by Jade Kerrion
“Someone recently pointed out to me that my father’s original intention of fully welcoming witches as citizens of La Condamine had not progressed as far as he had hoped. I’d like to remedy it.”
“Does this have anything to do with the rumors that you intend to shatter the barrier?”
Varian chuckled. Bluntness was a witchy trait not unique to Nithya. “It has accelerated the timing of my decision, but not altered the rationale.”
“And what do you expect from us, your highness?”
“Your attendance at the council meetings and your honest opinions on issues in my realm. I cannot promise to always act as advised, but I will listen.”
“And the seven of us? How did you come by your choice?”
“You are leaders among your people. If you would rather others represent you, I’ll consider it.”
The eldest witch glanced at her companions. In turn, each of them nodded. She looked back at Varian. “On behalf of the witches of La Condamine, we accept. We will do our best to advise you impartially.”
“Don’t,” Varian said. “The fae are looking out for their advantage. Look out for your own. As long as I know where you’re both coming from, I’ll understand the advice I’m getting.”
The old witch chuckled. “Very well, your highness. When do we begin?”
“Right away. My secretary will arrange for you to have access to the palace, and she’ll provide you with the council meeting schedule. In the rare event of an emergency, a messenger will be sent to your home.” Varian smiled. “I’ll try not to have any.”
The lighter tone and mood won smiles from the witches.
Varian stepped out from behind his desk to shake hands with each of them. “Thank you.”
“No. Thank you, your highness, for the privilege of serving our community and La Condamine in this way.”
Varian’s secretary was already standing by the door. “If you will please come with me, I’ll provide you with the rest of the information you need.” She glanced at Varian. “Your highness, Lord Merodes is here to see you.”
“Send him in, please.”
Tristan inclined his head politely to the witches as they departed, but with his usual tact, did not speak until they were alone. “What was that about?”
“I invited them to join my council.”
Tristan’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you talk to the council about this?”
“You are on the council. If you’re asking if I talked to the council without including you, no.”
“Did you talk to anyone?”
Besides Nithya? “No.”
“You know the council isn’t going to be happy about this.”
“I have it on good report that at least half of the council is quite happy about it.”
“Half? You invited seven witches?” Fury, surprising because it was so unexpected, flared in Tristan’s eyes and voice.
“Equal representation, Tristan. Seven fae. Seven witches. I want to make sure their voices are heard, especially after I’m gone.”
Tristan blinked hard and he seemed to fold in upon himself, his outrage fading away. “Of course. That’s the right thing to do.”
Varian walked to the sideboard to pour a glass of wine for Tristan and for him. “Are you all right?”
“Your decision was rather sudden.”
“Rather overdue.”
“That too,” Tristan acknowledged with a weak smile. “I’m sorry I snapped.”
Varian shrugged it off. “When I invited you to join the council, I asked you to be honest with me.”
“Honesty doesn’t excuse poor manners.” Tristan dragged his hands through his hair. “Being a part of your council, dealing with the other lords…some days are especially rough, not that it excuses my behavior. Your father warned me about watching my temper and my tongue when around you.” His smile was crooked and unsteady. “He wanted only the best for you.”
“I suppose,” Varian murmured, although that was not how he remembered his father. How often had he stared enviously at Tristan, wishing that his father, the prince, would be as kind, easygoing, and indulgent with him as his father was with Tristan?
More times than I can remember.
Which just proves that the grass is always greener somewhere else. At least I had a father—unlike Tristan, whose father had been executed for high treason shortly after Tristan came to court.
The stain upon the Merodes family’s good name might have been alleviated if Tristan had power and wealth to smooth his way. His atern bracelet, however, was the dull gray of a cloudy winter sky, and his father’s wealth had been confiscated by the throne.
No son should have to pay for the sins of his father. The title and holdings had been returned to Tristan by Varian, after he took over the rule of La Condamine. It had been the first of Prince Rainier’s deathbed wishes: take care of Tristan.
Varian’s thoughts drifted to his earliest memories of Tristan, a charming boy given to black moods alternating between quiet rocking and rage-filled tantrums. But time eventually healed all wounds, and Tristan’s dark moments had grown few and far between.
“I’m sorry I overreacted.” Tristan sighed. “All the stress of the past few weeks is getting to me.”
Varian dismissed it with a graceful shrug. “I’ll consider it a warning of what to expect when I break the news to the other fae on the council.”
“Lord Grimaldi will have a fit.”
“I’m not clear what the ruckus is about. I choose who advises me on the council. The council doesn’t rule La Condamine by popular vote, so it shouldn’t matter who’s on it, as long as they offer sound advice.”
“It’s a powerful thing to have the ear and trust of a prince.” Tristan glanced at his watch. “The people are already gathering in the courtyard for your speech.”
“It doesn’t start for an hour.”
“Everyone’s eager to hear what you have to say. They’re anxious.” He frowned at Varian. “Are you ready?”
“The speech is ready.” Varian cast a glance at his overcrowded desk. “But in the end, the words alone won’t move them.”
“What will?”
