by C. E. Murphy
A single morning later he sets loose the last pigeon, and with it the trail that Akilina wants finally, finally, finally comes to Gallin.
BELINDA PRIMROSE / BEATRICE IRVINE
4 January 1588 Lutetia
Belinda chafed. As Beatrice Irvine, widowed wife to a depraved Lanyarchan lordling, she had become accustomed to a certain amount of freedom. It had been the limited freedom of a woman, unable to cross certain thresholds, reluctantly lent money to, wooed by those who might want a nobleman’s title to add to their names, but it had been freedom.
Beatrice Irvine, fiancée to Javier de Castille, crown prince of Gallin, had no such freedom.
That the watching guards and constant eyes were bothersome came as a surprise to her. She would have imagined Beatrice’s freedoms to be overwhelming—and they were, but in a different manner than she might have expected. Accustomed to a lifetime of hiding and going unnoticed, she had thought that playing an obvious role, one in the public eye, would alarm her; that a habit of circumspection would keep her from enjoying the part. Instead she’d taken to it, a truth that made her wonder, though only briefly, if Beatrice’s easy laugh might have been her own, had circumstances been different. It was a speculation to be let go unpondered; her life was what it was, and imagining it otherwise sent a shudder of confused revulsion down her spine.
Still, those small freedoms that she’d known were now gone, and she found herself resenting the fine life she lived. She picked at embroidery, surrounded by court ladies and under the watchful eyes of guards, until her fingers and her brain both seemed to bleed with weariness of it all. None of her discontent spilled outward; she kept it wrapped inside as thoroughly as she was caught under the guards’ gazes. It was far more difficult, she’d discovered, to call the witchpower stillness and disappear from view when someone was actively watching her. That she’d done it with Javier and Sacha in the room suggested to her that intimacy was key there, as well; whatever connection a joining of flesh offered seemed to provide inroads to the minds of the men around her. The guards, patient, unobtrusive, watching, turned their focus on her more pointedly when she called witchpower and tried to hide herself in the shadows of plain sight. Ultimately more concerned with secrecy than proving, if only to herself, her ability to fade away and escape her polite jailers, she gave up trying and resigned herself to the boredom of stitching.
Weeks. It had been weeks, and for once Belinda shared Asselin’s impatience. Her access to Javier had been whittled away, her ability to write freely to “dearest Jayne” compromised, and the thing that kept a stranglehold on her was that she could see no way to slip free the bonds that held her and escape into a different world for a while without threatening the position she now held.
For the first time in her life, Belinda thought she might understand, truly understand, the constraints that held Lorraine in place.
She, though, had advantages that Lorraine didn’t share. It was possible, not even difficult, to surround herself with shadow and escape the palace, escape the guards and the narrow definition of what a court lady was, at least at night. Daytime belonged to dull interactions with women Belinda had nothing in common with, but nighttime, at least, was her own.
She had not, in weeks of plying Viktor and prowling the palace at night, found where it was that Sandalia and Akilina met, nor learned their subjects of discussion. The handful of times she touched skin against either woman, she’d stolen thoughts of open disregard from Sandalia; unlike Javier, the queen regarded Belinda as no more than a means to an end, and perhaps as a test of loyalty for her own son. It was not that Sandalia disliked her; on the contrary, she seemed to be more amused by Beatrice’s inability to keep her tongue in her head than she let on, and she admitted to a personal weakness for Lanyarchans, whose king had been the first step on the path she now travelled.
Belinda closed her hand carefully around the edge of her embroidery hoop, turning the wood to more easily reach another set of stitches rather than flinging the whole mess away. Sandalia was as guarded in her thoughts as Belinda was, no more allowing herself active dreams of a pretender’s crown than Belinda permitting herself remembrances of her true heritage. Even if Sandalia had, thoughts couldn’t be proven, and Belinda required proof that was hard in the finding. That it would come through Akilina, she felt sure, but as yet there’d been no hint of it.
