Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  This time, Draios went so far as to shift in his chair, which was well-nigh a temper tantrum from one who seemed to take pride in masking his thoughts and feelings. Something cold and hard flashed in his eyes and was quickly suppressed. “My father and I are both men of faith,” he said, “but we differ in our interpretations of the Devotional’s teachings. My father’s faith leads him to believe that the Creator Himself will correct the imbalance in our world if we but trust Him. I, on the other hand, feel that we as His children have an obligation to help right the wrong that was done to all of Seven Wells.”

  Delnamal nodded approvingly. It would have been much easier to take back his kingdom and destroy Women’s Well if King Khalvin were a man of action, but it was clear Draios could become a powerful ally if Delnamal cultivated him correctly.

  “Indeed, that is how I interpret His will as well,” he said, thankful for the first time that his mother had repeatedly tried to ram her religious beliefs down his throat. He had found her teachings and her piety a sore trial, but now that he needed the help of a pair of religious fanatics, he was pleased to find he had the tools required.

  Khalvin’s piety was well known, and whether he was willing to lead his troops to war or not, there was no question he believed that the Curse was an abomination. Nor was there any question that he agreed Women’s Well had no right to exist. All Delnamal had to do was convince the man that it was the Creator’s will that he take action, and it seemed Draios would be an admirable proponent for his message.

  “I believe what happened to me at the Well of Aaltah happened for a reason,” Delnamal said. “It was the Creator’s will that I be changed as I am, that I become a weapon the righteous can use to prove their worthiness and devotion to Him.”

  Draios absorbed that for a moment, then seemed to come to some internal decision. “I will be entirely honest with you if you will but do me the same courtesy.”

  Delnamal smiled and nodded. “Of course,” he said, though he very much doubted Draios intended true honesty. The Devotional might demand honesty, but even the most pious often found ways to justify straying from the path.

  “You are right,” Draios said. “I am here without my father’s consent or knowledge. In fact, he did not tell me that you and my aunt were living in Khalpar at all. I only learned you had survived the disaster at the Well because I rescued a letter from the flames.”

  “That is…disappointing to hear,” Delnamal said with admirable calm despite a momentary spike of temper. “My mother cautioned me that he might not take my claims seriously even with the sworn confirmation she provided, but I had hoped she was wrong.”

  “I’m afraid your letter was badly damaged by the flames by the time I rescued it,” Draios confided. “I couldn’t make out much other than that you and your mother had survived and were living in the country. And that something had happened to you at the Well that you believed could be used in our battle to reverse the Curse.”

  “Ah,” Delnamal said, finally understanding all the shifts in currents he’d sensed throughout the conversation. “You have not been made privy to the details about what happened to me.”

  “No,” Draios agreed with too-obvious chagrin.

  “I think this is perhaps something I should show you, rather than trying to explain,” he said, ringing for a servant as his pulse thrummed with eagerness. With the prince staying the night, it would not do for Delnamal to allow his strength to wane as it inevitably would by morning. Demonstrating his power was a risk—especially considering his own mother’s horrified reaction. But every instinct in his body told him that Draios would respond very differently. He was almost certain that was a genuine insight and not a rationalization to justify doing what he wanted to do anyway.

  A footman came to his call, and Delnamal ordered the man to bring Bandar to the formal parlor—Bandar being one of the embarrassingly drunken honor guardsmen who’d greeted the prince’s coach.

  “While we wait,” Delnamal said, “I would ask you to open your Mindseye and take a look at me.”

  * * *

  —

  Tynthanal’s heart started sinking even before his trade minister began to speak, for the moment he had entered the chamber for this morning’s council meeting, the man had been looking at him strangely. Unfortunately, he knew deep down in his bones why that would be—Administrator Loveland reported directly to the trade minister, and there was only so long Tynthanal could have expected the man to keep silent. Especially as the most alarming aspect of the Well’s damage became more obvious.

  “It has come to my attention,” the trade minister said when the lord chancellor gave him leave to address the council, “that our Well may be even more seriously damaged than we originally realized.”

  Tynthanal clenched his fists under the table as the trade minister delivered the news and the rest of his council gasped and gaped in dismay. In the month since Tynthanal had spoken with Loveland, there had apparently been only two new pregnancies recorded, making a grand total of five since the Well was damaged. The data only encompassed the city of Aalwell and the women who used the abigails as midwives, but it was nonetheless stunning.

  “You don’t look surprised,” the lord chancellor said, turning to glare at Tynthanal.

  He grimaced, fully aware that he had made a stupid mistake. All well and good to keep the news to himself as long as possible, but he had known better than to expect it to stay a secret forever. Perhaps the truth would be no more palatable if he’d informed his council immediately, but at least they would not all be looking at him with such shock and ire.

  “My apologies,” Tynthanal said, knowing the words inadequate. “Administrator Loveland did in fact inform me of this problem earlier. It seemed to me at the time best not to cause a panic until we were certain it was not some kind of fluke.” He did not say so out loud, but there had also been some part of him that had hoped he would find a cure for whatever ailed the Well before ever having to bring this deficit to anyone else’s attention.

