of mud and sweat?”

  Her eyes crinkle. She’s gotten herself a new dress, I notice; an Ereni style, white and crisp with embroidered blue posies. Her hairstyle has changed, too—no braids anymore, but a tidy bun beneath a lace cap. At least her freckles are still Caerisian, and the look in her eyes. “I turned all the palace servants out. I figured you could do with a Caerisian welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I say, truly grateful. I almost took Fiona with me to the border, but she herself told me it would be more useful to keep her here, someone I trust in the palace. Even though I agreed, it still made me feel somehow pushed aside, the same way I used to when she told me it was unseemly for Duke Ruadan’s ward to attend the village dances when I was fifteen and wanted nothing more than a gaggle of female friends, a pretty dress, laughter and flirtation with the village boys.

  Going into the bedchamber, I close the door. A copper tub awaits me before the blazing fireplace. I unbutton my waistcoat with a groan, and untie the layers of skirts
beneath it, and finally shuck off my chemise and stockings. Naked, I run my hands over the firm dome of my stomach, looking down at the reality of my body for the first time in weeks. Fiona has guaranteed me privacy, and I have to trust that no one will barge in and discover my secret. Yet my thoughts skitter, anxious, against one another. How on earth am I to conceal the child now? Fiona will suspect in a trice—none of my gowns will fit. I might be able to let out the skirts, but the over-dresses won’t close. I could change my style, but that would look even more suspicious…unless I used the right approach.

  Ruadan used to say that with a smile and enough confidence, one could get away with anything. I suppose it’s time to put that to the test—though I doubt my adopted father ever had to worry about the shape of his own body betraying him.

  Shaking my head, I clamber with a happy shiver into the steaming tub. In the other room, Fiona summons another servant and orders food brought up. I lay, covering my stomach with my hands. Weariness seems to unspool from my limbs. Every day, I’ve been fighting this persistent tiredness, and now I can finally relinquish to it.

  A small sideways sensation, like a slither in my stomach, startles me. The baby’s moved again—in an entirely new way. A smile is sliding up around my lips, despite everything.

  With a sigh, I wash out my hair, then climb from the tub and into a chemise, soft robe, and slippers. My whole skin seems to relax at the sensation of clean linen. The robe is thick enough that it doesn’t reveal my silhouette, but I still spend minutes in front of the mirror, worriedly adjusting the belt. The finished look certainly isn’t my most attractive, but it hides my condition.

  In the bedroom, Fiona has set out supper by the fireplace. “Fi,” I begin, and she looks up inquiringly. A smile and confidence, I remind myself. “I’d like to have my gowns made over—a new style for a new regime.”

  Fiona raises her eyebrows but to her credit only looks moderately astonished. I have never expressed much interest in fashion before.

  “Something like the old queens used to wear,” I say. “A more…natural fit. Loose, with a shawl—”

  She claps her hands together. “Like Queen Aline! You know, in the old tapestry where she’s standing with the mountain lion, in that blue gown.”

  “Yes…” I used to adore that tapestry in the house at Cerid Aven, though I was always more excited by the mountain lion—and, if I’m honest, Aline’s crown—than her dress.

  “We can modify your morning gown,” Fiona says decisively. “Oh, it will be easy! And to think of you setting a new standard”—something, her tone suggests, she had never before imagined—“everyone will be talking of it.”

  I just smile. As long as they’re talking of my gown and not my pregnant belly, I’ll be content. “I hate to ask this of you since it’s so late, but…by tomorrow morning?”

  Her eyes narrow, and I sense her hesitation. But then she says, “You need to make a statement, don’t you, before the ministers in the morning? I’ll see to it. I’ll wake up the modiste if I have to.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t,” I protest instinctively.

  “Nonsense! You’re the queen. Every once in a while,” she declares, “you must take advantage of that privilege.”

  I nod weakly and settle into the chair where the supper dishes have been set out. A heavy, folded letter leans against the tray.

  Fiona nods at it on her way to the dressing room. “From the emperor of Paladis. Charlot sent it over from your study.” She marches off with almost as much enthusiasm as she had the day we claimed freedom for Caeris.

  I sigh. There’s no more point in delay. I pick up the missive. The seal, of course, is already broken, the wax threaded with cracks.

  This isn’t going to be pleasant. I open it anyway.

  The handwriting contains grandiose flourishes. My eyes struggle over the Idaean.

  To Sophy Dunbarron, who styles herself Queen of Eren—

  “I was elected,” I mutter. There is a great deal of fluff, but eventually the emperor gets down to the heart of the matter:

  Eren’s support of a criminal sorcerer forces us to consider action against her. Unless you renounce the witch Elanna Valtai and cooperate with our imperial witch hunters cleansing your kingdom, Eren will make itself an enemy of our great and illustrious empire, and both you and the witch will be treated as such.

