The Soul of Power

by Callie Bates

  “Our people will take care of your children.”

  “So will my friends among the other refugees.” Her lips press together, but she seems to come to a decision. “Very well.”

  “Thank you.” Some of the tension eases in my neck. “Let us know if anyone else will remain. We’ll have the others sent to Barrody immediately, by our fastest coaches, with a guard to keep them safe.”

  Demetra gives the Butcher a glinting, dangerous look but says, “I understand.”

  As we turn to go, she calls out, “You might consider how to use your own magic, Your Majesty. Perhaps you’re not as helpless as you believe yourself.”

  I can feel the Butcher’s gaze burning the back of my neck. I leave without answering.

  Of course, he follows me. “Magic, Your Majesty?” he says, with a touch of irony. “Might you be able to save us with a miracle, like the Caveadear? Strange that we have not heard of your abilities before.”

  “It’s nothing,” I say flatly. “Just a fancy of Demetra’s. She sees sorcery everywhere.”

  But even as we walk back to the main palace, I sense the music everywhere, the shifting, brilliant colors of it unspooling from every room. Pulsing with life, a rhythm I could manipulate, if only I knew how.

  * * *

  —

  JULEANE BRAZEUR FINDS me in the east wing courtyard, where I’ve gone to oversee the refugees packing up into coaches. I flinch instinctively at the sight of my minister’s close-cropped hair and grim mouth, though I try to hide it. We haven’t spoken since she condemned me following the news of Elanna’s death.

  “You sent for me, Your Majesty?” she says, solid and forbidding in her short, fitted navy-blue coat and crisp skirt.

  The air lies brittle between us. I can almost taste her continued disapproval. “In light of the growing unrest,” I begin, unable to hide the tartness in my tone, “I wondered if you had looked into the task I set for you. The women in the villages outside Laon who began developing magic—”

  “I remember,” she says brusquely. “I went out to Tristere and Fontaine myself and spoke to the women and their families. They refused to leave their homes. Nothing could be done.”

  I look at her. She stares back at me, unrelenting. “A sorcerer murdered a man this morning,” I say. “Word is already spreading. Those women are going to be in great danger.”

  “What would you have done with them? Would you send them to Barrody with the refugees?” A dark edge of contempt underlies her tone. “Not everyone can simply be delivered to Caeris for safekeeping.”

  “But they need to be kept safe!” I flare. “If it means sending them to Caeris, then yes, I would do that.”

  “Doing so would break up their families.”

  I grasp for the shards of my temper. “Their families are already broken. Their lives are at risk—”

  She holds up her hand. “Very well. I will send someone to speak with them. But if they refuse to leave their homes, what would you have me do? Forcibly evict them?”

  “Of course not,” I say beneath the judgment in her eyes, though every instinct in my heart is saying yes. “They should at least be given the choice, though.”

  “I’ll see to it.” She pauses. “Was there anything else?”

  I don’t know what she’s waiting for—an apology, an admission of my failure to keep Elanna alive, to protect the refugees? I wish I could apologize to her. But I am clinging to control with all my might, and my mind is too exhausted to find a way to forge a truce between us. So I simply say, “No, thank you.”

  She goes, taking the dark-yellow hum of her disdain with her, and I remain where I am somewhat longer, watching the refugees carry their few belongings from the east wing. Some of the children exclaim with excitement—“We’re going to live in another castle?”—but the others stare at the coaches with tired, wary eyes. They’ve had too many homes in the last months, and I know so well how what can seem like a great adventure at first grows too long, too tiresome, always running, always being pursued. I vow to myself that this is the last time these children will be forced to move. If they do so again, it will be by choice.

  Demetra comes to join me, and together we wave the refugees off, unspeaking. No one else has volunteered to stay and fight except her—and I have the feeling she’s only remaining here on principle.

