by Vela Roth
Uncle Argyros’s chuckle grew into a heartfelt laugh.
“We would sacrifice any number of robes to witness that again.” Aunt Lyta grinned.
The affection did not fade from Uncle Argyros’s eyes. “What is on your mind, Nephew?”
Lio broke the news.
In an uncharacteristic display of strain, Uncle Argyros lifted a hand to rub his eyes. “I must trust Basir and Kumeta’s judgment on this matter.”
Lio exchanged a worried glance with Aunt Lyta. Uncle Argyros was truly weary if he didn’t have the energy to repeat his lecture on the problematic nature of the prince’s mission and why it should not be allowed to interfere with the Summit.
“May the Goddess’s Eyes light their path,” Aunt Lyta murmured.
“And may her darkness keep them in Sanctuary,” Lio finished. He composed his thoughts, ensuring all he did not wish to reveal was safely behind his veil. He must tread with the utmost care, lest his aunt and uncle find his words suspect. “There is another matter that troubles me: Lady Cassia Basilis.”
“Yes.” Aunt Lyta frowned. “We have yet to see her at the Summit.”
“I am concerned.” Let them feel just how much. They would easily think Lio worried only for his people.
Uncle Argyros took another swig of coffee. “I have not given her as much consideration as I probably ought to have.”
Lio had seldom heard his uncle make such an admission. Perhaps he could do the right thing by both Cassia and his mentor by taking it on himself to change her role in the Summit. “Isn’t your initiate supposed to mind such details for you so you may devote your attention to leadership?”
“The night I need another to mind my details for me is the night I shall surrender my position before the Queens.”
Lio tried not to wince.
The encouragement in Aunt Lyta’s gaze told him she at least appreciated his effort to shoulder some of his uncle’s cares. She tightened her hand on Uncle Argyros’s. “Nonsense, my love. We all learned long ago none of us carry our people’s fate alone.”
“I have given a great deal of thought to this particular detail,” Lio offered.
“What is your opinion on the matter of Lady Cassia?” his aunt asked.
“I know we must pick our battles.” Lio let out a humorless laugh. “The Tenebrans pick most of our battles for us, and we have yet to win any. But this may be an issue worth pressing. It is no small offense on the king’s part.”
“He denies Lady Cassia a seat at the table that is rightfully hers,” Aunt Lyta agreed.
Uncle Argyros took his coffee pot in hand. “It offends our sense of justice deeply, to be sure. But if we sought to address every abuse a Tenebran man committed against his daughter, where would we stop?”
Where indeed? If Lio must stop at Cassia, he would still call it a great victory. But if Uncle Argyros did not feel her plight as Lio did, he must give his uncle other reasons to champion her. “It is an offense against us as well. The king is withholding one of only three people he is honor-bound to bring to the table. He is violating the long-standing terms of the Summit.”
“Lio is right,” Aunt Lyta said. “We as the Queens’ representatives are here to swear the Oath with the ruling monarch of Tenebra and his entire family.”
Uncle Argyros poured Lio a cup of coffee and slid it across the table. “Of course Lio is right. My initiate knows we must look ahead. Lucis is a formidable king, and his reign appears to be an iron rule, but such things can change swiftly among mortals.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Uncle.” But their discussion seemed to be veering from the reasons and justifications Lio had intended to present in favor of Cassia’s inclusion in the Summit.
“Lio is obviously thinking of the precedent of the Summit of 973,” his uncle said. “We were fortunate the king kept his elder son, favored but illegitimate, involved in the negotiations, along with his younger, legitimate son. Upon the king’s death, when the two rivals vied for the throne, Hesperines’ greatest anxiety was mitigating the suffering the civil war caused, for the Oath would be secure regardless of the victor. Although the younger son prevailed, it could easily have gone the other way.”
Lio did his best not to think of the precedent the king’s younger son had set when he had ordered his own elder sibling publicly drawn and quartered.
