Blackstone

by Shea Godfrey

  She could still feel Darry inside her, every fiber of her body alight with the recent touch of her lover. When she smiled, her lips felt swollen and tender, and it was a very sweet sensation.

  Prince Jacob walked to the desk and glanced at the scrolls that were open. Smooth round stones had been placed upon the curled corners of the aged vellum, and he did not disturb them. His green eyes were sharp as he looked deeper into the chamber. “Princess?”

  Jessa pulled her hood back and let fall the Veil of Shadows.

  Jacob’s eyes widened and then he smiled. “’Tis a lovely spell, my Lady.”

  “No doubt a spell that might come in handy for the Prince of Spies.” Jessa walked to the desk and stood upon the opposite side. “That is what they call you, yes?”

  “Either that, or the Bookworm Prince.”

  Jessa frowned. “But that is not right. I know you’re a very learned man, but that is not an insult to throw at someone—it’s a privilege.”

  Jacob’s eyes filled with warmth. “I am not the swordsman like Wyatt and Darry are, nor the Crown Prince as Malcolm is, nor the bold and wicked-tongued Emmalyn, admired by all. I am the middle son. The Lord of dusty rooms and moldy parchment. The Bookworm Prince.”

  Jessa scoffed at his words. “But that makes you the most dangerous one of all.”

  Jacob stepped about the desk and pulled the chair out for her. “Sit, Princess, please.”

  Jessa took the offered chair and waited for him to find his own.

  “Your words are most kind, Princess,” Jacob replied as he sat and faced her. “But I’m not sure if—”

  “Call me Jessa, Prince Jacob. I am no longer a princess of Lyoness.”

  Jacob looked her in the eyes with a steady gaze. “Yes, my father has spoken of your oath and it negates nothing. You shall always be a princess. Just as I shall always be the Bookworm Prince, you shall be the Woman Within the Shadows and the Nightshade Lark.”

  “Then let us dispense with formalities and be comrades.” Jessa held out her hand to him. She could not help but smile as she remembered her own first offer of friendship. “Darry taught me this.”

  Jacob chuckled and shook her hand. “Well met, Jessa.”

  “For certain.”

  Jacob leaned back in his chair. “Just two friends meeting in the dead of night…in a secret chamber hidden behind the stacks in the Queen’s Library.”

  “Yes, well, I thought it might be best.” Jessa sat back as well. “You have questions, yes?”

  Jacob’s expression changed slightly. “How so?”

  “You are the Prince of Spies, Jacob, and yet I think you have never had the information you truly need. There is much guesswork that goes on, I have seen it. I am the only daughter of King Abdul-Majid de Bharjah of Lyoness, and though I am considered but a trinket among powerful men and the Lords of my people, I have been privy to information that has never left the Jade Palace. My Radha was not a nursemaid to me, nor a servant. She has been my teacher these many years, and she is a High Priestess of the Vhaelin.”

  Jacob’s eyes showed genuine surprise and Jessa smiled, for he looked so much like Darry when he was startled. “But Serabee El-Khan is a Lord of the Fakir, and Bharjah worships them.” He gave a wave of his hand as he sat forward. “To allow a High Priestess of the Vhaelin within the Jade Palace, under his very nose? That’s not possible.”

  “My mother was a prophet of the Vhaelin, stolen by Bharjah from our people. Radha went with her for many reasons, I have recently learned, but most of all for the child she knew would come.”

  “You?” Jacob asked quietly.

  “It would appear so.”

  “But surely Serabee knew.”

  “Who is to say?” Jessa shrugged. “But I do not think so. The Fakir are a proud race, and to know what Radha truly is and allow her freedoms he himself did not enjoy? It would have given him great pleasure to expose her before my father. He took her for a Vhaelin witch, and a powerful one, but nothing more. They enjoyed the game, the taunting and the tease of it all, both Serabee and my Radha. She is prideful, and she is good with a lie when she likes.”

  “The frail nursemaid?” Jacob asked with a grin.

  Jessa let her own smile blossom. “Yes.”

