With a violent shudder, I snatched at the pilot lamp and snuffed out its wick. The tower room was plunged into darkness. Shaula’s face disappeared. But she didn’t go away—it only felt like she was behind me, or standing in the shadows, waiting to lay out my failures to me.
Queen Mona would execute her. She’d try her for the same things she’d itched to try Celeno for, and she’d hang her without a moment’s hesitation. I covered my face with my hands. What if this was yet another mistake, the worst one yet? What right did I have to send her to her death, to atone for my own actions? She’d taken me in. She’d kept me from dying in a cupboard.
She’d killed four people, and dismantled so many more.
She’d killed the king.
She’d killed the king.
I drew in a ragged breath.
Or . . . had that been me?
Slowly, numbly, I lowered my hands. Outside, the upper reaches of the sky were speckled with stars, wobbling in the thick glass. Shivering, I stepped forward and looked out over the dusk-swallowed lake.
I would use a lot of black, I thought, to paint this scene. I didn’t often like to use black—few things in nature were truly black, more often gray, or brown, or a deep shade of some existing color. But the sun was below the distant range, and the islands were a true black in silhouette, with no hint of color or distinguishing landmarks.
My gaze dropped to the surface of the lake, mirroring the last gasp of twilight. My peripheral vision had simply said blue. Shades of blue throughout, perhaps with some hazy purples. But as I studied the glassy surface, I realized my eyes had simplified things. It was the definition of waterhue—the ribbons of indigo and plum melting into sheets of silver-blue and violet. Unfathomable green brushed against periwinkle, and brief ripples of some in-between color were birthed and reclaimed in the gently shifting surface.
I watched the water move and change for an unmeasurable length of time, until it was too dark for my eyes to distinguish color any longer. I kept waiting for tears. They never seemed to come. I looked up at the stars through the rippled glass. Nothing.
What was wrong with me?
You’re the heart, Gemma. Thump thump.
You know what the thing about that kind of happiness is? It doesn’t go away. It’s what you remember.
But Celeno hadn’t been happy. Celeno had been so unhappy it had robbed him of health and sanity. The eager, energetic scholar I married had slowly been eaten by his title—his title which turned out to be wrong. And in the end, I had only made it worse. I had been the one thing he thought he could trust in. And I’d taken even that away.
So why couldn’t I cry?
I stayed in the turret until my teeth began to audibly chatter, and then I wound my way back into the halls below. I glimpsed palace guards and attendants here and there, all standing at seemingly incongruous corners and doorways, but none of them spoke to me. I continued on to the guest hall.
It was late—I’d expected to find it dark and quiet, but light spilled from one of the open doors. I slowed my steps as I approached—it was Ellamae and Valien’s room, but it wasn’t just their voices I heard hushed inside.
“—haven’t even seen her cry, have you?”
“She’s still in shock, we’re going to have to give her time.”
“It’s just unusual . . . she always seems to cry so easily . . .”
“Don’t talk about me,” I said from the shadows.
The voices stopped. A chair creaked, and Mona appeared at the door, the light behind her making her shadow long and thin.
“Gemma,” she said. “Will you come sit with us, please?”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know, but we have a few things we want to tell you. And we have supper. Come sit by the fire—the turret must have been freezing.”
I recalled all the out-of-place guards and servants. “You were having me watched,” I said accusingly.
She nodded calmly and took my hand anyway, leading me into the room. It was indeed warm, seeping into my chilled fingers and toes. I curled them in relief.
Ellamae sat in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace with her leg propped on a footstool and a crutch leaning on her chair. Valien was next to her. Arlen was leaning against the mantel. His patch was off, revealing the lines of scar tissue over his left eye. Rou scooted over on the settee, patting the cushion next to him. In their midst was a table bearing covered dishes all curling with steam.
“Tea?” Mona asked, sitting back down on my other side.
“No, thank you.”
She lifted the cover on one of the bowls. “Soup? It’s nothing heavy—just good broth and some vegetables.”
