Fury (Tranquility Book 3)

by Krista D. Ball

  “Majesty—”

  “My name is Celeste. Please use it when we are alone.” As Bethany struggled to find words, Celeste added, “Do not choose your words carefully. Cut through the lies and tell me what is in your mind. This moment. Right now.” Her features hardened. “Speak your mind, Bethany.”

  Bethany sucked in a lungful of air through clenched teeth, turning them momentarily cold. “Celeste, you’ve done nothing to offend me. I have the highest respect for you. I think you are a strong and brave woman, who will do whatever you must to survive and to ensure the survival of those in your care.” Bethany’s voice cracked and she tried covering it up with a cough.

  When she was certain she’d regained control, she continued. “The problem is me. I recognize that and I cannot change it. I handle my feelings very differently than you or Arrago. I am much longer lived, and it takes me a lot longer to adapt to change.” Bethany looked down at her hands, stained with ink and marred with scars. If she stared long enough, she could see blood dripping from her fingers. All of the people she’d killed. All of the people she could kill. So much blood. “I’ve done a lot in my life that I’m not proud of and I’ve seen even more. I always adapt. Please let me adjust to this reality in my own time.” She looked up at the woman who was the wife of the only man she’d ever loved. “Please.”

  Celeste hung her head and was quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” Bethany said, breaking the silence. “I’ve received some sad news today and it’s making me crazy. I should have kept my mouth shut. Please forgive me.”

  “My mother would have been so proud to know I’d become Queen. I like to think she’s looking from the Wind and can see this.”

  “I’m sure she can, and I’m sure she’s very proud.”

  “She’d be upset that I’m squandering my good fortune regretting…” Celeste unconsciously rubbed her belly. “Well, we all have regrets.” Celeste didn’t speak right away, but when she finally spoke, her voice revealed the pain in her heart. “Don’t think you are the only woman not with the man she wishes to be with.”

  “I know.” Bethany glanced at the door. It was closed. In a lower voice, she said, “Edmund is a good man.” Celeste looked at Bethany sharply, but Bethany smiled. “We got rather drunk together the night of your wedding. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “It’s easier for a king to have a mistress than for the Queen to have a lover.”

  “Celeste…I’m not…That ended the moment Arrago said he was going to marry you.”

  “I’m not stupid, Bethany.”

  “Nor am I. I had a hard enough time giving up my beliefs to be with him to start with. I can’t imagine giving up even more to have a few moments of…” she shook her head. “I am not his lover and I will not be as long as you are his wife. I promise you that.”

  Celeste pushed herself to her feet. Bethany moved to offer a hand, but Celeste didn’t take it. She straightened out her gown and walked to the door.

  Bethany didn’t speak, unsure that any words would be helpful. Had she offended the Queen? Was this entire discussion to trick her into admitting she was not Arrago’s mistress?

  Celeste paused at the door. “After the baby comes and the crown has an heir, perhaps you should reconsider your position. It would help mine.” She straightened as much as she could and said, “I will leave you to your letters. Arrago is in his study with Edmund and his other advisors. No matter what the news is, I’m sure he’d relish any interruption.”

  ****

  Arrago sat in his working office with Edmund Greyfeather and three of the oldest men he’d ever met in his life: Lord Stanley, Lord Rutherford, and Lord Rayner. The three had worked for the royal family since old King Richard’s father, and helped run the accounting, finances, and day-to-day business of the kingdom. Arrago had appointed Edmund to their circle as Lord Chancellor, and as a kind of apprenticeship they put him in charge of Castle Gree, where they currently resided.

  The three old men danced around the issue of money for several minutes before Arrago lost his temper and said, “Spit it out!”

  “We are broke, Majesty,” Lord Stanley admitted, his head bowed.

  “How in Apexia’s name…? I’ve been eating quite well for a man without money.”

  Lord Stanley cleared his throat. “A king can spend money without actually having it. But the crown must eventually pay its debts.”

  “Or enact laws to avoid doing so,” Lord Rayner added.