“Belief or evidence.”
Tristan shook his head. “The people are both hard-hearted and hard-headed. They’ll need both.”
“I don’t have either to offer them.” Varian glanced out of the window at the clear sky above. The sun shone down, offering light but little heat.
No one knew for certain what would happen if the barrier gave way. Would it simply vanish or would shards of pure magic rain down on the earth? Would the winter instantly dissipate, or would it slowly fade away, if at all? Even if he managed to shatter the barrier, what proof could he offer his people?
Maybe nothing.
How much political capital would he spend? How much emotional goodwill would he burn?
All of it.
“And for what?” Varian murmured. “For something only I believe in, that no one else cares about.”
“I believe in it,” Tristan spoke up firmly. “I’ve told you, you’re not alone in this.”
“I know,” Varian said. “But Grimaldi, my mother—” Nithya. “People whose opinions I respect—they’re all against it. What if we’re wrong and they’re right?”
“You’ve said it before. No one’s thinking or looking ahead. Will La Condamine be limited by their lack of vision, or your lack of will to enforce what you know is the right thing to do?”
“Enforce?” Varian straightened against the sting of Tristan’s words. “I govern by birthright, not by force. The people are citizens of La Condamine, not my slaves.”
“Shattering the barrier is the only thing your father wanted you to do. He talked about nothing else for years.”
And it was the last thing he had demanded of Varian with his dying breath. Lead La Condamine.
And yet…Varian ground his teeth. “I don’t have to crack the barrier to accomplish something. There is so much left t
o do—so much my father left undone.”
“And you think fixing something simple here in La Condamine will leave behind the same kind of legacy as shattering the barrier?”
“Overcoming the subtle racial discrimination in La Condamine is not simple. The hearts of people lie beyond the realm of laws.”
“You’re backing out?”
“The final decision is yet to be made.” Willpower kept Varian from slamming down his glass of wine. “I know I cannot do this alone, and if I cannot find enough people to stand with me, then it will not be done.”
“You’re blaming your failure on the people?”
“No, but I am not suicidal, Tristan, nor am I a tyrant.” He stared at his friend. “We’ve always known that one person, two, or even ten people—however powerful—can’t break through the barrier. It isn’t even about me. It hinges on whether the people of La Condamine can come together to shatter the barrier.”
Tristan shook his head. “You disappoint me. I had higher hopes for you and for La Condamine.” He strode out of the room.
Varian grimaced. This decision is tearing my family and friends apart, with no hope of a middle ground. His chance to convince the people was coming up. He had two weeks to build support for his plan to shatter the barrier—two weeks to marshal enough magic to crack the ceiling of energy.
Two weeks to know if anything at all would come of his father’s grand vision for La Condamine.
And if it didn’t…
There would be another vision—his vision—not determined in a single night and in a single spell, but over a lifetime of changing hearts and minds, one at a time. The work would be harder, the results slower, but he would leave La Condamine a better place than when he started.
It was, after all, his responsibility as prince.
And if he failed, it would be his fault. No one else’s.
Varian picked up the draft of his speech and stared at the words.
Doubt assailed him, not for the first time, but this time, it clawed deeper and ripped harder. His chest tightened painfully, but this time, he could not even blame it on the sickness in his lungs.
By the names of the three gods and thirteen witches, what am I going to do?
Chapter 7
The weather that day was sunny but frigid, made tolerable only by the extreme body heat generated by the people gathered in the courtyard. Nithya stood among the commoners, but Ariel, standing beside her father on a raised dais, beckoned to Nithya.
Nithya narrowed her eyes and shook her head.
Ariel glared back at Nithya, stomped her little foot, and pointed at the space beside her.
Oh, fine. Nithya rolled her eyes. She could probably accommodate her best friend and most loyal customer. She squeezed her way through the crowd. “Excuse me…I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to step on your foot…no, I’m not trying to sneak ahead of you…Excuse me…”
By the time Nithya managed to reach Ariel, she was grumpy. “What am I doing here?” She smoothed her dress, trying not to look as out of place as she felt—the only witch on a platform packed with the most noble fae families.
“Moral support.” Ariel squeezed Nithya’s arm in a way that made Nithya feel like a savior instead of someone who had been severely imposed upon. Ariel sneaked a sideways glance at her father, who stood grim-faced near the edge of the dais. “Daddy’s furious.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you hear? The prince just appointed seven witches to the royal council.”
Nithya’s jaw dropped. “He did what?”
“Madam Defarge, Monsieur Charnier, and five others. Their names escape me now. Famous witches, all of them.”
“Really,” Nithya murmured. Madame Therese Defarge was widely considered the most powerful and influential of the witches, the rare half-blood daughter of a witch and a fae. Monsieur Charnier, who owned several thriving dining establishments in the city, kept a low profile, preferring recipes over spells, but he too had magic to spare. More importantly, because of his business success, he was respected among both witches and fae. If the other five witches were as wisely chosen as the two whose names Ariel remembered, the prince had chosen well.
“Is your father angry because the prince didn’t consult with him?” Nithya asked quietly.