Nor was stealing thoughts from the Khazarian countess an easy task. Belinda had been raised to that tongue as much as any other, but her witchpower had been brought to life in Gallin. The precious instant lost in grasping understanding of one language over another clouded her ability to follow Akilina’s unspoken ambitions, though her flawless memory helped to bring back those things she feared she’d missed. That she appeared to be missing, in large part, Akilina’s vast amusement at a Lanyarchan provincial wedding a Gallic prince, only pricked her pride and made her that much more determined to pursue Akilina and Sandalia’s hidden agenda.
Weeks of slipping through the palace at night, searching for the two women and their conspiracies, had largely left Belinda tired and snappish during the day, and none the wiser for her efforts. Viktor, voice thick with desire, insisted that they met in the queen’s chambers, but even hidden by witchpower, Belinda had not dared those rooms, locked against visitors. She had learned passageways within the palace, searching for a back path to Sandalia’s rooms that way, but had met with no success, found neither queen nor countess nor hidden, private places in the palace where they might meet. It was not, she told herself, Viktor’s fault; he couldn’t be expected to stand guard within Sandalia’s chambers unless invited in, and no queen would lower herself, or grace an ordinary guardsman so.
She finished the last stitches on a rose and smoothed her thumb over the shining crimson thread. The delicacy of her position seemed absurd; she must push toward a battle for a crown without seeming to, without stepping over a nearly invisible line that made her treachery a gift worth handing over to another queen, and find proof of a plot that her own words were part of creating. It was a balancing act worthy of a theatrical troupe. Her latest missive from Robert—nearly a month old now—made it vividly clear that Lorraine wouldn’t act without written proof, and since then Belinda’s newly elevated place in the Gallic court had made corresponding with Aulun’s secret spymaster too dangerous. She didn’t know for certain that her letters home were opened and read, but there was no reason to suppose they weren’t, and she preferred to err on caution’s side.
Quiet rumblings had come out of Aulun at the news, officially carried, of Javier’s engagement to a Lanyarchan noble. Better still, raw delight had driven a clan of drunken Lanyarch men over the wall that defined their southern border and into a cattle raid on Aulunian territory. A Lanyarchan banner had been planted in the midst of a field and an entire herd of beefstock driven north. The outraged, frightened landowner had sent to Alunaer for help, and rumour whispered that Aulunian troops were amassing near the island nation’s northern border, though there weren’t yet stories of skirmishes fought along the border.
Still, troops encroaching on close–to–Lanyarchan–territory was excuse enough, even in the dead of winter. Stories flooded into Gallin, new tales every day. They said the clans gathered in Javier’s name, in Beatrice’s name, putting aside their own differences to come together and face the Reformation threat. They said that Lorraine grew agitated on her throne, unwilling to commit to battle in the middle of winter, but less willing still to lose her contentious northern neighbor from her empire. Even now, when Belinda turned her ear to the chatter shared by the embroidering women, they spoke of almost nothing else. She kept her tongue firmly between her teeth, resisting the urge to point out the unlikelihood of fresh news arriving from Aulun each morning. It didn’t matter: the point was to build confidence in the Gallic people and their monarchs that Lanyarch would stand up and fight for itself and Cordula given even a hint of support from the world across the channel. Gossip had its place in creatin
g that confidence.
The worst danger of playing a Lanyarchan uprising was that someone might think to ask who Beatrice Irvine was, and wonder why no one remembered her. Belinda trusted that Robert would deal with that; that there would be a handful or more of men and women who remembered growing up with her, who remembered her marriage to some loyalist whose grounds were a gift from Lorraine. They would plant half-certain recollections in the minds of others, until Beatrice took on a life of her own, but it was still, always, a risk.
All the more reason, Belinda thought, to try to hurry the matter. The less time spent venerating a minor Lanyarchan noble who’d caught the eye of the Gallic prince, the better. She smoothed her embroidery out again and scowled faintly at it, reveling in the expression. Besides, never mind Beatrice’s history, Belinda was like to find herself bored to the very death if she had to stitch roses onto a tapestry for much longer.
“My lady Beatrice.” The voice was apologetic and unexpected; Belinda looked up to find Marius, elegant hat clenched in his hands, standing in the doorway. A titter arose from the women around her, sly looks exchanged as Marius bowed to all of them, perfunctory and polite, but left his gaze on Belinda. “May I speak with you, my lady?”