  Despite the refugees’ swift departure, by evening two kitchen staff and one footman have resigned, citing the missing Ciril as a threat they cannot endure. The maids are whispering that a boy from the city went up on the Hill of the Imperishable and the magic in the stones possessed him, turning his eyes silver and making him hear whispers that aren’t there. So far I haven’t seen evidence of the boy himself, and I’m unsure whether to believe the whispers.

  But I do believe the other news, brought by the Butcher, that there have been riots across the south of Eren today, mimicking the one in the square yesterday. It puts my teeth on edge, yet what on earth am I supposed to do about it? If this Rambaud character is using El’s death to foment unrest, it’s not as if I can bring her back from the dead to put everyone at ease.

  I pace the front balcony. Rhia, Alistar, and the others haven’t returned. There’s no telling where Ciril has gone.

  “Your Majesty.” Charlot has appeared behind me, polite and almost soundless. I startle. He hands me a note. “This just arrived for you. The mayor of Montclair invites you to make an appearance in her town square. Her people are well disposed toward you, and she believes it may help mitigate the recent protests.”

  I rather wish Charlot would stop reading my mail. I take the note. It says essentially what he recapitulated, although more enthusiastically. The people of Montclair would love the opportunity to honor the queen! We would like to host a ceremony granting her the keys to the town.

  “Montclair…” I say.

  “It’s just north of Laon, on the eastern side of the Sasralie,” Charlot says deferentially. He’s still quite convinced that my Ereni geography must be abysmal, since I’m from Caeris. I’m not sure he even believes I know my cardinal directions. “Two hours out of the city, at most.”

  I nod slowly. “It’s a hill town, isn’t it?” Philippe, Rhia, and I passed it on our way to Laon. Philippe said something about Rambaud being associated with someone there—was it the mayor herself? How very curious, then, that she has suddenly decided she wants to meet me, and in Montclair. I’m only a few miles away; she could have come to the palace anytime. I start to say, “Tell her—”

  Sophy.

  I stop dead. It’s a whisper in my head. Someone else’s voice, speaking into my mind.

  Sophy.

  “I’m sorry, Charlot,” I babble, thrusting the note into my pocket. “I’ll consider this—we’ll send a reply to the mayor later. I must go—I’ve just remembered…”

  Sophy.

  Charlot is staring—politely, of course. I grimace a smile at him, then fling myself through the doorway, moving through the halls almost at a run. My mountain women pant after me. “Your Majesty—”

  “It’s fine.” I almost go into my chambers, but then veer straight. My study is probably the safest place, with only one entrance. I throw open the door myself.

  Sophy.

  I swing back to the guards—Kenna and Moyra. “Keep anyone else out of here for at least a few minutes.”

  Sophy.

  I slam the door shut and fetch up before the mirror beside the bookshelves. The reflection is not mine. I gasp, even though I’d hoped. A man is squinting into the mirror. The rough beginnings of a beard cover his jaw, and his dark hair has grown even more unruly. The collar of his shirt hangs open; he looks as though he’s been in a fight.

  “Jahan?” I say, my eyes stinging.

  His gaze flickers away from me, into the purple twilight surrounding him. He’s outside on a hi
gh, dusky hill. “You bastard!” I cry out, pounding a fist against the wall. “I called and called for you. What’s happened? Where are you? Where—”

  Just a minute, he interrupts, with the flash of a smile. There’s someone who needs to talk to you more.

  The reflection in the mirror jogs, capturing only a blur of light, and my heartbeat thuds into my ears. I’m choking on hope.

  Then the image settles, and I actually scream aloud. It’s her. Elanna, with her tumbled chestnut-brown curls and her freckles and that rueful twist to her mouth.

  Alive.

  “El,” I’m saying, “El, I thought—”

  She breaks in. Tears are silvering her eyes. Is Rhia—is she—?

  She must think Rhia is dead—that she died on the Ard. “She broke her arm,” I assure El. “She was madder than a hornet. We practically had to tie her down to keep her from going after you. She called me a tyrant!”

  Sure enough, that makes El grin, even though her tears still seem ready to fall. I’m crying myself, sharp cold tears that taste almost sweet in my mouth. She would say that, El says.

