by Callie Bates
His solicitous tone rings genuine, yet the insinuation makes me stiffen. “I would hate for my people to think I don’t trust them.”
“Your people would probably prefer you to stay alive,” he says drily.
I open my mouth to argue, but he does have a point. “True.”
“Allow me to suggest you train up some of the palace guards. Of course, Queen Loyce took her Nehish guards with her when she left—and they are, you must know, the best in any realm—but there are some at the palace who trained with them. I am sure I can discover their names for you.”
I look at him. He smiles back.
“I’ll interview them,” I say briefly. It’s not a commitment to employ them.
He claps his hands. “Splendid! I’ll have those names found for you, and the men sent for. This afternoon, shall we say? You will want them in place as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles again, bows, and turns. Philippe has come up behind him. Devalle pats him on the shoulder. “You did well out there, my friend. Your presence calmed the people.”
I feel my eyes narrow.
“I merely helped Her Majesty,” Philippe says diffidently.
“It is very good you did.” Devalle glances from him to me. “Do you not agree, my lady? Our Philippe is bold, and cuts a fine figure on the royal balcony.”
A flush stains Philippe’s cheeks. He moves away, forcing Lord Devalle to drop his hand.
“I am glad for Philippe,” I say, “but then I am glad all of you were there.”
Devalle’s smile turns to a grin. “Of course, we will need to have the source of that unrest investigated. I will see it done.” Before I can protest, he strides away.
“I’m afraid he’s rather transparent,” Philippe says to me.
I shake my head. “You should take it as a compliment, I suppose. But will you go after him and see that he doesn’t offend anyone with this investigation? In fact…” I hesitate. I do need to have the hecklers looked into, but a few shouts doesn’t mean there’s an organized opposition. I’m far more worried about Lord Devalle seizing innocent people in order to make an example of them, the way Antoine or Loyce Eyrlai might have.
Besides which, does Devalle really have my best interests at heart? I suppose there’s a chance he’ll present me with the truth, but I am simply not sure.
“See that he doesn’t make an investigation at all,” I tell Philippe. “Tell him it’s the people’s prerogative to voice their displeasure.”
He looks at me, then simply shakes his head. “As you say, Your Majesty.” With a perfunctory bow, he strides away after Devalle, leaving me alone in the hall, except for a few guardswomen. I lean against a side table with a sigh. There’s a flutter in my stomach, insubstantial as a moth, and I cover it with my hands. A second tremulous feeling follows the first. “We made it through,” I whisper.
“You shouldn’t trust either of them.”
I turn, startled. Victoire steps from the shelter of a neighboring doorway; she must have been listening in on my conversation with Devalle and Philippe. Her cheeks are stained bright red, and there’s a rebellious glint in her eyes.
“Do you know them?” I ask carefully. I like Victoire. She’s quick to laugh and practically fearless as a spy and agitator, and in some ways, she’s easier company than Elanna. But just now, I’m reminded that I don’t actually know her that well.
At least she doesn’t seem to have heard my whisper to the baby.
“My father did. He was finance minister to King Antoine—before the corruption caught up with him. That’s why no one will trust me to take public office.”
“Surely you’ve proven yourself by now,” I say, thinking about what little I know of her family. Victoire is the sort of person whose trust, once lost, is lost forever. After we took Laon, Rhia told me that Victoire paid her father to go into exile in the country, so that he would no longer be a source of shame to her.
She scowls down the hall after the men. “Lord Devalle has lost a great deal of money, and he’s keen to let everyone know it. I doubt he has anyone else’s best interests in mind. And Philippe Manceau’s mother was a great friend of his—and a devoted follower of the old regime.”
“I’m not sure what to make of Philippe,” I admit. “I don’t think he misses his mother much, though.”
“That may be. I don’t know him well,” Victoire says. “But the others will pressure him into doing what they want. You don’t think they supported his bid to be minister just because they liked him, do you?”