“We do not know what may come to pass,” Uncle Argyros went on. “A feared and hated man rules this volatile country. Those who oppose him may yet get the better of him, and what then? A free lord puts himself on the throne with Queen Cassia for a wife to ensure some degree of continuity?”
Aunt Lyta nodded. “Then where would we be, if we had no agreement with her? Right back where we began, forced to negotiate with a new king whose intentions are unknown. Unless Lady Cassia puts her name to the Oath now.”
Lio could not believe that was a likely future for Cassia. She would never allow herself to become the puppet queen of one of the suitors she despised. But Lio could not afford to contradict the possibility, if it made Uncle Argyros more ready to help her now. “I do think it is in our best interests to see her more involved in the negotiations. Perhaps there is a tactful way we could encourage the king to allow her to take part.”
“We have given ground on almost every matter.” Aunt Lyta’s eyes flashed. “He ought to give ground on at least one.”
“But is this the ground on which we wish to make our stand, my Grace?”
“What reason has the king to refuse?” Lio asked. “Although we take the long view, Lucis clearly does not regard his concubine’s daughter as a political threat.”
No. Lio knew well that Lucis believed he had complete control of Cassia. How wrong the king was.
“Showing such generosity to her might enhance his prestige,” Aunt Lyta pointed out.
Uncle Argyros shook his head. “Bringing a girl child to the table is more likely to draw mockery.”
Aunt Lyta’s lip curled. “Or admiration. She is evidence of his conquests, after all.”
Lio’s jaw tightened. “Although we remain unconvinced Lucis wants the Summit to succeed, we can be certain he wishes to appear as if he supports the restoration of the Oath. On the question of Lady Cassia, would he not consider it in his best interests to oblige us, in order to keep up appearances?”
Uncle Argyros said nothing. After a few long sips of coffee, he nodded. “I think this may be one debate we can win. There are so few of them, I should hate to sacrifice even one.”
“Then we are agreed?” Lio tried not to sound too eager.
“Yes,” his uncle said. “Tomorrow night we shall see if we can get Lady Cassia to the table.”
27
Days Until
SPRING EQUINOX
Summons
“I’m sorry.” Cassia buried her hands in her apron, though there was no more soil to wipe from them. “The king will not accept any gift from the Hesperines that may have magical properties.”
The Prisma still smiled. Gray daylight still filled her vestibule and illuminated her patient, benevolent features. The votive Kyria still looked on with a smile carved in stone.
Cassia was all too adept at discerning what lay behind the expressions people held on their faces. A woman of the Prisma’s influence and experience would naturally have many such shields at her disposal. That was one reason she had arrived at a point where she seldom needed them. Straightforward speech and action were her way. Cassia found the Prisma’s feigned calm more concerning than any outburst of frustration or disappointment.
Cassia gave her fingers something to do, scratching Knight’s ear. This tension in her was different from the familiar wariness and fear she knew how to accommodate in herself. “I am sorry.”
The Prisma’s smile softened a measure. “Thank you for asking on our behalf, Lady Cassia. I take no more pleasure than the king in a bargain with the godsforsaken, but those herbs would have been…” She braced her hands on the altar at Kyria’s feet. �
��…beneficial.”
Vital, Cassia translated silently. Lifesaving.
It was another day in Tenebra. Folk cared more about nursing their prejudices than their children, and the king signed his own people’s death warrant.
There was no call for despair when all proceeded as it always did. The Prisma was a mage. She knew more of prejudice against Hesperines than anyone. She should not be surprised.
Yet the Prisma did despair. Only such a strong emotion would require a shield like the one she wore on her face in this moment.
I’m sorry,” Cassia said one more time.
“You’ve done all you can.”
Cassia took that as a dismissal. She and Knight escaped back to the garden. He lay down in his usual place at the edge of the plot, but he did not lay his head to rest on his paws, as if he expected to jump up again.
