by Callie Bates
* * *
—
THEY ARE WAITING, though they don’t all look particularly thrilled to see me when I walk in with Rhia at my side. Of course, the hour might have something to do with it; I can’t imagine Lord Faure getting out of bed much before noon. Good thing I had the foresight to serve tea and coffee, along with two platters of butter pastries warm from the oven. One man thanks me with a grunt. None of them seem to take much notice of my clothes; I suppose it’s too early.
Soon the clock chimes the hour. I push back my chair and stand, just as High Priest Granpier enters. The two refugees follow him, and the other ministers burst into whispers, openly staring. I step over; someone needs to greet them civilly.
I clasp Demetra’s hands. She looks tired this morning and has made an obvious effort to look her best: Her hair is wrapped in a scarf, her striped gown spotless, free of wrinkles.
“Thank you for coming,” I say. I nod at Ciril.
He says in bold Ereni, “We must take our stand against those who would harm us, Queen Sophy.”
The ministers murmur quite a bit more at that, and Victoire Madoc, Elanna’s friend, looks over at me with narrowed eyes. They all heard Ciril’s Tinani accent, of course. I keep my expression neutral, though I can sense Lord Devalle muttering a question to Philippe.
“Please seat yourselves,” I tell the sorcerers, gesturing to two chairs set up against the wall. They sit, and I turn back to the twenty or so people watching me.
“Well, Majesty?” the minister of agriculture pipes up. “The Caveadear is still tromping around on the border, I trust? Is there a reason for hauling us all out of our beds first thing in the morning?”
I look at him. He’s a friend of Devalle’s, a nobleman from a long and, in his case, less-than-wealthy lineage. This is the irony of people like this: They cling to their elaborate rules of etiquette and are scandalized when you break them, but when it suits them to forget a ritualized custom like letting the queen speak first in cabinet meetings, they pretend they’ve done nothing whatever wrong.
I gesture for the footmen to close the doors. “I trust you went to bed all the earlier, Lord Marchmont, knowing I had scheduled this meeting.” I address them all: “What I must share with you is a sensitive matter. I trust those who met with me yesterday will appreciate the fact that I kept it secret until now.” I glance at Devalle and Granpier, who both stare back at me, puzzled.
I look down the long, polished table. It’s packed with mostly men and a few women. Philippe, about halfway down, appears subdued. He gives me a small nod.
I didn’t catch a breath of rumor about El’s disappearance. Of course, it’s hard to credit him with trustworthiness based on that alone. Nevertheless, I nod back. Several of the others note our exchange; for some reason, Devalle’s mouth quirks in amusement. I stifle a sigh. The ministers’ constant machinations exhaust me.
I glance at the Caerisians, who make a small contingent to my right: Hugh, Rhia, and Teofila. Teofila’s mind seems elsewhere, and she hasn’t touched her cup of tea. I don’t think she heard a word I said. I’m glad to have her here, all the same.
The rest are Ereni. With the exception of Victoire Madoc, with her glossy black hair and bright eyes, and Juleane Brazeur, the minister of commerce, who wears the finest blue coat among us, they’re all nobles. When we allowed the Ereni to elect their own ministers, the nobles responded by blackmailing their servants and tenants into voting for them—or at any rate, some of them did. I suspect some of the others simply got elected thanks to the ease of familiarity. As always, I have to remind myself that just because they have titles and perfect manners and costly clothes, they aren’t all wicked people. Though it is tempting to think so.
“I’m afraid I have terrible news,” I say, “and at the same time, extremely good news.”
“The good first!” Juleane Brazeur calls out, to general applause. She’s a bit older than Teofila—a solid, pragmatic woman with short-cropped hair who has supported my more enterprising measures. She’s in trade and popular among the common people for her generous philanthropic donations.
I smile reflexively. “Happy to oblige. I received word this morning that the Tinani have withdrawn from the ford at Tavistock. According to the Butcher’s intelligence, they are in fact either reassigning the majority of their troops to fortify the border, with no aggressive action to be taken, or recalling them to the capital.”