  “What happened?” I demand. “The emperor sent me this horrible, threatening letter—and then they were giving out that you were dead…”

  Yet she is very much alive, with color in her cheeks. All the gods, I can’t wait to tell Teofila.

  I was rescued. El’s gaze flickers toward Jahan, presumably. Not everything is as it seems here. But tell me first what’s going on at home. Have the Tinani…?

  I shake my head. “They quieted down for a while, after you flooded them out on the border.” I hesitate. I don’t want to burden her with further guilt—there is already something haunted in her gaze—but she needs to know the truth. “But people got word that you were dead, El. There have been protests all across Eren. There’s this horrible man—Aristide Rambaud, the Duke of Essez—who says that sorcery is evil and vile, and that I must be pushed off the throne. He’s allied with the Tinani. It’s…it’s ugly.”

  Then I need to come home, El says immediately. But before the tension in my chest can unclench, she begins to cry. Except—oh, all the gods, Sophy—they took my sorcery from me. The witch hunters—they stole it.

  My ears are ringing, even though I only hear her words in my head. My horror must be written all over my face. To have El alive, but stripped of her magic—it’s beyond what I can comprehend.

  At last, I find words. “It’s enough for me—for all of us—to know that you’re alive. You’re still our Caveadear. This is still your home.” Yet without sorcery, how can she even help us? She must be desperate to return home, and afraid at the same time. I don’t know how she’d even get out of Ida, and if her magic has been somehow destroyed, there’s no point in her risking her life. Firmly, I put aside the fears I want to tell her about—the Tinani, and the refugees, and the protests—and I say, “If you and Jahan can work against the emperor from the inside, I can hold out here a little longer.”

  Elanna throws a glance at Jahan. It’s stark with worry.

  His voice comes through the mirror, though I can’t see his face. We’ll do what we can here. And then I promise I’ll send El back to you.

  I breathe out. I need to tell Teofila at once. “Thank you, Jahan.”

  Jahan destroyed the emperor’s fleet, El says. The one he was planning to send to Eren. There’s hope, Sophy.

  I feel my eyes widen. “He did? Did the emperor—”

  A sudden rap at the study door interrupts me. “Your Majesty?” It’s Philippe’s voice.

  “I have to go now,” I whisper to the mirror quickly. “I’m sorry. Summon me again, please, as soon as you can. It’s so wonderful to see you both. I—I’d begun to think I might not again.”

  I’ll be back as soon as I can, El says fiercely. I promise.

  “My lady?” It’s Kenna on the other side of the door.

  I start to move from the mirror, though not before I hear Jahan add, Take care, Sophy. Give Alistar our regards!

  Guilt starts through me. “Yes, yes,” I say quickly, grimacing a smile at El, and turn away from the mirror.

  * * *

  —

  I’VE HARDLY FINISHED speaking when Philippe swings through the door. The guardswomen follow him, and he gives them an irritated look. “We need to talk privately.”

  I feel my eyebrows rising; Philippe is more sharp-edged than I’ve ever seen him. Interesting. I gesture the guards to leave. They go, both still eyeing Philippe warily.

  He’s pacing stiff-legged around the study. “You said you want to know more about him,” he says abruptly, and when I just blink, he adds, “Rambaud. He’s back in Laon. There’s an event. If you want to know what he’s really like, you should just come and see him.”

  I’m staring. Philippe is impassioned—angry—as I’ve never seen him before. It’s interesting, but also a little alarming. And if Rambaud is back in Laon…that’s not a good sign for me, I suspect.

  “Surely if I attend an event, I’ll be recognized,” I point out.

  “No.” His lips press together. “We wear masks. And…” His gaze flickers over me. “You’ll be with me. They’ll assume…”

  “What will they assume?” I feel a stab of amusement, mixed with annoyance. “That I’m your paramour?”

  His guilty look tells me the answer.

  I fold my arms. “You’re full of surprises, Philippe Manceau.”