I sigh; I should have known. “How did they support him?”
“Bribes, I suspect. Nobody much cared who he was until two months ago.”
“But he…” I try to remember Philippe’s campaign. The ministers were all elected at once a few months ago, in a flurry of short, brutal campaigns and elections. I was back and forth from Laon to Barrody to the border at the time, and I don’t remember what promises Philippe made the people. Since he’s the minister of public works, it probably had to do with clean drinking water, and possibly a theater. Still, for some reason I feel the urge to defend him. I say, “Maybe he made the people promises they wanted to hear.”
“That might have helped, too. But watch Devalle. He’s going to box you into a corner and have you agreeing to wed Manceau before you know it, and that would be a terrible way to find out what he really wants.”
I touch my stomach lightly and force myself not to think of Alistar in Tinan.
“But then there are many terrible ways to find out the truth about things,” Victoire is saying.
I drag my attention back to her. The thunderous look on her face tells me everything I need to know. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Elanna. I had a lot on my mind—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Victoire snaps, though anyone could see that it does, very much. “What concerns me is that you let her go. I demand that you send me to Ida after her.”
This seems so abysmally foolish that I can’t help myself. I say, “What on earth could you do to save her?”
Victoire’s flush deepens. “I speak fluent Idaean. Well, nearly fluent. You know I can be charming when I need to be, and I’m as clever as anybody else. Appoint me your ambassador. I’ll find Jahan and we’ll save her together.”
I study Victoire. She is charming, when she puts her mind to it, and pretty as well, with her dark eyes and glossy black hair and bowed lips. But pretty and charming enough to sway the emperor of Paladis?
“I can’t let you risk yourself like that.”
“I’m willing to risk it!” she says passionately, tossing her hair. “Elanna is my dearest friend, and I won’t let her rot in some cell or”—real tears brighten her eyes—“or face the executioner’s ax.”
“Elanna would never forgive me if I let you end up on the scaffold beside her,” I say, even though it seems cruel to deny her. But it’s crueler still to let her throw her life away.
“It would be worth it!”
“No,” I say firmly. “Elanna needs you here. I need you here. I need you to help the people see their leadership is stable.”
Victoire’s nostrils flare, but she says, “I’ll do it. Though I wonder,” she adds as she strides away, “if you won’t let me go because you’re too afraid of losing your own power here in Laon.”
“You know that isn’t true,” I protest. “I’d give anything to save her.”
“Then maybe you should.”
“I’m not going to risk you, Victoire. Eren can’t afford to lose anyone else, and neither can I.”
But she doesn’t reply, just strides away. I watch her go, letting out a long sigh. I am doing what I have to do. This kingdom is more important than any one person. Ruadan always taught me to put the good of the whole before the good of the individual, and so I will—ev
en if my adoptive father might question how much I’m putting the people first with my personal choices. But he isn’t here to disapprove or dispense advice. I have to forge ahead as best I can, alone.
CHAPTER NINE
“Jahan.” I breathe his name, afraid to let the guards standing outside the door hear me, or the servants who brought tea and cherry cakes to the desk. A small mirror occupies the wall between the bookshelves lined with stern, leather-bound titles. This was Antoine Eyrlai’s study—though I, Charlot tells me, am the first person to actually use it in thirty years.
I try again. I reach out from within myself, trying to imagine my voice arrowing across the Middle Sea, into Ida, into his ear. “Jahan.” For the barest moment, I catch the flicker of awareness. I taste the heat of the Idaean sun, sense the weight of Jahan’s presence turning toward me.
Then it’s gone, and I wonder if I simply imagined it. I press my fist against the wall in frustration. Of course, I reflect somewhat bitterly, I am not a sorceress. I don’t know why I expect such things of myself.
In the end, I turn back to the ponderous, masculine desk and take up a piece of paper. I close my eyes. I don’t know what words I can possibly use to persuade the emperor of Paladis to release Elanna and abandon his determination to go to war against us. I already know Alakaseus Saranon won’t listen to an upstart girl from Caeris.
