The Duke of Iron didn’t look embarrassed at having the truth dragged out of him. “I have always been loyal to you, my brother,” he said, crossly. “Why are you interrogating me like a common criminal?”
“The report had to be checked,” King Randor said. “Are you planning to usurp Our throne?”
“I am not,” the duke said, simply.
There was a long pause. “We are sorry for interrogating you,” King Randor said, finally. “We trust that you understand Our position in such matters.”
He looked at the duke’s wife. “Lithia, Duchess of Iron, We thank you for your presence here,” he said. “You and your husband may depart.”
“I wish to face my challenger,” the Duke of Iron said. There was a harsh note to his voice that made Emily cringe inwardly. “This is slander against a member of the Royal Bloodline and, as such, punishable by death. I will face him or her”–he threw Emily another unreadable look–“on the field of honor.”
“The investigation has yet to be completed,” King Randor said. “You may go.”
The Duke of Iron bowed–his wife curtseyed–and backed out of the room. He couldn’t turn his back on King Randor, Emily realized. She watched him go, then looked up at the King. He didn’t look happy at all.
“He was telling the truth,” he said, addressing Lady Barb. “I could feel it within the Bloodline.”
“The truth spells agreed that he was telling the truth,” Lady Barb agreed, coolly. “I checked…”
The king glared at her. “You cast truth spells on my brother?”
“Technically, I cast them into the air,” Lady Barb countered. “And I swore to protect you and your family. Protecting you from him and protecting him from false accusations are part of the oath.”
“I see,” the king said, dangerously. “And what of your guardsman?”
“He was also telling the truth,” Lady Barb said. “He genuinely believed that the duke had sent him with orders to murder Lady Emily.”
“They cannot both be telling the truth,” King Randor pointed out.
Emily frowned, remembering a comic strip she’d once read. Captain Kirk had been stabbed–and, when he’d recovered, he’d blamed one of his crewmen. The crewman had denied the charge–and the telepath who’d investigated had claimed that he was telling the truth. They’d both been telling the truth…eventually, the crew had discovered that a shape-shifter had impersonated the crewman, ensuring that no one would look for him. Only sheer coincidence had allowed the real assassin to be uncovered before he could try again.
And then there had been Harry Potter’s attempt to impersonate one of his fellow pupils.
“The guardsman wouldn’t be familiar with the duke,” she said, slowly. “Could someone have impersonated him?”
“That would be against the law,” Lady Barb said, deadpan. “You mean someone could have used a glamor to pretend to be the duke?”
Emily nodded. “And perhaps a hint of compulsion as well, to override any doubts they might have,” she added. “Besides, if the guardsmen were junior enough, they wouldn’t question his orders anyway. They’d believe that they were following orders from legitimate authority. The truth spells can only tell what someone believes to be true.”
“It’s possible,” Lady Barb said. “And yet…if the guardsmen were issued their orders in the barracks, whoever issued them had to be capable of breaking into the castle.”
“Or was invited,” King Randor said, darkly. “One of the barons, intent on taking the throne for himself, might have managed to issue the orders while waiting for an audience.”
“A simple glamor might well have escaped notice,” Lady Barb agreed. “How many noblewomen have glamors to hide unsightly features?”
“You will continue to investigate,” King Randor ordered. “And… Lady Emily?”
Emily gulped. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“The confirmation ceremony takes place in a week,” King Randor said. “Try not to upset anyone else before then.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Emily said, flushing.
“And several of our young bucks have made known their interest in you,” the king added, clearly enjoying Emily’s discomfort. “If you want to get married…”
He laughed at Emily’s expression. “Refer them to your guardian,” he suggested. “After all, you are clearly not yet ready to carve out an independent life.”
Emily nodded. Anyone who tried to negotiate with Void would find it a maddening task. At best, he’d just tell them that he couldn’t approve the match–after making them waste time trying to convince him to support their proposal. Alternatively, he’d simply ignore their letters in the hopes that they’d go away.
“And Nightingale wishes to brief you on the etiquette for the Confirmation,” the king concluded. “You may speak with him in the library.”
Emily curtseyed and backed out of the room, silently grateful for the times Alassa had made her practice. Walking backwards wasn’t easy; she had no idea how Duchess Lithia had managed to walk in a dress without tripping over herself. Once the door closed, she turned and walked towards the library, mulling over what she’d heard. If the mastermind behind the assassination attempts wasn’t the Duke of Iron, who was it?
He should have asked the duke if he was a sorcerer, Emily realized, as she reached the library. We could have checked that too.
Could the duke have found a way to defeat the Royal Bloodline? The king placed a great deal of faith in it–and why not? He had presumably been unable to lie to his father too, just like Alassa. What if the truth-telling effect no longer worked once the previous Bloodline Prime had died? Could there be an exception to the rule and the alchemists had simply missed it?
And yet that seemed too simple to be missed easily.
Why not? She asked herself sourly. You forgot to use Berserker.
Nightingale was sitting at a table inside the library, reviewing a set of parchments that looked old enough to date back to the Empire. He looked up as she entered and then stood up, bowing to her. Emily walked over to him, nodded once and took the seat facing him.
