Amidst her preparations, Magreeda bandaged my arm and gave me a strong willow bark tea to numb the pain, while Rona saw to the other injuries. We had lost one servant girl and one of Dellik’s crew—fewer lives than I had expected, yet still a grave blow. They would burn in the pyre alongside Lord Jofran.
Though I worried what might happen if someone noticed a great plume of smoke rising from the cliffside near the governor’s estate, Mellicante reassured me that farmers were always burning cuttings from their land; no one would think anything of this blaze.
At last we assembled near the cliffs. Dellik and her crew joined us, wishing to pay their respects as well, while Viko hovered near the back, his eyes red.
Gathering storm clouds loomed out at sea, and a fierce wind whipped at our faces as we stood around the funeral pyre. White tips of foam danced atop the ocean; as the waves crashed against the cliffs with a muffled roar, bursts of salty spray rained down on us, the cold water stinging my cheeks.
Guilt tore at me as I stood there, unable to meet the eyes of the people I had failed. A better person would have made the sacrifice. Would have surrendered, in hopes that her followers would carry on the fight without her. But for me, there had been no choice. I had thrown aside a good man’s life in pursuit of something that was likely unattainable. And I would have done it again.
The wind whipped around us, tugging at our cloaks, drying the tears on Magreeda’s face as they fell. Four young servants walked up to the pyre, Lord Jofran’s body suspended between them on a sheet pulled taut. He wore his finest clothes, and a black silk cloth had been tied over his eyes. They laid him gently on the platform of logs, between the two others we had lost, and Magreeda set the pyre alight with her torch. In the fierce wind, the flames took a while to latch onto the wood; once they did, the fire spread quickly.
Before long, the governor’s body was alight with flames. His face glowed, erasing years from his aspect, the blindfold flickering. The wind whipped the bonfire into a frenzy, casting sparks onto the damp grass. I had to take a step back from the heat that seared my eyes and cheeks.
Opposite me, her form wavering through the heat that poured from the pyre, Magreeda cried silently.
“Tabanus guide him safely on,” Baridya whispered. Tears glistened in her eyes.
Rain began to fall, small drops that stung from the force of the wind. Soon the rain turned to a drenching downpour, and Magreeda ordered the staff to retreat inside. I followed the straggling line of servants and merchants, while Magreeda alone kept vigil beside the pyre, her hood turned up against the rain, face hidden in shadow.
Back inside the manor, our clothes gave off a powerful reek of wet wool.
“Magreeda says you’re to take the governor’s quarters and office,” Rona said gruffly. “You’re our queen, and only with your help will we be able to make those wretches pay for what they did to Jofran.”
“It seems wrong…”
“He would’ve wanted it,” Tessie said unexpectedly.
“It is the right course of action,” my father said. “It sends a powerful message to the household. His staff need authority to look to in his absence, especially if we are preparing for war.”
“What about you?” I asked my father. “Why can’t you take his quarters?”
“I am no longer the ruler of Itrea. And our country needs someone stronger than me to lead it through these troubling times.”
“Could you—please show me the way to my quarters, then?” My voice cracked, and I turned hurriedly away from the staff. “And Baridya, Mellicante, I would like your counsel. Please follow me.”
The governor’s wing was at the rear of the second floor, just behind his office, and every room had tall windows revealing expansive views over the grounds. Just now, they were streaked with rain, which drummed against the glass in sheets thrown by the wind. Off in the distance, I could still make out Magreeda’s solitary form keeping vigil beside the dying funeral pyre.
His enormous bedchamber, with curtains around the four-poster bed, also had a sitting-area and heavy oak desk just beneath the window. Someone—likely under Magreeda’s direction—had already prepared the governor’s quarters for me. His clothes and shoes had been cleared away, his bedsheets changed, and a fragrant bouquet of lavender placed on his desk.
I sank gingerly into a high-backed leather chair, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. It was as though the house itself watched and condemned me for usurping the governor’s seat so easily.
“Thank you,” I told my father. “I will need your counsel later. For now, you may rest.”
He bowed his head and retreated without argument. I needed his advice, but first I wanted to talk to my closest friends without fear of judgment.
As soon as we were alone, I slumped back in my chair and put a hand over my eyes. “How did everything go so wrong?”
I heard a creak of wood as Mellicante and Baridya sat on the divan across from me.
“I should never have attempted something so foolish.”
“No,” Mellicante said gently, her usual brusque tone gone. “This fight was not foolish. It was ugly, yes, but that’s the way of war. In truth, it went better than we could have hoped.”
I shook my head, fighting back hopelessness. “How are we going to get rid of the Whitish? I thought we would be able to find more support within Larkhaven, but now…”
“There aren’t many enemy soldiers in Larkhaven. Yes, we need more support than we have now, but not as much as you think. If we can get word to the outlying towns and settlements, we can recruit fighters openly and root out the Whitish by force before they realize what we’re doing.”
“But who can we send to spread the word? We have so few supporters. If anyone leaves, this manor will be defenseless.”