“We’re all going to fuss until you’re holding something hot,” Ellamae added.
I didn’t doubt that. “Soup, then.”
Mona ladled a cup and handed it to me. I wrapped my fingers around it—it did smell nice. Parsley and thyme and just a touch of garlic.
“We drafted the message to the Assembly,” Mona said. “There are six letters written out, but they’re not sealed yet—would you like to see them?”
“No,” I said, swirling my spoon in the broth. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
“Rou and Arlen will leave tomorrow morning, then,” Mona said. “My flagship will escort your fleet down the river and berth in Lilou.”
I nodded and sipped a little soup despite myself. It washed over my tongue with a comforting amount of heat.
A stilted silence followed. Mona rearranged her fingers in her lap. Rou ran his hand over his face. When it was clear neither of them were going to say anything, Ellamae shifted in her chair.
“Gemma, I know this is hard to think about,” she said, “but if your ships are leaving, something should be decided about Celeno’s body.”
“You are welcome to inter him here,” Mona rushed to say. “But I don’t know . . .”
“He wouldn’t have wanted that,” I said.
Another awkward pause. I sipped some more soup. There were little pearl onions in the broth—tiny and sweet.
“It’s just . . .” Ellamae began again. “Your folk entomb, don’t they?”
All those pockets in the cliffside, filled with shrouded figures, the desert mallow wreaths withering under the sun, the juniper smoke lost to the wind. Twice he and I had stood side by side below the royal tombs, dressed in undyed linen, listening to the endless prayer of the dead. Both instances were surreal—the first time we were still stricken with shock at his father’s sudden heart attack. The second was swallowed by the looming preparations for his coronation mere hours after his mother’s body was laid to rest. Instead of juniper smoke and silence, the streets were filled with crushed sage and music, a cacophony of jubilation for the coronation of the Seventh King.
He’d been sick all week.
“I don’t know that we have the right embalming materials for you,” Mona said hesitantly. “My folk do water burials. And if the body isn’t prepared properly, and has to endure a week or more at sea . . .”
“When the River-folk light their pyres,” I said to Rou without turning toward him, “what do you do with the ashes afterward?”
His thumbs traced the rim of his teacup. “Some people keep them in family mausoleums.” He was on my right side, and his voice was muffled in my ear, still ringing from the blast. Reluctantly I turned my head slightly to hear him better. “But most folk will scatter them in the rivers.”
I nodded. “I think something like that would be best. It would make everything easier for everyone.”
They were all silent. Ellamae raked her fingers through her curls. Valien rubbed a callus on his bowstring finger.
“Gemma . . .” Mona began.
“It shouldn’t be about what’s easiest,” Ellamae said.
“Why not?” I snapped. “It solves the problem of him lying in the healing hall under a sheet.”
Ellamae sat forward, the footstool shifting under her leg. She stretc
hed out her fingers, but she couldn’t lean past her knee. “I’m too far away, dammit—Val, take her hand.”
Valien leaned over and closed his fingers gently over mine. I looked up at him in surprise, and then to Ellamae.
“Gemma,” she said, her dark brown eyes fixed on mine. “We know these circumstances are making everything that much harder. You’re not at home. He was unhappy here. Lumen Lake has bad memories for both of you. He was killed by his own fire. And all of us here have struggled against Alcoro and Celeno specifically in some way. But, Gemma—you’re still our friend. Politics and wartime aside, we care about you. We understand that Celeno was more than what we knew. We know you both were important to each other. His death isn’t a relief to us, and making sure he’s taken care of isn’t an inconvenience. He was your husband. He was king of your country. And he was a person—one you knew better than anyone. He deserves to be properly honored.”
My hands shook around my soup bowl, my tears springing almost instantaneously. I drew in a sharp breath, and then I was done for—I set my bowl down with a clatter and leaned forward, sobbing into my arms. A flock of hands descended on me, warm on my back and my shoulders and my knees. At least two handkerchiefs were pressed into my palms.