“You are aware, no doubt, that the Confirmation is the most important part of the crown princess’s path towards the throne,” he began, as self-importantly as ever. “While she was the acknowledged heir as soon as she was born, she was not formally presented to the barons as their future monarch. Custom decreed that the Confirmation had to wait until she was seventeen years old, capable of ruling without a regent.”
Emily nodded, impatiently. Zangaria prioritized male heirs, just like medieval Europe; a younger brother would have automatically taken Alassa’s place as heir. But a child, male or female, would not have been expected to be able to rule. Someone else would have served as regent…and, given enough time, have been able to build up a powerbase they could use to replace the heir. Or, perhaps, push Alassa into marrying him.
“The Confirmation will prove to the assembled nobility that the princess is capable of ruling them, that she is healthy and of sound mind as well as sound body, that she can take her father’s place when he dies,” Nightingale said. “It must not be allowed to go wrong.”
“I understand,” Emily said, sharply. “What do you wish me to do as part of the ceremony?”
“The crown prince is assigned a knight to accompany him,” Nightingale said. “But the princess is female and it would not be appropriate for her to be accompanied by a male knight. King Randor has therefore consented to allow you to serve as her knight.”
Emily blinked. Could a woman be knighted? She’d certainly never heard of it.
But she was sure that she wasn’t a knight.
“There will be other noblewomen, surely,” she said, finally. “Why me?”
“You don’t have any relationships within Zangaria, apart from your friendship with Alassa,” Nightingale pointed out. “Any noblewoman would have her own interests at stake, or those of her husband.”
He didn’t seem to realize
that Emily’s other best friend also came from Zangaria, but Imaiqah was a commoner. Maybe she just didn’t count.
“Alassa will go into seclusion the night before the ceremony,” Nightingale informed her. “She will be expected to pray to the goddess that she will have a long and happy and fruitful reign, once she takes her father’s place. You will be there with her. The following morning, you will bear witness as the baronesses inspect her, making sure that she is healthy. Once they certify her, you will join her for breakfast and then proceed to the Assembly.”
Emily wondered what would happen if the baronesses refused to confirm that Alassa was healthy. It made sense, particularly in a medieval environment, but she couldn’t help feeling a moment’s pity for Alassa. The baronesses would poke and prod at her entire body, just to make sure that she was completely healthy. They couldn’t just hire a healer to do it?
“The king will present his daughter to the Assembly,” Nightingale droned on. “Once they have acclaimed her, the Duke of Iron will formally abandon his right to be regent and accept her as the crown princess, the first in line to the throne. She will in turn confirm him as her heir, to become the monarch in the event of her death. After that, the barons will come forward, one by one, and swear to be loyal to her when she assumes the throne. They will be followed by the lesser nobility and finally by the assemblymen.”
He took a breath. “And after that,” he concluded, “the competition for her hand begins in earnest.”
Emily gaped at him. “It hasn’t already begun?”
“There is a difference between a crown princess who has not been Confirmed and a crown princess who has been Confirmed,” Nightingale said.
Emily shrugged. It seemed a matter of semantics to her; Alassa had been her father’s heir from the moment she had been born. But the whole ceremony was clearly important to the locals. Confirming that Alassa was healthy–and presumably fertile–would give them the promise of an heir to replace her when she died. But that really required her to marry…
Nightingale leaned forward. “There is another reason for your role,” he added. His voice grew tighter as he spoke. “You must ensure that she remains awake overnight while in seclusion, to honor the traditions. And you will have to swear that she has done so.”
“I see,” Emily said. The sergeants had pushed them to the point where Emily could get by on little sleep, but Alassa hadn’t been in Martial Magic. And it was cruel to force her to remain awake the night before she was Confirmed. How long would the ceremony even last? “And what am I supposed to do if she falls asleep?”
“Keep her awake,” Nightingale said. He looked oddly reluctant to speak further, even though he knew he had to specify. “Whatever it takes, keep her awake.”
Emily snorted. “How many people volunteered for this job?”
“None,” Nightingale admitted. “But then, everyone who could have taken the role had…other commitments.”
“Answer me a question,” Emily said. “Why am I not surprised?”
Chapter Thirty-One
EMILY SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY ON HER SEAT as Baron Bronze droned on and on about how much he loved King Randor, his crown princess and his country. It would have been a more impressive speech if the baron, who seemed never to have to pause for breath, hadn’t kept jumping back to the topic of his own services to the kingdom. But then, every dinner since the duke’s interrogation had included one of the barons having a chance to talk. Emily couldn’t decide just who, if anyone, was meant to be impressed.
Lady Barb hadn’t been joking when she’d promised Emily that they were going to be practicing magical and mundane combat. Every day, once Alassa had finished breakfast and taken the princes hunting or jousting, Lady Barb had sought out Emily and brought her to a training room. There, she’d forced Emily to practice and practice and practice, often sparring with her at the end of the session. She didn’t allow Emily to use any sort of painkilling potions either, leaving Emily aching for the rest of the day. Like the sergeants, Lady Barb seemed to believe that pain was the ultimate teacher. Emily had looked in the mirror every night and been astonished to see how many bruises were covering her body.
