by Emma Fenton
It was hard for her to stay present. Izan might have been in front of her, but half of her mind was back in the fighting pit with Jaya. If he was going to kill you before marrying you, he would have done it by now, the rational part of her brain screamed, but Ria couldn’t hear it over her memory of the crowd cheering for Jaya, the sound of their blades meeting in a clang. Her shoulder twinged as her mind’s eye watched Jaya’s knife drive into her flesh, and Ria could almost smell the blood. She couldn’t breathe. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
A sharp, blinding light flashed into her eyes, bringing her back into the moment. It was only instinct that sent her reeling away from Izan as he darted forward. She spun, trying to plan an attack of her own, but it was hard when Izan was intent on keeping her on the defensive. He slashed to the left, and when she dodged, he stabbed right. She could barely keep up, and they had only just started.
It was over much too quickly. Ria’s body was tired from already sparring with Peryn, and when she stumbled, Izan used her own momentum against her to send her to her knees. Before she could even think about rolling out of the way, his hand clamped down in her hair and yanked her head back. His knife was at her throat, the blade sharp against the soft flesh of her jugular.
He’s really going to do it, she thought when he didn’t immediately pull away. Ria squeezed her eyes shut.
And then the blade was gone and the tension on her hair released.
“Thank you for indulging me, your majesty,” Izan said. He offered her a hand to help her up. She took it, hoping he didn’t see how badly she was shaking, and forced a small smile. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she merely inclined her head. That seemed to be enough for Izan, because the man turned his attention back to Peryn. “You see, Lord Hollbrook? Absolutely no reason for your…concern.”
Peryn merely smiled tightly.
Lord Izan was quick to take his leave, and only after he was gone did Peryn finally release the tension in his shoulders. Ria forced herself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. She was still alive. She was unharmed.
“He’s a real stordraski,” Feodor grumbled. Ria didn’t know what that particular Bokaine word meant, but based on the way Feodor vehemently spat it, she was fairly certain it wasn’t flattering.
“You’re okay?” Peryn asked quietly.
“I’m fine.”
It was a lie. She could not stop the tremors in her hands or the claustrophobic feeling that didn’t make any sense since they were outside. She was trying to breathe, but every inhale felt like too little, and all the fear and bile she’d pushed down earlier were making a valiant attempt to rise up once more. But she couldn’t say any of that to Peryn because he wanted her to be fearless.
“I’m going to go change,” she said before Peryn could protest her obvious lie.
She didn’t want to talk about why she was so shaken up with him. Even if Peryn could understand that Izan was a threat and that Ria had every right to be worried, how could she tell him that what had rattled her the most wasn’t even Izan himself? How could she make him understand that it was a fight that had happened weeks ago that was still keeping her up at night, waking her hours before dawn in a cold sweat because she’d dreamt that she was back on the field with Jaya? How could she explain that she could never go back to sleep afterwards? That every time she closed her eyes, she saw her sword going through Jaya’s neck?
In the light of day, it was easy to tell Feodor that she didn’t regret any of her choices. It was easy to feel grateful to be alive, and sometimes—like when Peryn told Feodor not to underestimate her, or when the demon had praised her cunning—she could almost, almost, be grateful for the Council’s schemes and for Mikhael leaving her to die because it had been the crucible in which she was made anew.
But every night she was reminded of what it had cost her.
When Ria reached her chambers, she went straight to the bathroom, leaned over her chamber pot, and promptly heaved up her entire breakfast. She sat there for several minutes, retching, the bitter taste of stomach acid on her tongue. She sat back against the wall and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her tunic. The tightness in her chest was gone, evacuated out with the rest of her stomach’s contents.
She wouldn’t be able to hide away in her room forever. Sooner or later, the Council would demand her presence. Besides, she’d be damned if she let Izan think he could intimidate her. The mere thought of the man was enough to send her stomach into knots, a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. She put her head between her knees. Five more minutes, Ria told herself. And then you will get dressed. You will go downstairs. You will show them that the new Ria is not so easily cowed.
And when Izan was least expecting it, she would end him.
Chapter Fourteen
Ria tapped her foot under the table, a pleasant smile forced on her lips as she endured yet another long-winded lecture from Vili. She’d never had a particular care for her birth day—it had never once been celebrated in the past, but she supposed that being queen meant that she was obligated to throw ostentatious parties—and this year was no exception. Dinner with the upper lords and ladies was tedious, even more so because she was seated at the head of the table, in full view of everyone, with the Council seated to her immediate right and Lord Izan on her left. There was nowhere to hide.
“Twenty years old,” Vili said with a scoff. “If you wait any longer to be married, Honoria, you will be an old maid.”
Ria hummed noncommittally as she took another liberal sip of wine from her goblet. She was on her third glass, or maybe it was her fourth. It was hard to tell when the servants kept refilling it every time her cup was nearly half empty. It hardly mattered; she’d needed the slight buzz of alcohol to help her get through dinner. Which was mercifully almost over. Even if the second half of her birthday celebration was a formal ball, at least she would be able to move around at her leisure instead of being stuck with Izan and the Council for over an hour without hope of escape.
