by L. Penelope
Jasminda moved to the front of the group to verify. Vanesse and two other Sisters stood near a line of soldiers arguing with the captain. At their feet were crates of rice, potatoes, and vegetables.
“You cannot keep rations from these people. I won’t allow it,” a gray-haired Sister said.
Jasminda approached. A few other refugees broke away from the crowd and drew nearer to the soldiers as well.
“Is there a problem delivering the rations, Captain?” Jasminda asked.
The man looked at her sharply, evidently surprised at her command of Elsiran. He glanced at her dress, obviously expensive and so different from the threadbare fabric covering the refugees. She’d not seen this man before, and he probably had no idea of her identity, but he could plainly see she was different than the rest.
“This witchcraft will not be tolerated,” the captain said.
Jasminda crossed her arms and stood her ground. “Exactly what witchcraft are you referring to?”
The man glowered at her. “That.” He pointed an accusing finger at the first row of tents.
The field on which the refugee camp had been built was covered in brittle, end-of-the-season grass shedding its green for the impending autumn. But each tent in the row had a bed of blooming flowers before it—grouped into different colors.
White desert lilies graced one. Red bristlebrushes another. A golden flower she didn’t recognize blossomed in front of a third tent. Before their eyes, green stalks shot through the dry earth of another canvas structure and opened, revealing brilliant purple petals.
“Flowers?” Jasminda asked, unable to keep the derision from her voice. “You’re afraid of flowers? Something to brighten the landscape and bring a little joy? What is wrong with you?”
The man’s face hardened. “It’s evil. The whole lot of you grols are evil.” He spat, aiming at Jasminda’s feet. The Sisters raised their voices in protest.
A boy of about twelve came to stand next to her. She did a double take, recognizing him as the child who’d aided the settlers in Baalingrove. On her other side, two settlers regarded the confrontation warily.
Outrage overcame the pain of the words she’d heard so many times before. “You have no right to withhold the rations, Captain. Not for something so innocent. Do you not have orders to feed these people? Where is your honor?”
The captain’s face contorted. “You’ll not speak to me of honor, witch.”
“Just leave the food here. We’ll carry it in ourselves.” She moved toward the nearest crate. The boy at her side approached as well.
“Stay back. Don’t come any closer.” The captain’s hand hovered near the pistol strapped to his waist.
Jasminda stilled, but the boy kept moving, not understanding the captain’s command. In the space of a heartbeat, the captain pulled his sidearm and pointed it at the boy. The entire line of soldiers drew their rifles on the gathered refugees. The Sisters, startled, took several steps back.
“No!” Jasminda screamed. In Lagrimari, she shouted, “Stop!”
The boy looked over at her, brows drawn. His eyes glittered, warm and golden brown, lighter than most Lagrimari’s. His face still held the roundness of youth, but those enchanting eyes were hard.
The child took another defiant step toward the food. Somewhere close by, a woman screamed, “Timmyn!” He tensed, hearing his name, then took another step.
Time slowed as Jasminda shook her head and opened herself to Earthsong, struggling to work out the shield technique she’d witnessed Rozyl using during their unexpected link. It worked just enough so that the other energies weren’t screaming in her head, drowning out her thoughts and severing her connection, but she was far from proficient. The soldiers’ emotions were a whirlwind of fear and aggression. Too far gone to be soothed by Earthsong, even if she’d been strong enough to do so.
She reached out to Timmyn and found the well of pain to be deep. He was in a place beyond hearing. You don’t have to prove anything, she wanted to tell him. We will not let you starve here. The prince would never allow it. Her helplessness crushed her as she felt his hurt.
When the shot rang out, Jasminda lost her connection to Earthsong. She grabbed at the air in front of her, too far away to catch him as Timmyn fell backward onto the ground. A deep crimson stain ballooned across the fabric of his shirt. Jasminda looked up at the captain in horror. His face was an emotionless mask.
