by Gwynn White
According to Ryferian tradition, no one could shift him until he had had his say and announced a period for questions. Only subtle signals from the Intelligentsia—people snoring usually worked—could stop a speaker once he had the floor.
Sadly, none of the Intelligentsia showed any sign of dropping off.
After coming here straight from Lazard’s send-off, the lack of food and water, her inherent weakness, and the emotional trauma of the day left her drained. It was all exhausting.
She would not manage to stand much longer, and Artemis knew it.
It’s probably his strategy. To see me collapse before I can defend my case.
Her patience snapped.
Something had to shut him up before she flaked. Feet like lead, she forced them to shuffle her forward across the mosaic of brilliant gemstones until she stopped in front of him. He almost tripped over her, but he paused momentarily and scowled at her.
She grabbed the gap. “Thank you, Lord Artemis. You presented your case most ably, if somewhat repetitively.”
She grimaced at her own flippancy. It was time to control her impetuous tongue if she was to succeed here. Artemis opened his mouth to object, but instead he perched on the very edge of his seat. She would have to keep her wits about her not to give him a similar gap to topple her.
“The law is on my side.” Speaking as she walked, she crossed to a glass-and-ebony cabinet filled with scrolls. She rapped on it with her knuckles. “I could pull out the scroll in which Nethric and his Intelligentsia penned that an unwed princess who is also heir to the throne has one month to choose a consort. But the day draws late and there is a feast prepared, so I will not trouble you to read it. Suffice to say that I have not found a suitable husband in Ryferia. Short of commanding someone to marry me, also expressly against the law, that leaves me no choice but to open the Guardians to allow possible suitors to enter the kingdom.”
Dull stares from the Intelligentsia. They could not challenge her on that, and they knew it, but the destruction of the Guardians was another matter. She prattled on about her plans for the trials while she gathered her thoughts on how to tackle that problem.
After her wild outburst on the stand at the canal, her sense of self-preservation had kicked in. These men would see her dead before they allowed her to permanently tear down the Guardians.
Right now, she was too weak to challenge them on it.
But—and it was a huge but—if she could woo the man who appeared to be winning the trials, perhaps he would fall in love with her.
However remote, it was possible.
If her husband loved her, surely he would join her band of protectors? He could help shield her from these conniving men while she garnered support amongst the Infirm. She and her consort could replace Artemis’s most loyal Intelligentsia with Infirm courtiers willing to back her.
With their support, she would pass the decree to tear down the Guardians.
Niing wouldn’t like the delay, but it wasn’t Niing’s life on the line. He wasn’t even here to support her. None of her friends were, but that was because they were not part of the Intelligentsia.
She changed direction. “So that takes care of the sword fighting part of the trials . . . now to the Guardians. I propose that we hold off discussion on them until after the trials, when the succession is secured. I see no point in causing a ruckus while things are still so uncertain.”
Artemis’s thin lips twisted into what passed as his smile. She’d backed down, and it obviously pleased him. The month between now and the wedding would give him ample opportunity to disrupt her plans.
I face a hungry time. Wild horses won’t make me eat or drink anything that comes out of the palazzo kitchens.
Artemis nodded his agreement. All around the forum, his sycophants nodded, too.
It seemed she had carried the day.
Her strength spent, she struggled to remain standing as she handled the practicalities. “I will instruct my tutor, Niing, to issue the challenge to possible suitors on the morrow. I propose that we open the chain mail across the bay to allow the nobles who respond to bring one boat each into the harbor. Obviously, as my guests, I will make them and their entourages welcome at the palazzo. The day the winner is declared, we will wed—and then I will claim my throne.”
She swayed on her feet and lost her train of thought.
“And what of these suitors?” Artemis called from his seat. “Who will vet them? We cannot risk anyone from Warrendyte slipping in here under the guise of wanting your hand.”