Genuine warmth lit Belinda’s smile. “It would be my pleasure, m’sieur.” She murmured an apology to the other women, leaving the room to a burst of laughter as the door closed. Marius, ever polite, offered his elbow, and Beatrice slipped her fingers through it. “It’s been weeks, Marius.” There was more question than reprimand in the statement, though Marius glanced at her to be certain of that. His dark eyes were mournful, as if he were an injured wild thing, not a man.
“I’ve been helping Sacha look for Eliza. It was…easier.”
Belinda let the confession go a moment, tightening her fingers against his arm. “Have you had any luck?”
“Of course not.” More realism coloured Marius’s voice than had touched either Asselin’s or Javier’s when it came to the topic of Eliza’s disappearance. “Liz won’t be found unless she wants to be. If I were her, I’d have gone to Parna, or Essandia by now. Somewhere far away from all of this.”
“Marius…” His name came to her lips again, too easily, and he shook his head in a preemptive denial.
“Maybe that’s the advantage to her station. A prince and his friends may look for her, but she has no financial obligations or familial expectations to keep her in one place. Where would you go, Beatrice?”
“Aria Magli,” Belinda answered, too much truth in the soft words. “If I were Eliza, as well-educated and as beautiful as she is, I would go to Aria Magli and become a courtesan or a rich man’s mistress. I think I might make friends there.”
“Liz isn’t especially good at making friends.” A guard opened a door for them and Belinda squinted against a sudden splatter of cold and rain.
“It’s hardly the time of year for a stroll in the garden, Marius.”
“There’s a bower just down the walk. It’ll keep the rain off, if not the cold. I won’t keep you long.” He quickened his pace as he spoke, moving against the rain and tugging Belinda with him. She groaned, half-laughing, and scurried to keep up.
“Please. Would you send me back to my stitches? I hadn’t thought you a cruel master, my lord. I’ll bear the cold a while, so long as I don’t have to go back into that stifling apartment. At least the air is refreshing.” She smiled at her feet, watching the path, then transferred the smile to Marius as he ducked beneath an arch of leafless branches and into a gazebo well-protected from the weather. He didn’t so much as pretend a smile in return, and the expression fell away from Belinda’s face as her forehead wrinkled. “Marius?”
“My mother,” he said in clipped, precise tones, “has decided it’s well past time I was married.”
Belinda caught her breath, dismayed laughter riding it. “Who is she?” From the way he spoke, there had to be a bride already selected, a match made of good financial sense and, if Marius were lucky, a title to go with it. It ought not sting, that it did was discomfiting.
“Sarah Asselin,” Marius said through his teeth. Belinda blinked at him, honest surprise warming her cheeks.
“Sacha’s harpy-voiced sister? Marius, she’s—” Belinda broke off, then said, helplessly and with perfect honesty, “She’s a brilliant match, Marius. How—?”
“It seems Sacha was well-advised in sending me home to change clothes.” Every word was spoken like a blade, cutting against Belinda’s skin. “It seems I caught his sister’s eye that day. Her mother has spoken with mine and the noose is all but tied. I do not want her, Beatrice. I do not love her and I do not desire her. I—”
“You,” Belinda whispered, “are bound by financial and family ties where Eliza is not, and even if you and I had made promises of forever to one another, your parents have the strength to break those vows and send you where they will. She’s a better match than I am, Marius. She’s prettier, wealthier, and younger than I, and you’ve been friends with her family all your life.”
“Javier could—”
“Could what?” Belinda asked gently. “Forbid you to marry her? What would you do? Go to him and ask him to release me now? Ask him to set this game he plays with Aulun on its ear for the sake of our happiness? He’s a prince. Even if you could ask him, he couldn’t agree.” She stepped closer, curling her fingers against the merchant lad’s chest. “This does not end happily for the likes of you and me, Marius. We’ve known that all along.” His heart beat too hard beneath her touch; Belinda’s met it in rate, pulse quick and uncomfortable in her stomach. “Do you like her at all?”