Juleane Brazeur looks surprised and pleased, and several others cheer.
I can’t even force a smile. Through a tight throat, I say, “I suspect we haven’t seen the last of them. It’s unclear to me why they have retreated, except that they got something they wanted.”
I wait. The ministers go quiet, watching me.
“They took Elanna,” I say. “With the help of witch hunters. They abducted her just after she flooded the Ard.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence.
“They’re taking her to Paladis?” Juleane Brazeur says. The others are staring at one another. Most of them look the way they should. Terrified. Victoire has risen out of her seat, bracing herself on the table. She’s not a minister—rather a self-appointed representative of the people, for whom she’s always gathering digests of palace news—but I have no doubt she argued her way in here successfully, on account of her friendship with Elanna. I can’t meet her eyes. I should have told her yesterday. I didn’t even think about her.
“Let’s remember the good news,” I say, and they quiet again, though this time they’re communicating with one another in little glances and worried looks. “Tinan has—for the moment—withdrawn. We have an opportunity to enact a plan.”
“What about Elanna?” Victoire bursts out. “Do you plan to just let her rot in the Ochuroma?”
I control my urge to cower in the face of her anger. “Jahan returned to Ida, just before El was captured. If anyone can save her from that fate, it will be him. I’ve sent Alistar and the Hounds to track them into Tinan, but we can’t risk anyone else. I won’t let any of us end up in the Ochuroma with her.” I look at them all. “I will do everything in my power to persuade the emperor to spare her life. I will write to him and…” My mouth goes dry. “…I will plead.”
Victoire folds her arms, her nostrils still flared, but the others murmur hesitant agreement.
Quietly, Devalle says, “What of the emperor’s letter? Do you think he will withdraw his threat, now that he’s captured the Caveadear?”
“Only a fool would doubt Emperor Alakaseus’s intention to conquer our kingdom once again,” I say heavily. “Undoubtedly he is already planning to use Elanna’s capture to his advantage. But we have an advantage, too. Magic.”
The ministers stir. Some uneasily, some with hope. “But without Elanna…” Lord Faure begins.
“We may not have Elanna, it’s true. But as you’re all aware”—I can’t help the caustic edge to my voice—“we have been accepting refugee sorcerers for the last few months. High Priest Granpier has generously given them shelter in the temple of Aera. I’m pleased to say that two of them have already volunteered to join the fight on the border.”
Devalle looks sharply at Demetra and Ciril, then back at me.
Granpier leans forward, beckoning the refugees to rise. “This is Demetra Megades, a midwife and healer, and Ciril Thorley, who can manipulate storms. They have generously offered their services.”
The ministers murmur.
“We should recruit more of them.” Juleane Brazeur leans toward me. “These two won’t be enough against Tinan along with Paladis and Baedon.”
“And have sorcerers slaughter us in our sleep?” Lord Marchmont retorts.
“They are here to help us!” Juleane Brazeur exclaims. “If they wanted to kill you, they’d have done it already.”
An image of the murdered refugee flashes into my mind, and I
wince. “We should treat the refugees with the same generosity they’re showing us,” I say. “No more slurs against them. Let us welcome them to Laon as allies.” I look around the table. “A sorcerer was found murdered on the road to Laon. His feet and hands had been cut off, and nails driven through his face. This is unacceptable. If any of you know or suspect anything, I urge you to come forward.”
They’re silent this time. Some look horrified; Brazeur has put her hand to her mouth.
And Devalle’s gaze flickers to Philippe. Just for the barest moment. Hardly enough even to be noticed, or to be suspicious.
Philippe simply stares straight back at me. Innocent, seemingly.
“Well,” I say narrowly, “I trust news will come forward in due time.” I press my hands together. “In the meantime, I will offer a public address this morning.”
Devalle raises an eyebrow. “A public address, my lady?”