She had done all she could. The mages had misguidedly asked her to intervene, and because it was in her best interests, she had obliged. More than she ought to have. She would return to the palace today at dusk, and no more would be said of the matter.
The king had made his decision. That was the end of it.
Another day would pass, another night, another day. She would continue the rhythm her time at Solorum had taken on, swinging between long afternoons in the dirt at the temple and long predawn hours in the woods with Lio.
That rhythm, just begun, broke two hours after dusk. Cassia was in her rooms, occupying herself with her potted garden and waiting for her handmaiden to leave, when the royal messenger arrived.
Cassia stared at him over her rosemary. Hot pain tightened in her belly, and she gripped the handle of her spade. As if that were a weapon that had any power against the man standing by the fire and the words he would say. Knight uttered a quiet warning growl. But even he could not stand against the king.
What now? What had she done now? What did the king want of her now?
“What?” she managed aloud.
The messenger pried his gaze from Knight and looked at Cassia. His face betrayed his anxiety about her hound, but also puzzlement. He was an opponent who wore all his weaknesses for her to see. That was of little use, when the man he served was invulnerable.
“The king,” the messenger declared, “requests your presence at the Summit.”
The basket, spade and all, threatened to slip from Cassia’s lap. She had to make herself hear the rest of the messenger’s words.
“…within a quarter of an hour in appropriate court attire, my lady.”
“I understand.” A lie.
The messenger bowed and escaped. Perita floundered for an instant with darning needle in hand, staring wide-eyed at Cassia. Then the girl abandoned her chair and Cassia’s stockings by the hearth and disappeared into the dressing room. There came a flurry of clinks and thuds. The telltale sounds of Perita gathering her arsenal of combs, jewelry, and scent oils Cassia wouldn’t wear.
Cassia went into her bedchamber and shut the door.
By rote, she put away her things and undressed. She went to her washbasin and began to scrub.
Perita pounded on the door. “There’s no time for washing, Lady!”
Cassia scoured her elbows for the third time. “I’m coming.”
Here in her room she couldn’t tell precisely how much time she had, couldn’t feel the moments slipping by that were not an invitation to the woods, but an order to the Summit.
The Summit. It simply made no sense to Cassia. She did not comprehend. She had grown skilled at understanding the king’s motivations, even at their most twisted, but this she could not fathom. She only knew she must sit in his presence until nearly midnight without vomiting on her court gown.
Cassia’s Seat
Cassia need only slip into the Summit and take a seat among the least important. It should not be difficult, should it? Not as grueling as kneeling before the entire court at Caelum’s temple day festival with the king looking directly at her.
Cassia led her little retinue of one liegehound and one chandler’s daughter-turned-handmaiden on a circuitous route through the palace. Perita said nothing in the presence of listening ears, but her expression spoke for her. She was subjecting Cassia to a thorough scolding for taking the long way. Cassia wound around to one of the side doors that let out into the main courtyard. They made it out the front gate and headed toward the Summit pavilion.
She wished the present would fade into a blur like the moments after she had received the summons. She couldn’t even remember whether she had put on the new bronze dress or her old court gown that was barely blue and almost gray. She glanced down at herself. The torchlight told her it was the blue. Gray. No matter. Panic made all her senses sharper than ever. Her gaze fixed on the tiny braids of thread that decorated her belt. She could see every single one that had pulled loose from the worn embroidery.
The walk across the damp grass felt impossibly long, the cool moisture in the drizzly air very far away from her sweating body. The Summit pavilion loomed closer, and her head began to throb. Through the glimmer of the mage ward, she could make out the attendees. The crowd was not nearly large enough to make a silent bastard daughter sitting at the edge of their exalted company feel concealed.
The king was already there. So were the Hesperines.
The one small mercy of the night was that heralds never announced bastards.