“He’s right, you know,” Nasir said. Ria’s foot tapped faster; she hoped none of them would notice. “You won’t be young forever, and Helhath needs an heir.”
Ria nearly choked. Marriage was one thing—an inconvenience she would be forced into sooner or later, though she hoped to postpone it as long as possible—but raising a child was another thing altogether. She honestly hadn’t thought of children since Mikhael had broken off their engagement. But then again, I’ve only been able to plan for the future one week at a time, she thought bitterly. What with all the people trying to kill me.
She wouldn’t pretend she hadn’t wanted to be a mother once, but that was part of a fantasy that had shattered along with her naivety. Besides, she was not altogether certain she would make for a good mother anymore. Some days it felt like everything kind and forgiving and good in her had died when Jaya had.
“One thing at a time,” she told Nasir instead. “I have to choose a husband first.”
Before the Council could say anything else, Ria stood, signaling the end of dinner. She felt she had been patient enough, tolerating the Council nagging her as if she was a mere child instead of the queen. One day, they would learn to respect her, and if they did not, they would be replaced. But she couldn’t do that yet, not while the Elder Scholar’s prophecy seemed to hang so precariously over her head.
If only he were here, she thought. She took a deep breath and banished the man from her thoughts for the moment. It wouldn’t do any good to wait around for someone else to answer all of her problems, and tonight she had a role to play.
The ballroom hadn’t been used in months, not since her parents’ deaths. But tonight, it was decorated more lavishly than ever. Delicate, gauzy white fabric that shimmered silver in the candlelight draped over the walls, except for one that was lined entirely with mirrors, making the already large room look as though it had doubled in size. The crystal chandeliers had been dusted, every gold candelabra and fixture polished, and the white marble floo
rs shone as though they were made of glass. An orchestra sat off to one side, already playing a slow, melancholic tune on the strings. It was like something out of a fairy story, or perhaps even Ferhelvnar, the mythic home of the gods. Ria half expected the whole room to fade away as if it were only a dream.
“Lovely,” Lord Izan said from behind her. She turned to find him appraising the room that was now rapidly filling with the lords and ladies from dinner. His shark eyes landed on her. “But not as lovely as you, my queen.”
“You flatter me, Lord Izan,” she said, forcing a polite smile. If he noticed her lack of sincerity, at least he did not comment on it.
“As you are required to open the dance floor, your majesty, I wondered if I might have the honor.”
She would have rather danced with anyone else, even Vili—who could barely walk even with a cane most days—but she had no grounds to refuse him. If only she had insisted Peryn lead her for the first dance; he would have acquiesced just to see the looks on Izan’s and Feodor’s faces. Ria wanted to smack herself. If only she’d thought of it sooner.
“The honor would be mine.” She took his proffered hand, trying not to flinch away from the man’s touch. She could still vividly remember the way he’d held a knife to her throat during their sparring session only days ago.
He led her to the floor just as the orchestra started the first strums of the next song, one hand settling on her waist. She could feel the eyes of the entire room on her, so she smiled and forced herself to relax. She was not completely defenseless, she told herself. There was her knife—strapped to her thigh beneath her dress, though it would be difficult to get to underneath all these layers of sea-silk. Her gown tonight had not been designed with fighting in mind: the bodice was laced just a little too tight and the skirts too full. Not that it wasn’t beautiful—midnight blue stitched with a pattern of silver flowers—but if she had to choose between fashion and mobility, she knew she’d choose the latter. Especially when Izan was so close.
“Are you not tired of these games?” he said, voice barely louder than a whisper as he led her through the first few steps of their dance. Ria stiffened, nearly tripping, and only Lord Izan’s firm grip kept her entirely upright.
“What games are those?” she returned, fighting to keep her voice even. Is he on to me? To Peryn? Does he know about the demon summoning? Does he know I suspect him of trying to kill Keffleton? That I suspect him of plotting against me? She wanted nothing more than to search out Peryn in the crowd—if Izan was making his move now, then she wanted her demon close by—but she dared not look away from the threat in front of her.
“Courtship. Love,” he said with a sneer. “Why continue to humor these suitors when we both know there is only one logical choice? You only postpone the inevitable.”
“Are you so certain that I will choose logic over love?” She knew it was rude to keep answering his questions with ones of her own, but it was clear he had the upper hand in this conversation. From the start, he’d thrown her off balance—quite literally—and she hadn’t been able to regain her footing yet.
“You’re no fool, though I once mistook you for one,” he admitted. “Do you truly think that these foreigners would care for our country as we do? Do you think they will so easily abandon their roots and adapt to our ways without trying to make Helhath into something it’s not? I love this country. It is something I believe you and I have in common.”
It was strange to see this side of Lord Izan, Ria thought. In all of her experience with the man, he had been cold, distant, even cruel. She’d always wondered how he could be so popular with the Council and with the other nobility. Now she understood. He was well-spoken, more so than she’d ever given him credit for, and she couldn’t deny the truth in his words. Feodor so often spoke of his own country that Ria knew he would have trouble embracing Helhath. And Peryn…well, Peryn only cared about things that directly benefitted him; he wouldn’t concern himself with trying to better a nation just for the sake of its citizens.
