Creatures of Light, Book 3

by Emily B. Martin

  “Little arthropods, some of them luminesce . . .”

  “I know what a millipede is,” she said, affronted. “They’re all over the slopes, even the glowy ones. I think they’d have joined fireflies as being sacred to us if they didn’t set your skin burning. That stuff they leak out is cyanic acid?”

  “Yes. Have you dealt with it?”

  “I had a scout get some in her eye once, and she had the spins for a few days.” She twirled her finger. “Dizzy, blurry sight, that kind of thing. She may have thrown up.”

  “What do you suppose would happen if a person ingested it?” I asked, trying not to sound too deranged.

  “I dunno. A strong enough dose of anything can kill a person. But in smaller amounts . . .” She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “All right. Thank you, anyway.” I looked at the mug she’d set on the bedside table. “What did you give me?”

  “Just chamomile,” she said, tucking the tray under her arm. “After a tall pint of beer, I find it’s the main thing I look forward to after a long slog in the woods.”

  I could have hugged her. Some of my nervous tension slipped away, and my eyes prickled. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No—thank you. I know what it means for us to be here, with you all. You shouldn’t have to help us . . .”

  “You don’t have to cry,” she said, alarmed.

  “Sorry.” I dashed at my eyes. “I can’t help it. But thank you all the same.”

  She headed for the door to the hall. “My husband would call it my chivalrous sense of duty, but Mona would probably say I’m just stubborn—though I think they’re probably the same thing. Eat and rest. You’re both going to need it if all our talks go like they did a few minutes ago.”

  She closed the door. I rubbed my face, overwhelmed, exhausted, famished. I pulled the desk chair close to the bedside table and ate everything. The soup was salty but brimming with carrots, potatoes, and chard, and I soaked up every droplet with the bread. I could have eaten a half-dozen boiled eggs but made myself savor the one before lingering over the mug of chamomile. It was piping hot and fragrant, and I bent over it like a miser over gold. My eyelids drooped as I drank, and I wondered if Ellamae hadn’t slipped valerian in my mug, too. But no—this was the full-body exhaustion of endless travel, of heartache, of uncertainty. How many miles had we come? Had I done the right thing at all?

  Would Celeno ever forgive me?

  When I’d finally drained the mug, the bed called temptingly. But I made myself stand and move carefully to the adjoining door. Turning the knob slowly, softly, I cracked it open.

  Celeno was lying on his side in bed, his head bent over his arm. He didn’t stir even when the hinges creaked as I opened the door a little wider. I tiptoed over the carpet and peeked into his mugs. The broth and the tincture were both gone. Sweat still shone on his forehead, but his breath was deep and slow with real sleep. I reached out a hand to brush his hair and then stopped. I didn’t want to wake him. I withdrew my hand, tucked it to my chest, and hurried back to the door, closing it softly behind me.

  Without changing into a dressing gown, or even taking off my stockings, I crawled onto the bed, wriggled down under the pile of quilts, and was almost instantly asleep.

  Chapter 11

  When I woke, the room was dark. A fire burned heartily in the grate, and a covered tray sat on my bedside table. Had I slept the whole day and into the night? I slipped out of bed, my body creaking and groaning in protest, and padded to the window.

  The view out to the lake revealed snow-ribbed islands under gloomy sky. A few folk moved across the grounds, wrapped so tightly in cloaks and furred hats that they looked more like animals startled from hibernation. The horizon in the west shone a pale gray. So it wasn’t fully night, then, but approaching evening—I’d slept most of the day. So much for starting diplomatic talks right away.

  My gaze fell on the tray on my bedside table. My stomach growled, but before I reached for the cover, I pivoted and went across the room to Celeno’s door. Our morning conversation rang in my head, and it was with a wave of trepidation that I put my hand on the knob and turned it. What would I say if he was awake? What would he say? Should I tell him now about the petroglyphs up on the Palisades?

  I should, shouldn’t I?

