by L. Penelope
Nirall leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees. Round spectacles and a gray-streaked goatee in need of trimming gave him a professorial air. “Alariq was also very good at deflecting.”
“How do you mean?”
“Sometimes, when people are up in arms about something, they need their attention to be redirected elsewhere.”
Jack frowned. “What could redirect them?”
Licks of fire reflected in the man’s spectacles, setting his eyes aglow. “The people have been displeased over the shortages for some time, but the royal wedding was going to be the perfect distraction. The right mix of glamour and austerity, of course, but an event to capture the public’s imagination all the same.”
With a sigh, Jack slumped farther in his chair. “I’m sure that would have done the trick. It’s too bad they could not have wed. I hope Lizvette’s spirits are not too low.”
“She’s quite well. And she would still make a very fine princess.” Nirall’s gaze held Jack in its grip.
He was dumbstruck. Several moments passed before he could respond. “You can’t be suggesting…”
Nirall reached for Jack’s arm. “Our two families are still a good match. A strong princess will go a long way to improve your public perception. A wedding, an heir, it would be—”
“That is ludicrous!” Jack stood. “Lizvette loved my brother. How could I … It would be extraordinarily inappropriate, not to mention in very poor taste. I’m not sure how you could even think such a thing.”
Nirall stood and bowed his head. “I did not mean to offend you, Your Grace. I was simply trying to offer a potential solution.”
Jack backed away. “The title Minister of Innovation fits you too well. But this is outlandish. I could never do such a thing to the memory of my brother, nor to Lizvette.”
“You could honor him by maintaining his legacy. He chose my daughter for a reason, and you and she have always been friends. I do not believe the idea would be as unappealing to her as you think.”
Jack held up a hand. “Please stop. I do not want to hear any more of this. I cannot.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I won’t speak of it again.” Nirall bowed formally and took his leave.
Usher shut the door and came to stand by Jack’s side.
“Has everyone gone mad, Usher?” When the valet did not respond, Jack looked over. “What? You can’t think that lunacy makes sense?”
“Alariq was popular with the people. He had the luxury of waiting to marry. An unpopular man is aided by a well-loved wife.”
“Don’t spit platitudes at me, old man. How could she be well loved, jumping from one brother to the next?”
“Your grandmother did the very same thing to much regard when her first husband died. The people like continuity.”
“The people are idiots.”
Usher set a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”
Jack scowled and shrugged off the contact. “I do not love her.”
“Many things will be required of you in your new position, young sir. Unfortunately, falling in love is not one of them.”
Jack’s gaze fell upon the newspaper. He stormed over to the bureau, snatched up the offending sheets, and threw them into the fire. He rubbed his chest while he watched the pages burn; the spot just under his shoulder where he’d been wounded had suddenly begun to ache. Or maybe that was just his heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Mistress of Frogs intervened in a feud between two brothers. Family is a two-bladed sword, she said. It must be maneuvered expertly to avoid injury.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
“What’s your name?” Jasminda asked her driver—the same one as the day before—as the town car curved through the streets. In the rearview mirror his eyes were a sparkling shade of green. She’d never seen eyes that color.
“I’m called Nash, miss.”
“Have you lived in Rosira all your life?”
He chuckled. “Oh no, miss. I’m Fremian. I’ve been here … going on thirteen years now. I reached master level in the Hospitality Guild, and when I passed my Level Ones—that’s the exam—I had my pick of positions. Most go to Yaly, but I’ve always liked living by the sea. I started in the resorts up north, and let me tell you…”
Nash certainly wasn’t short on conversation. During the short trip, he told her how he came to Rosira following a young lady who had eventually relented and agreed to marry him. Nothing in his manner indicated any suspicion or distaste for Jasminda.
“Nash, I’m sorry to interrupt, but are there many Fremians in Elsira?”