  Lord Rutherford rubbed his long, but well-combed white beard. “Didn’t the Queen already explain this to you?”

  Arrago held back his hot reply. Perhaps Celeste should have been made king. She was of royal blood and was trained as a courtier. She knew the politics of rule and was used to them. Of course, a woman couldn’t rule in Taftlin, not without a man over her. On days like these, he would happily pass a law giving women the right to rule, and promptly hand the throne to her.

  Rutherford glanced at Rayner, who said, “Majesty, you do realize we’ve been living off credit since your…elevation?”

  Arrago stared at his advisors. “I hadn’t realized we were living off borrowed money. This is so humiliating.”

  “Majesty,” Stanley said, “it’s common practice. It’s nothing to feel shame—”

  “Well, I feel shame about it,” Arrago said. “I guess it’s my rustic roots.”

  “Indeed,” Rutherford said, with a touch of scorn in his voice. “I did instruct the Queen to explain this to you months ago. Has there been…discord?”

  Arrago glared at the old man. His marriage might have been political maneuvering, but that didn’t mean he and Celeste were enemies. On the contrary, they’d become good friends over the six months of their marriage. Still, he internally scoffed at the word. What a sham of a marriage. She in love with another, as was he. She was ripe with pregnancy—Edmund’s child. Arrago couldn’t even bring himself to touch her and was eternally grateful to Apexia for Celeste’s situation. They could continue the sham, and Celeste would be off the hook once the baby was born. She could retire to the country, with annual visits from him to explain away any future pregnancies. Edmund could retire nearby, and together they could have their happy ending.

  He’d not get a happy ending. Bethany would never consent to being his mistress. He wouldn’t even ask her, for what point would there be in asking? What a bitter taste that left in his mouth.

  “Majesty?” Lord Stanley asked, with concern.

  “Don’t we collect taxes?”

  “Yes, Majesty, but wars are expensive.”

  “Also,” Lord Rutherford said, “your predecessor spent the bulk of the gold his father had acquired in a very short time.”

  “We are without funds,” Lord Rayner summarized, as if Arrago’s mind was too feeble to understand all of the big words that the smart, important men were discussing.

  Arrago rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How are we going to pay our troops?”

  “We will need to acquire funds,” Stanley said.

  “Else risk a riot,” Rutherford added. “We haven’t paid them in two months. We must release them to tend their fields or there will be a famine because the crops went in too late.”

  Arrago blew out a breath. “My Lord, please, listen to my words. I understand what you are saying. We are in dire circumstances. So what do you suggest I do?”

  “Three hundred sovereigns will pay their wages, plus the expenses of the scribes,” Rutherford said.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I understand that. What is your solution?”

  “We can take out a loan from the elves,” Rutherford suggested.

  “I forbid it.” Arrago shot Rutherford a disapproving look. “Surely I have something I can sell that’s worth three hundred sovereigns and that can be sold quickly. Could you sell one of my carriages? Aren’t there three or four in the stables?”

  “Four,” Stanley said. “We’d probably have to sell at a significant loss, Majesty. One of the carr
iages cost in excess of a thousand sovereigns. The others are more modest.”

  “That’s the ugly white one, isn’t it?”

  Rayner gave a slight incline of his head.

  “Then sell that and the ugly purple one.”

  Edmund cleared his throat. “The Queen really likes the white one, sire.”

  “Ugh. Sell the other two, then, especially that purple monstrosity. Sell the horses, too. I have far more horses than necessary, and those are trained for carriages, so they’ll fetch a good price. Will that get us close?”

  “I estimate that will bring us to approximately two hundred and sixty,” Rutherford said.

  “We’re still short,” Rayner said, again stating the obvious.

  Arrago sighed. “Suggestions?”

  It was Edmund who piped up this time. “What about spices? I’ve been doing an inventory. We have at least a hundred pounds each of Elven spices.”

  “But wouldn’t the elves want them?” Arrago asked.