She looked over at Alassa, sitting beside Prince Hedrick, a faintly bored expression on her face. This was the night before her Confirmation; Alassa had chosen Hedrick as her escort simply because he wouldn’t say anything to her. Emily swallowed, not looking forward to the evening at all. The records Nightingale had found for her–after some persuasion–suggested that some previous princes had spent the night in ‘silent contemplation’ that was so loud that no one could sleep. Alassa might not be much better.
But then, there will be just the two of us, Emily thought. She had toyed with the idea of inviting Imaiqah, but Lady Barb had talked her out of it, pointing out that the nobility would see her presence as an insult. Emily had asked why she was acceptable–after all, the standard account of her birth placed her as barely above a slave–and Lady Barb had pointed out that she had killed a necromancer. And that put her ahead of even a fully-trained sorcerer.
The baron finally came to an end and sat down, much to everyone’s relief. There was a pause, then King Randor stood up and announced that there would be no dancing; instead, everyone was urged to spend the evening in prayer for the crown princess. Several guests looked surprised, although it had been announced days ago. Every last detail of the formal dinners was carefully choreographed by the King’s staff. Perhaps the guests simply hadn’t bothered to find out what was actually going on.
“You are all welcome tomorrow,” the king concluded. “And I thank you for your acclaim.”
He walked behind the curtain. Protocol dictated that no one was allowed to leave before the monarch; his departure signalled that the revels were now over. Emily stood up, following Alassa as she walked out the door and headed up towards her chambers. She saw Zed scowling at her as she passed, clearly considering throwing a spell at her before thinking better of it. The alchemists King Randor had summoned to investigate Emily’s concerns about the Royal Bloodline were poking their noses into his work.
But you’d hate it too if someone did it to you, Emily thought, ruefully. Magicians disliked anyone messing with their workspaces, to the point where it was common for them to scatter trap spells over their books, papers and equipment. Every day, Whitehall saw a handful of students trapped by spells set by their fellow students. She’d heard enough stories to know about what could happen to someone who broke into a magician’s house to understand that anyone who tried would be a candidate for the Darwin Award.
Alassa grinned at Emily as she stepped into her rooms. Most of the servants seemed to have been banished, leaving only a trio of maids to help Alassa undress and don a long white gown that looked faintly odd to Emily’s eyes. It took her a long moment to realize that it seemed to have been designed for an older women, rather than a young princess. The maids caught hold of Emily before she could object and undressed her too, then passed her a black gown that was the same cut and style as Alassa’s gown.
“The supplicant before the goddess always wears white,” Alassa explained, as soon as the maids had left the room. “Anyone who comes with them to bear witness wears black.”
“Tradition,” Emily guessed.
“Symbolism,” Alassa countered. She stepped over to one of her chests and opened it with a touch of her magic. “The goddess will only grant one’s prayers if the formalities are honored.”
Emily frowned as she saw Alassa pull a book out of the chest. “What is the book?”
Alassa smirked. “Most of the men in the city do not approve of the crone goddess,” she explained, as she passed Emily the book. “The book is charmed to appear like an ordinary textbook to any man who happened to gaze upon it. Those who look inside find themselves blinded.”
Emily looked down at the book. Some of the letters on the front were recognizably part of the Empire’s language. Others were unfamiliar, yet she couldn’t help feeling t
hat she’d seen them before. She ran her finger down the spine, feeling an odd tingle as she sensed the magic buried within the pages, then opened it to the first page. The insignia that stared up at her was instantly recognizable. It was the same as the one on the front page of Void’s untranslatable book.
“The crone is the ultimate representation of womankind,” Alassa said. “Her sisters–the mother and the maiden–are transient. The crone is eternal. But men fear her deeply, even though she is not unkind. They believe that those who follow the goddess think for themselves.”
“Oh,” Emily said. Alassa hadn’t done much thinking for herself before she’d met Emily. “What happens to those who follow her?”
“Nothing,” Alassa said. She smiled at Emily’s expression, then rolled her eyes, suggesting that she wasn’t entirely serious. “Those who tinker with the rites of a goddess come to bad ends. Everyone knows that.”
She walked over to the far corner of the room and knelt down, facing the blank wall. “I am going to read from the book,” she said, “and then try to meditate. You can kneel behind me while I read, then you can move around or read one of the other books”–she waved a hand at her bookshelf–“while I meditate. Just don’t let me fall asleep.”
Emily grinned. “What would you like me to do if you do fall asleep?”
“Feel free to wake me up,” Alassa said. “My father told me that my uncle never even let him get a wink of sleep.”
She scowled. “I feel bad for him,” she added. “Being interrogated like that is not pleasant.”
Emily nodded. Lady Barb’s investigation had gotten nowhere, even though she was convinced that the true suspect was someone with access to the castle. Indeed, her suspicions seemed to have focused on Prince Hedrick, simply because he was the only trained magician amongst the princes. And the maid who had tried to kill Alassa–or Emily–had come from his kingdom.
Lessons in Etiquette (Schooled in Magic series) Page 29
