Kingsbane

by Claire Legrand

  Ludivine’s words from weeks ago returned to her, sharp and searing: And you lied to Audric about his father’s death. We are well suited.

  Her chest constricted around her heart, and she suddenly wanted more than anything to wrap Audric in her arms and never again let him out of her sight. Instead, she blurted out, “I love you.”

  He cupped her face in his hands as if to imprint the sight of it forever in his memory. “I love you,” he replied softly, and bent to kiss her once more. Then he murmured against her mouth, “My light and my life,” and left her.

  Before the door closed, as Evyline returned to the room with Rielle’s two maids flanking her, a page arrived on the landing, breathless from the stairs. “My lord prince,” he said to Audric, “I have a message for you, from the north…”

  But then the door closed, and Audric’s reply was lost.

  “What gown today, my lady?” asked one of Rielle’s maids—the younger of the two, Sylvie, in the white-and-gold shift that all of Rielle’s new attendants wore.

  In Audric’s absence, Rielle’s abdominal pain returned to her. She cupped her lower belly with one hand and stuffed the cake into her mouth with the other.

  “Something comfortable,” she declared. “And red.”

  • • •

  They had been traveling for a month through the heartlands of Celdaria, introducing Rielle as the recently anointed Sun Queen, and the reception in each of the thirteen cities and villages they’d visited so far had been, as Ludivine wryly put it, amorous.

  The town of Carduel was no different.

  When Rielle stepped out of the Château Grozant and onto the stone road that led up to Carduel’s House of Light, the wall of sound that greeted her nearly knocked her off her feet.

  Carduel’s population was just under one thousand, and every one of its citizens had turned out for Rielle’s introduction. They lined the road dressed in their most formal attire—embroidered coats edged with gold, the cut of the fabric a few seasons out of fashion; brocaded gowns stiff with disuse and faded with age; jeweled hair combs that caught the morning sunlight and sent it flying across the road in trembling bursts. Children sat on their parents’ shoulders, tossing white flower petals and waving golden sun-shaped medallions. Acolytes from Carduel’s House of Light stood every few yards, their castings softly glowing.

  Audric led the way, Ludivine on his arm in a summer gown of lavender and pearl, and his guard surrounding them in a loose circle.

  Rielle watched them, a slight unease nicking at her breastbone. Though there had been no official announcement, the truth was plain. It was impossible for anyone who paid attention not to notice the Sun Queen and the crown prince sneaking up to each other’s rooms night after night, and word of that had traveled quickly throughout the country. Someday soon, they would have to address how to move forward, appease House Sauvillier, officially share news of the broken betrothal, and introduce the idea of Rielle as Audric’s paramour.

  But not today.

  She ducked out from the vine-crowned trellis marking the courtyard entrance and smiled at the gathered crowd.

  A sharp cry from above turned her smile to a beaming grin.

  At Atheria’s descent, the townsfolk nearest Rielle cried out and hastened away, making room. The massive godsbeast landed at Rielle’s side with hardly a sound and folded her wings neatly against her body.

  “There you are,” Rielle cooed, stretching onto her toes to plant a kiss on Atheria’s velvet muzzle. “Have you been hunting?”

  In response, Atheria chirruped and peered about curiously, bright-eyed.

  Rielle laughed as she began the ascent toward Carduel’s humble House of Light, Atheria at her side. She felt the eyes of the crowd upon her and stood straighter, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. Some she passed met her gaze; others smiled and looked away; still others bowed, kissed their fingers, then touched the lids of their eyes—the sign of prayer honoring Saint Katell and the House of Light.

  By the time Rielle reached the temple entrance, her arms were full of flowers, and soft white petals dusted her hair.

  Tal, waiting at the doors in his magisterial robes of scarlet and gold, plucked a petal from her collar. “You’re late.”

  Rielle wrinkled her nose at him. “Sun Queens can be tardy if they want to, Lord Belounnon,” she replied, and then bowed low. He gathered her hands in his and kissed her brow.