Warrendyte was a place of legend, where the Magical who had survived the war in Ryferia were claimed to have fled. To her—and most of the kingdom, she was sure—an invasion by ghoulish, Magical creatures from Warrendyte was nothing more than a favored parental threat used to get unruly children to bed on time. No one could possibly take Artemis seriously. But as he had asked the question, she had to answer.
“I have no desire to court magic. If any suitor suspected of magic shows up, the musketeers will be instructed to cast him out of the kingdom. And as for the mythical Warrendyte, I doubt any carrier pigeon in Ryferia knows how to get there to drop off their challenge.” Before he could reply, she added, “Now, my lords, let us adjourn to the palazzo for the feast.”
She wobbled to her seat and sank gratefully into it. Hopefully, the promise of wine and truffles would tempt these puffed-up buffoons to flee for the palazzo.
The buzz of conversation and the shuffle of feet on stone echoed through the forum as the Intelligentsia made for the heavy iron doors at the end of the hall.
Still on her bench, she took a moment to close her eyes. Not to rejoice in her half-victory, but to catch her breath.
A hand dropped onto her shoulder.
She looked up to see Artemis. He leaned down. “Nicely played, Aurora,” he whispered. “But be careful, girl. I did as you requested and held back your brother’s dinner plate. It is even now with my personal alchemist. He informs me that your brother’s food was laced with digitalis. Take my throne, and I will announce that you poisoned him. Instead of a coronation, you will face the gallows.”
Her blood rushed from her extremities. She leaped to her feet. “No one in their right mind will believe that!”
“Then why, Aurora, did your potion not heal him? Everyone knows how skilled you are with your herbs.”
“I didn’t have enough time! He was so full of the poison, no hastily brewed antidote in the world could have saved him,” she shot back.
It was only when Artemis’s eyes glinted with triumph that she realized what she had said. A rapier smile. “A confession. Thank you. I will use that against you when I call you out as a traitor. The Intelligentsia will have no difficulty believing it, especially when I remind them of what you wore today at Lazard’s send-off.” A sneer. “Blue and silver will never be your colors.”
With nothing left to lose, she lashed out at Artemis with her fist.
He caught her hand and laughed. “Now, now, that is hardly the behavior of a queen. It just proves my point—a queen you will never be.” He tossed her hand away and sauntered from the forum.
A thousand snakes writhed in her stomach as she watched him go. She had no hope of proving her innocence.
Her face hardened, and her fists clenched at her skirt. Even if he lied to the world that she killed Lazard, she’d never allow Artemis to rule Ryferia.
Not while I draw breath.
She would find a husband to support her no matter what.
Chapter Eleven
Aurora’s stomach rumbled with hunger.
The torches, which earlier in the evening had turned the main piazza where Lazard’s send-off feast had been held into a wonderland, guttered in the cool breeze carried in from the sea. Around her, Intelligentsia and courtiers drooped in various stages of inebriation from both food and wine.
Earlier, Keahr had managed to slip into the kitchen to fetch her some fruit, but a better plan had to be concocte
d to keep her alive between now and her marriage.
With the evening fading, Aurora could finally leave the feast.
The tension between her, Niing, and her friends had crackled all evening as they waited to hear the outcome of the meeting in the forum. It was not something she would ever discuss in public, where Artemis’s spies lurked.
From their downcast faces, it was obvious they were worried. Zandor hadn’t left her side all evening. Further evidence. She nudged his arm and tossed a grape at Keahr to get her attention. “Let’s go.”
They stood. Aurora looked around for Niing. Wrapped in pipeweed smoke, the little man sat on his own with his eyes closed.
She touched his shoulder. “Ready to go?”
Niing started, then clambered to his feet. “I’ve been ready these many hours. Your villa or my cavern, my princess?”
Her villa was closer. Still, it was a long trudge to get to the bright-blue doors that welcomed her into her home. Once inside, Peckle sidled up to join them.