  “Your brothers…” Jacob’s voice was eager. “Who will succeed your father?”

  “I do not know.”

  “But surely there must be a name that stands above the others.”

  “I believe Sylban-Tenna to be the most dangerous of my siblings. But you are asking the wrong question, Jacob.”

  He stared at her.

  Jessa’s thoughts moved easily to a secondary path that might lead more quickly to her goal. “Who is your spy?”

  Jacob’s expression changed in a subtle manner, his green eyes careful in the flicker of the lamplight.

  “He is most certainly a Lord, or you would be wasting your resources,” Jessa reasoned. She hooked her right knee over her left and straightened her skirt in a casual manner. “He would have to be of your father’s generation, with a son, perhaps, lost in the battle for the Lowlands. Or perhaps he lost all of his sons in a war that the Lords of my country did not fully support.”

  Jacob did not move, nor did he look away.

  “Lord Almahdi de Ghalib lost all of his sons, three of those in battle during the retreat to the Taljah beneath the final onslaught of King Owen’s army. His fourth and last son was named Jal-Kadir. Jal defied Bharjah and spoke out, saying that my father’s army must leave Arravan or suffer a loss that Lyoness would never recover from. And so Bharjah brought him before all the Lords of his army before they could waver in their commitment, and he slit Jal’s throat.

  “Lord de Ghalib has great-granddaughters, young girls who have been promised by Bharjah to men who are old even now. Young girls who will be pawns, such as I was, when they flower with their first blood. They are the heirs of his fallen sons. Lord Almahdi de Ghalib sits upon my father’s council. My father loves his praise, especially from an obedient man who has learned his lesson. And a broken man is a wonderful plaything to have. The fate of de Ghalib’s family has been an effective cautionary tale.”

  There was silence between them and Jessa considered her logic yet again. “Lord de Ghalib and King Bharjah share the attentions of the same Master Healer.”

  Jacob’s left eye gave the smallest of twitches.

  “Officially, he attends only to my father. Unknown to many, he is related by marriage to the former daughter-in-law of Lord de Ghalib, the widow of Nasir, Almahdi’s firstborn son who fell at the Taljah. He is the only man alive who would know if my father is ill, other than Bharjah, of course.”

  Jacob’s smile, when it came, was both grudging and filled with warmth. “And so where does your tale end?”

  “Well, I imagine it will end when my father’s soldiers ride to the house of Lord de Ghalib to collect his granddaughter Fayha, who is promised to a worshipper of the Fakir, and they find that she is not there. Nor will they find any of the children born of Almahdi’s line.”

  “And where shall they be?”

  Jessa enjoyed his look of respect, his eyes bright in the lamplight. “Wherever you have decided to put them, Jacob, Prince of Spies.”

  Her reasoning was sound and she knew it. Radha’s teachings had been most thorough, though it was not until recently that she understood just how methodical the old woman had been. She had given her majik, faith, languages, and secrets, and she had given her precious information about even the most mundane of subjects. It was all terribly valuable, even the smallest of details. May the Vhaelin keep you safe, my mother, even though you vex them.

  “What question should I be asking, Jessa?” Jacob finally said.

  “Who has the most to gain when my father dies?”

  “If there is no clear line of succession, there will be a civil war,” Jacob replied in a quiet voice. He leaned forward and rested his elbows upon his knees. “Even if Bharjah were to name an heir, onc
e he is dead, all may claim their right to the Jade Throne. It’s not like Arravan. If we rule out your lesser brothers, those with no sufficient following either in the military or among the people—”

  “You are left with only five real contenders,” Jessa concluded as she leaned an elbow onto her own knee. He thought fast and hard, and she liked the pace. She would see now how accurate his information actually was.

  “Malik-Assad.”

  “Yes,” Jessa confirmed. “He is the best warrior among my brothers, and those within the military love him.”

  “Qasim?”

  “Right again. His wife has as much jade as my father does. He has garnered much power throughout the mountain regions, and with the Blooded families along the Dark Ridge.”