  “Last one,” he reminded her softly underneath the din.

  “And thank God for that.”

  He glanced down at her red gown, lifting an eyebrow. “I’m not sure it was wise to wear red, of all things.”

  Rielle rolled her eyes. She had guessed he wouldn’t approve of this gown and its skirt of deep crimson. On him, it was a firebrand color.

  On her, it could be interpreted as a color of the Blood Queen.

  She took Tal’s offered arm and accompanied him inside to the temple altar. As he began the ceremony of greeting—so familiar by now that she could have recited the entire thing from memory—she let her attention wander. It was, she knew, a disrespectful thing to do.

  But if she had to listen to Tal praise her courage and heroism on the day of the fire trial one more time, she would scream, or start confessing things she shouldn’t.

  She maintained an expression of placid humility as he spoke of the tragedy—the innocent civilians who had lost their lives. The executed Sauvillier soldiers, who had been tricked into treason by Lord Dervin Sauvillier, who himself had lost his way in the face of ambition.

  Ambition, Rielle thought. That’s a word for it.

  Pay attention, Ludivine scolded. You look bored.

  I am bored. Rielle drew in a breath. We should tell them the truth.

  Ah, that an angel took over the minds of their fellow citizens? That angels are returning? That the Gate is weakening? Yes, that sounds like a splendid idea.

  For how much longer do you think they’ll believe these lies and omissions? Rielle looked steadily around the sanctuary, into which so many townsfolk had crowded that the air had already grown damp and hot. Our people are not stupid. We should stop treating them as if they are.

  “…And, of course,” Tal continued, his already solemn voice taking on an extra weight that made Rielle tense where she stood, for she knew what came next, “we still mourn the deaths of Armand Dardenne, Lord Commander of the royal army, and our beloved late king, Bastien Courverie, a compassionate and courageous man who led our country into an era of unprecedented peace and prosperity.”

  Rielle lowered her gaze to her hands, swallowing hard. She would not think about her father, or King Bastien, or Lord Dervin. She would not think about the glorious moment just before she’d stopped their hearts, when the empirium was hers to command.

  She shut her eyes against the memory, but still her mind summoned it forth: the sensation of the world splitting asunder at her command. Heat crowding her palms. A detonation of unseen power blowing her hair back from her face. The empirium, raw and blinding, reflecting her own fury and fear.

  Corien, crawling away from her, his ruined body glistening with burns.

  Three men, lying still at her feet.

  Her father, using his last breaths to sing her mother’s lullaby.

  A mother, and a father. Both dead at her hands.

  Rielle opened her eyes, stared at her clasped white fingers. Every time Tal’s words forced her to recall that awful, wonderful day—the day her father died, the day she transformed fire into feathers, and killed a king, and began to understand the true scope of her power—every time, she was forced to reckon with the truth she could not avoid: If given the choice, she would do it all again. She would change nothing that had happened that day, for doing so would mean giving up that brief moment of radiant understanding—touching the raw empirium, tasting its sizzling, storm-flavored power on her
tongue.

  Even if it meant that her father would still be alive, and Audric’s father too. Even then, she would change nothing, and her heart stewed in its own black delight—ashamed, but resolute.

  Then Ludivine spoke: Four men are approaching through the crowd, with the intent to kill you.

  Rielle flinched. What? Who are they?

  Men who lost loved ones at the fire trial. They blame the massacre on you. They distrust you. Don’t act until I tell you. We must wait until the right moment.

  Rielle’s fingers became fists. Tell me where they are, right now, and I’ll flay them where they stand.

  That would certainly ease the minds of all who doubt you, said Ludivine dryly.

  Do they have weapons?

  Yes.

  Rage dragged its eager claws up her spine. Audric is here, and Tal. You’re putting their lives at risk.

  A woman is about to interrupt the ceremony. Let her speak. Be ready.

  In the next moment, a dark-skinned woman in a high-collared azure gown, standing near the front of the crowd, moved forward until Tal’s acolytes barred her way.