“Imagine what we could do together,” he continued. “You may be queen, but without the Council’s support, you will never accomplish anything. I have their confidence; I can bend them to our goals.”
Ria was not so stupid that she did not hear the underlying threat. The Council trusted Izan, not her. If she married him, they could work together. If she did not, he would sway the Council to discount every one of her propositions, vote against every law she might suggest. But it was all a lie regardless. Even if he deigned to let her live after marrying him, he would still go behind her back to do whatever he wanted anyway.
“Our goals? Or yours?” she said coolly, giving him a knowing look. He was tired of playing games? Fine.
He smiled, but his eyes were dark, empty pools void of any genuine emotion. “Your goals are mine, your majesty. We both seek the betterment of Helhath.”
It was a very telling non-answer, Ria thought as he spun them around the ballroom. She prayed to the gods that the song would end soon, and she would be permitted to escape him.
“And yet I suspect that our visions for the future of Helhath differ drastically,” she said. Izan was as ready for war as anyone, and like the Council, he was overly eager to start something with Pesh. Ria didn’t want war, not when peace was well within their grasp. “I fear we would often be in conflict.”
Izan’s grip tightened almost uncomfortably on her waist. “You would make a worthy opponent, but we need not be enemies.”
Ria swallowed.
“Forgive my hesitancy, Lord Izan, but you were my enemy once, when you supported my sister. Should I expect your loyalty to me to be so inconstant?”
“A past mistake,” he said dismissively. “I am unwavering in my loyalty to the crown, my Queen.”
She resisted the urge to laugh in his face. It was clever wording, but she saw it for what it was: a lie. Izan was loyal to himself, and he would be loyal to the crown once it sat upon his head. But never her. He was a man of circumstances; he’d all but admitted it even if he hadn’t said the actual words. He supported Jaya when he thought she would become queen, and when she had died instead, Izan then claimed to be on Ria’s side.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what he was trying to do. He knows he can’t trick me into falling in love with him, so he’s trying to play to my duties as a queen, she realized. But this is a desperate man’s plan. He has to know that I won’t choose him, that even all his smooth-talking won’t put him in my favor.
“Who would you rather have by your side?” he asked, voice low. “Someone who knows this country, knows our politics and our law and our people, who can smooth the way for a prosperous future? Or a foreigner whose only interest is in becoming a king with a pretty bedmate?”
There was a time not too long ago when his words would have made her flush in embarrassment and shame. She would have paused and truly considered whether Lord Izan could be good for Helhath because, truthfully, he was persuasive, and he wasn’t exactly wrong on all counts. But that was back when she had been so blind to the way everyone manipulated her. Back when she had been trusting.
“And if I thought that an outsider’s perspective might be a welcome change?” she asked. It was dangerous to push Izan right now. She knew she should have let him think that he’d persuaded her, or at least made her think about it. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself from being contrary.
“Duke Keffleton is proof what can happen when outsiders don’t understand our land, our environment. If he hadn’t been so loud, perhaps that stag wouldn’t have been threatened enough to attack.” His mouth twisted into a cruel smirk. “It would be unfortunate for the others to find themselves in similar accidents due to…cultural misunderstandings.”
She stared up at him, eyes going wide. Did he just admit to orchestrating Keffleton’s injury? And he’d threatened Feodor and Peryn too. Izan must be more desperate than I thought if he’s openly making threats. She needed to warn Peryn.
“Think on it, your majesty,” Izan said, stepping back so he could bow.
Ria belatedly realized that the music had ended. She nodded politely as was expected of her and quickly turned to immerse herself in the crowd, hopefully somewhere away from Lord Izan’s penetrating gaze. She needed a moment to think. And then, she needed to find her demon.
***
Ria wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It could have been an hour or three, or only twenty minutes. Time slugged on around her as if she was trying to swim against a strong current and failing. The lords and ladies clung to her like leeches, each one eager to capture her attention and favor, each one hoping to reap the benefits of being friendly with the queen. It was sickening. These were the same people who had cheered for Jaya, who had sat as spectators to watch the fight for the throne like it was a game and not someone’s life at stake.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. The nobility had always been like that: in a constant state of denial, so far removed from reality that they couldn’t conceive of life outside their own, so self-centered that other people’s lives were a source of amusement for them. Even tragedy looks like entertainment when you squint from a distance.
It was bad enough that the lords and ladies had no empathy, no compassion. It was bad enough that Ria knew there was a time when none of them were on her side, when they would have been content to see her dead. But now they bowed and curtsied and flattered. It exhausted her.
“I always knew you’d make a good queen,” one of them said. Lord Altin, if Ria remembered correctly. “In fact, I was quite downcast when they were going to send you off to Anor. As if we could let some other country have our best and brightest. You can’t imagine how pleased we all were when you won the throne.”