She groaned as she pumped her legs up the marble staircase. Once through the doors into her salon, she spared the sofas a quick glance, dismissed them, and staggered to her bedchamber.
Her friends made no comment as they followed her into the room. Peckle raced ahead. After everyone had entered, Zandor closed and locked the door. He and Niing sat in the window seat. Keahr tossed herself down onto the foot of the bed. Aurora flopped beside her.
After extracting a half-hearted promise from her never to flee again, Zandor had repositioned her bed over the trap door before Artemis had learned how she’d escaped the palazzo the night Lazard had been poisoned.
Peckle’s ears flattened as he looked up at Aurora’s pillows. He lifted his nose and sniffed delicately. She reached to pick him up, but as soon as her fingers touched his soft fuzz, he sank his claws into her.
She snatched her hand away and licked her wounds. “Unrewarding cat! You shed all over my bed, but when I need you to comfort me, you turn into a viper.”
Peckle ignored her, nose still twitching. Then he jumped up onto her pillow.
Aurora dismissed him with a hand wave. “So, my meeting . . . I know you are anxious to know what I agreed.”
“Heard rumors,” Niing said. Face even more creased than usual, he added, “You told them you’d decided not to destroy the Guardians.”
Keahr and Zandor looked at her with disapproval.
Aurora’s temper flared—at the lying rumor mill and at them for their disapproval. “I said no such thing. What I did say was that discussion on the destruction of the Guardians would wait until after my marriage.” She sighed, too fatigued to maintain her anger. “Ever heard of the expression ‘fight the fights you can win’? Well, it was like that. You should be pleased I managed to restrain my tongue. I even had to field a question from Artemis about Magical men sneaking in from Warrendyte. I assured the Intelligentsia that anyone suspected of dabbling in magic would be eliminated from the trials and cast out of the kingdom.”
Niing pursed his lips. “Well, with the Guardians in place, no one will know if the suitors are Magical or not.”
“Precisely! That was the kind of nonsense I had to deal with in the forum. So, don’t judge me because I delayed discussing the destruction of the Guardians.” She flopped back onto her pillow, not wanting to see their faces as she bared her deepest desire. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a strange mound adjacent to her pillow, where Peckle now stared at the sheets.
With more important things to worry about, she ignored them both.
She continued. “I need the man I agree to marry to love me.”
Her words settled into a pool of silence.
She sat up and glared at Niing, whose idea this was. “I have to know that I mean something more to him than a trade deal. You said you had a list of men in mind to invite. Make sure one of them meets that criteria. And as for the rest of the world, the challenges have to go out tomorrow. That’s what I promised the Intelligentsia.”
“No man who takes the time to get to know you will resist falling in love with you.” Keahr’s voice rattled in the silence.
Aurora patted Keahr with her foot—she was too tired to consider reaching her hand down the bed. “I’m serious, Niing. He has to want to support me because he cares about me.” Her shock at Artemis’s threat made her quiver. “If I choose a consort, my delightful uncle has threatened to tell the Intelligentsia that I murdered Lazard with digitalis.”
Niing hissed in a breath; Zandor jumped to his feet and shot across the room to stand at her side; a coughing fit assailed Keahr, and her hands flew to her mouth.
Niing reached for his pipe, but didn’t light it. “I have my eye on a man I believe will be an admirable consort for you,” he said, with a solemnity she had never heard from him before. “I will do all in my power to ensure he attends.”
Her three friends exchanged troubled looks. Clearly, this was more of a challenge than Niing wanted to admit.
“I hope he’s a firstborn,” Aurora said, adding another layer of complication. “I had to offer that to butter up the Intelligentsia. If they think a consort will bring a kingdom of wealth with him, they will be more amenable. Is he?”
Niing pursed his lips for a moment. “He is old enough to be a firstborn and . . . and his views carry great weight in his realm.”
Not an heir to a throne, then.
