Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  Despite this near-total lack of resemblance, Alys could not look at Shalna without seeing a shadow of her own daughter. And no matter how much she liked and admired the girl, she could not think about bringing Shalna into her household, making herself the girl’s stepmother, without her soul recoiling in a toxic swirl of horror and terror. Horror that she might somehow be replacing Jinnell, and terror that she might once again fail in her duties as a protector.

  Alys started when Chanlix reached across the table and laid a hand on her arm. She met her friend’s sympathetic eyes, and it was all she could do to hold herself together and not burst into undignified tears.

  “I can’t pretend I know what you’re going through,” Chanlix said gently. “I have not the courage to put myself in your shoes and imagine something happening to Chantynel.” Here her voice choked off, and she had to pause to take a quick breath. She shook her head. “No, I will not even allow myself to think of such a thing.” She sighed. “But you cannot stay in mourning forever.” She grimaced. “Not in official mourning, at least.”

  “I know that,” Alys said tightly, still fighting against tears. “It is my duty to put my mourning aside and to do what must be done for the good of Women’s Well.”

  She shuddered and swallowed hard, for though she was more than capable of putting that thought into words, it was a great deal harder to put those words into action.

  Chanlix nodded. “And you know that Duke Thanmir would make an excellent match, especially as the two of you seem to get on well enough.”

  “The irony of my position is not lost on me,” Alys said hoarsely, for she was well aware how selfish it was to speak to Chanlix, of all people, about her reluctance to enter into a marriage of diplomatic advantage.

  Chanlix patted her hand. “Don’t do that to yourself,” she chided. “You know I always understood why it was necessary that Tynthanal marry Kailee and not me. And as reluctant as he might have been to do his duty, his situation was not at all the same as yours.”

  Alys forced a tremulous smile, for Chanlix was a better friend than she deserved. “I do not think I would be quite as understanding if our positions were reversed.”

  “I am not thinking only of the good of Women’s Well,” Chanlix said, ignoring Alys’s statement. “I’m thinking of your well-being, too. I do not think you are doing yourself any favors by clinging to your grief.”

  Alys gently extracted her hand from under Chanlix’s. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, averting her eyes so that she might not see the sympathy and kindness in her friend’s eyes. “However, I am not ready to let go of it yet. And though I appreciate that you are coming from a place of friendship and caring—as well as from perfect rationality—I must beg you to let this subject drop. I must focus my energies on the likelihood of war, and until we have dealt with the problem of Delnamal, there is little point in dwelling on the diplomatic implications of my possible future marriage.”

  It was a paltry and nonsensical excuse, and they both knew it. The war would come whether Alys put aside her mourning or not, whether she married or not. But though she hated herself for her weakness, the fact remained that she could not face setting aside her mourning attire without her soul screaming in pain, and until she could manage at least that much, there was no question of her accepting a marriage proposal.

  Alys steadied herself with an iron will, forcing herself to look up once more and meet Chanlix’s eyes with a stare she was certain conveyed how deadly serious she was. It was impossible to miss how badly Chanlix wanted to continue pressing, just as it was impossible to miss how worried her friend was. Although Chanlix had outwardly accepted Alys’s assurance that she did not find the thought of triggering the purgative spell with her own sacrificial Kai appealing, Alys knew she was not convinced.

  But as much as she clearly wanted to coax and cajole some more, Chanlix must have seen how futile it would be. She sighed sadly and bowed her head. “Very well, Your Royal Highness,” she said, shifting immediately from friend to lady chancellor.

  Alys’s heart ached all the more for the distance that suddenly yawned between them. And yet she could not find the courage to reach across that gap.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Lord Darjal, Grand Magus of Khalpar, bowed deeply when he entered the king’s study, although even when the man’s head was down, Delnamal sensed his tension and vigilance. His face shadowed by the hood he now wore at all times, Delnamal smiled. There were occasions when the fear he triggered in Draios’s court could be inconvenient, making otherwise intelligent men act like simpletons, but more often than not, it served as an effective incentive. Knowing what Delnamal could do—something that had become common knowledge since he’d performed the public executions of the former lord chancellor and lord chamberlain—no one wanted to risk defying him. Oh, there were still those who whispered amongst themselves and did not fully share the king’s opinion that he was sent by the Creator for a holy purpose, but those whispers were oh-so-quiet and oh-so-careful.

  Draios sat in the chair that used to be his father’s. In an attempt to make himself look less like an untried boy and more like a sovereign, he had started growing out his beard. Unfortunately for Draios, there was a reason he’d chosen to remain clean-shaven previously. The beard—what there was of it—was thin and scraggly and served only to make him look more like a boy desperately pretending to be a man. However, as long as he had Delnamal looming over his shoulder, no one was likely to inform him of his shortcomings.

  “You wished to see me, Your Majesty?” Darjal inquired when he rose from his bow.

  “Indeed,” Draios confirmed. “I have a very important mission I need you to undertake under the strictest secrecy.”

