It was common knowledge across the Greater Chain that Queen Abeth hated anything clandestine or overly secretive. The moment the war had ended, she’d waged her own personal fight to purge any remnants of the Realm from the islands. Her ensuing queenship had been honest and remarkably transparent.
Pardoning Ard, and by association, Raek, had been a bold, but public stroke. So Quarrah could understand that Abeth would have some lingering doubts about her. Namely, why hadn’t she come back to the palace after that night? Why hadn’t she also taken advantage of the queen’s generous pardon?
And the cowl probably wasn’t helping.
Hesitantly, Quarrah pulled it down, feeling highly self-conscious without so much as a costume to hide behind. After a moment, they arrived at a guarded door. Following her mental map of the palace, Quarrah knew this would be one of the council chambers.
The guarding Regulators stepped aside, nodding respectfully to the Prime Isle as they pulled open the door.
In all her years, Quarrah couldn’t remember entering such a stuffy, bloated room. The air was actually quite fresh, a scented bouquet of herbs hanging in a window that opened to a small courtyard. But the people seated around the large rectangular table were putting off their own air—and Quarrah found their self-importance downright stifling.
Everyone stood when they entered the room, even Queen Abeth, at the table’s head. Did kings and queens always rise for the Prime Isle? Or was that just a show of respect since Abeth was a crusader monarch? After all, her right to rule was intrinsically tied to the Islehood’s approval.
Quarrah heard Raek snicker beside her. She could already hear the way he would retell the story to Ard, claiming that the entire noble council had risen for Raek alone.
“Thank you all for convening on such short notice.” Trable held up his hand in a silent approval for everyone to be seated.
As they carefully lowered their pampered backsides into their padded chairs, Quarrah took the opportunity to scan the faces of all the nobles in the room. In addition to the Prime Isle and the queen, there were three women and four men. Quarrah recalled stealing from only two of them, and the thefts had gone off well enough that they’d have no reason to suspect her.
“The matter at hand is as much political as it is religious,” said Trable, seating himself at the opposite end of the table. Quarrah and Raek took up the empty seats on either side of him. “By now, I’m sure you’ve all heard—it seems that everyone in Beripent has—that one of my Holy Isles is being detained on the Trothian islets. I brought the matter to Her Majesty’s attention and she recommended we meet to discuss what can be done.”
“I was not aware that the preaching of the Holy Isles was permitted on the islets,” said a pale young noblewoman with large green gems set in her earrings.
“He was not there to preach,” answered the Prime Isle.
“Then what business took him to the islets?” asked a bald man.
“He was there to apologize.” It was the queen who answered.
At once, all eyes turned to Abeth. It had been only two years, but she looked so different than when they’d sheltered her in the Guesthouse Adagio after faking her death. She exuded an unmistakable air of confidence, complemented by an enhanced measure of the determination she had always shown. Quarrah liked her. Sparks, it seemed everyone did. And the fact that she was willing to assemble the royal council for Ard’s sake only made Quarrah respect her more.
“The Isle in question is none other than Ardor Benn,” Abeth continued. “I believe you’re all familiar with his unique path to the Islehood?”
“Does this arrest void his pardon, then?” asked a plump noblewoman, a little too anxiously.
“I hardly consider it a crime to sail to Ra Ennoth for an apology,” answered the queen. “During the war, Ardor made an enemy of a particularly powerful Trothian priestess. The reports we’re receiving say she plans to execute him during the upcoming Moon Passing.”
“I fail to see why this news warranted a meeting,” said a harsh-looking nobleman with a beak nose.
“The issue before us today is whether or not to mount a rescue on the Isle’s behalf,” said the Prime Isle.
The bald nobleman threw his hands in the air. “The Kinter family does not see any good in meddling in Trothian affairs. We are open to their presence and contributions in the Greater Chain, but what happens on their islets should remain their business.”
“Was it legal for this priestess to detain him?” asked a dark-skinned noblewoman with an elegant hat.