“Among other things,” Ariel whispered back. “To hear Daddy say it, you’d think the prince doesn’t listen to anyone anymore. All the power’s gone into his head. He thinks he can act without the approval of the council.”
“Does Prince Varian rule La Condamine, or does the council?”
Ariel flushed. “Prince Varian, of course, but it’s terribly rude to ask for advice and then not follow it.”
Nithya giggled, the sound only partially stifled by the hand she clapped over her mouth.
“What’s so funny?” Ariel scowled at her.
“Really?” Nithya asked. “Are you all that sensitive? It’s a wonder he’s only just trampled over all your feelings instead of within hours of taking the throne.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Oh no. I wouldn’t dare,” Nithya said, straight-faced.
“Look, there he is,” Ariel said, pointing toward the palace balcony.
He looks tired, was Nithya’s first thought as she caught her second close glimpse of the prince. His eyes…
So much like Dace’s…
She shook off the implausible idea. Dace’s eyes were still the more powerful, the more beautiful. Surely, it wouldn’t be the case if they were the same person.
Unless, of course, Dace’s face is the prince’s real face.
Could it be? She stared at Varian who was possibly as exquisitely handsome as any fae could be. Was their prince actually an ugly, homely fae?
No…
Really…?
Nithya giggled, and Ariel nudged her in the ribs. “Shhh.”
“Sorry,” she muttered.
The prince’s gaze swept over the crowd, and for a long moment, seemed to rest on her. Nithya looked over her shoulder, half-expecting to see a fae lord standing behind her. She frowned. Surely he wasn’t looking at her.
Why would he? He hadn’t even noticed her when they had actually sat next to each other at Lord Grimaldi’s dinner party.
Then he inclined his head. To her!
Nithya’s jaw dropped. No, it couldn’t be. She had to have imagined it.
Ariel yanked on her hand with such force that Nithya was surprised it didn’t fall off. “He acknowledged you. You didn’t tell me you knew him, you sly witch.”
“I don’t.”
“When did you meet him?”
“At dinner at your father’s chateau, where he ignored me the entire time. You were there. You saw it yourself.”
Ariel apparently did recall it because she looked as confused as Nithya felt. “That is odd, but I didn’t imagine him nodding at you. Are you sure—?”
“What’s his name?”
“What do you mean what’s his name?” Ariel sounded exasperated. “You’ve been living in La Condamine for thirteen years and you don’t know the prince’s name?”
“Surely it’s not just Varian Delacroix. People like him have twenty names.”
Ariel frowned. “Not twenty, but it’s still a mouthful. Varian Aleron Sylvain Dace Delacroix.”
“Dace?”
“It means noble-born, or of the nobility. It’s not an unusual name,” Ariel said, no doubt in response to the shock on Nithya’s face.
Dace…Varian?
No, it couldn’t be. Of course, they looked nothing alike, but the difference was easily ascribed to glamour. Dace’s eyes had seemed the more striking of the two, but now that she was studying Varian intently, she could see that Varian’s eyes were no less striking, but his stunning good looks blunted the effect of his eyes, whereas Dace’s ugliness drew attention to them.
Could it be?
And the inclusion of the witches on the council—surely that was a coincidence. It could n
ot have emerged from her conversation with Dace.
“Ariel…”
“Shhh. I’m trying to listen.”
“Is the prince sick?”
Ariel darted an alarmed look at her friend. “What do you mean?”
“Does he have some kind of sickness in his lungs?”
Ariel’s blue eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“So he is sick.”
“It runs in his family. His father died of it, but the palace hushed it up. The council knows, of course, and once I overheard Daddy talking to another council member—something about the weakness of Delacroix blood, and how the illness that afflicts the father, afflicts also the son.”
Nithya drew a deep breath. She recalled, too easily, the wet, tearing sound of Dace’s cough—the weakness in his lungs that he had brushed off with a shrug even though it was violent enough to stagger him.
The homely Dace was Varian Delacroix.
The ugly Dace who had kissed her, who set her nerves on fire was the prince of La Condamine.
Oh…damn.
She turned her attention back to the palace balcony as the majordomo completed his introduction of the prince and stepped aside for him.
“Ladies and lords, citizens of La Condamine.” A faintest application of magic allowed Varian’s voice to carry without shouting. “Rumors of great change have brought you here. Some of the changes have been years in coming. I am pleased to announce the inclusion of some of La Condamine’s most respected citizens on my council. With their acceptance, they have both honored me and chosen to serve you.”
Nithya listened carefully as he presented the names of the seven witches. He had, for the most part, chosen well. The youngest among them was middle-aged. Nithya might have preferred younger blood, but the young witches tended to be mouthy—she twitched guiltily—herself excluded, of course.
The uproarious applause of the witches drowned out the polite clapping of the fae. Forty years after citizenship was first opened to the witches, they finally had a voice on the council, and not just a voice. They had an equal voice.
It could not have been the result of her one conversation with Dace. Surely, the prince had to have been thinking about it for a while. It was absurd to imagine that she could have such an impact on the prince.
