The Pretender's Crown

by C. E. Murphy

Dmitri's “No” seems to come reluctantly, though he repeats it with more certainty. “No, but her grasp of the situation—that we serve a ‘foreign queen’—has made her uncertain of her own place, and she resents that you haven't trusted her with the truth and the details.”

  “Rightfully, you think.”

  Dmitri spreads fingertips against the ship's rail, a shrug of sorts. “I'm inclined to believe the burden of knowledge is more compelling than the weight of ignorance. I'd have begun her training earlier, and offered more secrets.”

  “As you will with Ivanova?” Robert's careful with the question; Khazar and its ruling family are Dmitri's to deal with, but Robert will face the consequences of Dmitri's choices.

  And the look Dmitri gives him says the other man knows it. “In a few more years, by your leave. She comes into her place in the imperatrix's court this autumn, with her fifteenth birthday, too young yet to grasp the subtleties of what we do here. But Belinda's twenty-three, a woman fully grown, and I think your control over her would be all the greater if these past five years she'd been a student of our plans.”

  “These past five years and more she's been an assassin and a seductress,” Robert points out. “I've needed her where she was. Ivanova is different, not a secret. Still, I'll watch for any resentment, any seeming change of her heart.” Sharpness takes his breath as a woman's face comes to his mind's eye: Ana di Meo, dark-haired, olive-skinned, with lively eyes and a bent for wearing outrageous colours that few could carry off. She was set on Belinda to watch for those very things not quite a year ago, and she has been dead these last six months, dead at Robert's hand, for the troubles that came to her in the watching. He's good at putting the past away, but Ana has the capability to haunt him, and will, he thinks, for the rest of his days. “Thank you,” he adds more roughly, and hopes the unusual gratitude will end the conversation.

  It does: Dmitri nods, and both men fall silent, leaving Robert's thoughts room to run ahead of him, rife with speculation. Dmitri will not have shared this out of concern, but rather to sow dissent: his witchlord brother is ambitious, as, Robert supposes, are they all, those who have come to this world to change it. But Dmitri's looked for years to see signs of Robert's weakness, and sees them clearly enough in how he's handled Belinda. Sees them in Javier's existence, still a thorn in Robert's side. The easiest thing to do would be to kill the boy, but that's foolishness and injured pride speaking: simply because he's unexpected and unknown doesn't mean he's useless or dangerous. Indeed, Javier is witchborn, as these people would call it, and Robert can no more seriously contemplate murdering him than he might consider committing suicide. There'll be a use for Javier yet—that's a wager Robert would make.

  That use might be in controlling Belinda. Ana said the girl was lonely, and had watched love grow up between prince and secret princess. With Sandalia's death, Robert doubts Javier still has such tender feelings toward Belinda, but she may well harbour affection for him even yet. The threat's a useful one to keep in mind, should Robert need to bring her in hand.

  A faint smile creases the corner of his mouth. He's doing what Dmitri wants him to: making plans against the chance Belinda has turned away from him. And yet, manipulated into it or not, it's better to face the possibility that it's necessary, and be prepared to control her, than to be blind sided. Dmitri may not have intended doing him a favour; very likely intended on driving a wedge deep enough between them to create trouble where currently is none, but Robert imagines himself a better gamesman than that. Preparation is a different matter than antagonisation, and he loves his daughter too much to force her into an opposing position on their board.

  Chills lift bumps on his arms, an all-too-human admission of emotion, for it's not the wind off the water that makes him cold. He's fallen prey to weak emotion in the past, most especially in the matter of Lorraine, conflating her with his alien queen and worshipping, loving, them both, and fell again with vibrant Ana di Meo, so gently it wasn't until she had to die that he saw the mark she'd left on him.

  Love is not a name he's often given to his feelings for Belinda Primrose either. Pride, yes, and amusement, and delight, and all those things put together are something larger than he likes to think on. She's a tool, not meant to be adored, and yet the truth of that sentiment is hot enough to bring blood to his face. He loves his daughter, and that's a dreadful admission.