She fell to her knees. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts. Tears blurred her vision. She vaguely registered a group of refugees taking the boy away to be healed. Through the fog she heard Vanesse speaking. Her words were just a jumble of sounds that didn’t penetrate. Time ceased to exist. All she could hear was the crack of the gun and the thud of Timmyn’s body hitting the earth, over and over again.
A hand on her shoulder brought back her awareness. Nash stood over her, grim. She took his offered hand and struggled to her feet. Her legs were stiff from kneeling for who knows how long.
The soldiers parted for them as Nash led her back to the town car. Jasminda looked over her shoulder. The rest of the crowd had long ago disappeared into their tents; all that remained was a ghost town.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Assembly Room grows quiet as all eyes focus on me. Their expectant gazes draw me back to the present. My mind had been aloft, far from this room and out in the early summer sunshine, feeling the waves gently lapping at my feet. That is how I wanted to spend my birthday, at the sea, as I always have before.
I straighten my shoulders and regard the room. Every face holds a tension it never has held before. And it is all my fault.
“All here are agreed?” My voice is low. I speak out loud, as has been the custom during Assembly for the past half a millennia. I will not give in to the paranoia of so many of my cousins gathered here, afraid of eavesdroppers.
We are agreed, murmur many Songs against my consciousness.
“Today is the first day of my twenty-first summer. I am the youngest Third. Vaaryn, you are two hundred years my elder. Your leadership has been unblemished. I am untested. Is this really wise?”
When Father, the last Second and the youngest son of the Founders, passed into the World After, Vaaryn assumed his responsibilities in the Assembly. The idea of leadership passing to me was unfathomable.
“Yes, dear cousin,” Vaaryn says. “I am not much longer for this world. It is best that the youngest should lead us.”
Most Thirds lived only a few years past their two-hundredth birthday. Fourths less than that, and Fifths barely made one hundred. The Silent were old at seventy.
“But it is because of me that we face war with the Silent. It is because of me—” I choke on the words as a sob rises to my throat. Yllis is there with an arm around me, steady and stable, my rock in the storm.
Yllis’s mother, Deela, rises. “So it must be you to lead us through. We have lived in peace for hundreds of years with the guidance left by the Founders, but perhaps it has been too easy for us. We have never been challenged in this way before.”
“Eero and those who follow him have poked at a sore that has been dormant for a long time,” Yllis says. “The Silent have no voice in the Assembly. Their parentage is not claimed. If it was not Eero now, it would have been someone else in the future. It is not all because of us.”
He wants to take more of the burden of Eero’s fate away from me, absolve me of some guilt, but it is mine to hold. Yllis developed the complex spell that allowed me to share my Song with my twin, but I was the one who used it. Who kept using it and ignored the truth for too long—giving Song to the Silent would cause them to go mad. The Silent were so for a reason.
“Very well,” I say. “I accept. So be it. See to it.”
It is as if the Assembly takes a collective breath. “Be it so.”
And with three little words, I have been made Queen.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Master of Monkeys told his betrothed, I will steal for you the juiciest fruit from my
neighbor’s tree.
When he returned, he found the neighbor’s cape stuck in the window, and his love nowhere to be found.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
BEDLAM STRIKES REFUGEE CAMP
An attack by Lagrimari refugees on Elsiran military personnel resulted in the shooting of a young refugee. Witnesses say the refugees had been threatening violence with their magic, causing the soldiers to respond with force.
Tensions have been high in the camp, which was established by the Sisterhood to answer the refugee crisis impacting Elsira. The influx of foreigners through reported cracks in the Mantle has been a hotly contested issue. Many are unhappy that the Prince Regent seems to be allowing unfettered immigration by these unknown persons.
Jack crumpled the thin newsprint in his fist. He knew very well there had been no attack by the refugees. The evening papers had gone from printing gossip and long-ago scandals to outright lies.
News of the incident had enraged Jack the moment he’d heard. The captain had been arrested immediately, and while the boy had made a full recovery due to the camp’s Earthsingers, Jack was resolved to court-martial the offending officer. A decision that would no doubt be met with opposition.