“Technically, yes,” answered the queen. “She waited until he stepped foot on Trothian sand.”
“Then the Werner line must agree with the Kinters,” continued the noblewoman. “This is purely a Trothian affair.”
Prime Isle Trable leaned forward, clearly growing agitated by the lack of concern. “I would side with you if this were an ordinary citizen. But we are talking about a well-known Holy Isle. Over the last year, Ardor has become much loved by the citizens of Beripent.”
“The people love Isle Ardor the way they love a three-legged street dog,” said the sharp-nosed nobleman. “He is an oddity. A curiosity. And when he does a trick for a treat, the people gawk and applaud.”
Quarrah watched the Prime Isle’s jaw tighten under his trim dark beard. “Regardless of your personal feelings, I expect a level of respect when discussing my Isles. Ardor provides perspective that many find helpful. He listens without judgment and guides with insight drawn from diverse life experiences.”
Was this Ard he was talking about? Quarrah wanted to laugh, but that wouldn’t help Ard’s case. Seemed like he really had Trable wrapped around his little finger. That was what Ardor Benn was best at—convincing powerful people to give him what he wanted. But there was something about the conviction in the Prime Isle’s voice that gave her pause. It made her believe for a moment that maybe—just maybe—Ard really had changed.
“Like him or not,” continued Trable, “word of his capture has already spread through the streets. The people are watching to see what we’ll do about it.”
“That’s actually why we were late,” Raek cut in, raising his hand. “Have you seen the crowd out front? Tough to get a carriage through while everyone’s chanting about freeing their favorite Holy Isle.”
“And who exactly are you?” asked the large noblewoman, turning a lazy eye on Raek and Quarrah.
“I’ll be happy to make the introduction,” Queen Abeth said. “This is Raekon Dorrel and Quarrah Khai, known associates of Ardor Benn.”
“Criminal associates?” asked a muscular, broad-shouldered man.
“In the past, yes,” said Abeth. “But I have extended my pardon to them for their assistance in finding my son and dismantling the Realm.”
She shot a pointed look at Quarrah, who was aware of the way she had phrased the sentence to protect her. Abeth had extended her pardon. Didn’t mean Quarrah had taken it.
“Prime Isle Trable and I thought it best to invite these two to our council today,” continued Abeth. “They were with Ardor at the time of his arrest and they know him as well as anyone.”
“So now we’re inviting friends to the royal council meetings?” questioned Lady Werner. Frightfully disrespectful tone when addressing the queen. But then, these seven were here because their family bloodlines were being considered for the monarchy. While the common citizen adored and respected Abeth, these families saw her only as a placeholder queen. Someone to rule until a new bloodline was instated to replace the Agauls.
“The crusader queen can invite whomever she chooses to the royal council meetings,” Abeth replied sharply. The insulted look on Lady Werner’s face brought a quiet smile to Quarrah’s.
“They are here to provide an eyewitness account to what happened on the Trothian islet,” said Trable. “They are happy to answer any questions you might have.”
Happy was pushing it. Quarrah found the wooden chair beneath her growing more uncomfortable as the focus of th
e meeting bore into her.
Raek cleared his throat and she let out a relieved sigh, grateful that he would be taking point.
“Better ask Quarrah,” he said, causing her to turn. “She was actually with Ard when the Trothians nabbed him. I was waiting on the ship a half mile out.”
Quarrah felt her fingertips begin to tingle with nerves. Why did it feel like Raek had just betrayed her? And what was she supposed to tell them anyway? The truth? She hadn’t heard Lyndel say the exact reason for the arrest, but it hadn’t been hard to deduce.
She drew in a deep breath. “I believe the Trothians are blaming Ard for the naval skirmish to retake the Pekal harbor two years ago,” she finally said.
“Why would they blame him?” asked Lord Kinter.
Quarrah glanced at Raek, but he didn’t come to her aid the way Ard would have. Instead, he simply gave her an encouraging nod.