  “Cause a panic?” the chancellor said with no small amount of acid in his voice. “Is that what you think of your royal council?”

  Tynthanal pinched the bridge of his nose and wished he would develop better political instincts. He had not meant to be insulting in the least, but now that it was too late, he could clearly see his mistake. Explaining that it was the panic the general public would feel when his council members proved unequal to the task of keeping the secret themselves would not improve the situation.

  “Has there been any progress in discovering what ails our Well?” Lord Aldnor asked, ignoring the testy exchange.

  Tynthanal knew his former commander had been one of the council members who’d voted against appointing him regent, but Lord Aldnor had shown no sign of holding a grudge. Tynthanal would have been more grateful for the change of subject if he could have provided a more enlightening update.

  “I will speak with the seer in Rhozinolm tomorrow—or as soon as she is sufficiently recovered to speak. She is due to take the seer’s poison today, and I have high hopes that she will be able to tell us exactly what happened to the Well.”

  “Is that all we’re doing to try to address the issue?” Lord Zauthan, the lord chamberlain, asked with a sneer. “I hardly think it’s wise to put such faith in superstitious nonsense. We must take a more active role in fixing the damage.”

  Tynthanal let out a grunt of frustration, for this was a frequent refrain from both his lord chamberlain and his lord chancellor—the two highest-ranking members of his council, both of whom had entertained hopes of being named regent over Tynthanal. In fact, if either one of them had been willing to set aside his own ambitions and name the other to the position, Tynthanal would still be in Women’s Well.

  “Lord Draimel and I will continue our work together,” Tynthanal said, nodding in the direction of his grand magus. “We
are doing everything we can to diagnose the problem, but it is like nothing anyone has ever seen before. And until we know precisely what is wrong, it’s hard to craft a plan to fix it.”

  Tynthanal had presented some version of that argument so many times he felt almost like he was reading from a script. It generally worked to silence his critics, but the mood in the council chamber felt different today—more fractious.

  “I’ve heard it whispered that the problem,” Lord Zauthan said with narrowed eyes, “is that we have appointed as regent the son of the witch who cursed the Wellspring.”

  Lord Aldnor scoffed loudly. “Remind your whisperers that the Well was broken before Tynthanal became our prince regent.”

  Tynthanal was thankful for the swift and reasonable defense, but the lord chamberlain’s words nonetheless chilled him. He’d known since he’d accepted the regency that there was danger to undertaking a task he did not know if he could accomplish. Because he was his mother’s son, there was a certain segment of the population who would always regard him as suspect. There was already some low-level unrest among the masses as the treasury continued to dwindle and the Crown was forced to reduce some services that not everyone agreed were nonessential. And because of Aaltah’s failure to keep up its side of certain trade agreements, shortages were beginning to be felt. Shortages that would only get worse as time went on.

  “Yes, yes,” Zauthan responded, “we all know that. I’m not saying that I believe as much. But as our belts get tighter with no solution in sight, those whispers will get louder, whether the accusation is logical or not.”

  Tynthanal did not think he was imagining the hint of eagerness he detected in the lord chamberlain’s eyes, and he doubted the man had ever wholly abandoned his ambitions. He didn’t see any calculating looks on the faces of the rest of his council members, but that was likely to change if the Well remained impaired for much longer.

  Although he was not a religious man, Tynthanal sent a fervent prayer to the Mother to help Rhozinolm’s seer find a solution.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alys could hardly believe how much Shelvon had changed in the last few months. When she’d been married to Delnamal, Shelvon had always appeared pale and wan, and her smiles had been rare and fleeting. She’d been reluctant to look anyone straight in the eye, and she rarely spoke unless spoken to first. In short, she’d been the epitome of Nandel womanhood, having been raised to believe women were inherently inferior to men.

  Even after defying Delnamal by spiriting Corlin away with her to Women’s Well, she’d still been noticeably meek and shy. But everything had changed on the night Delnamal had sent a man to Women’s Well to kidnap Shelvon and she’d used the sword lessons Lord Falcor had given her to fight the brute off until help arrived.

  In the immediate aftermath, Shelvon had been coaxed into giving introductory sword lessons to a handful of women, and that had been just the start. Now, her classes were always full, and she was growing in confidence every day. Time spent in the sun had bronzed her skin—though not enough to hide her Nandel ancestry—and she practically gleamed with good spirits.

  Shelvon entered Alys’s office and performed an elegant curtsy.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Shelvon said when she rose.

  “As if there were any chance I’d refuse!” Alys responded. “I’m always delighted to spend time with you, whether it’s on official business or as family.”

  Shelvon blushed. Her self-confidence might have grown a great deal, but there was still room for improvement. Alys had told her many times that she still considered Shelvon her sister-in-law, despite Delnamal having divorced her in absentia. But Shelvon never quite seemed to believe it, which was a shame.

  “Let’s sit,” Alys said, motioning to the informal—and unusual—seating area she’d insisted on installing in her office. It was almost scandalous for there to be anything “informal” in the royal palace outside the residential wing, but defying conventions was one of Alys’s favorite things.