  It changes nothing; it can change nothing. But Robert, shaken and suddenly cold, turns away from the railing and retreats under the deck, there to wait out the little time before they come to Gallin in silence and concerned consideration.

  BELINDA WALTER

  23 June 1588 † Brittany; the front lines

  An absurdity held her in place, nothing more. For two days Belinda had pushed forward and Javier had pushed back, power flexing with the mindlessness of a river wearing at its bed. Without her witch-power in play, she was one of thousands trying to push through the wall of Javier's magic and being rebuffed; with it in play, she became a focal point, a place where his power solidified and became stronger. She thought it was instinctive, as no deliberate destruction rained down when she brought witchlight to bear. Either ignorance or sentiment stopped him, and Belinda doubted it was the latter.

  She had come onto the battlefield at night, not expecting Javier's shielding to still be alight when he must surely lie unconscious with exhaustion himself. But she met resistance as she walked the front, and felt as though shackles closed around her when she tried pushing through witchpower shielding. It was cold and sharp, that magic, sharper than she thought of his power as being, but perhaps a sleeping mind shaped it differently. Unable to press through and unwilling to retreat to the hills, when morning came she took a blade from a dead man and went to war, golden sparks sheering off her when her bladework was overpowered and magic became her primary defence.

  That night Javier's witchpower shield had been even harder, an iron maiden made to surround her and her alone. Only after trying to break through left her white and cold with sweat did she fall back, curling in a huddle under a tent flap where she could steal a bit of warmth and finally some sleep.

  The second day she was a soldier the field changed. She felt Javier's power rearranging the troops around her, but without the vantage of height her sense of what he did was muted. Pushing against his power to explore his intentions hardened his shields and made the men who fought around her all but useless. Frustration and admiration tore at her in equal parts: she'd believed herself unstoppable, and yet with little more than casual pressure, the Gallic king stymied her.

  She didn't know how, precisely, the tide had changed. Its flow had altered, that she knew, but toward early evening something fundamental shifted, and the direction of battle went from two fronts to one. Cordula's armies let go a united roar, and Belinda scrambled away from the chaos of fighting to find a hillock, so buried in bodies that it made a spot of higher ground. Teeth set against disgust, she clawed her way over dead men whose flesh gave and squished with her weight, then turned her eye to the battlefield.

  Yes, the splintered Cordulan armies, in their greens and blues and yellows, had become a single mass that stood against the allied red and black of Aulun and Khazar. They were still outnumbered, but the success of their unification attempt gave them heart, and Belinda wasn't surprised to hear horns call the Aulunian retreat. Cordulan troops chased her army, but not far: the day had gone on too long, and they had cause to retire and rejoice. Tomorrow's battle would come soon enough, and their triumph deserved a night's celebration and sleep.

  Without clear thought, she slipped and clambered down the hill of flesh and began walking forward through troops returning to their camp. Stillness came to her slowly, making her feel as though she faded away, insubstantial as a ghost, and none of the tired, bloody faces around her seemed to notice. Javier's witchlight shield still shimmered across the field, so faint with weariness she was surprised it stood at all, and yet when she reached it, iron clamps seized h
er and held her still.

  Aloud, unconsciously, she said, “I'm trying to make a kind of peace, you foolish bastard,” and then coughed a laugh at the unintentionally accurate description of her brother's parentage. Her brother. The thought came more easily now, though it still sent revulsion itching through her. Even that grew so familiar as to be edging on tiresome in its reminder. It was a thing done to them, she told herself again, and with that truth in hand all desire was dead.

  Most desire. She still carried a wish in her heart, a very strong one, to end one vendetta so another might begin, and that, she whispered to the iron-clad power that held her in place, that was why she must be allowed to pass. There were no soldiers to keep safe now, not with the retreat sounded and sunset creeping up on them. She and she alone had a need to cross, and not for the sake of war.