“We were there,” she said, the words tripping over themselves in her mouth. “We had just rescued Shad Agaul from Pekal and were attempting to transport him back to Beripent. The Trothians thought we should have leveraged the boy to stop the fighting.”
“Were there not Archkingdom ships in the fight?” asked the man with the sharp nose.
“There were,” replied Quarrah.
“Then the Trothian plan seems a good one,” he followed up. “Why would you not relinquish the prince to the Archkingdom navy?”
“Lord Blindle raises a good point,” said the plump woman. “The Archkingdom vessels could have assured him safe transport back to Beripent.”
“We couldn’t trust them,” said Quarrah. “We didn’t know how far the Realm’s reach had extended. Ard thought it best to see the boy back to Beripent in our care.”
“And what did you think?” asked the woman with the earrings.
Quarrah hesitated. Could they have saved lives that morning? Ard hadn’t put the question up for debate. Like so many things, he’d taken control and Quarrah had had little choice but to hang on for the ride. It was what she found so frustrating about him. And yet, that same irritating quality was what had restored the dragon population, causing Moonsickness to recede.
“I think he made the right choice,” Quarrah finally said.
“Wouldn’t it have been best to present the prince at the battlefront to spark a ceasefire?” said Lord Kinter.
“Or turn him over to the Sovereign States,” said Blindle. “They didn’t want him dead. They could have used the lad to initiate peace talks. Termain would have had to listen.”
Queen Abeth rose from her seat slowly, but with an intensity that silenced everyone in the room. She stood at the head of the table, her hands visibly trembling and her voice low.
“We are talking about my son. He was not a commodity. He was not a bargaining chip. Anyone who chooses to see him that way is no better than the Realm. And there is no question about how I dealt with them.”
She let the silence hang in the chamber, daring anyone to meet her eye. When the group was sufficiently cowed, she smoothed the bodice of her dress and sat down again.
Prime Isle Trable finally recovered the meeting. He leaned forward, his voice soft but intense. “Let us consider that to be the testimony of our crusader queen regarding the character of the man who rescued her son. And I will vouch for the reformed man, Isle Ardor.” Then he turned to Quarrah and Raek. “Now, perhaps a few words from his longtime associates might convince you that he is worth saving. What can you tell us about the ruse artist, Ardor Benn?”
Quarrah’s mind immediately went blank. When thoughts returned a moment later, all of them were highly incriminating. Luckily, Raek started talking this time, buying her an extra few moments to compose a testimony.
“My parents died when I was sixteen,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I was old enough—smart enough—to survive on the streets, but I didn’t have to because Ardor Benn invited me home as a brother.”
“Was that here, in Beripent?” Lady Werner asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And are his parents still alive?” came the follow-up from Lord Kinter.
Quarrah managed to catch Raek’s eye, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. How honest should they be, walking a line between saving Ard and betraying his secrets?
“I don’t know,” Raek replied. “But if they are, I can tell you they are no longer in Beripent.”
“How can you be sure?” asked the muscular lord.
“Because I moved them out of the city myself,” he answered. “Look, we weren’t always criminals. We tried for years to make an honest living. We were delivery boys, message carriers, students at the university, miners, Harvesters on Pekal. But when Ard’s old man got into a debt he couldn’t repay, we turned outside the law. Our first ruse put enough Ashings in our pockets to set us up for life. But do you know what Ardor Benn chose to do with that money? He paid off his father’s debts and asked me to move them far away from Beripent so they could live out their old age in peace and quiet.”
“And you went along with that?” asked the young noblewoman.
“Absolutely,” he said. “For two reasons. Ard’s parents were good to me. They were like a second family and I had a chance to thank them for it.”
“And the other reason?” asked the plump noblewoman.
“Because going along with Ardor Benn’s plans is always the best bet.” He interlaced his large fingers on the table.
“Thank you,” said the Prime Isle. He turned toward Quarrah expectantly.
Oh, where to start?