The door to his office opened, and Usher stepped in. Faint music filtered in from the hallway.
“You will have to at least make an appearance, young sir.” Usher stood looking reprovingly at him.
“I don’t know why they didn’t cancel the bloody thing. Now is no time for a ball.”
“Third Breach Day falls on the same day every year. They cannot cancel an entire ball because the Prince Regent is in a foul temper.”
Jack stood, rolling down his shirtsleeves and buttoning them. “Don’t I have the right to be in a temper when unarmed children are being shot? When this entire country seems to have fallen victim to lunacy? At what point, I ask you, am I permitted to be upset?”
Usher picked up Jack’s discarded formal dinner jacket and held it out for him. He slipped his arms through and focused on working up some joviality for the ball he was being forced to attend. It wouldn’t do for him to scowl his way through, giving more fodder for the papers. Only one thing would truly make him smile, though.
“Is she coming?” he asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
“Would it be wise for her to?”
Jack’s shoulders slumped.
“She would prefer not to be at the center of any undue attention. Isn’t that what you agreed to?”
“I know, I know. It’s just…” He sighed and checked his appearance in the mirror. He looked tired, older than he had even a week ago. For a moment, he had an inkling of how this position could have turned his father into a brute. Jack could feel his edges hardening. The bit of himself that he’d always held back when he’d been in the army, that person he would have been if he’d been born to a baker or a farmer, had always remained inside him, catching the odd glimpse of sunlight in stolen moments when he hadn’t had to flex his muscles as the High Commander. But that hidden self was now being choked. The only times he could seem to breathe anymore were when he was with Jasminda, and even then they had to remain hidden, secret. He couldn’t acknowledge anything true about himself, and he was afraid it was changing him.
He stalked down the hallways toward the cacophony of the ball. The ballroom had been decorated, somewhat garishly, in orange, the color of Third Breach Day. Each of the seven breaches had a holiday attached to it, initially as a memorial for all who had been lost in the wars, but more recently it was just an excuse for a celebration. None were as lavish as the yearly Festival of the Founders when all work ceased for three days, but each Breach Day was commemorated by excessive decorations in the color of the holiday and a palace ball for the aristocracy.
Jack entered the corridor outside the rear of the ballroom where a dozen butlers were organizing trays of appetizers. The lead butler did a double take and rushed over, admonishing him, in the most respectful way, for being in the servants’ hall. Jack brushed off the man’s request to stop the band and make a formal announcement of the Prince Regent’s arrival.
“I just want to watch for a bit,” Jack said. “I promise you can announce me once this dance is finished. I’d hate to interrupt.” The butler’s obsequious expression barely hid his displeasure at this interruption to the normal order of things, but he backed off, allowing Jack to peek through the curtains separating the hall from the ballroom.
This was the vantage from which he’d watched these events when he was too young to attend and still longed to. The elegance, the glamour—long ago he’d found them fascinating. Now all he wanted to do was escape.
The band played one of the up-tempo, syncopated melodies that had become popular of late. Couples on the dance floor marched back and forth to the beat of the music. He wasn’t the best at these modern dances but enjoyed them more than the tamer, boring classic steps.
A delicate fragrance reached his nostrils, and for a moment, his heart rose in his chest. But the light feminine scent wasn’t Jasminda’s. He turned to find Lizvette standing next to him.
“How did I know I’d find you hiding back here?” she asked, a smile on her lips. There was still tension around her eyes, but Jack knew that would take time to fade.
“What can I say? I’m terribly predictable.”
She stepped to him, linking an arm through his and peering out at the crowded dance floor. “Perhaps consistent is a better word.”
“Yes, I far prefer that. And I’m not hiding. I’m biding my time.”
She chuckled and pulled him toward the doorway. “Come, Your Grace. There is no time like the present. And yes, I would love to dance.”