“The people must know that El’s been taken.” I hold up my hand at the predictable protests. “It is a risk, certainly. But if we don’t tell them, we run the risk of being perceived as…” I swallow the words callous as the Eyrlais. “…as nothing but a dictatorship. I’m sure none of you want that.”
“I think that is wise,” Juleane Brazeur says. “The people deserve to know the truth, and they will respect you all the more for it.”
A chorus of agreement runs around the table.
Lord Devalle leans forward. “There is something else that might comfort the people in these distressing times. A symbol of stability. Hope, if you would.”
I eye him. He’s watching me with a little smile. It’s Lord Marchmont who says, “What would that be?”
“A royal marriage.” Devalle smiles fully now. “Our new glorious queen could wed a nobleman. It would…distract…from the news of Elanna’s capture. A royal wedding would tell the people that you are thinking of Eren’s future, not just her present war. They will see that you believe yourself to be queen for a long time to come. That you commit to them.”
My heart thuds in my ears. The others are murmuring assent. Of course, it sounds very good. Sensible. Inspired, even.
But why does Devalle want me to marry now? Now, when a wedding might seem callous in the wake of El’s capture? Not to mention there is the life growing within me, which might not exactly thrill a prospective husband.
Devalle’s eyes meet mine, then flick to Philippe. Back to me. A deliberate, demanding stare.
“Of course we must think of Eren’s future,” I say over the churning in my ears. So they do want me to marry Philippe, as I’ve suspected. “A wedding at this moment, however, might be seen as frivolous at best. I will first address the people and then, Lord Nicolas, we can speak more.”
He smiles and, too late, I realize I responded exactly as he expected.
“The happiness of the people should come first, should it not?” But Devalle isn’t addressing me. He’s turned to Philippe.
Philippe gives a stiff nod. His gaze fixes on a point beyond my left shoulder—on nothing.
He doesn’t seem exactly thrilled about the prospect, but on the other hand, I don’t know what Philippe really wants, much less Devalle. I don’t even know if either of them is truly on my side. So I simply stand and pretend I don’t hear. “Let’s adjourn to the balcony for the speech.”
* * *
—
THE WALK OUT to the balcony overlooking the courtyard seems longer than it ever has before. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m making the worst mistake of my short career as queen. What if the Butcher was right and telling the people the truth will only lead to fear and unrest?
Yet if I don’t tell them, they will never trust me again. I would never trust me again, if I were them.
The chill air hits my face as I step onto the ornate balcony, and I’m glad I wore the warm wool shawl over my remade gown. And once I look down on the crowd gathered in the palace courtyard, I’m glad I let the palace maids fuss over my hair. I’ve never been afraid, exactly, making a pronouncement before. Usually there’s a kind of thrill with it, the excitement that people have entrusted me with the power to aid them, to guide their futures.
But now cold fear bites the back of my neck. Normally before a crowd I feel bright and burning, on fire with the desire to stoke their love of me, but I’m rigid and afraid now. I draw in a breath and envision the muscles of my throat softening, the way I’ve done before performances. I pretend I’m focusing on a song I’ve rehearsed so many times, it’s part of my breath and bone.
But this song terrifies me.
The ministers spill out onto the balcony, along with Victoire and Rhia, a ring of bodies making a half circle around me. The pressure around my temples tightens. I risk a backward glance at Teofila, but once again she doesn’t really seem to see me. I catch the gaze of Lord Devalle instead. He raises his eyebrows and mouths, Go ahead, Your Majesty.
He must see my dilated pupils. He must know I’m afraid.
I turn blindly to the right. One of the other ministers is yawning. Hugh looks pensively out over the crowd, and Rhia is rubbing her forehead and looking a bit wan.
Only Philippe returns my gaze. He gives me a small nod.
Somehow I release the tension in my neck enough to nod back at him. I step forward, resting my hands on the balustrade, glad no one in the crowd can see them shaking. But they’ll know something’s wrong. You can always tell when a singer is beset with stage fright; it compresses their voice and reduces the vibrance of their presence.