  “Rasul-Rafiq, he has the armies of the south.”

  Jessa nodded. “And many ships, as well.”

  Jacob sat up straight and Jessa did the same. “And Sylban-Tenna, of course. He worships the Fakir and he has proven himself in battle with the Horse Clans of the north. His victories along the Arramis River are legendary, even across the border. With the information I have, I see only four who might fight for the throne and win it. The others would have little hope of victory, for they have no real support. When the fighting begins, they would have no choice but to ally themselves with one of the four, or disappear into the night.”

  “They will be killed before this is possible.”

  Jacob did not look surprised, though neither did he look certain.

  “They will be killed,” Jessa repeated, “unless they have already fled Karballa.”

  “Not a kind fate.”

  “Nor should it come as a surprise if they have been paying attention. Are you certain you see no one else?”

  “There is you, of course,” he answered quietly. “But if you were the sacrificial pawn, as you suggested to my father, then your part has already been played in this game. Played by Bharjah himself, though to no avail.”

  “Do I not still have a right to the throne?”

  “Well, your son would have a claim, but you have no son.” Jacob smiled. “In Lyoness, no woman may rule from the Jade Throne, you know this.”

  “And what if I gave your brother a son? A son, who by my own blood would have the right to rule in Lyoness.”

  “Yes, if you had a son, he would have a right to the throne,” Jacob agreed. “Bloody hell, he would have the whole of Arravan behind him. A civil war will spill across the border no matter how strong that border may be. Refugees and sickness will come. If their war finds the Killy Mountains, it would not be long before Sommes Pass becomes a liability and those who live there would have to be evacuated. They would be displaced and the Lowlands would be in jeopardy.” His eyes raced with thought. “With a son of Arravan, a Durand by blood who had claim to the Jade Throne? It would take very little convincing to raise the flags of war.”

  “Was it King Owen who accepted my father’s proposal?”

  “No,” he answered, and Jessa could almost see his thoughts come to a hard stop. “It was not that we have no respect for you, but such an idea would not be in the best interests of Arravan. Your son would have a claim to the Blackwood Throne, and to give your father such an incentive—it would invite a war. Even if your father is dying, the risk would be too great.”

  “Ask your question once more, my friend.”

  Jacob’s green eyes darkened with the endgame and he leaned back in his chair. His gaze did not waver. “Who has the most to gain when your father dies?”

  “Who is the fifth contender for the Jade Throne?”

  Jacob said nothing, and though she waited, still he remained silent.

  “I have been trying to figure out why I’m here, since before I arrived,” Jessa explained in a somewhat tired voice. “The question was never am I a pawn, but whose pawn was I? Who might use me to their advantage? Who has the most to gain from my presence here? Bharjah knew an offer of this sort would not be welcomed by King Owen. From what I can see, your father does not enjoy the game and plays it only when he must. As you said, a child of Lyonese blood upon the Blackwood Throne would, at some point, invite a war.”

  “But if you were murdered within the walls of Blackstone, an emissary of peace”—Jacob followed her thread—“Bharjah would have one last chance at claiming the Lowlands, with more support than he had the first time.”

  “He would come for the throne.”

  “Most likely, yes,” Jacob agreed. “He would have nothing to lose.”

  “And so goes the first game, for though I am not dead, a prince will do just as well.”

  Jacob rubbed absently at the stubble upon his chin. “Your brother will not fare well against my sister, Jessa. I’m sorry.”

  “Do not be sorry. I have no regrets as to his fate. He ordered Serabee to steal through the night and slit my throat, and my Radha’s, as well.”

  “So either Bharjah rides to war to avenge the death of an heir,” Jacob prompted.

  “Or he dies at the hand of another before he names his successor,” Jessa said. “Civil war will follow, and Lyoness shall be ripe for the picking.”

  “Your father has the wasting tumors, or so Almahdi de Ghalib has told me. But this is not a quick illness.” Jacob confirmed her guesswork as to his spy with a sly look. “Bharjah will be failing in health for a year or two before he becomes too weak to rule.”