Walking through the mage ward felt like taking a bath in a tub full of sewing pins. Cassia emerged on the other side with a shudder, fighting to keep her hands at her sides instead of clawing at the pricking sensation on her skin.
“Lady Cassia Basilis,” cried the herald.
Every pair of eyes in the pavilion stared at her.
She froze like a senseless rabbit before the hounds. She could not make herself move. Terror robbed her of control over her own limbs.
The sight of the men blurred before her until she confronted an army of colorless, nameless faces. Somewhere in that haze, seven pairs of brilliant eyes reflected the torchlight at her and watched her humiliation. The Hesperines could smell her sweat. Through the Blood Union, they could feel her weakness.
She saw herself turn away, grab her skirts in both hands and flee for the shelter of the trees beyond the green.
She could not flee. The king had commanded her to be here. He was watching. Waiting for her to take her seat. To obey.
It had never taken so much effort to turn her body and bend her knees. As she gave her courtesy toward the throne, her legs threatened to buckle. She straightened too fast and turned toward her seat, and the green rotated around her.
She put one foot ahead of her. The ground did not slip from under her. Yet. Every step took her closer to the chair he had allotted her. Each one was an act of submission.
She trembled inside with something that was not panic. Something more than fear filled her with a heat that was not of her body.
Her chair loomed at the very end of the very back row. She sat down hard on the unpadded wooden seat. It felt dreadfully familiar. To Cassia’s horror, she felt the urge to curse, cry out…or sob.
Perita took the chair next to her and eased it back in the grass, positioning herself slightly behind. Cassia’s vision cleared enough that she realized her handmaiden now directed that scolding gaze on everyone around them, as if daring them. A strange feeling came over Cassia at the knowledge that someone from her own tiny world within the walls of her chambers was here at her back.
And Knight was by her side. She murmured a command to him, and he seated himself at attention. All his training for ceremonial occasions came to the fore. But his tail flopped over her feet, and for the first time that night she felt sure she would not vomit, if only because she did not want to soil his fur. She made herself lift her chin and look up.
Lord Titus began to speak, and finally, thankfully, the hostile faces and beautiful gazes turned away from Cassia.
Over the throbbing in her ears, she gathered that Lord Titus welcomed
everyone to another thrilling night of winning honor and making history through useless and disastrous negotiations. She tried to focus. She had to listen. She was sitting in this foreign battlefield unarmed, and words were all she could reach for.
Lord Titus bowed toward the Hesperine delegation, which sat hemmed in by his own faction on one side and Lord Hadrian’s on the other, right across the table from the royal dais. At last, the royal spokesman took his seat.
With the other mortals, Cassia pinned her gaze on the Hesperines. Not Lio. All of them. It meant she did not have to look at the king.
When Lio rose from his chair, Cassia nearly startled. Under the concealing fur of Knight’s tail, she dug her toes into the ground. She must not give any sign this particular Hesperine meant anything to her.
Lio turned to face her and offered her a bow. “We the embassy, on behalf of our beloved Queens of Orthros, offer our heartfelt welcome to Lady Cassia.”
She glared into his brilliant blue eyes. Curse him, curse him, what was he thinking? Was he begging for disaster?
He faced the free lords with a slight smile on his face. “So too do we give thanks and respect to our honored host for this opportunity to resolve our regrettable differences. We rejoice to see that tonight, the Summit has taken yet another step toward adherence to the traditions we all cherish.”
Such artful words from both sides. Did no one realize to what degree the king tolerated the Hesperines, the free lords, and the world at large by bothering with this verbosity and ceremony? This was not his way.
Cassia could still hear his blunt, ugly words that had once decided a much different negotiation on a long-ago night. She could see, instead of the colorful awnings of the Summit pavilion, the mud-smeared walls of a tent. She could feel a different chair creaking beneath her, but oh, how much the same it had felt. How difficult it was, then and now, to sit still and quiet.
No, no. She could not allow this. She must maintain control.