  I slipped into his room and instantly saw that he was still asleep, his face pressed deep into his pillow. I stopped a few feet away, a little too relieved to postpone another disastrous conversation. I listened to his breathing for a moment—regular and even but with a slight rasp to it—and then turned back for the adjoining door. I tiptoed across the floor, eased it shut behind me, and went straight to the tray on my bedside table.

  The cover revealed more bread, salted fish with pickled onions, and a honeyed slice of pumpkin to provide some sweetness. I devoured it all, and then went to the washbowl. The water was cold, but I splashed my face and loosened my hair from the braid I’d been traveling in. It flowed over my shoulders, crimped into waves. I changed into a fresh skirt, adjusted my star band, and then made my way out the door.

  I’d expected to have to wander the hallways, hoping to bump into an attendant who might show me to Mona’s rooms, but as I stood outside my door, I heard familiar murmuring just down the hall. One of the doors to another guest room was cracked and spilling warm light. Without thinking, I headed toward it.

  I realized my mistake at the same moment my knuckles struck wood. Hastily, I tried to step back, but my knock had already landed, and the hinges creaked a little wider. It was Rou’s room, and Mona was there with him. In that half a breath, I saw them each as they tried so hard not to show themselves—she with her head resting wearily on his shoulder, he with his cheek pressed against hers, his eyebrows knitted together. Their fingers were linked on the settee, and his free hand twined in the short hair at the nape of her neck. As soon as my knock sounded, they straightened—she sliding automatically into that straight-backed posture, and he lounging against the arm of the settee, the picture of careless ease.

  Dammit, dammit. Would I ever manage not to ruin a perfectly good thing?

  “Gemma,” Mona said. “Come in—I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, nudging the door a little wider. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “We accused Mae of drugging you both,” Rou said, hitching up his warm grin where worry had been before. “To which she got a little cussy.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think she did—we were both just so exhausted.”

  “Come sit,” Mona said, gesturing to the armchair. “There’s tea—would you like some?”

  I sank down into the chair, noting the tray was clearly set for two people. “Oh . . . I don’t want . . .”

  “I’ll pass,” Rou said. “Gemma—I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re here. These people don’t drink coffee. No coffee, Gemma!”

  “How glad I am for a political ally’s objective observance of my country’s preferences,” Mona said sardonically, pouring dark brown tea into one of the mugs. “Else I might never know how backward our hospitality is. Honey or cream?”

  “Both, please,” I said.

  “I might have to suggest political sanctions,” Rou said. “Unless we can amend the trade compendiums.”

  “I can still throw you into the lake,” Mona said, stirring my cup.

  “Crying for a drop of coffee,” he agreed.

  Her lips tightened in that half-amused, half-exasperated expression as she handed me the cup.

  “Thank you,” I said, curling my fingers around the heat. “Where are the others?”

  “Mae was ransacking the healing wing earlier,” Mona said, pouring herself a cup. “I think she expects to find only leeches and whiskey, and keeps acting surprised when we actually have things in stock. Honestly,” she finished with a mutter.

  “I vote she goes into the lake before me,” Rou said.

 
“Don’t think I’m not mulling it over.” Mona stirred her tea. “She retreated with Valien a little while ago, and I haven’t seen them since. Arlen is at the armory checking over the new shipment of Silvern bows they brought down with them.”

  She sipped her tea and blotted her lips.

  “And Colm?” I asked.

  “Oh,” she said, as if he was an afterthought. “Who knows—the library, probably. Maybe the shipyard, hoisting rigging or hammering nails. I can never tell if he’s in the mood to read philosophy or beat a ship’s hull.” She observed the inside of her teacup with interest. “I used to be able to tell.”

  “You were close?” I asked.

  “We used to be all we had,” she said to her tea. “Arlen’s younger than us by enough that he was always a baby, but Colm and I are just a year apart. We were close even before . . .”

  “My folk invaded Lumen.” It was uncomfortable to use that word in place of annexed, but I supposed I should probably start.