  “Then we shall know soon enough if there is a fifth contender for the Jade Throne.”

  “What you have suggested is a thing of terrible consequence.” Jacob’s expression was filled with grave conviction. “Though I’m not sure that it is treason yet, exactly, it comes very close, and it puts the crown in a precarious position that we might never recover from. There are Lords within Arravan who feel they have equal claim to the Blackwood Throne, and they have felt this for many generations. I can think of very few things that are worse than a game such as this, a plot that will jeopardize thousands of lives.”

  “I know you see the pieces, Jacob, just as I do,” Jessa stated plainly. “Your brother, the Crown Prince, has his own game in play. If Bharjah falls, Malcolm has but to wait. Wait for my brothers to destroy each other…and for his son to be born.”

  “Yes, I see the pieces,” he snapped, and for the first time there was a hard edge to his words. “I see them.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacob answered and though his tone was reluctant, Jessa knew he told the truth. “Gamar knows I don’t want to believe it, but somehow it fits.” He made a face and rubbed his eyes. “I have been trying to figure things out, as well, and Malcolm has refused to let me in. It has been months now, well over a year, in fact, since I’ve been privy to his thoughts. He has shoved me aside and taken only Marteen Salish into his confidence. There have been secret meetings and an unexplained trip last year to the Great Library at Hockley that took him away for almost a month.” Jacob stared at the maps on the desk. “I sent several trusted men to report back on his actions, but Malcolm wasn’t there and he never had been. I love him, and he is to be my King one day…”

  When Jacob did not go on, Jessa’s voice soothed him. “What is it, Jacob?”

  “There are things he has done that I have questioned.” Jacob shook his head. “I am not a meek man, as many have named me, but neither do I crave the power that Malcolm does. He always has.” His expression was one of extreme sadness. “He has long been dreaming of Lyoness, Princess, and not just as a curiosity.”

  “If I am right,” Jessa said softly, “you must know none of this is your fault.”

  “Melora Salish is Marteen’s sister,” Jacob said with care. “When she told Darry of our father’s betrayal and his manipulations concerning Aidan McKenna’s family, she did so with a very certain purpose. Malcolm used her as his weapon in order to elicit a reaction beyond my sister denouncing her title and status.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And this is not the worst he has done.”
<
br />   “That is not your fault.”

  Jacob’s features were pale. “If Malcolm seeks to provoke a civil war he will need an assassin, and if that is true, it will bloody well change everything. He will have crossed a line.” He tipped his head back and spied the faint light of dawn as it fell through the skylight. “And my father speaks to him at first light. There is little time.”

  A shiver moved along Jessa’s spine. “Does Malcolm know yet?”

  “About you and Darry?”

  “Yes,” Jessa answered in a breath, uncertain of what Jacob’s own reaction would be.

  He reached his hand out and Jessa took it. “Not yet, my sister,” he said with kindness. “Though I think we might have a more serious problem, if that’s even possible.”

  “We have no proof.”

  Jacob nodded. “We have no proof.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Hall of Lords was built deep within Blackstone, beyond the throne room and the private meeting chambers that populated the heart of the Keep. Many of the walkways were open aired and fertile with greenery, the arches supported by black marble columns that caught the summer sun and devoured it. Red and gold Jubilee flowers bloomed in fine fashion, tangled through rich vines of ivy beside orange-flamed lilies that opened with the sun.

  The walkways were laid with stones of smooth red granite, the deep scarlet tone a stark and beautiful contrast to the black. The red granite had been brought from the mines of Artanis, and Jessa knew that such a decoration was not a trivial expense. The rock was brought north little by little, for too many times through the centuries rough winds had taken their toll upon heavily laden ships. The ocean floor was paved along one such route with blood as well as stone, and those who sailed it knew it as the Red Corridor.

  The Hall of Lords itself was perhaps the largest chamber Jessa had ever seen, for though the Great Hall was a rival to the terraced banquet rooms of the Jade Palace, they all seemed to pale when compared to the Hall of Lords.