  His Imperial Majesty,

  Alakaseus Saranon, emperor of Paladis

  I set the letter down and close my eyes. It takes all my control not to fling the cursed thing into the fire. The missive arrived last week; he must have known about the plans to capture Elanna long before he sent this, and hoped they would succeed. There’s no point in fooling myself. I’ve been outmaneuvered. I don’t have any other cards to play.

  “Sophy?”

  I look up. Fiona’s back, the morning gown tucked over her arm. She touches the back of my hand, real kindness in her eyes. “He’s quite harsh,” she says, “but he isn’t a Caerisian. He doesn’t know what real strength is made of.”

  I utter a sour laugh. I might have known Fiona would have read the letter, too. I almost tell her what happened to Elanna. Almost confess how desperate our situation really is. But no matter if I once told her about my hopeless crushes and my dreams for the future, no matter how much I wanted her to be the older sister I never had, no matter that now, suddenly, when I’m feeling broken and failed, she is acting the part—it doesn’t make me feel better, strangely. Only more incompetent.

  So I simply say, “I hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I startle from an uneasy sleep. It’s just after dawn. Pale light seeps through the shutters, illuminating a figure standing before the fire. I startle, clutching the bedclothes to my chin.

  “Sorry,” Rhia says, “but you need to get up.”

  “All the gods, Rhia!” I breathe out, shaking off my nerves. “You must be feeling better.”

  “Mmm.” She doesn’t precisely agree. “Couldn’t sleep any longer. I met a messenger in the hall. He came from the Butcher, with news. The Tinani have retreated from the ford at Tavistock.”

  I blink. “Retreated?”

  “That’s what he said. I asked him a couple of times, too, but he seems sharp enough to have gotten it right.”

  If the Tinani have retreated…The room’s cold, and I tug a robe over my shoulders, thinking. Rhia plops down on the end of the bed, smothering a yawn.

  “They’ll attack elsewhere,” I begin, hesitantly.

  Rhia pushes her toes against the bedpost. “That’s the other bit of news. Alistar and the Hounds sent word that the army is being dispersed along the border to strengthen defenses. And Count Hilarion smuggled word from court that King Alfred is recalling the remaining forces to the capital.”

  “That makes no sense. We’re sitting ducks.”

  She sniffs. “Don’t give us away too easily! We’re better than that.”

  Whatever the Tinani are doing, it’s undeniable that this gives me an advantage today—both in the cabinet room and when I speak before the people. A great thread of tension unwinds from my shoulders. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes.

  Then I remember the emperor’s missive.

  “Elanna?” I ask, dreading the answer. “Did Alistar—?”

  Rhia just shakes her head. “They didn’t catch the witch hunters who took her. They had already smuggled her onto a ship bound for Paladis, by the time Alistar caught them up.”

  I bite my lower lip. It’s nothing more than I expected, yet the confirmation sits like a stone in my gut. And King Alfred’s activity makes little sense. Unless, now that the emperor of Paladis has Elanna, things have changed. Maybe Emperor Alakaseus has withdrawn his support from Tinan, since El was his true objective all along. Paladis used Tinan, and now that Alakaseus got what he wanted, they’r
e abandoning Alfred.

  Time, I suppose, will tell. I climb out of bed, then pause. Rhia didn’t actually say that Alistar and the Hounds returned to camp. “Is Alistar still in Tinan?”

  She doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “It sounds as if he’s gone farther inland, to meet with Count Hilarion.”

  “That’s good,” I allow, “if it can be done safely.” Count Hilarion of Ganz has been functioning as our ambassador in the Tinani court these last months—but with the violence on the border, we haven’t been able to communicate easily with him. If Alistar can meet up with him, it is a good thing, though I’d rather he would come back to Eren without risking his skin on yet another mission.

  There’s a tap on the doorframe, and Fiona comes in carrying a bundle of white cloth—my morning gown. Her eyes are pouched with tiredness, but she’s wearing a smile. “Your Majesty, the gown you requested. I daresay the modiste was as excited as I!”

  Rhia looks a bit ill. “Isn’t it too early in the morning for fashion?”

  “Thank you, Fi. And please be sure to pass my deep gratitude on to the modiste.” I take the gown, holding it up. It’s as simple as I hoped—an easy style that I can slip over my head. I shoo the other two out of the room, despite Fiona’s protests that she can assist me. I tie on two layers of petticoats, then tug the dress on. The modiste altered the gown so it fits—by apparent divine intervention, with a drawstring!—at my natural waist. I tie on a pretty coral sash; with the petticoats, and some tugging and tucking, my rounded stomach vanishes under layers of frothy voile. Just to be safe, I wrap a patterned shawl around my shoulders, arranging it so the ends drape loosely over my front.

  Fiona looks dismayed when I come out. “The shawl ruins the line!”

  “I’m too chilled without it,” I say promptly, and smile. Rhia harrumphs from the table by the fire. I turn to her. “Come on, Rhia. Let’s have breakfast. The ministers will be waiting.”