“It’s m-my fault,” I said. “All of it—everything that happened, everything that went wrong—it’s all my fault.”
“Dammit, dammit,” Ellamae said again. “Here, Val, help me up.” I heard the footstool scrape and several thumps as she hopped across the floor. She shoved the food tray aside and sat down on the tea table, her leg stuck out to the side. Her hands came to rest on my elbows.
“It’s not your fault, Gemma,” she said.
“If I had been with him . . . if I had just c-caught up to him with the flag, they might n-not have fired . . .”
“Or they might have killed you both,” she insisted. “Gemma, it was not your fault. Death can’t be broken down into blame.”
“Ama,” I gasped. “Ama’s d-death can. Ama’s death was our fault, as well.”
The hand on my knee squeezed. “Was it?” Mona said quietly. “I thought so for a long time. But if that was the case, why has Colm always blamed himself? He let go of her hand to run. He left her behind without checking.” She brushed my hair. “Why have I always blamed myself? I am the queen of this country, and I fled when she didn’t. A civilian showed courage that hadn’t even crossed my mind. She died in my place.”
“But we killed her.”
“Your executioner killed her, under orders,” she said. “Orders given by a commanding officer, under oath to the crown.”
“Don’t you see, it all comes back to . . .”
“Attempting to carry out a sacred belief,” Mona continued. “Attempting to make decisions set in motion by the generations before you. Gemma, my heart isn’t big enough to forgive or forget Ama’s death. But I don’t blame you or Celeno for it anymore. I blame a world that distorts a leader until death seems like a justified action.”
I persisted. “Lyle,” I said. “You can’t possibly pretend Lyle’s death wasn’t—”
“Gemma.” Rou’s hand on my shoulder gave a little shake. “You can’t take the blame for Lyle’s death, and you can’t take the blame for Celeno using the crossbow. A person is responsible for their own actions. Celeno was sick, inside and out, and panicked over losing you. I’m like Mona—I’m not quite decent enough to work up to forgiveness yet. But I can say with absolute certainty that none of this has been your fault alone, queen or no.”
Mona sighed next to me. “Maybe none of us should be monarchs at all—maybe there should be no kings or queens. It makes us all sick.”
I stayed bent over. My tears slowed but didn’t stop. My muffled ear throbbed. Their words seemed to melt off me, not sticking, not quite bouncing off. I couldn’t make sense out of any of it, blame and guilt and grief. Their hands all stayed where they were, little isolated pockets of warmth amid the cold still locked in my body.
“I never forgave him,” I said into my arms. “He apologized just a few minutes before it started, and I didn’t take it.”
I thought they might try to soothe it away, murmur that he knew I had forgiven him—had I?—argue that I didn’t need to—did I?
They didn’t. There was a long silence.
“I’m sorry,” Mona said, her hand still on my knee. “That’s painful.”
“We know it is,” Ellamae said. “It’s horrible to feel like things have been left unsaid.” She rubbed my arms. “It’s all right to wish things had been different, but don’t let it turn into blame.”
The swirling storm inside me settled somewhat. It was painful. I did wish things were different. But . . . I was grateful they hadn’t tried to whisper it away. My fingers tightened slightly on one of the handkerchiefs in my hand, and I lifted my head to wipe my eyes and nose.
I drew in a thick breath and looked up for the first time, meeting Mona’s gaze. “Mona . . . about Colm. Please, you can’t lock him away. He made a mistake—we both made a lot of mistakes—but he’s loyal to you.”
She looked at her hand on my knee. “It’s already gone before my council. There can be no denying one of his letters led enemy ships to attack the lake. The trial has to go forward.”
“But—”
“But,” she said over me, squeezing my knee. “But I have the authority to suggest exile.”
My chest tightened. “Exile?”
Her eyes were the saddest I’d ever seen them. “You were right the other day—I haven’t given him the credit he deserves. He’s stayed here because of me, and I don’t know that he could make the choice to leave himself. He’d feel like he was turning his back on me. But I could make that decision for him.”