“Dellik would do it,” Mellicante said. “She has contacts in many of the nearby towns. That’s where I first practiced running trade caravans. She can travel south to Lake Ambrose, Morraine, and the Village of a Thousand Stairs, and someone else can head up to Northport.”
“I could do it,” Baridya offered.
“No, I want you here,” I said quickly. “You too, Mellicante.” Without them, I would be lost.
“What about your father?” Mellicante asked. “I know he traveled all the way to Northport before, when he was still a holden king, because I was in Larkhaven at the time and I remember the parade they held. People would recognize him. They would listen to anything he had to say.”
I dug my fingers into my arm, below the deep cut Magreeda had bandaged. It still ached dully. “I don’t know. We don’t have enough supporters to send him with a proper guard, and if something happened to him on the road—”
“Two of Dellik’s deck-hands can travel with him. And if he picks up supporters on the way, they can join his entourage.”
“I’ll ask my father what he thinks.” I still did not like the idea. “How long do you think we’ll have before people get suspicious?”
Mellicante shook her head. “The coast is long. They’ll need at least two spans to travel to the farthest settlements and back.”
“That will never work! Someone will attack us long before then. Is there anywhere else we could hide out?”
“No,” Mellicante said shortly. “It’s too much of a risk. Dellik hasn’t heard word from anyone outside town in far too long—most of the nobles out here could be trapped just like Lord Jofran was. If Whitish soldiers caught us sneaking around trying to find somewhere new to hide, it would ruin everything.”
We lapsed into silence, thinking hard. The manor felt very exposed out here in the countryside, with so many entrances and windows that could be breached. It would not take very many enemies to break in and kill us all.
What would keep people away, when they realized the Whitish soldiers stationed at the front doors had vanished without a trace?
Then it hit me. I had never seen the soldiers return to Larkhaven, nor any other Whitish men visit the gover
nor’s estate. People glanced toward the manor as they passed along the main road, but they did not approach. As long as we kept up appearances, it could be a while before anyone realized what had happened.
“We need to salvage as many of the Whitish soldiers’ uniforms as we can,” I said. “Our supporters can take turns standing outside the gates in groups of eight.”
A smile spread over Mellicante’s face. “That’s perfect. By the time anyone bothers to check on the manor, we’ll have enough strength to deal with them.”
I hoped she was right. I had a feeling this would not be easy.
13
The Curse-Weaver
T he next day, I called for the full household to assemble over lunch. My stomach knotted at the idea of facing them while I still bore the taint of Lord Jofran’s death, but I could not delay.
“Thank you for joining me,” I began reluctantly. “I need your help to prepare for whatever might come. We cannot expect help any sooner than two quarters from now, and even that might be optimistic. Surely someone will notice that something is wrong before then. Someone will come to investigate.”
“Are you expecting an attack?” Magreeda asked. “I know we put up a fight yesterday, but none of us knew what we were doing. If it happens again, I doubt we’ll be so lucky a second time.”
“I know. Which is why we must take precautions. First of all, no one in this household is allowed to leave until our position is secure. I don’t want to risk anyone getting caught and tortured for information. Do we receive food deliveries, or does someone purchase supplies in town?”
“Deliveries, Your Majesty.”
“Very good. In that case, we should be receiving enough food to feed a much larger household. Set aside anything that will keep so we can use it to feed our army when they begin to gather.”
Even now, speaking of an army of our own felt surreal. There had never been a true army in Itrea. Never had our people trained in the fighting arts; only guards and messengers took up the sword, and their skills were rudimentary. How would we catch up to Whitland, with its centuries of military practice?
“Over the coming days, we must prepare in any way we can. We will source weapons from somewhere, set this manor up so it can withstand a minor siege, and train everyone in fighting.”
Jannie’s eyes widened.
“Who will be doing the teaching?” Mellicante asked.
I grimaced in apology. “I hoped you and Quendon might help with that.”
“Certainly,” Quendon said.
Mellicante shot him a disgruntled look. “Fine. I suppose any experience is better than nothing.”
“What if we don’t want to fight?” Jannie asked in a small voice.
“Then you can keep busy in the kitchen,” Magreeda said.
I nodded. That would be best.
* * *
That afternoon, we began taking steps to secure the house. The young household staff were set to work washing bloodstains from the Whitish soldiers’ uniforms and mending the torn edges, while Dellik’s crew dragged a huge cabinet into the main hall so it could easily be shifted to block the front doors.
None of them seemed to need me.
The next days passed in a haze. Overwhelmed with guilt, I tried to stay away from the household, instead spending my time looking through the governor’s paperwork or walking alone in the garden. Despair at how badly the fight had gone trapped me, and I feared to make another decision that might go awry. Instead I battled my thoughts alone, allowing the haze of doubt to cloud my vision, the lingering pain in my arm to distract me from the grim road ahead. The churning sea filled me with a restless dissatisfaction, the seagulls scolding me for delaying the inevitable.
My father caught up to me while I walked in the garden one day. He fell into step beside me, not looking my way. At last he said, “I am proud of you, Kalleah. You have a remarkable ability to determine what is necessary and pursue it unflinchingly, no matter how unpleasant the process.”