“Not so many, miss. A few servants in the palace and at the premiere vacation spots, some professors at the university, too, but the immigration laws are strict. Down in Portside, you’ll see folk from every corner of the globe working the ships, but they’re prohibited from entering other parts of the city.”
Nash’s native Fremia was a land that valued knowledge and excellence above all else. They had the best schools and universities and offered elite training in everything from art, to science, to warfare and hospitality. Around the world, no one was better at what they did—no matter what it was—than a Fremian.
“And do your people have any … opinions on the Lagrimari?”
He gave her a knowing smile. “Fremia has always been neutral, miss. We stay out of the conflicts of other lands.”
Just outside the city limits, Nash turned onto a rough path cut into the dirt, and drove another half kilometer or so before stopping. A miniature city lay stretched out ahead, made up of orderly rows of white tents with oil lanterns strung up on poles to form the perimeter.
Nash turned in his seat to face her. “It isn’t like here. So many people from all over the world come to study back home, we’re used to differences of all kinds. It must be hard living in a land with so much sameness that any deviation at all stands out.”
She nodded but couldn’t find her voice to respond. Nash sobered, then straightened his hat and exited to help her out of the vehicle.
“I shouldn’t be too long,” she said.
He tipped his hat to her. “Take as long as you like, miss.”
The warm feeling she had from her conversation with Nash faded slowly as she approached the refugee camp entrance. Soldiers milled around, at odds with the nearly half a dozen women of the Sisterhood busily unloading supplies from several trucks.
Jasminda had come to find Gerda and tell her and the others what she’d learned so far from the caldera. Perhaps the elders could provide some guidance, but at the very least, she wanted to update them. She twisted her hands, dreading disappointing the Keepers with her lack of progress, when her attention was captured by two people on the other side of the vehicles.
An Elsiran man and woman stood arguing. The woman was clad in the blue robes of the Sisterhood. The man was slim and rather short, wearing a black suit and cap similar to Usher’s. He looked like a driver.
Jasminda could not hear the words of the dispute, but the man’s motions were emphatic. However, the voice rising with emotion was high pitched. When both turned, Jasminda’s breath caught. The fellow was really a woman, dressed in male clothing. But what really caught her eye was the face of the Sister.
With her golden auburn hair tied in a topknot the way all Sisters wore it, her topaz-colored eyes, and straight nose peppered with freckles, she was the spitting image of Mama. The only thing that kept Jasminda from crying out and running into the woman’s arms were the burn scars across her left cheek and jaw extending down her neck.
Jasminda drew closer until she could hear better.
“Clove, please.” The Sister’s voice was lighter and breathier than Mama’s. Jasminda almost didn’t trust her memories. There was no way two people could look so similar.
The shorter woman gave an exasperated sigh. “You promised you would be there, Vanesse. I needed you.”
Vanesse. Jasminda knew that name. Her mother had spoken it often enough. Jas
minda had even tried addressing her letters to Vanesse Zinadeel when those to her grandparents kept being returned unopened. But her mother’s sister had not responded, either.
Aunt Vanesse.
Her only proof was a first name and a face nearly identical to her mother’s.
“I wanted to be there,” Vanesse was saying, “but Father needed me at his presentation. He insisted.”
“You are a grown woman,” Clove said. “You can tell him no.” Vanesse’s hand went to the burn on her face self-consciously.
Clove sighed, her shoulders lowering. She reached up and caressed Vanesse’s cheek, right over the scar, in a very intimate way. Vanesse leaned into the touch before pulling back sharply, her eyes scanning the area. She caught sight of Jasminda and froze.
Clove looked over her shoulder, her gaze glancing off Jasminda. Her expression was dejected.
“Can we talk about this later?” Vanesse asked. Clove shrugged and shuffled off to a town car parked at the end of the row of military vehicles.
Vanesse sniffed, watching Clove walk away. Then she turned and slowly headed toward where the other Sisters were working. Her eyes were downcast as she passed Jasminda.