He barely masked his grimace but followed her out past the bewildered lead butler just as the band finished the current song. The man scampered up to the microphone on the bandstand and rushed through the recitation of Jack’s titles at top speed as all present bowed.
Jack suppressed a groan as the band started in on a tame, traditional melody. He danced the long-practiced steps with Lizvette, holding her stiffly. Just beyond the dance floor, glass doors opened to the terrace and gardens beyond. A cool breeze filtered in, reminding him of his time in the mountains.
He could almost imagine he was holding Jasminda. They had never danced, though. Perhaps he would have a phonograph delivered to her rooms so he could hold her against him and feel her heartbeat as they moved in time to the music. The thought loosened the tension that was binding him. He would dance a few more songs, then steal away to be with her.
“My father came to see you, did he not?”
Jack tuned back in to the room, almost having forgotten it was Lizvette he held. “Ah, yes. He told you about that. I’m sorry he had to bother you with that business. Don’t worry. The thought never crossed my mind.”
She grew rigid beneath his fingertips. “Would it be so bad?” Sad eyes blinked up at him, and he missed a step, nearly bumping into a burly man dancing inelegantly beside him.
“What are you saying?” He was barely able to get the words out through his shock.
“I know the press has been harsh … with everything about your mother and this dreadful business with the Lagrimari. I just … Well, perhaps Father is right. Perhaps I can help.”
Her face was open and hopeful. He couldn’t sense any guile there, but her words were madness.
“What of Alariq? His memory?”
She lowered her head. “I will always hold Alariq’s memory dear. He was truly one of a kind. But wouldn’t he want you to be at your best advantage? I think he would want this.”
Jack snorted. “My brother would not so much as let me borrow a pair of his shoes, much less his future wife.”
“Alariq is dead.” Her voice was clipped. “And I am not a pair of shoes.” The eyes staring up at him were full of hurt.
“Of course not, Lizvette. I didn’t mean to say … I only meant that … Wouldn’t Alariq have wanted for you to find love
again? Happiness? Not just sacrifice yourself to aid my popularity.”
Her expression melted as she looked up at him. “Love?” She said the word like it was a curiosity, some foreign species of fruit that had appeared on her table. Her hand on his arm squeezed gently, then turned into almost a caress. Discomfort swirled within him. “Do you not think something could grow? Here?” She placed a hand on his heart.
The music stopped, and the other couples on the dance floor clapped. Jack drew away from Lizvette, from the unwelcome pressure of her hand on his chest, and turned to politely applaud, as well. He used the moment to gather his thoughts. She was in mourning, perhaps confused. He and Alariq were not much alike, but perhaps she was only grasping for the last threads of him left. He’d known her his whole life … at least he thought he knew her.
He bowed to her. “Thank you for the dance.” Ignoring the question in her eyes, he rushed off the dance floor to stand near the doors leading to the terrace. The collar of his shirt constricted like a noose. He longed for fresh air to breathe.
“Your Grace,” a voice called out behind him. He turned to find a cluster of men from the Merchants’ Board regarding him expectantly.
He could see now how the conversation would go: a few minutes of pleasantries, how beautifully the ballroom was decorated, how fine the musicians. Then possibly a round of complaints when he inquired after their families—a son too enthralled by the weekly radio dramas for their liking or a daughter being courted by an unsuitable beau. Then, far too quickly, they would get around to what they really wanted to talk to him about. Some favor or request, with just a nudge so that he recalled how useful their support was and thinly veiled threats of the damage that would take place if that support were withdrawn. Nothing overt, but enough pressure exerted on any joint could eventually cause a break.
The men wrangled from him a promise to consider a proposal to reduce worker wages. He didn’t tell them that as soon as the plan escaped their lips he did consider it … and found it untenable. No, he smiled and nodded, shook hands and wished them back to wherever they’d come from as quickly as possible. Just when he thought the Queen had finally smiled upon him and the conversation had reached its death throes, a rotund character called Dursall spoke up.