  Now he looks confused, probably because I didn’t take offense, nor entirely accept his offer. With a little shake of his head, he holds out two objects—a green velvet cloak, and a mask. It’s black, simple, with two openings for eyes. The least intriguing mask I have seen.

  I take it, studying Philippe. I told the Butcher I would marry an Ereni lord. I suppose if I’m going to, I should test his mettle. It could be a trap, of course. Yet surely Philippe doesn’t think I’m quite this much of a fool.

  “Why?” I ask all the same. “Why take me there?”

  “Because otherwise you’re fighting shadows, as you said yourself. You should see what you’re up against.” He pauses. “And I saw him in the crowd at yesterday’s riot.”

  I startle.

  “It seems only fair that you have the same opportunity to observe him,” Philippe says.

  “And your mother?” I ask.

  “Still in Tinan.” His mouth twists. “For the time being, anyway.”

  This is, I suspect, a small mercy. “How will we get there?”

  He gestures at the bookshelves. “There’s a passage hidden behind one of these.”

  I survey the innocent ranks of books with a mental curse. I should have known there’s another entrance to this room! Laon’s palace has more hidden passages than a rabbit’s warren.

  “If you’re willing to go without your guards,” he adds.

  “Mmm.”

  “We’ll walk down the streets together.” He coughs into his fist. “Everyone will think we’re a courting couple.”

  I lift an eyebrow, and he winces slightly. “Not to presume, Your Majesty.”

  “Well…” I know it’s a terrible risk, but I have to admit to curiosity. I want to see this Rambaud person. I’m interested in spending some time alone with Philippe, as well—especially if I have to marry him.

  Perhaps most of all, though, I want to know who else is at Rambaud’s party. Even if they’re wearing masks, I should be able to identify some voices. It should be a great insight into my own court.

  I take up the cloak Philippe gave me. It’s a worn, dark-green velvet—his own, presumably. It smells surprisingly nice—the way, I realize, he must smell, a comfortable odor of bergamot and leather. For some reason it makes me terribly sad. I busy myself wrapping my hair under the scarf I’ve been wearing, and put the mask in my pocket.

  The mirror reflects my im
age back at me—the black, fine scarf dulling the brightness of my hair, the too-large velvet cloak swamping my frame. The wide hood settles, heavy, on my shoulders. “I look absurd,” I mutter. But I suppose at least I don’t appear pregnant.

  Philippe smiles faintly. “You look like a rebel.”

  “I am a rebel,” I point out. “I’m the rebel queen.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “No, I think you’re just the queen now.”

  I stare at him for a moment, then find myself laughing. “What do I normally look like, then? Regal, I suppose?”

  “No, you look…nice.”

  Nice?

  “Friendly?” he suggests, seeing my mouth open in indignation. “Kind. Approachable. You’re far less intimidating to most than the Caveadear, for instance.”

  I huff a sigh. It figures that Elanna looked the part of a damned rebel even though she grew up in this massive gilded palace, and I, who spent my childhood at the insurrectionist’s knee, look nice. Perhaps if I stomped about in a greatcoat and trousers, people would take me more seriously.

  “Lady Elanna is rather terrifying,” he adds. “Even to those who knew her before.”

  “Yes,” I agree, too eagerly, and have to swallow down a giddy smile. I need this evening to unfold before I tell Philippe Manceau the truth about Elanna. As gravely as I can, I add, “Or she was.”

  His face shutters. “I’m sorry. Let’s look for that door. There’s supposed to be a lever on this wall.”

  He walks along the bookshelf to my right, tugging volumes out, seemingly at random. I watch him, growing skeptical—and starting to worry that my guards will notice our absence. “How long will we be gone?”

  He shrugs. “An hour or more, I would expect.”

  The guards aren’t going to like that, and perhaps it’s unwise of me to be doing this. But now I know El’s alive, and I feel like being a little bit reckless. Philippe could be offering me the perfect opportunity to study those who are working against me.

  Or perhaps leading me into a trap, though I don’t entirely believe it of him.