“Your father is a beast,” Jasminda said, unable to hold her tongue.
Vanesse jumped and stared at her as if she was crazy for her outburst. “You speak Elsiran.” She looked at Jasminda more closely. “How do you know my father?”
Jasminda held the older woman’s gaze. “He is my grandfather.” She stood tall, daring her aunt to deny her. For a moment, Vanesse just stared mutely as if not comprehending what she was seeing.
“Jasminda?” She let out a gasp, almost a sob, and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her niece. Jasminda was frozen in place as Vanesse crushed her. “I can’t believe it. You look so much like Eminette,” her aunt whispered into her hair.
“No, I don’t. But you do.” She found the strength to wrap her arms around the other woman and hold on as Vanesse continued to squeeze.
When Vanesse pulled back, tears streamed down her face. She cupped Jasminda’s cheeks. “No, I see her in you. Your chin, your forehead.” She stroked each part as she mentioned it, and the tears continued. They welled in Jasminda’s eyes also.
Vanesse released Jasminda and wiped at her eyes, sniffling. “Come, let’s sit.” She motioned to a log lying in the grass a few paces away. They settled in next to one another, and Jasminda studied the burn scars marring her aunt’s cheek and jaw. Her left ear was mangled as well.
Vanesse touched her face and dipped her head. “Your grandmother did that.”
Jasminda’s jaw slackened as she struggled to comprehend a mother burning her own child. “Was it an accident?”
Vanesse snorted. “No. I was sixteen and she caught me with”—she looked over toward where Clove had disappeared—“someone she thought unsuitable.” Jasminda could imagine her grandparents would find another woman unsuitable.
“Emi had been gone for four years, sending us letter after letter. Mother and Father would burn them, so I started going for walks to meet the post carrier so I could read them.” Her voice hitched. “Mother had told everyone Emi died of a fever out in the Borderlands, but Emi had written letters to her friends telling what really happened. Our parents were incensed. So when it looked like I was going to end up an embarrassment as well…” Vanesse’s gaze lengthened. She stared across the makeshift car park toward the expanse of tents, lost in the memory.
“When she came after me with the oil, I thought she wanted to kill me. She doused my bed and then lit the match before I even knew what was happening. Said she wanted to make sure no one at all would steal me away from her. No one would want me. I would never shame her the same way my sister did.” Vanesse’s hand fluttered near her face, never quite touching her scars.
Jasminda’s breathing was shallow. A tear escaped as she took in her aunt’s misery. “And your father? What did he say?”
She sniffed. “‘All actions have consequences.’” Her voice was deep in an imitation of Zinadeel.
“But the Sisterhood. How could your parents support you joining a group that aids the settlers?”
Vanesse straightened and wiped her eyes again. “The Sisterhood is respectable. The Queen has shown us Her blessing many times. Providing for the less fortunate is something that brings honor to the family. The irony that Emi met your father while in the Sisterhood is perhaps lost on them. Or maybe they just believe that I’m too ugly to be a temptation.”
Vanesse dropped her head. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. My parents are very…” She searched for a word, her eyes clouding.
“You’re afraid of them,” Jasminda said, growing cold as a guilty look of assent crossed her aunt’s face. She could not fault the woman. How would she feel if she’d been burned by her own mother for falling out of line? Her grandmother must have a tenuous hold on her sanity to do such a thing. And she knew firsthand how intimidating her grandfather was.
“How did you come to be here? Where are you living?” Vanesse asked, appearing truly interested.
Jasminda allowed herself to revise her opinion of her aunt and told her of the events leading her to Rosira—leaving out the caldera and her exact relationship with Jack—and of visiting her grandfather. Vanesse listened to the story, her horrified expression growing with each twist and turn.
“You must be careful of Father. I believe he’s capable of anything,” she whispered, shivering a little. Any lingering anger Jasminda had held toward the woman dissolved into pity. The family Jasminda had known was kind and loving. She’d never once feared either of her parents and couldn’t imagine doing so.