“Do you think fighting is the right course? I did, until Lord Jofran questioned it. Until he died. A war will devastate our kingdom. Would it be better to surrender and save ourselves the bloodshed?” Even as I asked the question, I knew that was not a possibility. Surrender would mean giving up our magic races for slaughter. It would be a horrific betrayal of the very people on whom our kingdom’s prosperity depended. Yet I had to know my father’s thoughts.
“No. As you said before, a kingdom under Whitish rule is not a place any of us wish to live. A quick death at the end of a sword might be kinder than what they have planned for us.”
I nodded and walked on, the sun warm on my hair, the waves crashing below. Summer heat had settled over the estate, heavy despite the sea breeze, and it was far too easy to pretend that all else ceased to exist so long as we remained within the secure walls of the estate.
My father was silent for several minutes, walking alongside me with a pensive frown. I felt an unexpected surge of affection for him—he knew what I faced. He had seen what it was like to rule a country that increasingly threw aside reason, and he understood how much my decisions weighed on me.
Eventually we reached the cliffs. I stopped with my feet nearly touching the crumbling edge, while my father hesitated a pace behind me. Waves leapt and foamed below, and seagulls squabbled over a fish on a spray-slicked rock.
“Maybe you should take back the crown,” I said softly. “Our people loved you while you ruled. If I plan to usurp the throne from Leoth, I have no more claim to it than you do.”
“No,” my father said. “Your passion and decisiveness give you the power to lead us through this. I was too timid as king. I was popular because I feared to make controversial decisions. We need someone with fire in her heart, someone who is willing to sacrifice everything because she believes fiercely in Itrea’s future. We need you.”
I swallowed. No response came to my lips; as much as my father’s words comforted me, I feared he thought too highly of me.
We stood there in silence for a long time, watching the rolling sea and the scudding clouds. But when we turned away at last, some of the weight had lifted from my heart.
* * *
My father and Dellik left the very next day. Father traveled with two of Dellik’s deck-hands, as planned, while Dellik took the other one south with her. That left me with just Baridya, Mellicante, Quendon, Viko, and the eight staff members from the governor’s household. If anything went wrong, we would be virtually defenseless. More than that, the majority of us were required to pose as Whitish soldiers on the front steps at all times, which left few hands for other preparations. Even after I reduced the number of guards to six, we were spread too thin.
As soon as I could spare her, I sent Magreeda south to a nearby farm where the governor had shod his horses. I hoped the blacksmith would be able to fit bars over the manor windows, and perhaps even fashion swords and daggers for our makeshift army.
While Magreeda was away, Rona directed four of the servants to gather stones from within the garden so they could extend the wall all the way to the ocean. Tessie, Baridya, and I explored the far reaches of Lord Jofran’s house in search of any weapons he had hidden away—we stumbled across a full suit of decorative armor, along with a chest filled with swords and daggers that were ragged from rust. We also had twenty swords recovered from the bodies of the Whitish soldiers, thinner and more flexible than the governor’s.
The blacksmith arrived in the manor the very next day, his lined face shining with excitement when he was presented before me.
“So it is true,” he murmured. “Our queen has come to free Larkhaven.”
I knew a moment of alarm, but Magreeda gave me a nod. “He is a true ally.”
“Then yes, I hope I can free Larkhaven. Thank you for agreeing to help us. We have great need of you if we ever hope to meet the Whitish in battle.”
He bowed low, exposing the gleaming brown top of his mostly-bald head. “I will do whatever I can. I
heard ill news of His Excellency…”
After he had paid his respects to the governor, casting a precious stone into the waves near the place where his ashes had been scattered, the blacksmith measured every ground-floor window in the manor.
“Start with the ones in front,” I said as he rolled away a long scroll of numbers. “With any luck, we can secure the garden so no one can attack from that direction.”
“Of course, of course.” He tucked the scroll into his belt. “But the more security you have, the better, surely?”
“Indeed. Now, I wanted to discuss weapons…”
* * *
As the quarter wound on, Mellicante and Quendon began teaching us to use the array of weapons we had cobbled together. We ground away the rust and sharpened those that needed it, while Rona fashioned several sets of wooden practice swords from branches she clipped in the garden.
Mellicante and Quendon knew vastly different styles of swordplay; more often than not, our lessons were filled with their arguments over the most effective way to block a particular blow or the pattern of footwork suited to an attack. Quendon’s style was regimented and orderly, which suited his previous post as a guard at Baylore Palace; Mellicante had a much more fluid approach to swordplay, and advocated the use of fists, feet, and any other advantages that might take an opponent off-guard. She did not know the names of the attacks or counters Quendon knew by heart, but when the two sparred, they were evenly matched.
Baridya took to the sword faster than anyone else at the governor’s estate, though that may have been thanks to the private lessons I saw Mellicante giving her in the garden, whenever they managed to slip away from the busy household. She wore her long, gleaming black hair in a tight knot behind her head these days, always ready for a fight.
Renegade Queen : A Court Intrigue Fantasy (The Forbidden Queen Series Book 3) Page 13