Dismay and outrage, suffused with guilt, surged through the young man, flushing his cheeks. “She’s Sacha’s sister, Beatrice. I’ve never thought about her—”
“—about her soft curves under your hands, or her mouth and body opening to accept you?” Belinda reached for his emotions with witchpower, striving for delicacy instead of heavy-handed overwhelming thought. An abstract fondness for the Asselin girl was there, no more thought of than a passing admiration for a fine horse or well-bred dog. She whispered encouragement to that, tying abstraction to the impulse of desire that made Marius blush more deeply. That want served to accentuate his guilt and dismay, but it could, would, tie the merchant’s son to the lord’s daughter, if he didn’t fight it. Belinda wondered at the gentleness in herself, to try to soften Marius’s pain. “This game with Javier may go on for months, even years, Marius. Waiting on a possibility is throwing your life away.”
Marius’s jaw clenched. “It’s my life to throw away.”
“It isn’t.” Belinda closed her eyes, almost swaying with unexpected regret. “We all have duties, Marius. We all have things we must answer to. Wishes don’t make horses, my love, or beggars would ride. You must like her,” she said. “Find it in yourself to love her.”
“I only love you.”
“You must learn to let it go.” Words were half at odds with the tangle of emotion she wove, binding his want for Belinda to his unexplored desire for Sarah Asselin. That it was meant for his benefit was true; the young man would be better off out of love with Belinda Primrose. But the interweaving could benefit her as well, a cool calculation that seemed more like herself than the concern for his heartache. Should his love for Sarah be permanently bound to his desire for Belinda, she would never lose him as an asset. Whether true emotion, born on its own and growing in strength once the match was made, could undo what she put into place, Belinda didn’t know. If so, using him again in the future might be lost to her, if unfettered emotion could scrape away the ties she wrought. But his loss would be no great matter in the longer term: she could not long anticipate staying in Lutetia or Gallin once Javier’s plan to shake Lorraine on her throne was seen to fruition, unless the prince had his way and the promises he’d made were real.
“I only want you,” Marius repeated stubbornly. Belinda turned an unkind smile and stepped a little closer, bringing her lips clos
e enough to brush his ear.
“Only me?” she asked. “Shall I tell Nina that, then, or have you forgotten her already, my lord? You wanted her surely enough. Imagine now that it’s Sarah’s pale form beneath you, and tell me that you only want me.” She dropped a hand, brushing her fingers over his groin, and chuckled at the hardness she found there. “Shall I come to your chambers on your wedding night, Marius, and watch you take a virgin as you took Nina? You will be the husband, strong, indomitable, and only I’ll know the weakness in you that wishes to submit.”
Witchpower set her blood on fire, pushing off the winter cold until Belinda felt she could strip to the skin and go unscathed by wind and rain. She wet her lips, touching her tongue to Marius’s earlobe, and he shuddered, a sound of desire strangled in his throat. Belinda’s own rational mind warned her of danger, but the salty taste of Marius’s skin and his too-fast pulse were a delight to her, making her smile against his throat. “Or would you risk it all for me? Your marriage, your stature, your friendship with the prince? Will you have me and damn all consequences, Marius? We mustn’t, you know,” she breathed, mocking with laughter. “We mustn’t grunt and grasp and twist against one another, or seek pleasure in sharing bodies. Or would you break that commandment, my love? Would you fuck your brother’s wife?”
Marius groaned again and knotted his hands in Belinda’s hair, bringing his mouth to hers, savagery in the kiss. She laughed at his bruising strength, giving in for a few seconds before pushing away again, feeling her body flushed with desire and danger. “We mustn’t,” she said again.
And behind her, a woman’s voice murmured, “Forgive me, my lord. I wish I had not been right.”
Sickness curdled in Belinda’s belly, birthing ice that burned the witchpower’s heat from her blood. Marius flinched back, so much an admission of guilt that Belinda wanted to let fly a sharp cry of laughter. She turned away from him, faint curiosity cocking her eyebrow, no admission of guilt in her colour or expression. Her hands were not cold, despite the churning in her stomach and the shards of ice making their way through her body. She curtsied, brief perfunctory thing, then wrinkled her forehead as she looked from Javier to Akilina and back again. “Been right, my lady?”