  She felt a mote under an alchemist's glass, cold iron witchpower examining her, searching for truths she had no need to hide. He hadn't been so cold, before; war, Belinda thought, was not good for Javier, if this was what it made of his witchpower. It was good for none of them, perhaps, except Robert and his dreams of conquest, and that was an idea that pulled another rough laugh from Belinda's chest. She, in all meaningful ways, had begun this war by poisoning Sandalia's cup, and had thought it the best and wisest course to keep Lorraine's crown safe. Irony tasted as bitter as the cold power that held her in place, and she wondered if everyone who set wars in motion later wondered at the rightness of what had driven them to do so.

  Witchpower relented, and Belinda stumbled onto enemy territory feeling very alone.

  JAVIER DE CASTILLE

  23 June 1588 † Brittany; the Gallic camp

  “Javier.” Tomas's voice broke through a rush of silence so loud it could only be witchborn: silence weighted with silver, pounding in his ears like blood. Javier shuddered, and Tomas's hands closed on his shoulders, warm and strong. “Javier,” the priest said again. “You've done it, Javier. It's over. Rest.”

  “Over?” Javier lifted his head, neck muscles screaming protest. “The war?” Heat patched his face at the foolishness of the question, but Tomas's smile held sympathy, not mockery.

  “The battle, at least. The day. Look you to the fields, my king. See your army as one.” He stepped aside but stood close, as though rightfully imagining Javier would need support.

  The river of red-coated soldiers had become a sea streamed with black: Aulun and Khazar together, retreating now from a wall of witchlight so feeble that Javier doubted it would stop a robin, much less an arrow or a sword. His men, an ocean themselves, but of many more hues, surged forward to heckle their fading enemy. Witchpower went with them, rolling just ahead of their blades, and Javier staggered where he stood, strength draining from him. Belinda, his hateful thoughts whispered, Belinda had drowned a whole armada, and yet he could barely keep his feet after a day of shielding his men from the worst brunt of war. She had grown so much, and he had fallen so far, all in such a short time.

  Still, it was her army that withdrew, not his. That was worth taking pride in. Javier managed a smile and its weak presence brought a light of satisfied relief to Tomas's golden eyes. “I don't know what you did,” he murmured, “but you changed our luck. Come back to the war tent now.”

  A king shouldn't lean so heavily on his priest; the idea weighed on Javier's mind as Tomas fitted himself against his side, shoring him up. Shouldn't, and yet this king couldn't stop himself: he didn't trust his own feet to carry him the few hundred steps back to his quarters.

  Songs of triumph greeted them as Tomas shoved the tent door open. Generals surged forward, catching Javier's shoulders, slapping his back, pride in their voices, as though they'd never doubted him. Their accolades left a tangy taste, flatter than blood, in the back of Javier's throat, and he searched the tent for a gaze that didn't hold him in adulation.

  He found it in his uncle, sprawled in a chair, long legs splayed out and fingers templed in front of his mouth. Rodrigo only nodded, a small motion of approval, and if the corner of his mouth shifted in a smile, it was all but hidden behind his hands. Javier nodded in turn and looked for a seat of his own. Finding none, he gave up any pretence of strength and leaned more heavily on Tomas, who ducked his head. “Let me find you somewhere to rest, majesty.”

  “No.” Javier shook his head wearily, but smiled. “Their ebullience will keep me on my feet a while longer. Just stay near and be ready to catch me if I fall.”

  “Always.”

  Despite the promise, Javier was torn from Tomas's side and pulled into a throng of generals and admirals too pleased with their coup to worry, yet, about tomorrow's battles. Someone thrust a cup of wine into his hands and he drank greedily, then ate what was offered with as much abandon, heady from both wine and pride. He caught glimpses of Tomas and recognised the priest truly was almost always close enough to catch him if he fell. Touched, he raised a toast that the others followed heartily.

  “To God's will,” Javier said throatily “To our victory in God's name, and to Tomas del'Abbate, whose gentle spirit has guided me when I've needed it most these past months.”

  Ruddiness crept over Tomas's olive skin and his eyes turned to fire, shyness and delight both manifest in his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, and a blast of cooler air rushed in with the opening of the tent doors.