  Darjal’s face revealed a touch of surprise and more than a touch of wariness, but he let none of that show in his voice. “How may I be of service?”

  “I am aware that in these modern times, it is no longer considered appropriate or customary for kings to personally lead their troops into battle. We are meant to direct the proceedings from a safe remove, to send our men to their deaths without taking on any of the risks ourselves.”

  Darjal frowned thoughtfully. “There is no such thing as a safe remove from a battle of the magnitude we are planning,” he cautioned.

  Draios waved that argument away. “My point is that although it is considered customary for a king to keep his distance, I find the thought of it…cowardly. Certainly beneath the dignity of a true king.”

  Once again, Delnamal had to smile. A sharp glance from Darjal suggested he had caught a glimpse of the expression despite the hood, but of course he dared not say anything.

  Delnamal wished that he’d had even a fraction of his current wisdom in the days before he had absorbed the Rhokai from Aaltah’s Well. Back then, he had tried to get his way by brute force. If an attempt at persuasion had met with even a hint of resistance, his temper had reared its ugly head and taken over. How much easier it was to manipulate people and get what he wanted without his erstwhile welter of emotions reducing him to sputtering incoherence and threats!

  As Draios continued to amass his troops, Delnamal had put some thought into what he needed to accomplish in the war that was to come. As terrifying as his ability to steal Rhokai was, his most devastating strength was the aura of Kai motes that surrounded him. He had every intention of adding more Kai to his aura by wading into the battle for Aalwell himself. He’d come to know Draios well enough by now to realize that the boy would never allow the man who was his greatest weapon to leave his side. Therefore, if Delnamal wanted to gorge himself on the battlefield, he needed Draios not to hang back safely as a king traditionally would do. If he even set foot on the battlefield in the first place.

  And so Delnamal had, with a carefully chosen word here and there, planted the idea in Draios’s mind that he would make a more kingly, heroic appearance if h
e marched into battle himself, and he could see at once that Draios very much liked the image of himself as a warrior king, leading his holy army to victory. Then all he’d had to do was suggest a way Draios might do so safely, to ensure that the boy would make it happen.

  “It is true that kings of yore were expected to take to the battlefields themselves,” Darjal said, with just a touch of condescension, “but the danger—”

  “Is why I have conceived of a mission I would like you to undertake,” Draios interrupted. Delnamal could not see the young king’s eyes, but all he had to do was look at Darjal’s face to know that he was on the receiving end of one of Draios’s freezing glares.

  Darjal inclined his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my foolishness.”

  Delnamal rolled his eyes. He’d once thought his own grand magus one of the most obsequious men he’d ever met, but Darjal was every bit his equal. A fact of which he’d been aware when he suggested—in such a way that Draios believed it his own idea, naturally—this private meeting with Darjal.

  Without turning, Draios made a slight hand gesture, which Delnamal interpreted as a command to explain “their” idea. An idea that was, naturally, entirely of Delnamal’s devising.

  “His Majesty would like you to invent two new Kai spells, made specially for him,” Delnamal explained. “Naturally, when he steps onto the battlefield, he will be fully armed with every Kai spell he can carry. I will march beside him and provide him with all the Kai he needs to trigger those spells when necessary. But he must have a special shield spell that is fueled by Kai. I believe that with Kai as a triggering agent, a man of your talents can create a shield that will remain functional for as long as the battle may take.”

  Delnamal had no personal experience with battle, of course. Aaltah had been at peace for the entirety of his life, and he had never been the martial sort anyway. But he knew enough about magic and battles to know the fatal flaw of most shield spells: they wore off over time, and a man fighting for his life could not afford to open his Mindseye to replenish a failing shield.

  The grand magus’s brow furrowed in thought for a moment, then smoothed as he nodded. “I cannot promise that it will work, but I have an idea how I might approach such a spell.”

  “I intend to fight,” Draios said. “I understand you are a man of caution who prefers to make no promises, but you will do this for me. Is that understood?”

  Darjal blinked, and a muscle in his jaw twitched, but he made no other sign that the order had frightened or offended him. Delnamal was certain it had done both.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” the grand magus said. “And what is the second spell you wish me to develop?”

  “Because we can never be too careful,” Draios said, “I would like you to create an illusion spell for me.”

  Delnamal nodded indulgently while Draios described the illusion he wanted the grand magus to create. It would be another Kai-fueled spell, and it would create two dozen images of Draios that would surround both him and Delnamal. This idea had been almost entirely of Draios’s own devising, and Delnamal found it rather silly. As long as the king was under the protection of a Kai-fueled shield spell, hiding himself amidst a sea of doppelgängers was entirely unnecessary. However, Draios was in love with the image of himself as the invincible warrior, and while the shield spell would protect his life, it would not be visible and would not inspire the kind of fear that Delnamal’s presence would. Draios thought of Delnamal as a large, snarling hound on a leash—he wanted the enemy to be as fearful of the handler as they were of the hound.