  “Then let them buy them. We can have the scullery maids package them up. Let’s say, one pound each. Then—oh—we can offer a custom blend by the ounce.” Edmund’s voice grew excited. “We can have one of the local merchants sell them. Give the merchant, I don’t know, ten percent? We keep the rest of the profits. Send some of our maids to help, at our cost, so that he’s kept honest but doesn’t feel inconvenienced.”

  “One hundred pounds will only net us, by my estimates … fifteen sovereigns,” Stanley said. “Assuming we sell it all, of course, in a timely fashion. Though, I suspect you are correct that the elven soldiers will happily purchase a small taste of home.”

  “Unfortunately, we remain thirty-five short,” Rayner helpfully added.

  Edmund cheered Arrago up immensely by speaking very, very slowly. “My lords, allow me to explain once again. I said we have hundred pounds. That is of each spice, not in total.”

  Rayner’s eyes widened. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. The King doesn’t like most of them, and the Queen’s condition makes her uninterested in fragrant foods. It means a reduction in the King’s table, but considering how desperate we are for funds…”

  “The King’s table,” Rayner began, “should reflect—”

  “The King’s table should reflect a Taftlin that can pay its debts,” Arrago snapped. “I love the idea. Let’s do it before the spices spoil in the damp.”

  “I’ll make the necessary arrangements, Majesty,” Edmund said. “Lord Stanley, might we speak after this meeting about the logistics?”

  “Of course, Sir Edmund,” Lord Stanley said, bowing his head, causing his own long, white, but well-combed beard, to brush against his wine glass.

  Arrago rubbed the back of his neck. “In the meantime, we need to come up with more ways to raise funds. I can’t be hawking stuff out of the castles every time we have debts to pay.”

  “We can raise taxes,” Rutherford suggested. “That’s never popular, of course.”

  “My experience with taxation is that King Richard would heavily tax us poor folk, while the nobility continued to live in splendor,” Arrago said. “We already tax our estate farmers all of their livestock save entrails and two sucklings. We take seventy-five percent of their grain harvest and they’re expected to come up with their own grain seed out of what’s left.” His voice grew angrier. “We are not going to drive them into further desperation so everyone in this room can continue to wear velvet. Have I made myself clear, my Lords?”

  “Perfectly, Majesty,” Stanley said. “With your permission, I shall research which luxury taxes we can levy that have historically not been too unpopular.”

  “All taxes are unpopular,” Rutherford commented, scorn in his voice.

  “I realize that,” Arrago said, “but I also need funds or we might as well sell Taftlin to Cul.”

  “That will be unnecessary,” Rayner said. “In the meantime, I believe quite strongly in the notion of us borrowing money from the elves. They are our temporary allies during this war. This war is their idea.”

  “And, if I might be so bold, yours, too, since you started a civil war to gain your throne,” Rutherford said stiffly.

  Arrago glared at him. “I will not borrow money to pay for our debts. And certainly, under no circumstances, will I borrow from the elves. The last thing I need is that problem.”

  “Why not consider it?” Edmund said. “I spoke with Ambassador Lendra. She is willing to approach the Elven Council on our behalf. She’s confident she could secure a small loan. She’d rather not ask for anything above three thousand gold…”

  Arrago didn’t hear anything else Edmund said. Three thousand? There was no way in Apexia’s holy name he’d let himself run the nation into such debt. They should be able to pay their own way.

  There was also the matter of his pride. He didn’t want to grovel to the elves for help. They’d give it, but with strings attached. They’d push for change that he knew his country wasn’t ready for. Taftlin was still a slave-trading nation and Arrago hadn’t even had time to address that. The elves would give him the money, provided he ended slavery immediately. He knew the chaos that would cause—and it was the fastest way to have a new king installed on the throne. “We are not borrowing from the elves. I don’t want anything to do with them right now. End of discussion.”

  A throat cleared behind him and they turned to see Bethany standing in the doorway. He sucked in a breath. How long had she been there?

  “I apologize, Majesty. I need to speak to you.” She eyed the advisors. “Alone.”