“Ard doesn’t know when to stop,” she said. “I’ve seen him throw caution to the wind to accomplish his goal. I’ve seen him put his own life on the line to rescue a friend in need.” She glanced at Raek, who just happened to be pressing one hand against the hole in his chest. “I’ve seen him think of solutions when there didn’t seem to be any left. I’ve even seen him throw away something good”—she swallowed hard—“because he couldn’t stop.”
“So the man is driven,” said Kinter. “We all have our ambitions.”
“Think of the thing that you are most passionate about in this world,” said Quarrah. “Then imagine that’s how Ard feels when trying to decide which pastry to eat for breakfast.”
Across the table, Raek burst out in an uncontrolled snicker, his bald head nodding in agreement.
“Ard went to Ra Ennoth because he doesn’t know when to stop,” Quarrah continued. She didn’t feel like that was lying at all. She had proposed an alternative, but Ard had been determined to use Lyndel to get the Moon Glass. Well, look where that had landed him.
“I can speak to that,” seconded the Prime Isle. Quarrah leaned back, grateful to be out of the hot seat.
“Since his entry into the Islehood, Isle Ardor has been determined to make things right with former unsavory associates who seek to take advantage of his reformation,” explained Trable. “I have counseled him more than once to avoid these encounters, but he feels an obligation to meet with anyone who has a qualm with him, in an effort to put it to rest. Hence, his excursion to the Trothian islets is not entirely unexpected.”
Lord Kinter leaned forward, gently placing a hand flat on the table. “I suppose I’m still unclear on what exactly you’re proposing we do.”
Queen Abeth took over. “We would like the council’s blessing to send an emissary to Ra Ennoth to negotiate the release of Isle Ardor. I have already taken the liberty to have the Leeward Pride prepped to sail. She stands ready in the western harbor.”
“When you say negotiate the release of the Isle, what assets are you offering on his behalf?” asked the lazy eye.
The queen held out her hands. “That is up for discussion.”
“I am told that the Trothians care little for Ashings on their islets,” said Lord Kinter.
“Then perhaps we can trade something,” said Trable. “A ship? A generous supply of Grit? Homeland knows they have a difficult time obtaining it.”
“
Oh, yes!” cried Lord Blindle. “Let’s be sure to arm our enemies.”
“Need I remind you that the Trothians are not our enemies!” snapped the queen.
“Offer them a thousand Ashings,” said Lady Werner dismissively. “If they refuse, we can reconvene to discuss further options.”
“We are a mere three days from the Moon Passing,” said the queen. “And the islet where he’s being held is not down the street. Our first offer must be our best. And it must be convincing.”
“Still, I agree with Blindle,” said the lazy eye. “Even a thousand Ashings is too high a price for the life of one man. And if we pay this ransom, what’s to stop the Trothians from abducting another Holy Isle to milk us for more?”
The Prime Isle held up his hand. “To be clear, this is not a ransom. And Isle Ardor was not abducted.”
“Then why are we working so hard to save him?” cried Lord Blindle. “Sounds to me like the Trothians have every reason to execute him.”
“That’s not—ugh…” Prime Isle Trable let out an exasperated sigh. “I suppose we should put it to a vote, then.” He wiped at his forehead, shiny with nervous sweat. “Those in favor of sending an emissary to Ra Ennoth for negotiations?”
“Not just yet,” said the woman with the earrings. “Why does Her Majesty even need the council’s blessing to authorize an emissary? It is well within your rights as queen to act alone on this. As the crusader monarch, you need only the approval of the Prime Isle, which you clearly have.”
“We are dealing with a very public incident,” said Abeth. “I don’t know how word spread so quickly, but Raekon is right. The citizens are incited.”
Quarrah imagined Cinza and Elbrig working the streets, donning and doffing disguises as quick as a sneeze. They’d done it just as efficiently the night Pethredote had been eaten by the dragon.
“I’m concerned about the political consequence of sending an emissary,” continued the queen. “My connection to Ardor Benn could make it seem like I am extending a personal favor by coming to his aid. I think it would look better to the Trothian nation if we acted as a council.”
The Last Lies of Ardor Benn Page 14