I look down into the faces assembled below. They’re packed in—courtiers bundled in fine wool and fur, bourgeoisie in sturdy hats and coats, the poor mingling at the edges of the crowd. It feels as if all of Laon has come out to see me. My skin feels too thin. I can sense each one of them, the heat of their bodies, their flickering impatience, their curiosity. It’s a flood of attention, and I think I might drown beneath it.
But Ruadan raised me to have steel in my spine when I need it.
I gather my voice, tight as it is. “People of Laon! Citizens of Eren and Caeris! I, Sophy Dunbarron, your queen, have returned from the border. I come before you with news. It is my pleasure to tell you that, thanks to the magic of the Caveadear, the king of Tinan’s forces have withdrawn. And the emperor of Paladis has not dispatched his fleet.” At least, I pray, not yet. “Our kingdom is safe from those who would conquer her!”
I can feel Lord Devalle smiling cynically behind my back, and some of the others mutter at my choice of words. I focus on the crowd, ignoring them as best I can. Applause scatters through the people below. I summon a smile and hold up a hand for silence.
Before I can speak, a voice below shouts, “You’re not our queen! Go back to Caeris!”
What?
Other people are exclaiming. A handful of palace guards wade into the crowd, but even from above it’s clear whoever shouted that damning cry has made himself scarce.
I force myself to pretend that nothing happened. “My people!” I shout, and some of the milling in the crowd ceases, though the guards seem to be arguing with several women toward the back. I plow forward. “As you know, Eren and Caeris have become a haven for sorcery! Our good High Priest Granpier has sheltered so many, and thanks to him, we have two new allies who have come forward to—”
“Witch-lover!” someone else bellows from the crowd, closer to the front.
A guard shouts. The people are milling around now. Cries of, “It wasn’t me!” float up to my balcony.
Maybe I should just give up. Hardly anyone is listening now.
But that’s exactly what the hecklers want.
“Listen!” I holler, but it just fades over the shouts below.
“Silence!” It’s Philippe at my shoulder, bellowing over the crowd. “Your queen is speaking!”
The guards catch his cry. “Silence! Si
lence!”
The crowd settles down—a little, anyway. My heart’s thumping in my ears, but I pass Philippe a nod of gratitude. He doesn’t seem to notice. He’s folded his arms, watching the crowd with an intent expression.
“We have two new sorcerers to guide the kingdom forward,” I proclaim, as loudly as I can. “Master Ciril and Mistress Demetra.” The two step forward, and the people below still, many of them staring wide-eyed up at the foreign sorcerers. “We are grateful for their help, especially in the face of the terrible news I must share.” I swallow. My throat’s tightening up again, so I focus on the sound of the words, trying to push aside the meaning of them. “It is my great sorrow to inform you that the Caveadear has been captured by witch hunters.”
Exclamations erupt below. The guards shout for silence but only add to the general din.
“You lost her!”
“Witch-lover!”
“The Paladisans!”
“The Tinani!”
“War—”
I clench my jaw and wait it out.
Eventually, by some miracle, they seem to realize I’m still standing here, and they quiet a little.
“Yes, Elanna has been captured,” I say, “but it does not mean the end of our freedom. It does not mean defeat. I have these sorcerers at my side. I have you. I pledge myself to defending this kingdom, now and forever.”
A thin cheer goes up at that, but I don’t miss the terror on other faces. It’s so intense it pulses in my own skin. Elanna is the savior of this land, and so many have worshipped her—and depended on her. What will they do without her?
“We will communicate more in the coming days,” I say. “Thank you, and may the gods’ love shine down on our lands.”
* * *
—
LORD DEVALLE STOPS me in the marble hallway as we leave the balcony. The other ministers flock away ahead of us. “Majesty, may I suggest you increase your personal guard? Those shouts were…unsettling.”