  They both took a seat on the sofa and engaged in friendly small talk for a little while before Shelvon got around to explaining the purpose of her visit.

  “I have a proposal that you may find totally outrageous,” she said.

  “Oh?” Alys said, raising her eyebrows. Shelvon was not someone from whom she’d expect to receive “outrageous” proposals. “I think I like it already. Do go on.”

  Shelvon ducked her chin just the tiniest amount, but the hint of meekness vanished almost as soon as it appeared. “I’d like to propose that the Citadel of Women’s Well accept and train women.”

  Alys’s jaw dropped. The idea of women handling swords at all was unthought of anywhere else but in Women’s Well, but to have them in the Citadel? Alys could only imagine how horrified some men would be at this intrusion into the staunchest bastion of masculinity. But that wasn’t the only reason Alys found the proposal so surprising.

  “It was my impression that when Lord Falcor offered to teach women in his spare time, he had very few takers. And those who did come quickly lost interest.”

  Shelvon nodded. “That’s true. But I believe things have changed since I began teaching my own classes. There is clearly interest.”

  “Interest in learning how to swing practice swords perhaps,” Alys conceded. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s interest in becoming soldiers.”

  “Not necessarily, no. However, I do know that I have several students who seem to have a natural talent and who definitely would be interested. I’m not advanced enough myself to teach more than the basics, and now that I’m kept busy with teaching, I don’t have time to further my own lessons. It seems to me that in a principality in which women outnumber men by at least two to one, training women to fight might be advantageous.”

  Alys had to admit there was a certain logic to Shelvon’s argument. The population of Women’s Well continued to grow, but it was naturally women who were most drawn to it. And their tiny army was not adequate to protect the territory they now held. But the thought of women joining the Citadel, training to be soldiers…

  “Your suggestion is certainly unconventional,” Alys hedged, trying to imagine how the citizenry of Women’s Well—and the rest of Seven Wells—would react. People had adapted to Alysoon serving as sovereign princess—a title that had never existed before she’d claimed it—and they had also adapted to having Chanlix serve as a lady chancellor. There was certainly some grumbling about it, and there were those who had looked askance at an unmarried, pregnant woman—now mother—who had once been an abigail serving on the royal council, but the resistance had been less than she’d expected.

  Shelvon smiled at her with a hint of mischief glinting in her eyes. “What about Women’s Well is conventional?”

  Once again, Alys was struck by how much Shelvon had changed, how much lighter and happier the young woman had become. And how very much more self-confident.

  “Give me a little time to think about it,” Alys said. “And to talk it over with Lord Jailom.” She imagined her lord commander would be best suited to determining whether his men could tolerate the idea of sharing the Citadel with women.

  Shelvon bowed her head respectfully. “Of course, Your Royal Highness,” she responded. But the smile and the light in her eyes said she believed she had already won.

  * * *

  —

  Tynthanal fed Rho into the chirping talker that stood on his desk. The talker was linked to one of Queen Ellinsoltah’s. He hoped she was reaching out because her seer had tried and survived Mairahsol’s seer’s poison.

  He expected to see Ellinsoltah shimmer to life in front of the talker, but what he saw instead was a frail, middle-aged woman reclining in a bed with her eyes closed. Ellinsoltah then entered the picture, coming to sit on the bed beside the woman, who was obviously ill.

  Tynthanal
experienced a pang of sympathy, for he knew without having to be told that this woman was the seer who’d agreed to use Mairahsol’s potion, and it had clearly laid her low.

  “This is Shabrynel,” Ellinsoltah said as she laid a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. Shabrynel opened her eyes and sat up a little straighter, though the effort cost her. “As you no doubt have guessed already, she volunteered to try the seer’s poison.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Shabrynel,” Tynthanal said, and saw the woman start ever so slightly, then chuckle.

  “And you, Your Highness,” she said in a husky voice that suggested a raw and painful throat. “I have been Sister Shabrynel for so long I almost thought you were speaking to someone else.”

  “Well, you are Sister Shabrynel no more,” Ellin said firmly. “As soon as you are strong enough, I will arrange for transport to take you to your new home in Women’s Well.”

  Shabrynel’s eyes lit at the idea, and Tynthanal tried to soothe his aching conscience with the knowledge that Shabrynel would gain her freedom in return for her ordeal. Assuming she recovered. Alys’s seer never had.

  “The Kingdom of Aaltah—and I personally—thank you for the efforts you have put forth on our behalf,” Tynthanal said, though in truth he felt strangely pretentious in speaking for the kingdom. Prince regent he might be, but he had yet to grow accustomed to the title. And if he couldn’t find a way to fix the Well, he might never have a chance to grow accustomed to it. He could not stop hearing his lord chamberlain’s voice as he almost gleefully mentioned the whispers he’d heard. Or made up.

  Shabrynel smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that suggested she smiled often, despite her circumstances. “I’d take that poison ten times over if it meant getting to leave the Abbey for good.” She shuddered. “Although once was really more than enough.”