  “The gentle priest” came on the air, words harsh and sarcastic. “Our gentle priest who's given our warrior king such counsel. Our army is one again, a gift indeed. This power of Javier's is God's gift, priest. Why counsel him to such moderate measures as reuniting our army, when he might have shattered the Aulunians with cannonballs of his own magic? Perhaps you don't want us to win, or perhaps you fear the gift's not God's at all, but the devil's own.”

  Javier twisted around to find Sacha at the door, Marius and Eliza flanking him, though their expressions told tales of horror as he spoke. Shocked silence swept over the room, broken by Eliza, who'd never cared for propriety. She barely bothered to lower her voice as she snapped, “What's gotten into you, Asselin? This is a celebration.”

  “A celebration of a minor victory that might have ended this war, had our king moved boldly. It rained blood, Javier, and this is what you follow it with?”

  “Your fight is with me,” Tomas interrupted softly. “Your hatred's not for Javier, but for me and the wedge you see me as having driven between you. Show some pride, Lord Asselin. Bring your war to the one who's your enemy, and leave your friendship intact.” He came to stand at Javier's right, not blocking his sword hand, but placing himself slightly forward, as if he could protect Javier from Sacha's daggered words.

  Sacha strode forward, leaving Eliza and Marius to scramble along behind, though to Javier's eyes they didn't so much follow him as put themselves into the circle of contention. Marius took a place just beyond Tomas, and Eliza hung back on Sacha's left, one hand half-outstretched as though she could drag him back and knock sense into him. Beyond them Javier was aware of the silence, of gathered generals and warriors all holding their breaths, waiting to see how disaster would unfold. None of them, not one, stepped forward to diffuse the scenario, to try to calm Sacha or silence Tomas. No, this was too important for that. This was a moment in which they could test their king's mettle without forcing a confrontation themselves. Almost he admired them, for their audacity in waiting.

  Almost. Near-exhausted witchpower began to gather, working itself up to strength, and Javier was uncertain whether he'd rather turn its lashing on his passive generals or on Sacha's bubbling hurt. Even without the witchpower he knew that was what drove his oldest friend, that displacement had pushed Sacha this far, a thing Javier had never dreamt could happen. “What would you have me do, Sacha?” His voice was edged with enough regret to last a life-time. “I do battle against another who wields the same kind of power. My attacks are stymied, and it seems to me a better use of talent to unite our army so we might fight as one than to wear away my strength in a fight that will only end in
a stalemate. I have tried to tell you this.”

  “The Aulunian heir,” Sacha snarled. “How can she share your power, Javier? You can't both be God's chosen. The Pappas has blessed you, and so we know your magic to be God's gift. Hers must be born of a bargain with the devil. This priest dooms us all by urging you to caution. You've got to stop hiding behind his skirts, unleash everything you have, and destroy our enemy. Or do you cling to fear and weakness because you can't trust that your power is God-given?”

  “You speak foolishness.” Tomas's face flushed with passion. “A day ago we were lost. Today our army is one, and tomorrow our united strength will wage war against the infidels. God's hand is in this.”

  Javier raised his palm, silencing the priest. “I fight to the best of my talents, Sacha. If I'm weak it's because I've spent a lifetime rejecting this magic, afraid it was a temptation laid before me by the fallen one. With the Pappas's blessing and Tomas's steady hand I can trust it's God who's granted me this skill, and walk unafraid.”

  “What of us?” Sacha asked, voice low and distorted. “What of those who were your family before this magic came to life, before this priest came to your side? How can you not trust us, Javi?”

  He broke on the last word, sending a lance of pain through Javier. That nickname, Javi, was reserved for Sacha alone, a bond between him that he guarded jealously. To hear him use it in company meant he was more uncertain of his place than Javier had ever wanted him to be. “I will always trust you, Sacha. How can you doubt that?” His own voice dropped as low as Sacha's had. “Can you not forgive the part of me that needs the priest's faith and guidance? It's never meant I don't need you, my friend. It only means I need him, too.”

  Betrayal rose up in Sacha so quickly it swept over Javier like the riptide, pulling him down and drowning him in it. “You need us,” Sacha snarled. “The priest is only a crutch. Damn you, Javier, what must I do to show you?”