But I have to try. I can’t let El go without a fight.
I open my eyes and see I’ve gripped the pen too tightly. Ink stains my fingers.
I write. Hours pass. When Charlot knocks on the door, I look up from a sea of crumpled papers, feeling a pulse of embarrassment at the frustrated tears welling in my eyes.
Charlot bows, professionally turning a blind eye to both my emotion and the wreck on the hideous desk. “Your Majesty, Lord Devalle has some guards to introduce to you.”
I mentally curse. I had clean forgotten about Devalle’s offer. Guilt worms up through my throat. El’s facing death or worse, and I’m worried about employing new guards—as if anyone would want to kidnap me. With a sour pang, I wonder if the kingdom would be so unsettled if it were me, not El, who was captured.
But it’s pointless—and petty—to think such things. I rise with a sigh and follow Charlot out into the hall, though Devalle is possibly the last person I want to deal with right now.
Rhia’s waiting in front of a gilded painting of two cavorting nymphs, dressed in full mountain woman regalia, with close-cut trousers beneath a short split skirt and a colorful half-cloak disguising her broken arm. She casts me a severe look, and I hold down a groan. Naturally, I’ve managed to offend her, too.
But before she can scold me, Devalle himself approaches. “Thank you for taking the time, Your Majesty.” He claims my arm in a proprietary manner and simply hangs on when I try to pull away. “This way. They’re waiting in the Yellow Salon. A dozen new men—that should help with your daily rotations.”
“You’re very considerate.” I finally yank my arm out of his grasp, scrambling to control the situation. “Please show them to me.”
He merely looks amused.
Twelve palace guards are waiting for us in the Yellow Salon, facing the front in crisp ranks, their epaulets aquiver and the gold braid bright on their cut-back blue coats. I take up my place before them. Rhia stands off to the side, glaring.
Devalle casts her an exasperated look. “Lady Rhia, can we help you?”
She ignores him and addresses me. “Are my mountain women not good enough for you anymore, Sophy?”
All the gods. I want to massage my forehead—the splitting headache still hasn’t gone away—but I force my hands to remain lowered. “These men would be a supplement to what we already have, not a replacement. You know I value your mountain women.” The palace guards look largely stoic, except for a few of them, who watch with interest.
“With the Caveadear captured, we cannot afford to expose Her Majesty to the same risk,” Devalle says pleasantly. “It seems to me you were present, Lady Rhia, when Elanna was taken. Were you not?”
Rhia’s eyes widen. She takes a step forward, one hand going to the dagger at her hip.
“The Tinani planned El’s capture carefully,” I say, moving between the two of them and sending Rhia a warning look. “They had intelligence about our camp that allowed them to act as they did.” I swing to face the guards. “But I can trust all of you to be loyal, can I not?”
Most of the guards clap their hands to their hearts. The ones who don’t quickly follow suit.
“You wound me,” Lord Devalle remarks. “I picked these men myself.”
That’s what worries me, I think, but I merely smile at him. “I meant that as a joke, of course. Gentlemen, will you come forward and tell me your names? I like to know who’s serving me.”
Rhia harrumphs but drops onto a velvet chaise, watching the guards narrowly.
One of the men steps forward and removes his decorative helmet. He’s middle-aged, square-jawed, with close-cropped hair and shrewd eyes. “Marice Grenou, Your Majesty. I’ve been training these fellows in the Nehish style for more than a year now, with the idea of saving the crown the expense of hiring foreigners to guard the monarch.”
So I’m inheriting guards first commissioned by Antoine Eyrlai. It’s not the most reassuring thought.
“A good idea, and a pragmatic one, too,” I compliment him. “You must have chosen everyone quite carefully.”