  She took a short breath and swirled her tea. “Even during our exile, he stuck by me, went along with everything I planned to keep us afloat, worked himself ragged to earn us money and keep his mind off the lake. But now he’s drifting away from me. I don’t know what he thinks anymore. I don’t know why he does what he does. Sometimes I think he’d be happier back in exile, sitting at tavern firesides listening to merchant gossip and travelers’ tales.”

  Rou stretched his arm along the back of the settee to brush the back of her neck. “I’m sure he’s still trying to help.”

  “He counters everything I say,” she said, looking up from her tea. “He strikes everything down, turns it around. I’m not used to that from him. From Arlen, yes, and from my council, but not from him. We used to tack together—now we’re sailing in two different directions.”

  “Maybe you’re still trying to get to the same place, though,” I suggested.

  She gave a little flick of her head and went back to her tea. “I don’t want to talk about Colm. Suffice to say, I don’t know where he is or what he’s up to. But while you’re here, and while Celeno is still asleep . . .” She set her cup down on its saucer. “Gemma, Rou and I have been talking. About what could happen after all this, if we manage to stave off war.”

  I set my cup down, readying myself. “Yes?”

  “Are you really, truly committed to liberating Cyprien?” Rou asked. “Withdrawing all Alcoran presence, restoring the Assembly of Six to full power, giving up our industry and trade routes?”

  The thought made my head swim. I couldn’t imagine Alcoro without Cyprien. “Yes,” I said.

  He puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “Then you know that Celeno will probably be tried as a war criminal?”

  My blood ran cold. “A war criminal? But that . . . that’s for . . .”

  Crimes of war. I stopped short at the sight of their faces, both with a sudden film of wary pleasantry. I dropped my gaze to my teacup, my mind rushing.

  Rou was kindhearted enough to speak the words I couldn’t. “Countries invading other countries has happened before,” he agreed. “But it can’t be denied that Alcoro went a step farther, Gemma.”

  “Military-style execution of civilians, separating families, and general subjugation,” Mona said stiffly. “Those things aren’t part of the conventions of war.”

  The whole room seemed to close in on me, tightening my chest and stomach, pressing into my head. “What’s the sentence?”

  “Life in prison,” Rou said. “Or, so I would expect. Cyprien has never had a law of execution. Our worst criminal offenders receive life in prison with no autonomy, sometimes in isolation.”

  “That’s on top of the reparations that will need to be made,” Mona added. “It’s not going to be pretty, Gemma.”

  I’d hardly expected it to be pretty—but I hadn’t considered the possibility of war crimes. I had a vision of Celeno in a Cypri cell, damp from the bayou, with no view of the sky. Growing old inside the same four walls.

  I drew in a shaky breath. “I know I have no right to argue against it, but if you imprison Celeno, it may have worse consequences than you think. It won’t unmake his title to Alcoro—they’ll have almost no option other than to go to war.”

  “Against an allied East,” Mona reminded me.

  “I’m not saying it’s a good idea,” I said. “It will be Alcoro’s downfall—I realize that. But they won’t have a choice. To all intents and purposes, the Prophecy hasn’t been fulfilled, at least not the Prophecy that most folk believe in, and to remove the Seventh King before it’s been realized . . . a majority of folk will say you’re tampering with the divine.”

  Mona’s jaw jumped as she clenched her teeth—she didn’t believe in the Light, and she certainly didn’t believe in the Prophecy, so I could imagine her outrage at being drawn into its storm. Perhaps to stave off a fruitless rant, Rou gestured to me. “And I suppose there’s no good hoping you may still have some influence there?”

  “I’m on trial,” I said. “I’m no one in Alcoro anymore. They’ve set the warrant for my execution.”

  Rou’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Wouldn’t Celeno have to approve something like that?”

  “I’m sure he already has,” Mona said stiffly.

  I bristled at her continued assumption of Celeno’s behavior. “Actually—no, Mona, he hasn’t.”

  Surprise flickered briefly on her face. “Then what’s the impediment to your reclaiming the throne? If the warrant can be overturned, you can be reinstated, and we have the opportunity to solve things civilly.”