  “We’re not done yet, Lady Bethany,” Rutherford said, raising his chin.

  As if his artificial importance would mean anything to a woman like Bethany, Arrago thought.

  Bethany stared at Rutherford and said, “Alone.”

  “We’re done,” Arrago said, rising. “Gentlemen, do we have something resembling a plan?”

  Edmund nodded. “I’ll get to work. After Lord Stanley and I speak, I’ll talk with Cook. I’m sure he can find me a couple of girls to help with the spices.”

  “We will look into the issue of the carriages and the horses, Majesty,” Stanley said, rising.

  “The white one remains for the Queen, of course,” Rayner said. “Her Majesty does require a certain standard of living, after all.”

  Arrago bit back the sharp reply on his tongue and watched the four men leave his office. Bethany shut the door behind them, rather pointedly he thought. She leaned against the door, a letter in her hands. She was so lean these days, almost to the point of being frail. She’d been sick, too, though she’d never admit more than just feeling a little unwell. But he’d heard her hacking, gasping coughs and knew she was fighting the coughing sickness, just like a goodly amount of the forces on the front.

  She’d recently chopped her hair off again, so it was once more a jumble of red wisps across her pale scalp. If she refused to grow it out, she could at least have someone with scissors cut it evenly. He’d wager Castle Gree that she’d been using her own dagger.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he said with a steady voice that surprised even him. “Please, sit.”

  They hadn’t been alone in a room together since the day he’d told her he was marrying Celeste. The day he’d broken both of their hearts. It was necessary, both for Bethany’s reputation and Celeste’s comfort. Though Celeste entertained Edmund alone at Arrago’s insistence, Bethany would never return the gesture. He’d not even asked. But it was possible to be friends. They could at least be friends.

  Bethany didn’t take him up on his offer to sit. She gave him the letter. “This is for you. It’s from Mother Aneese.” Her voice shook. Bethany’s voice so rarely showed such emotion that it scared him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, opening the letter. “What happened?”

  She gulped down what was clearly mounting tears and whispered, “Mother Aneese is dead.”

  He moved toward her. “Oh, Bethany, I’m so sorry.” He reached
out to touch her arm, but pulled back when she flinched.

  “Her aide asked me to deliver that to you. She knew she was dying and wrote letters to some of us.” She smiled, a ghost of her former self. “You must have made quite an impression on the old woman.”

  Arrago stared at the letter before putting it on his desk. He could read it later. “Thank you. For bringing it yourself, I mean.”

  Bethany nodded and her features softened just a fraction. “I have others to deliver. Good bye.”

  “Wait…” Arrago held out his hand again. He stumbled over his words before saying, “Do you know what’s in it?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get one?”

  “Yes.”

  Arrago inhaled. “What did yours say?”

  “I haven’t read mine.”

  He smiled. “Bethany, whyever not?”

  “I can’t read it yet.” Bethany was quiet for a moment. Then, she asked, “What was that about the carriages?”

  “Apparently, his royal idiocy bankrupted Taftlin before he had the good sense to die.” Arrago sat down in his chair. “So I’m selling a couple of carriages and the horses. Edmund says we have barrels of elven spices, so we’re going to offload some of those.”

  Bethany moved away from the door and sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. She considered her words carefully before speaking. “You should take Lendra up on her offer of a loan.”

  “You heard that part,” he said dryly. “Eavesdropping is probably a treasonable offense.”

  Her face morphed and suddenly the old Bethany was grinning back at him. Her voice changed, too, as a playful lilt danced in her words. “Please try to hang me. I dare you.”

  “It would liven things up around here.”

  They shared a laugh before the awkward silence settled once more. Surprisingly, it was Bethany who broke it. “Seriously, ask Lendra. She’s the unofficial ambassador to Taftlin. In fact, I think you should formally request that the Council name her as the official diplomat. For reasons I don’t grasp, Lendra loves it here. She could approach the Elven Council in Wyllow. We’re squatting on your land while we stage a war. It is only fair that we assist you.”