  Darjal paled ever so slightly as he listened to the description. Delnamal wasn’t sure whether the pallor was due to the idea of the spell—Delnamal had to admit that seeing more than two dozen men who looked exactly like Draios would be more than a little unnerving for the enemy. Especially when the illusions were impervious to wounds. Darjal might be picturing that fearsome vision. Or he might just be frightened that it was a request he could not fulfill.

  The grand magus swallowed hard. “I…” He cleared his throat, his eyes turning inward as he thought.

  “Surely there are illusion spells that might serve as a starting point,” Delnamal said. “I know there are decoy spells that exist.”

  “Yes,” Darjal replied slowly, “but those spells are not very sophisticated. They can create an illusion of movement, of a human figure seen through the corner of the eye for a momentary distraction. There is nothing that would withstand more than a passing glance.”

  “That is why I’m tasking you with inventing a new one,” Draios said, with the tone of a man who was losing patience. “You may use a decoy spell to inspire your Kai-fueled version, or you may start from scratch. I don’t care which. Just be sure to have it ready when the winter breaks, so that we may begin our glorious conquest and rid the world of the Curse as soon as possible.”

  That Darjal doubted his ability to carry out his orders was clear in both his face and voice. Nevertheless, he bowed deeply and gave the king his word that he would see it done.

  * * *

  —

  Ellin had by now had so many private audiences with Nandel’s ambassador that Zarsha had teased her with the threat that he might get jealous, but despite the ambassador’s many requests for updates, she remained resolute in her claims that there had been no sign of Elwynne or the women who had “abducted” her from the Abbey of Nandel. It was an imperfect solution, at best, and she knew she could hardly keep her clandestine visitors shut up in their safe house indefinitely. But to admit she had them would bring far more strife and diplomatic headaches than she wished to face. She had enough troubles already!

  It seemed like every day some new and unsettling report reached her from Khalpar. There was no longer any question that Delnamal had developed a terrifying new power—too many people had now witnessed his ability to use his magic to steal the life from a person without so much as a touch—and King Draios was preparing his kingdom for what he believed was a “holy war.” His intended target, based on the reports, was Aaltah—so as to retake the throne on Delnamal’s behalf—but there was little doubt he also intended to destroy Women’s Well. And, based on his belief that the Devotional demanded women be subservient to men, there was just as little doubt in Ellin’s mind that he meant to topple her from her throne, as well. So she did not need additional complications from her most vital trade partner.

  The ambassador had only recently left her office after what had become an almost daily meeting when one of her talkers chirped. She glanced over her shoulder at the neat row of hand-carved birds that sat on the shelf behind her desk, then groaned softly to herself when she saw which one was chirping.

  Waldmir’s.

  She did not want to answer—especially not after the tension of her latest conversation with the ambassador—but he did not strike her as the kind of man who would give up easily. With a heavy sigh, she picked up the talker and put it on the desk in front of her, then looked back and forth between the two honor guardsmen who were tasked with protecting her at all times, even within the safety of her palace.

  “I require privacy for this conversation,” she told them firmly. She trusted these men with her life, and with a great many state secrets, but she knew Waldmir would insist on total privacy. All well and good for her to trust her men, he would say, but that didn’t mean he should be expected to do so.

  As her honor guardsmen were leaving—with the expected looks of mild reproach—she opened her Mindseye so that she could activate the talker’s spell. By the time she closed her Mindseye so that her worldly vision might return, a miniature image of Waldmir was hovering above her desk.

  “Prince Waldmir,” she said with a respectful nod, “how nice to hear from you.”

  Waldmir snorted. “Save the diplomatic small talk for my ambassador. He’s been well versed in all that frippery, but I have no
patience with it.”

  Coming from anyone else, this utterance would have been shockingly rude and might have caused her to end the conversation before it began. It was still shockingly rude coming from Waldmir, but Ellin was by now familiar with his disdain for diplomacy and his avowed preference for bluntness.

  “Fine,” she said. “What do you want?”

  She had the momentary satisfaction of seeing Waldmir taken aback. Ordinarily, she tried to maintain some semblance of politeness even when her every word had a sharp edge to it, but after having beaten her head against the ambassador’s thinly veiled hostility already, she had as little patience for it as Waldmir.

  Waldmir recovered from his surprise quickly, though she had the impression he remained annoyed. He was used to the women of Nandel, who were taught from their earliest childhood to be quiet and defer to the men who legally owned them. What an effort it must be for him to deal with a woman who was not just his equal, but his superior! Although to his credit, he rarely treated her like the lesser creature he no doubt still believed she was.

  “I want my daughter back,” he said. “I know you have her.”

  Ellin let out a soft groan and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I just had this conversation with your ambassador,” she griped.

  “Yes, I know. He informed me.”

  “Then you know we have no further news,” she said, then softened both her voice and her expression to convey sympathy. “I fear it is time to prepare yourself for the worst. If the princess were going to make it to Rhozinolm safely, she would be here by now.”