Vanesse grabbed Jasminda’s hand and squeezed. “I hope that we can get to know one another. I would very much like that.”
“Me, too.” Jasminda’s heart lightened at the thought of having a family again.
“There’s a place we can meet where no one will see. Though you may have to invest in a good-sized cloak, or perhaps some face paint so you’re not recognized.”
Whatever else Vanesse said was lost to the rushing in Jasminda’s ears. Her aunt could only get to know her in secret. Hidden corridors, cloaks, and face paint. Late-night rendezvous and secret trysts. Was there no one who would bring their acquaintance with her out into the light of day?
She pulled her hand out of Vanesse’s grasp and stood on shaky legs. “I’m supposed to meet with some of the refugees now. I have to go.”
Someone else’s secret. Someone else’s shame.
She left behind the question on Vanesse’s face and the call of her name on the woman’s lips.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
How may I gain power? asked a servant to the Master of Bobcats.
Bobcat replied, A man who seeks power believes he can control his kite in a furious gale. A man who has power, releases his string.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Jasminda wasn’t certain of how to find the elders. Each tent she passed was identical to the last. Fortunately, the camp was rather small.
Within a few minutes she stumbled upon Rozyl, Sevora, and the other two Keepers from the mountain. Jasminda dreaded asking the woman for anything, but she had little choice.
As she approached, a ripple of unease charged the air. The Keepers had their faces to the sky, as if they were listening to something.
“What’s wrong?” Jasminda asked. No one answered.
She reached for Rozyl, brushing the woman’s arm to get her attention. Her fingers merely glanced across Rozyl’s skin where she’d pushed up her sleeve. But a violent press of Earthsong rose and slammed against Jasminda like a physical shove. She couldn’t separate herself and was plunged directly into the flow of Rozyl’s connection to Earthsong.
Jasminda cried out, suffocated by the maelstrom of energies of so many people around her. Pain, white and hot, lanced through her body, blinding her. Somehow she had linked to Rozyl’s power, and it felt like being crushed into
paste. Suddenly, a filter emerged between her and Rozyl’s Song, like a window shade pulled down to hide the glare of the sun. It muted the volume of the energy, and the vise around her chest loosened.
She was still uncomfortable but could now pick out details in the Earthsong surrounding them. The nearby soldiers—tension rippling through them, fear and distrust pulsing along with the blood in their veins. The despair of the refugees, the hope and the hopelessness. Their heavy hearts and minds.
Finally, she was able to tear her hand from Rozyl’s arm. She coughed and gasped, relieved to break the connection. Rozyl regarded her with disbelief.
“Don’t you know better than to touch someone when they’re linking?” Rozyl asked, looking at her like her hair was made of spiders.
Jasminda realized that Sevora had been holding Rozyl’s hand. “I-I didn’t realize—”
“And why did you not shield yourself?”
“Shield?” So that must be how Earthsingers coexisted in large numbers. Jasminda shook her head. “My father was the only other Earthsinger I knew. He did not teach me.” She wondered what other lessons she had missed.
“Your Song is so weak,” Rozyl spat.
Jasminda cringed and wrapped her arms around herself. “My brothers could not sing at all.”
“I don’t know why it must be you,” Rozyl said with disgust, and took off down one of the wider paths through the tents, the others on her heels, their disapproval evident.
“I don’t know what just happened, but I didn’t ask for it, either. I didn’t ask to be the only one the caldera will work for,” Jasminda called out, racing after Rozyl’s quick steps. The woman continued to snub her, and soon they emerged at the camp’s entrance where a crowd had grown. The Keepers disappeared into the throng of people.
Still shaking from the unexpected force of the link, Jasminda strained for a better view of what had captured everyone’s attention. “What’s happening?” she whispered to a woman cradling a sleeping baby.
“I think they’re holding back the rations.”