  “My daughter was killed,” she called out, interrupting Tal, her voice cracked and thin. “At the fire trial, she died. She was killed. My daughter.”

  The room fell silent. Audric rose to his feet.

  “She had come to watch the fire trial,” the woman continued, her eyes bright with tears. “She had come to pay homage to the Sun Queen. She was killed by a soldier from House Sauvillier.” The woman pointed at Ludivine, her hand shaking. “Her house. And yet there she stands, alive and whole.”

  The crowd shifted, murmuring. Ludivine rose to her feet, the expression on her face one of eloquent pity.

  Here it comes, warned Ludivine.

  Rielle’s body tensed. She resisted looking around the room. Here what comes?

  “You brought her back to life.” The woman locked eyes with Rielle. “And you should bring all the others back too. If you don’t, you’re worthless to us. A coward, and a fraud.”

  The crowd’s voices grew into a low roar—insults thrown at the woman, a few angry cries of agreement.

  Rielle took one step back from them. You shouldn’t have lied to them. We should have told them the truth.

  That I’m an angel? Ludivine scoffed. Yes, they would have accepted me wholeheartedly.

  They would have. I would have made them.

  I need to be able to protect you, not spend my time fending off the fears of small-minded people everywhere I turn—Rielle, now! Left!

  Rielle whirled, throwing up her palm. The fire from the altar’s prayer candles flew to her—a dozen flames coalescing into a single ball of fire. She caught it in her hand, then flung it toward a curtained balcony affixed to the far wall.

  The knot of fire consumed the arrow zipping toward her, dissolving it to ash.

  The crowd exploded with noise. Some ran for the doors. Others shoved their children to the ground and covered their bodies with their own.

  Audric darted before Ludivine, unsheathing Illumenor. The moment the great blade hit the air, it flared to brilliant life, and the air around Audric snapped with sudden heat.

  Evyline shouted orders, Rielle’s Sun Guard—seven women strong—dispersing in flashes of gold to form a protective perimeter. Rielle heard a sharp twang and spun around to face the opposite wall. She felt the arrow more than she saw it, the empirium directing the instinctive power in her blood faster than her mind could form commands. She summoned a gust of wind from the air over her head and used it to slam the arrow against one of the sanctuary’s high arched rafters, where it snapped in two and dropped harmlessly.

  A third man was running up the altar steps, a long dagger flashing in his hands. Audric intercepted him, Illumenor blazing, and knocked the weapon to the floor. Defenseless, the man fell at once to his knees.

  “Mercy, Your Highness,” the man begged, hands clasped, eyes darting back and forth between Audric and Rielle. “Mercy, I beg you!”

  A cry from the crowd made Rielle turn in time to see the fourth assassin tackled to the floor by a group of young women. Three held him flat against the polished tile; one kicked a dagger out of his hand. A fifth delivered a sharp kick to his head with her brocaded boot. The crowd cheered; the woman kicked the man once more.

  Show him mercy, Ludivine suggested. The ones here who love you—and there are many—will love you even more fiercely for it.

  Rielle raised her hands, flames sparking at her fingertips. “Stop! Hold him, but don’t hurt him.”

  The women obeyed at once, bowing their heads as Rielle approached. She doused the fire in her palms and knelt beside the man.

  “I’m sorry for the loss you have suffered,” Rielle said, gentling her voice even as she itched to recall her fire and frighten more tears out of him. “I am still learning, and I hope that, one day, none in Celdaria will endure the grief of needless death. I will work tirelessly at the side of Our Majesty Queen Genoveve to achieve this.”

  The man stared furiously at Rielle for a moment, blood trickling down his forehead and nose—and then, as Rielle watched, his face softened and his eyes dimmed. His expression shifted into something sly and familiar.

  One of the women pinning him to the floor cried out and scrambled away from him.

  Rielle’s skin prickled.