She sighed. It didn’t matter; if he proved suitable, she would fudge her way around that problem. She fluffed her pillows, but that mound beneath the sheets butted her hand. The one she had spotted that intrigued Peckle so much.
Peckle shot to his feet, hissing loudly, the hair on his back standing.
“What is it, Peckle?” She frowned, patting the spot just as Zandor strode around the bed. He swatted Peckle off as he crouched and lifted the covers.
His face blanched, eyes widening.
“What is it?” Her breath caught in her throat.
Zandor ignored her, eyes never moving from whatever was beneath the covers. “Keahr, take Aurora out of here.”
Before Keahr could move to take hold of her hands, Aurora swept forward, and pulled the covers back.
The child she had helped during the funeral procession—his father had called him Rinlin—his severed head lay, soaking blood into the mattress. His mouth lolled open and his eyes rolled back, revealing only the yellowing whites.
Aurora threw up in her mouth.
Keahr gasped, then coughed violently as she staggered off the bed.
Niing dashed to the bed while Zandor tried to pull the tangled sheets back over the child’s head.
“Aurora, come away.” Niing wasn’t asking.
Tripping over her own feet, she obeyed.
“Zandor.” Niing had his teacher voice on. “Get it out of here. And arrange a new mattress for Aurora tonight.”
“He killed that child.” Her voice grated against the lump of panic in her throat. “Artemis said I would pay for it. He said I would pay for standing against him. I never thought—”
Niing grabbed both of her hands, trying to angle her away from the dead child’s head. “Look at me, my princess. Focus on me.”
Stinging tears slid down her face. Niing was but a blur in her clouded vision.
“He killed that little boy because of me.” She hiccupped as her chest racked. “What will his father do now? He’s blind.” Another hiccup. “And he loves his son so much.”
“Artemis will kill many more fathers and sons, mothers and daughters if you do nothing. He would rather see this kingdom burn than see you succeed, even if it meant he were king of the ruins he left behind.” Niing stood on his toes, reaching for her face. He angled her chin down to his level. “Aurora, you have to win. If you don’t, it won’t just be our lives in danger. Every Infirm citizen of Ryferia will be in jeopardy. You have no choice. You have to win.”
Across the room, Zandor bunched the remains in bloodied sheets.
It didn’t
matter what he did now. The image of Rinlin’s dead face would be imprinted in her mind for the rest of her life. His young life had come to an abrupt end; he would never live out his childhood, grow up, and have a happy life—his future had been stolen away. Just as Lazard’s had. And hers—and many more—would be, too, if Artemis got his way.
No matter what happened, she would not allow Artemis to take any more innocent lives.
Niing was right. Her only choice, if she wanted to save her people, was to win her rightful place on the Ryferian Throne—even if she had to call in an army from her consort’s realm to achieve that goal.
No price would be too high to pay.
Chapter Twelve
Incense clung to the crystal-and-silk twined drapes, silk sheets, and cushions on the round bed, and now to Raith. Hardly surprising, seeing as he hadn’t left this room since escaping here after fighting with Father.
At first he’d considered staying at the castle until Carian revealed his plan, but he knew his brother well. Carian would speak at a time of his choosing. Nothing Raith could say or do would change that.
Carian knew where to find Raith when he was ready to share. Until then, Raith would lie low. A brothel that catered to the Untalented was the one place his puritanical father would never enter to find him.
A blond-haired whore passed him a cup of wine. He waved it under his nose to clear his senses. He supposed that ylang-ylang and jasmine were a necessity in a whorehouse.
She giggled as she spread out over the sheets. “Men seem to like the smell of wine and incense. It gets their blood pumping.”
He took a swig of the goblet. Cheap wine. It cleaved to his palate like tar. “I’m not like most men.”
She laughed louder. “I do believe I have heard that before. Although I have never been with a duke.” She ran her fingers, swirling with henna patterns, across the sprinkling of dark hair on his chest. “You’re good.”