“It has been a very select process, my lady, and open to only those I trust implicitly. Let me introduce you to the men. This is Alain, from Laon…”
Grenou moves down the rank of men, who salute crisply as he introduces them. Some sport neatly groomed mustaches in the Nehish style, but the rest are clean-shaven. All of them are young and fresh. I wonder if any of them took to the streets when we claimed Laon, or if they were among those who lingered at the palace, waiting to see what Loyce would do.
Grenou drones on, embroidering the details of their training practices. My feet are starting to go numb, and the splitting headache refuses to go away, especially at the discussion of how quickly they can reload their muskets. I try hard not to scowl, but at last I have to interrupt him.
“I think this will work out very well,” I say, “and of course you gentlemen will receive a pay increase, though at the moment you’ll understand it can only be a token. When the war is over, you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”
I catch one or two looks of disappointment before any emotion is hastily schooled from their faces.
I turn to Grenou. “The mountain women will remain my personal guards, but I will gladly employ your men in the palace corridors, and during all public events.”
“I’m honored, Your Majesty,” he says, “but these men are fit to serve you in all circumstances.”
There’s a muffled noise from Rhia. I carefully don’t look at her.
“I have every confidence that they are, yet for now my mountain women will remain my personal guard.” My mouth twists. “I’m sure Rhia will be grateful for your help guarding me beyond my private chambers, however.”
Rhia says flatly, “My mountain women are more than capable of guarding you at all times.”
Almost at the same moment, Grenou says, “Will I be answering to Rhia Knoll, then?” His disdain is barely suppressed.
Rhia gives him a look even less cordial. “Do you have a probl—”
“You answer to me,” I interrupt sharply. “Both of you do. When we are in public, I will expect you both to work together. If we find ourselves in a crisis, Grenou, you’ll have to take orders from her.” I look at him. “I trust you’ll find that acceptable.”
“Yes, my lady. But…”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Rhia is practically vibrating with rage.
“A mountain woman?” Grenou is saying. “I may not be able to und
erstand her. The accent, you see.”
At least one of his guards hides a grin. Rhia tenses but doesn’t lunge forward with an insult, as I half expected her to.
I snap. “Captain Grenou, do you want this post or not? If you do, I imagine you’ll find a way to understand Captain Rhia perfectly well. If not, the door is right there.”
He stares at me. Obviously he didn’t expect me to push back—or, perhaps, to even respond to his insult. Now all his guards are determinedly staring at the wall behind me, their faces blank.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” he says at last. “I spoke poorly. I am sure I can understand the Caerisian.”
“Her name is Captain Rhia Knoll, not the Caerisian.” I’m painfully aware of my own accent, grown thicker with anger, burring through my words. I am the Caerisian, too, after all. “You will address her as such.”
He bows, glances at Rhia. “Captain Knoll.”
“Captain Grenou,” she replies, with only the faintest curl of her lip. “You and I will meet in the morning to discuss the rotation of your men. I will also attend their morning exercises, to assess their competence.” She pauses. “I do hope you understood that.”
His jaw sets. “Perfectly.”
I roll my eyes. If I have to deal with the wounded pride of not only Rhia but this man, too, perhaps I would be better off without any guards. With a sigh, I say to Devalle, “Thank you for the introduction.”
He bows with a faint, amused smile. “My lady.”
I nod at him and stride out of the room, my temper hardening the impact of my heels on the parquet.
Rhia storms after me. “Damned courtiers,” she says in Caerisian. “That Devalle seems keen to turn you into an Ereni queen.”
I snort. “Feeling better today?”
“Trying to undermine my mountain women,” she grumbles. “I’ll undermine him!”
“Which one?”
“Both of them.”
We’ve arrived at my rooms, and without waiting for an invitation she follows me right in and stands there watching while I pour myself a cup of water. I close my eyes. This hideous headache won’t go away, and my feet feel heavy and swollen. I want a nap, not to deal with Rhia Knoll’s wounded pride.