  The man opened his mouth to speak, but Rielle did not recognize the words. It was a harsh tongue, yet somehow lyrical, and though Rielle did not know the language, she caught the meaning well enough.

  It was a taunt. A tease.

  An invitation.

  And underneath the man’s voice hummed another, familiar one that Rielle had not heard for weeks.

  She stiffened. Corien?

  The man grinned, and then, abruptly, his eyes cleared. His body stiffened, jerked, then fell still.

  Rielle rose to her feet and backed slowly away from him, the wild drum of her heart drowning out the sounds of onlookers shoving closer to get a better look, shouting questions at Tal, at Audric, at each other.

  The Sun Guard swarmed, forming a tight circle around Rielle and ushering her quickly out of the temple, Audric’s guard following close behind.

  Ludivine’s voice came urgently. We need to leave. Now.

  Rielle murmured a protest, shaking herself free from her shock as they moved outside. Atheria was prancing nervously in the garden just outside the temple, wings out, ready to fly.

  Rielle turned, found Ludivine leading Audric toward her. The crowd pressed close, barely held back by the circle of guards.

  “We have to stay,” Rielle protested, looking round. A man shoved forward his small child, who reached for Rielle’s skirt, sobbing. “They’re frightened!”

  No.

  Climb.

  Ludivine’s voice cut like a blade. Rielle stumbled forward, catching herself on Atheria’s chest. The godsbeast knelt at her feet. In a daze, Rielle mounted her. She heard Audric and Ludivine climb up behind her, felt Audric’s arms wrap around her waist.

  “Make her fly,” came Ludivine’s tight voice. “We’re leaving.”

  He won’t touch you. In Rielle’s mind, Ludivine’s voice was low and tremulous, like the roll of nearing thunder. Never again will he touch you.

  Distantly, Rielle realized she was not in control of her mind. Ludivine was there, in her thoughts, stifling her, calming her, even though she did not want to be calm.

  And yet, she gathered Atheria’s mane in her hands and croaked, “Fly, Atheria.”

  The godsbeast obeyed.

  2

  Eliana

  “The Emperor favors dreams most of all. Here, you are at your most vulnerable, and therein lies the appeal. Before sleep, clear your mind. Say your prayers. Recite to yourself the following: I am myself. My mind is my own. And I am not a
fraid.”

  —The Word of the Prophet

  At first, the dream was familiar.

  Eliana searched through the smoking ruins of the Empire outpost where she had dined with Lord Morbrae. Prisoners still trapped in the rubble screamed her name, an agonized chorus.

  Eliana.

  Their voices overlapped, shattered, surged. She ran with her hands clamped over her ears, but the screams pierced her palms and burrowed inside her like animals scrambling for shelter.

  Eliana.

  Quivering flakes spun down from the sky, a gossamer gray curtain of ashfall. Soon she was inhaling more smoke than air. She stumbled over a pale-brown arm jutting up from a black drift.

  She wanted to shout a protest, but her voice had vanished.

  She wanted to run, but her body did not obey. Her body was not her own.

  She grasped the cold hand, stiff with death, and pulled, dislodging her mother’s body. It was monstrous, deformed, frozen in a state of convulsion—not Rozen Ferracora, but the bestial crawler into which the Empire had made her.

  “Eliana.”

  This voice was near, and singular. A cool breath puffed against her shoulder. A faint, perfumed scent—spice and incense.

  She whirled.

  She was no longer in the field of ash.

  She stood at the end of an eternal corridor, its carpet red as a raw mouth.

  Galvanized lights, affixed to the walls with wrought-iron brackets, buzzed quietly between closed doors. The walls were wood-paneled, polished to a gleam. As Eliana walked, her blurred reflection accompanied her.

  She tried the first door she came to. Tall and narrow, its arched frame formed a point that reminded her of knives.

  She reached for her belt, but found she was without her weapons. She wore a simple dark nightgown; her bare feet were wet.

  She glanced down at the plush red carpet, testing her feet. As her weight shifted, so too did the carpet’s color.