“But . . . he couldn’t ever come back?”
“I can suggest a term,” she said. “A number of years until the sentence terminates. It shouldn’t be hard to pitch to the council—they like him more than they like me.”
My heart beat loose and wobbly in my chest. “Mona . . . that would be . . .”
“We need to be careful, though, Gemma. We need to make sure everything proceeds by the book—nothing that would give the appearance of favoritism.” She squeezed my knee again. “Please don’t go sneaking to find him again.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m sorry about that,” said a voice behind me, and I realized that the hand on my back was Arlen’s—he had come around to stand behind the settee. “Sorcha . . .”
“Great Light, marry her,” Mona said, twisting around to look at him. “She’s got more backbone than my whole council put together.”
There was a quiet ripple of laughter among us. I wiped my eyes again with the damp handkerchief.
“He’ll still feel bad about leaving you,” I said. “Both of you.”
Mona sighed again. “Yes. He will. And I’ll feel worse. But it will let him do this thing with you—found this university. I can’t think of anything he would rather put his energy into. It’s the kind of thing he’s always dreamed of.”
“And we think it’s a good idea, Gemma,” Ellamae said. “We know you’ve given it deep thought, and we know you can do it. We’ll help in whatever ways we can.”
I let my breath stream out, folding the handkerchief—it was embroidered with rushes. “Thank you. I know I didn’t adequately describe it to you earlier. It’s not just a dalliance. I’ve been working on it for a long time. It just got swallowed up by everything else. But I believe it can really, truly make things better—and not just for Alcoro. And . . . I do have more than two other people interested.”
Ellamae smiled and hefted herself off the tea table. “We know.” She hopped back to her armchair.
“I admit, I’m intrigued,” Valien said, leaning back in his chair. The other hands on me slid away as everyone settled back into their seats. “What gave you the idea?”
“I’ve always wanted to see the one in Samna,” I said. “But it wasn’t until we lost Lu
men Lake that I started realizing what building one ourselves could do for Alcoro. So much of our academic work is never given the chance to grow, or it’s left unfunded because it’s not useful to the crown. So many scholars have had to set aside their work because there’s no place for it to thrive.”
“Like you,” Rou said.
“Well, like me. And like Celeno.” I closed my eyes. “And folk from other countries. I think your brother would have appreciated the idea.”
“I’m willing to bet he’d have even cracked a smile,” Rou agreed.
The corners of my lips flickered but didn’t rise. Lyle. He’d have been such an asset to an Alcoran university.
He and Celeno both.
“What subjects will you offer?” Valien asked.
“Natural sciences,” I said, thinking back to the suggestions by the Samnese board. “Chemistry, mathematics. History, philosophy. Literature and the arts, eventually.” I smoothed the handkerchief. “Astronomy . . . I thought Celeno would develop astronomy. He’d have liked that.” I looked up at them. “And . . . regarding the pyre . . . I think he would have liked that, too. At least . . . I think he’d understand. It will be hard to explain back home, because there’s already a tomb for the Seventh King, but at least his ashes can still be interred there.”
Rou’s shoulder was warm against mine. “If you think that’s best, we can make it happen.”
Mona nodded. “We’ll plan something appropriate. Just tell us what you need.”
“Do you have juniper?” I asked.
“The Silverwood’s got juniper,” Ellamae said. “Earth and sky, have we got juniper.”
I smiled and wiped my eyes a final time. I drew in a shaky breath and looked at the tea table, where everything was in disarray from being shoved aside.
“Did my soup make it?” I asked quietly.
Mona smiled and topped off the bowl. She set it back in my hands, and I sipped it again, quietly relishing the warmth and flavor.
A comfortable silence crept in. The fire snapped in the hearth. Mona swirled her tea. Ellamae adjusted one of the straps on her splint. Arlen took up his place at the mantel again, staring at the fire.
Creatures of Light, Book 3 Page 35