  “Well, it’s—it’s complicated,” I said. “The warrant has been signed with Celeno’s name, but . . . not by him.”

  “Not by him?”

  “His signature was forged,” I said, my face hot. Could my country sound any more corrupt? “Neither of us knew it until recently.”

  “Forged by whom?” Rou asked. “Who could get away with something like that and not be found out?”

  “One of our advisors,” I said, trying to avoid stacking any more fuel on the fires of religious exploitation. “One of our inner circle . . . I know it sounds absurd, but it probably wasn’t difficult for her to do it—and I have my suspicions that she’s done it before . . .”

  Mona nodded, as if in comprehension. “That religious advisor of yours. The Prelate.”

  My lips kept moving even as my words died. “Why . . . why would you . . .”

  “I thought her presence in Cyprien was odd,” Mona said. “I could think of no appropriate reason for you to include her in policy talks, but when she started nudging Celeno on our trade agreements, I knew she had a deeper role than I originally thought. I expect she’s behind most of Alcoro’s movements since her rise to power, is she not?”

  “You saw her for barely five minutes,” I said, stubbornly loath to admit how right she was. “And you hardly spoke to her at all.”

  “Perhaps—but I saw the way she handled you, and Celeno, and me,” she said evenly. “I can recognize a fellow heartless politician.” She waved a hand. “But I admit that’s not my only evidence. In all the documents we have from Alcoro’s occupation, and the treaties before it, hers is the only other name that appears next to Celeno’s. All the writs and orders to your forces while you occupied the lake, all the missives between the monarchy and the captain—it’s his and hers. I expect any documentation in Cyprien is the same. It couldn’t have been a much bigger step for her to begin falsifying them completely.”

  That she could have gleaned so much about Shaula’s actions from a few minutes of conversation and a handful of documents . . . how could she have hit directly upon a truth I’d been completely blind to?

  Perhaps she understood my thoughts. “Sometimes it’s harder to spot treachery when it comes from those closest to you,” she said sagely. “We overlook those we think we can trust.”

  “Well . . .” I said, struggling to remember how we’d reached this topic. “Well . . . the order for my execut
ion is in her hand, and to all relevant parties, it will appear to have been signed by the king. I can’t go back to Alcoro while she’s in power—and especially if Celeno’s not with me.”

  “So we remove her from power,” Mona said, as easily as if changing the date of a luncheon or boating trip. “She’s committed treason. Her name is on the same documents we’d use to indict Celeno. We can remove her from power, along with Celeno, and open the door for you to step back in as queen.”

  For at least three inhales, I was reduced to simply gasping softly. I looked back and forth between Mona and Rou.

  “No . . . no,” I said thickly. “No, that won’t work.”

  “Why not?” Mona asked.

  “It . . . They’ll still want to go to war,” I said. “The Seventh King . . .”

  “Gemma,” Mona said, placing her teacup on its saucer. “You are—or will be—the queen of the country. Not a subordinate to the Seventh King, not a pawn of the Prelate—the sole ruling monarch. You will have the power to strike down the call for war. You will have the power to reroute the direction of your country. You will have the power to build Alcoro back up from what it’s become.”

  “Not if Alcoro doesn’t recognize me as a solitary authority,” I said—why couldn’t she understand this? “And they won’t, without Celeno.”

  “Who will stand against you?” she prompted. “Your military? We’ll have the combined forces of five countries to counter yours. Your civilians? We will control every trade route into and out of Alcoro. Your council? Your Prelate? When your country is under threat of losing all commerce, all cooperation with the rest of the East unless they accept you as their ruling monarch . . . Gemma, don’t you see? We will make them recognize your authority.”

  “That doesn’t make me a queen,” I said before I could stop myself. “That makes me your puppet.”

  “An ally,” Mona said evenly. “Perhaps conditionally so—I don’t deny it. I regret to inform you that you’ll be hard-pressed to reach a solution that allows Alcoro full governmental control, when such freedom has come at significant cost to the rest of the East.”